Read Online Mapuche by Caryl Férey, Steven Randall - Free Book Online Page A

69”).
    â€“A neighborhood shoemaker’s card.
    â€“Three hairs on the pillow.
    â€“A phone bill for the preceding month.
    â€“A small amount of dope in the night table—marijuana, cocaine.
    â€“A pregnancy test, positive.
    On his way back from the loft, Rubén dropped the pregnancy test in the mailbox at the Center for Forensic Anthropology, along with the bag containing the hairs and an explanatory message for Raúl Sanz, who led the research team. According to the SMS he received on his BlackBerry, he would have a reply by the end of the day. It was noon. Rubén began by calling the number saved on María Victoria’s answering machine, let it ring. “Miss Bolivia” didn’t pick up, so he left a message on her cell phone before continuing his research on the internet.
    â€œItuzaingó 69”: dozens of hits came up, ranging from the famous battle between Argentine and Brazilian troops that was to result in Uruguay’s gaining independence to a city in Corrientes province, by way of a garage rock group and several addresses in Greater Buenos Aires. Rubén wrote down the names and addresses, and then went to the photographer’s site, which she seemed to update regularly. María Victoria Campallo followed artists on tours or films, which explained her frequent travels. He made a list of the musicians with whom she had worked: the most recent was a saccharine pop star who was very popular in South America and had performed in Santa Cruz a month before, but he and his staff had continued the tour in Colombia. Surfing on the site, Rubén came across the face of the man in the photos hung up in María Victoria’s studio. The date of the concert indicated that the pictures had been taken toward the end of November, during the rock festival in Rosario. A black leather outfit, boots, pomaded hair like a stallion’s mane, black eyeliner emphasizing his tormented eyes, a little too heavy, but an undeniable aura that would elicit the screams of the groupies that he must collect in large numbers: Jo Prat, that was the vampire’s name, the former leader of the Desaparecidos, unrecognizable under his makeup and his extra weight. Rubén called Pilar, a friend of his who handled the cultural pages in the celebrity gossip magazine
Clarín
.
    Pilar Dalmontes liked to fuck her husband and also other men. She answered on the third ring.
    â€œIt’s been a long time, you little bastard!” she said, seeing Rubén’s number come up on her phone.
    â€œNice to know you remember me.”
    â€œI’d have preferred to forget you,” Pilar admitted, clearly in great form at lunchtime. But you know how I am.”
    â€œMarvelous.”
    â€œFlatterer! Don’t tell me you don’t have an hour for me?”
    â€œHow about a minute?”
    â€œI’m not sure I can do much for you in such a short time.”
    â€œI need a contact,” Rubén said. “Jo Prat. Can you get it for me?”
    â€œHmmm. I like it when you put on your velvet voice,” Pilar said, ironically. “What do you want with him, with Nosferatu?”
    â€œI want to bring a little sunshine into his life.”
    â€œHow is yours going?”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œI don’t see you anywhere, night owl: have you got something against your contemporaries? Married women?”
    â€œOn the contrary. So?”
    Pilar looked through her address book.
    â€œGurruchaga 3180,” she reported. “Do you want his number, or would mine be enough for you?”
    â€œGuess.”
    â€œI have only his landline.”
    â€œI’ll make do with that. Do you know if Prat is around here just now?”
    â€œI think he’s on the program for the Lezama festival next week.”
    â€œO.K.”
    Rubén wrote down the number, thanked the gossip queen, who pretended to simper, and called the singer. Another answering machine. He left his