Free The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra by Pedro Mairal Page B

provincial heritage,” it could not be sold or allowed out of the country. If the province had in fact done nothing for the work, we had the right to take them to court and ask for this to be annulled. But that could take years. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
    “Don’t say anything to the Dutch people for now,” he said.
    I went home, no longer frightened so much as annoyed. For the bureaucracy to put obstacles in the way of getting Salvatierra’s work known, for Baldoni to try to scare me into selling him the shed ... I saw the TV was on in the Dursts’ corner store, so I went in to have a beer and take my mind off things. I needed a bit of noise.

30
    The next morning I went to the supermarket to confront Baldoni in his office.
    “You’re saying I did what ?” he blustered.
    He was really offended when I explained. He denied it outright. He said it was not his way of doing things. That he might be in a hurry to buy the land, but he would never send his people to put pressure on anyone.
    “So what do your ‘people’ do?” I asked, emphasizing the fact that this was what he himself had called them.
    “I’m in the Social Welfare office. We distribute the donations we’re given. Some people are annoyed with me because they reckon I keep the things for myself, so perhaps they confused you with someone on my team ...”
    I left more bewildered than ever. I went to the shed and watched Boris and Aldo at work. By now they did everything with mechanical efficiency. They would open one roll under the scanner, stretching it out on each side with identical movements, mirror images of one another. While the machine was copying that section, they rolled up the far end. Hanna came back from Misiones with wooden sculptures of little birds, jaguars, and alligators. From what she said, it seemed she’d been more impressed by the Iguazú Falls than by the Jesuit mission ruins. She spoke half Spanish and half Dutch, adding explanations for Boris.
    Boris told me that the museum wanted to know how the export documents were going. They were anxious for a date when the move could take place because they would have to hire special transport. I didn’t tell him about the difficulties we were having with Customs. I said everything would be sorted out soon. Boris told me he would go on working until Saturday. If they carried on at the rate they were going the whole canvas would be digitalized by then. After that he’d have nothing more to do. He said that perhaps he’d go back to Holland until the work was ready to be shipped.
    “So Saturday is your last day?” I asked him.
    “Yes, Saturday,” he said.
    Before they left I wanted to go and look for Ibáñez over in Uruguay. I was desperate to find the missing roll.
    When Luis arrived on Friday, we decided to put on a farewell barbecue at home the next night for Aldo and the Dutch couple. We still had no idea what we were going to say about the bureaucratic obstacles. It wasn’t a simple matter. Luis had gotten nowhere trying to make the National Heritage Commission see reason. Once a work had been declared “of cultural interest” or “part of the cultural heritage,” that could not be rescinded. We would have to follow the legal procedures to have its ownership transferred back to us. We had to re-acquire something that not only was ours, but had been neglected for years by the institution that now, according to the law, was its legal owner.
    We talked for some time in the kitchen. I suggested we cross to Uruguay to try to find Ibáñez. Luis said he didn’t have the papers needed for the car to get over the Uruguayan border, and that anyway my idea about where the missing roll might be was ridiculous. I told him we could get across by boat without the car, and that possibly it would be easier to look for a fisherman by water than by land. He told me I was crazy. My brother listened to my arguments without looking at me, pacing round the kitchen, snorting