“She’ll come back,” Adela said, and started up again with her anecdotes about dogs who were faithful to their owners. Gaspar finished writing Vicky’s phone number on the poster, then got up and went to knock on her door.
“We’re going to put the posters up. Come with us, give it a rest a while.”
There was a tense silence, and then Vicky opened the door. Her eyes were red, but she’d stopped crying.
“Come on,” Gaspar repeated. “We finished the posters.”
The bulb in the hall lamp had blown, and they looked at each other in the gloom. Gaspar thought back to the past summer, which he’d spent with Vicky and her family in Mar del Plata: playing paddleball on the beach, swimming a little （though not much: they got scared when Gaspar went into deep water, and he didn’t want to make them nervous）， and walking on the damp sand at dusk. He and Vicky had talked a lot, sometimes they didn’t fall asleep until very late, the bedside lamp still on. That was the second summer Gaspar had gone on vacation with the Peiranos, who rented an apartment near the semideserted beaches around the lighthouse. It was large and comfortable, and Gaspar suspected they didn’t pay for it. He was almost sure he knew who did pay, but he never would have insinuated anything. His father hadn’t said a word, neither of those summers. He had given Gaspar permission to spend a month at the beach. If they’re inviting you, go ahead. I trust them. Both summers, envoys bearing money had also appeared on the coast, to be sure he had what he needed. They weren’t always the same people, but Gaspar knew them all by then, there were seven or eight of them, including the drivers who took his father to the doctor or wherever else he wanted to go. When he was younger he hadn’t noticed, but when he got older it was clear to him that no one else had assistants or caretakers like that. When he’d asked his father about it, his entire reply had consisted of, “Your mother was rich, and you are too. I’m sure you’ve seen on TV what can happen to rich people.” Gaspar remembered the stories on the news about kidnappings, and the explanation Vicky’s mother had given: it’s the former workers of the dictatorship, she said, they have new jobs as extortionists, because they’re experts at kidnapping. “So, am I in danger, will I be kidnapped?” “No,” said his father, “because those people watch over you.” And the next time Gaspar had asked, his father’s reply was the same and his irritation extreme. So now he just accepted it.
The first summer with Vicky, Gaspar had had a great time. But the second summer, he didn’t really know why, he’d felt afraid for his father one night, and he snuck out of the apartment and went to a public phone. Leaning against the perforated plastic in the round cabin that reminded him of a giant egg, he called his house several times. No one answered. So he tried again the next night. Still no answer. It was January. Gaspar knew that in the summer, his father would usually leave for a few days, he had friends he visited, but he was never away from home long. Ten days max. It was January 15 and he wasn’t answering and Gaspar was about to ask Lidia and Hugo Peirano to let him go back home, to please buy him a ticket, though he didn’t exactly know what he could do when he arrived at that empty house. Call his uncle in Brazil? Talk to the accountants? Ask to speak to his maternal grandparents, whom he hadn’t seen in years, and whom he barely remembered? Sitting on the steps leading up to the door of the building in Mar del Plata while the tourists went in and out—some dressed to dine in restaurants, others carrying groceries to cook in their apartments—Gaspar had started to cry. Vicky had told him: “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Let’s not say anything. We’ll call again tomorrow.”
And this time when he called, his father said hello in a tired, exasperated voice. Gaspar’s knees gave out when he heard it.
“I’ve been calling you,” he said, angry. “You never leave for so long.”
“Gaspar, you just go have fun,” his father replied, and hung up.
As he looked at Vicky now, Gaspar remembered those days of uncertainty, just three months ago. And she nodded. She understood. She pulled her silky dark hair back into a ponytail.
“Sorry, I should have helped you with the posters.”
And then she hugged Gaspar again, and he kissed her head and lingered to smell her hair, a scent of rain and the shampoo the girls liked so much that year, a green one that was in fashion and smelled of apple juice.
The Peirano house was always under construction. It sat on a large plot of land, and the long house stretched out along a walkway that joined the front yard and the garage with the backyard; there was a modest garden with a shed, where the dogs slept in the shadow of a lemon tree and the grill was pressed into service almost every Sunday. In that noisy, messy house, everyone went to bed when they wanted; if they felt like eating together at the table, they did, and if they didn’t, they took their plates to their rooms or outside; the grandmother listened to tangos on the radio, and anytime someone mislaid papers they never turned up again.
It didn’t seem like the house of a pharmacist and a doctor. Victoria sometimes thought that her parents were unfairly poor, because other kids with doctors for parents lived in a different kind of house. She had overheard her parents talking about what bad luck they’d had, the opportunities they’d missed out on. Her mother worked in a public hospital and took shifts at a clinic twenty blocks from their house; her father didn’t want to leave the pharmacy where he had started out at the age of eighteen—he adored the owner, and didn’t care that the salary was low. They argued a lot about money, but they were happy. They had fun together. And what money they had, they spent: vacations to Bariloche, Pehuén Có, Mar del Plata, the mountains of Córdoba, Valle de la Luna. Gaspar spent a lot of time with that family. His own house was spacious and elegant, and, he knew, it was the envy of the neighborhood; but it was also dark and empty, with a withered garden, scant furniture, imposed silence.
“Why don’t you all stay for dinner?” asked Lidia, Vicky’s mom. She had gotten home from the hospital close to nine at night with some pizza bases to put in the oven. Only then had she found out about the dog’s escape, and after listening to the story she told her husband:
“You’re a real dummy, Hugo. Really.”
And she congratulated the kids for having made the posters. They’d left them in all the shops, at kiosks, at the café in the park, at the bike shop, on lampposts. The next day was Sunday; if it didn’t rain, people would be out on the streets much more, and if anyone had seen the dog, they’d just have to call one of the numbers on the poster. They had included Adela’s and Pablo’s numbers on the signs, as well as Vicky’s. But not Gaspar’s: his father couldn’t stand the sound of the phone ringing.
After putting the pizzas on the counter to cool a little, Lidia went to her room to take off her white uniform, and again urged Pablo and Gaspar to stay to eat. Pablo said his mom was waiting for him. Gaspar just said no, thanks.
“How’s your dad?” Lidia asked him before getting into the shower.
“I don’t know,” Gaspar replied honestly. “That’s also why I want to go home. But he’s better than he was a few days ago, thanks for asking.”