The Ministry of Special Cases Read online

  “Shouldn’t be long,” the officer said, when Pato gave her the pad.

  Pato wondered if that meant hours or days, and it made the waiting all the worse. They’d left him his watch and he wished they’d taken it. He worried that the drunk might wake up, the least of his problems in a way.

  At seven-thirty Monday night, the female officer took Pato out to call home. He was, previous to being locked up, dreading the inevitable first talk with his father. The idea became a lot more palatable under the circumstances. Pato still hoped—though it would scare her half to death—that his mother would be the one to answer the telephone. The worst part of this fiasco was that his parents didn’t know he was in jail. It was only a night and a day, but had it already been a month they might still think he was over at Rafa’s holding a grudge. It tightened Pato’s throat in the dialing and he knew, if he didn’t get another few seconds to control himself, if his mother grabbed at the phone right then, he’d burst into tears at the sound of her voice. Pato didn’t want to cry in a police station. And not in front of the officer who’d waved. Eyes closed now, he pictured the apartment empty and dark, and the ring echoing around the living room and, faintly, out into the hall.

  Then it stopped. Pato opened his eyes. With a finger to the cradle, the officer had hung up the telephone.

  “We’ll try again later,” she said.

  Once more, Pato thought he might cry. As with the claustrophobic girl and the roll call when Flavia and Rafa were set free, Pato knew this was another simple uncomplicated chance at freedom that would not necessarily repeat itself when later came.

  [ Fifteen ]

  THIS PERIOD OF INESTIMABLE LOSS and insecurity looked from inside Lillian’s office to be a golden age. Those with real troubles were already afraid to make claims on them and the policies Lillian dealt with were more often from recent clients or the old ones who’d aligned themselves right. Gustavo’s business reflected a fantastical era where new cars popped up in driveways and sometimes the driveway itself had a new house at its end. Women told stories of reaching up to find diamonds strung around their necks, while men laid watches on their bedside tables exposing sentimentalities whose provenance they couldn’t explain. Sometimes there were surprises even greater than this.

  Gustavo had kept the office open to receive a couple with a life insurance policy to amend. The couple was composed of a very powerful general and his very rich and powerful wife. Lillian had drawn up the original and, among other things that could have been done during business hours, there was a beneficiary to add. Lillian was taking care of it while Gustavo sat in his office straightening his desk blotter and arranging his pens. He was deeply embroiled for a man doing nothing. At any given instant he’d look euphoric, and then Lillian would catch him in a cold sweat so intense she’d wonder if his appendix had burst. He wanted the general’s visit to go well.

  The couple sat across from Lillian, radiating new-parent glow. The mother bounced a cooing baby in her lap, her bundle of joy. Answering Lillian’s questions there was, at one point, a pause by the husband, a raised eyebrow from the wife, that fed into peals of laughter from the pair, a shaken rattle before the baby, and a chill down Lillian’s spine. They’d stumbled on the date of birth. Their little angel: picked from a cabbage patch, flown in by the stork.

  Lillian did not like the way this woman cradled a baby. She knew how an infant fit against its own mother’s arm. Lillian had no credible reason to think anything was amiss. It wasn’t the woman’s first child; she’d held a baby before. Neither did stumbling on a date necessarily have any meaning. It was an insane thing for Lillian to think and even more insane that she had to fight herself not to say it aloud. Gustavo had good reason to sweat in that office. This is not your baby is what Lillian wanted to say.

  She felt a bit dizzy. It was the same kind of disorientation she’d felt when she first saw her new nose—the very nose on which these people never once let their gazes fall. Saying good-bye, they stared at the top of her head.

  And here was Gustavo out of his office. Here was Gustavo bouncing that baby, holding it up in the air. Passing it back to its mother, Gustavo put his arm around the father, slipped it around the small of his back. Gustavo with his arm around a general. Lillian had never seen him so happy before.

