Isabella turned toward the room. “Come, let’s sit,” she said, motioning to an empty table. “I must get off my feet.”
At the table, both the Capitán and Rebecca watched her, waiting. Her neck arched higher, the severe bun black against her skin; her eyelids drooped. “It was like an anniversary. I sent the card every year. So she wouldn’t forget.” Isabella took a gulp of what looked like vodka. “She killed my son, but now that she is dead, I must forgive her.”
The Capitán smirked, every now and then nodding recognition toward those greeting him from a distance.
“Why do you think she was responsible?” Rebecca asked, trying to ignore him.
“Because he is dead and she knew where they were. My son, her son, together in a safe house. Only a few close friends knew where. She was the only one who was tortured. They grabbed her because she was weak and they can smell weak. The junta were afraid of their songs — the boys sang songs in protest. Here it would be nothing, nobody would notice. But there, they killed people who opposed them. When they tortured her, she gave in.”
“Isn’t it possible someone else told?” said Rebecca. The Capitán smirked again. He was enjoying this.
Isabella finished her drink. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She is dead. Why do you care?”
“Someone killed her. I’d like to know why.”
Isabella lifted her glass high, motioning to the bartender. “It was a robbery, I heard. These things happen.”
“I believe it was something more.”
The Capitán no longer smiled. “You shouldn’t get involved,” he said, crushing out his cigarette, pretending lack of interest. “This is not a job for a doctor. You must have more important things.”
What was he hiding, she wondered. Who was he really?
“I hope I haven’t upset you,” she said, pleased with his reaction.
His nostrils flared but she couldn’t take complete credit for his displeasure since he stood up at that moment to greet someone at the door.
Isabella stood up, both arms extended, her shoulder blades taut. “Leo,” she sang. The man embraced her, kissing her the European way, on both cheeks.
“My dear lady, ravishing as always.”
He turned toward the table and smiled at Rebecca. “Why, Doctor, what a delightful surprise!” said Feldberg. “How nice to see you again so soon.”
Then came an ox and drank the water That quenched the fire that burned the stick That beat the dog that bit the cat That ate the goat That Father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat.
chapter twenty-two
It’s a small world,” said Rebecca.
The Capitán nodded a greeting and sat down.
Feldberg smiled with bared teeth. “You see,” he addressed her. “Here we try to recreate a little bit of Buenos Aires.” His hand showed her the room as if the feeble rendering of the toreador on the wall, the painted señorita, the bull’s horns, had transfigured a rather perfunctory space into something more.
As he sat down, Isabella rolled her eyes. “Ay! Buenos Aires! How can you compare? All along the streets people sit laughing, singing till four in the morning. Strangers talk to each other, people are friendly. You can discuss. Not like here. Nobody talks to you here. You could be dying in the street, people would just step over you.” Unsmiling, she looked to Rebecca for an answer.
“I’ve heard people say Toronto is a cold place for a stranger,” Rebecca said. “But if you’re in trouble here, people will help. The city may be cold, but the individuals aren’t.”
A few strums from a guitar made Isabella turn toward the men in the band who had gone back to their places. Feldberg and the Capitán rose as she stood up and passed by, lithe and bony.
As soon as the music resumed, Feldberg approached Rebecca’s chair. “Would you like to dance, Doctor?”
The Capitán watched her with half-lidded eyes and lit up another cigarette.
While Isabella sang, Feldberg manoeuvred Rebecca deftly around the other couples sharing the dance floor. His arm gripped her waist with firm assurance, his own back straight and dignified. Rebecca took deep breaths in the opposite direction to avoid the noisome sweetness of his scent.
“So how do you like our little club?” he asked.
She nodded approval and hoped he wouldn’t push for a real answer. “It’s the Capitán’ s place?”
Feldberg’s smile stiffened a bit. “He runs the day to day in the club. I manage the rest. And of course, the building is mine. He rents from me.” With this, his old smile resumed.
“Then you’re old friends,” she said. His lips pursed with displeasure. She’d expected as much. “You knew each other in Argentina?”
“Slightly,” he said.
“And he knew Goldie too?”
“Goldie?” The contempt he injected into his voice distorted his face. “He didn’t know Goldie.” “Was he in the military?”
Feldberg appraised her, then said, “No. He knew people; he had connections if he needed something. But he himself, no.”
As if to evade further questions, Feldberg began some faster, fancier dance steps. She tried to follow, but fumbled.
“Don’t think so hard about what you are doing, Doctor. Let yourself go. Is that the expression? You Canadians are too self-conscious. You don’t know how to enjoy yourselves.”
The song rose to a sudden crescendo, then lapsed into a trembling beat.
“You’ve known Isabella a long time?” she asked.
“We’re both expatriates from Argentina. Away from home, so to speak. It’s hard to make people understand who never had to flee their country. And her past is tragic. So many tragedies. The world is filled with sad stories, Doctor.”
The words came too easily. All the sad stories were someone else’s. Life went on.
“You believe Goldie betrayed her own son?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The poor woman’s out of her pain.”
How magnanimous, Rebecca thought. “Do you have any idea who killed her?”
Feldberg danced with half-closed eyes as if trying to avoid her questions.
“Do you think it could’ve been someone from the terror? Maybe someone with a grudge?”
His eyes snapped open; his dancing slowed. “It’s all over. The terrorists are in Argentina, most of them pardoned by the new regime. It’s not logical for them to risk their lives to come here and finish someone off.”
His dancing continued to be slow. “I’d rather not talk about her. I feel so guilty about what happened to her,” he said. “Three buildings away and I couldn’t help her. I cannot imagine what you must think.”
His hypocrisy sickened her. As soon as the music stopped, she excused herself.
Outside, the flashing bulbs of the El Dorado sign lit up the sidewalk on College Street as she headed back to her car. The street was empty. She jumped into the Jaguar waiting quietly in the dark by a meter and locked the door.
Driving east along College she rolled her head on her neck to loosen the kinks. God, she was tired! She turned north up Spadina. Traffic was light. One car ahead, a van behind. As long as there were two, she felt safe. But at Dupont,