In which Bond beats a retreat to Humberto Primo 378

Mr Bond

Good day, dear reader. From my last episode, you will recall the sensational events at Monumento Al Plus Ultra by the Reserva Ecologica here in Buenos Aires. As the new Head of MI6 Ms Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina (M) approached the monument steps, Moneypenny was wounded by a single shot from a semi-automatic M1911 pistol. We told you of her urgent transfer to Hospital Britanico in Av Caseros, Constitucion; but that is where our account concluded.

Some thoughtful readers have inquired as to whether Moneypenny survived the shooting (her flashback stories to Berlin giving no clue on this issue). You need to know that she has. That which caused her to crumple into my arms on the monument steps proved to be a deep flesh wound, producing copious blood but not delivering death.

We were all present at that fateful time. Paul Savident, Richard Hammond, Mireille, Norm, Sabrina, Moneypenny, Bond, and of course, Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina. Also, almost unseen and unheard in the distance beneath the canopy of Jacaranda glinted the chromed spokes of a wheelchair and a drifted a haunting harmonica tango. 

As the ambulance left with Sabrina clutching Moneypenny’s hand, a cavalcade of Ford Falcons sped into Av. Dr. Tristán Achával Rodríguez. Ms Boothroyd and M had already reached the road and were ushered into the second car which turned into Padre M L Migone, disappearing from view and leaving the food vendors and late afternoon joggers staring in disbelief.

Savident took charge of our remaining group. “Our instruction in such circumstances is to go immediately to Fundación Mercedes Sosa, Humberto Primo 378. Take a car”. And with that our group split - Savident, Hammond and Mireille in the first Falcon, followed by Norm and me in the last car.

Imagine my surprise when, on sliding down into the rear near passenger side I glanced up to recognise the driver. “Raul, what on earth are you doing here?” Pushing his beaten straw hat to the back of his head, Raul (Palacio Haedo’s caretaking gardener and chauffeur) just smiled, “someone has to be looking out for you, old boy”, he replied.

Postscript

I should explain to the uninitiated reader the significance of the Ford Falcons. The first Falcons were produced in La Boca, Buenos Aires in 1962 and remained in production until 1991. Between 1976 and 1983 they were commandeered by the military regime death squads, arriving late at night or early morning outside homes where opponents of the regime would be spirited away to be ‘disappeared’. Between 11-30,000 citizens were killed. To this day, street pavings mark the buildings from which radicals were removed.

MP returns part 2/3

Moneypenny

I opened the front door and followed the music all the way up the stairs that lead to the milonga.  Two French doors opened onto a 1920’s typical Berlin café resonating with Troilo’s ‘Te aconsejo que me olvides’.  A man and a woman were talking, or struggling I to talk, should say.  I could tell instantly and he was Porteno, and hence spoke very little English, and she was German, and hence spoke very little Spanish. I stepped in to try to facilitate communication; Federico was a singer and had been invited by Madga, the milonga organiser, to sing tonight and they were trying to agree on the best moment for him to start his performance.

‘Gracias’ he said to me, to which I simply responded, ‘de nada’, and he was off.  He sang 4 songs, one tanda, and started with Di Sarli’s ‘Soñemos’, ‘Let’s dream’, Let’s dream that we are both free, let’s dream that tomorrow doesn’t matter…….ironically how most people in Buenos Aires live and deal with the day to day insecurities, dreaming and trying not to worry about tomorrow.   

When Federico finished singing, he walked over to where I was sitting and told me he had another performance tonight, but would love to see me again.  He gave me his card and said he was singing here again on Wednesday and could really use my help ‘translating’ for him again.   

Wednesday

I was at the conference given by Vladimir Dimitrov, Ph. D, a well known and very accomplished genetics engineer.  He was working on some sort of artificially accelerated genetic mutation which would help humans better adapt to environmental and diet changes.  The Kremlin was selling it as Russia’s solution to global warming, which would allow humans to adapt to new environments, only instead of it taking hundreds of years, with countless deaths, this new research demonstrated that this could be achieved in as little as two generations. 

The conference was very well attended, scientists and politicians from all over the world were taking notes and exchanging business contacts, ‘this is the future, our very survival depends on it’, Dr Dimitrov argued.

‘Survival of those who have the means to afford it, he means’, said a voice coming from behind me.  ‘Richard’, I exclaimed, ‘of course the British would send their very best to be there today’,I added.  ‘I was about to say the same about Brussels, Miss Moneypenny, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always’, he responded.

The conference ended, and then begun lobbying from all sides.  ‘It’s almost pathetic seeing them running after each other like that, like pathetic little dogs.  Let us do the civilised thing and get a drink; champagne I believe is your poison my dear?’  Richard asked me.  ‘My afternoon poison. Yes’, I responded.

‘You know, Bond is back in Buenos Aires, and word has it he might soon need some help over there.  Things are happening in Argentina right now and it is vital that changes happen in the right direction’, said Richard while handing me a glass of Dom Perignon.  ‘And what right have we to determine the ‘right’ direction?  Isn’t foreign involvement what Britain is accusing Brussels of?’, I asked while sipping my cold bubbly.  ‘Let’s just say that in these matters we have two choices, to lead or be led, and frankly I know which side I prefer to be on, I guess you have to decide, my dear Moneypenny, which side do you want to be on?’, he responded purposely ignoring my comment about Brexit. 

And with that I decided it was time to get back to my Berlin penthouse and try to take all this information in.  Why had I been sent here? And why did I again feel like a pond in someone else's chess game? 

Then I suddenly remembered I had a milonga to get to!