  Gustavo returned with his briefcase in hand. He placed it on her desk and, putting the general’s file in it, clicked closed both locks. “I don’t know how you handle all these late nights. One is plenty enough for me. My thanks,” Gustavo said. “Without you,” he said.

  Lillian wanted to tell Gustavo that it wasn’t their baby. I think that’s a stolen baby is what she was thinking, but the term didn’t sound right even in her head. Stolen baby made the child sound like property. And kidnapped didn’t relate to such a permanent thing. Also, it didn’t seem possible. Where would a person find a baby to steal? She was as paranoid as Pato accused her of being. She let her mind run to extremes.

  “I think we’ve signed on everyone in uniform but Videla” is what Lillian said.

  Gustavo rolled his shoulders back. He nodded repeatedly at nothing in particular; it was his way of showing that he was entertaining a serious thought. “When was the last time you were out for a nice meal?”

  “If you have to ask you have no idea how much you’ve been paying me.” She tapped at his briefcase and the papers underneath. “If I did have the money, where would I get the time?”

  “I’ll close up with you after,” he said. “Let’s run out and get you a decent steak and a glass of wine. You’ll talk me into a big raise for you and Frida, and I’ll have you back here in a flash to finish up.”

  Lillian was at her desk deciding. She thought about that baby. She thought about a raise. She pictured herself going back to the apartment, the TV blaring, the cloud of smoke and the empty glasses, each one in its own little puddle on the floor. Kaddish would be on the couch, her husband whom she wasn’t sure she’d tell about what she thought she might have seen, and—it hit her—what she had and had not done. If she’d pictured it differently, if she’d known that the apartment was dark and that she’d have the space to reflect, to sit in the comfy chair by the window with only a lamp on at her side, she’d have gone home. If Lillian had left right then she’d have made it, too; she’d have been there with enough space to doze off in that chair, enough time to drift and be startled awake by the second ringing of the phone.

  Lillian took a bite of sautéed spinach. Garlic clung to the leaves in hunks. Reaching across, she stole a forkful of ravioli from Gustavo, who begged her to take more and lifted the plate. She pushed his arm down and raised up her glass, an acknowledgment that she needed a night out, and a fancy one too. Lillian sipped at her wine. Gustavo widened his smile. “Thanks for dinner,” she said, and she ran a finger around the lip of her glass until the crystal hit a high note.

  Kaddish had the occasional commission that took place outside the cemetery grounds. Though less public than the graveyard, the Benevolent Self’s dilapidated house of worship still stood. As in any other synagogue, the prominent Jews of the congregation hadn’t been averse to a little recognition for the donations they made. The standard bronze tree was affixed to the back wall. Silver leaves with donors’ names were screwed onto bare branches in the days when the building fund bloomed. It’s a tree that saw spring only once, Kaddish thought. Ever since it had been fall in the pimps’ forest. The branches were almost bare.

  Kaddish had no reason to wait until dark. The job was indoors. He’d arrived late in the afternoon and begun working by window light on what turned out to be a painstaking task.

  Hanging at the front of the synagogue before an empty ark was the parochet, a heavy crimson curtain meant to give the ark a regal air. At its bottom there was an embroidered dedication—In loving memory of Esther Zuckman—with the dates of her life below it. The inscription had a lion holding it up at each end and was artfully rendered in gold thread. Esther’s descendants had nothing t
o pay. They told Kaddish to keep the gold for himself.

  Kaddish was far less sensitive about the rotting synagogue than the cemetery. He’d asked the family why he couldn’t just tear down the curtain and be done? The Zuckmans wanted the curtain to hang as long as there was a building in which to hang it. They had twisted their faces at the very suggestion, unsure of his sensitivity, and Kaddish, who was thinking of gold, quickly added, “That is, it would be easy to tear it down if it hadn’t been hung in your mother’s name.” With that they unscrewed their faces and gave him the job. Such was the balance he always had to strike between religiosity and superstition, pride and shame.

  With cuticle nippers and tweezers lifted from Lillian’s purse, Kaddish erased the name, thread by wire thread. When dark set in, he worked by flashlight. Kaddish was already pricked countless times by then, as if the name were a plant that didn’t want to be picked. The brittle gold tips broke off and were buried in now red, now swelling, hands.

  It was peaceful work for Kaddish nonetheless. The repetitive motion was calming, and the quiet of a crumbling synagogue had its own special feel. It set Kaddish to an odd mix of memory and daydream. He ignored his usual worries over mounting debt and Lillian’s indifference, and the great weight of Pato’s anger toward him. For a time Kaddish stopped his work and stared up into the darkness of the women’s section, wondering where his mother had sat.

  When he was done, Kaddish spread two handkerchiefs out on the floor. In the center of each he made a pile of gold wire and then compressed them. He looked at the treasure collected from his unraveling. He tied up the two handkerchiefs and, feeling their heft, he was satisfied at the deal he’d struck.

  Kaddish stood up, put on his coat, and dropped one of the handkerchiefs in each pocket. There was a creak to his knees when he moved and a steel-wool sting to his hands. He stepped back to the pews and eased himself down slowly, trying to minimize the pain in his lower back. He smoked a cigarette and pointed the flashlight at the work he’d done.

  The name looked worse. That is, Esther Zuckman looked better than it had in many years. The family hadn’t considered this when they balked at the idea of the curtain’s coming down. Protected from the light, from the air, cocooned in gold, the velvet underneath was unfaded. The pattern of the needlework outlined each letter. Kaddish had achieved the exact opposite of what had been intended. Esther’s name had never before shone so brightly.

  Kaddish didn’t fret. He could be as savvy as his friend the doctor. He’d offered to remove the curtain and the family had resisted. If they wanted it disposed of now, he’d happily see to it for a fee. He switched off the flashlight and thought he could still make out the name in the dark.

  Kaddish hadn’t brought his car and, stepping out into a cloudy night, he began his walk home. All in all it was a successful outing. He mumbled a word of approval to himself and pulled his collar closed against his throat. His red hands, his swollen hands, were numb from the work. Holding them up for further study under a streetlight, a thousand gold splinters picked up a glint, and it was in his cupped hands as if he were looking at the stars.

  [ Sixteen ]

  WHEN THE PHONE RANG a second time, Kaddish was home to meet it. He tracked down Pato’s ID and drove calmly to the police station they’d specified. He was adept at not confusing big trouble for small.

  For Kaddish, there were two facts: The police had his son, and they’d called for him to come pick Pato up. Problem solved before the start. He’d only said hello to Pato on the phone, heard him say, “Dad,” and then a woman had gotten on the line. It was the same as in the old days, a father’s job to ferry his son. It would be like picking him up from a friend’s house or fetching him from school. Pato would avert his eyes when Kaddish got there; he’d slouch his shoulders in front of the cops and sit huddled and silent in the car the whole way home.

  Pato said nothing when Kaddish got there. He had indeed slouched and slumped and sat silent. When they arrived at the apartment he’d gone straight to his room. It was then that Kaddish felt the same terrible emptiness that Pato had felt when first locked in jail. His son had been in distress and Kaddish hadn’t even known.

  Kaddish called Lillian’s office before pouring his drink. It was actually the kind of night Kaddish dreamed of—hard work, gold in his pocket, his son home and saved from some unknown danger by his father’s hand. Tonight he’d be a hero. His wife would return. He’d trot out his son and pull the treasure from his pockets. Kaddish squeezed the handkerchiefs and decided right then he’d make Lillian a ring.

  Lillian answered the phone at work, sounding happy herself. She was packing her bag and closing up. She was tipsy and well fed. Her own hard work had been recognized. She’d gotten a long-overdue raise.

  And then Kaddish shared the news. For once, he’d told her in the way she’d always asked of him. Kaddish said, “Pato is fine. He’s here with me. He’s in his room and all is well.” Then, after safety was established and good health was established, Kaddish explained about Pato’s call and the police station from where they’d just returned. He managed this in such a light way that it came out as anecdote, something only a spoilsport wouldn’t laugh off. When he was finished, Lillian said, “Thank you.” She stressed and restressed the request she should have made on the day of the coup. Lillian said, “You keep him in the house, I’ll be home soon.”

  “I’ll sit on him if I have to.”

  “Superb,” Lillian said. Kaddish had Pato’s ID in his back pocket and knew, at least while the experience was fresh, that Pato wasn’t going to storm out without his papers again.

  There wasn’t much time. Kaddish wanted things perfect for Lillian, and there was still some fatherly business to attend to. He wanted an explanation, a story to tell Lillian when she walked through the door. High with his success and with hers, Kaddish didn’t want to find himself staring at the floor when Lillian asked for the rest of the details, he didn’t want to tell his wife, “I don’t know.”

  Kaddish went straight for Pato’s room, entered without knocking and demanded his due from Pato, who sat, legs crossed, on his bed.

  “The least you could say is thank you,” Kaddish said. This was enough to get them right back on track, as if not a moment had passed, as if Kaddish had just set fire to the books and Pato had taken the swing that hit his father in the nose. Except now it was Kaddish who burst through the door and stood over his son. It was Kaddish who slowly flexed a red and swollen hand. The scales were finally set right.

  “My room,” Pato said.

  “At the very least,” Kaddish said, “is thank you.”

  Kaddish delivered the words like a threat. This wasn’t his original intent but Kaddish heard the difference in tone and committed to it. He moved close and repeated, “At the very least,” with menace.

  There was a father in the room and a son. If Pato never wanted to acknowledge it again, he wouldn’t have to. Tonight Kaddish was demanding capitulation. He wanted the boy to give in.

  Pato clamped his headphones over his ears and dropped the needle onto an album. He flicked on the hi-fi at the end of the bed and closed his eyes. Such disrespect, as if his father weren’t there.

  Kaddish yanked out the headphone’s plug.

  Pato got up off his bed. “What do you want from me?” Pato said.

  “What do I want?” Kaddish said. “I want basic respect.”

  “Then earn it.”

  “I’m your father. I don’t have to. That’s the whole point.” Kaddish reached for the headphones. Plugged in or not, they were an affront.

  Pato pulled them off on his own and threw them on the bed. “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine, what?” Kaddish asked him.

  “They’re off, is all. I’m agreeing with that. Nothing more.”

  After too long a pause, Kaddish said, “Nothing more?” It was another retort that was only repetition.

  Pato shook his head, disappointed. He always found a way to condescend.
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br />   “You want to know what to agree on? You want something to agree with me about? I’ve got a list for you: Enough of the mouth and the bad behavior. Enough of the shady friends and the slinking around. Whatever you did to get yourself pinched, it’s got to stop. Whatever you’re involved in has to come to an end. You can’t go on messing around.”

  Pato had been terrified by his quiet stay in a clean, quiet cell. He was happy to be back in his bedroom and couldn’t wait for his mother to come home. He was happy, too, that his father had saved him and, over his dead body, he’d never let anyone know. He couldn’t help but scream in response with his man’s voice and little-boy indignation. “I wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything at all.”

  “For nothing? For nothing they pick you up. For nothing they toss you in a cell so I’ve got to go down there and fetch you.”

  “I didn’t do a fucking thing,” Pato said. “They grab us for no reason.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Kaddish said.

  Pato heard this and pressed at the sides of his head, a tantrum coming on.

  “Fuck you,” he said to his father. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “Now it’s we? Now the whole bunch of you is innocent? I want to know what you’re into,” Kaddish said. “And I want you out of it before your mother gets home.”