All Is Silence Page 13

  ‘Now’s the time. Everybody’s talking about the crisis. Politicians are afraid, discredited. In polls they’re dismissed as part of the problem. In the eyes of most people they’re incompetent and corrupt, they’ve got shit stuck in their hair and are unable to rid themselves of this manure, this reputation . . . The noise of swords is constantly heard in the barracks.’

  As he spoke, Mendoza noticed that first, pleasurable moment of intoxication produced by saliva with the cereal of language. A fermenting that is only possible when it is shared. As a student, during the dictatorship, he’d defended revolutionary ideas. He’d avoided ‘jumps’, public demonstrations, and more or less risky acts such as spreading leaflets, putting up posters and spraying walls with graffiti. That was to play a game of cat-and-mouse with a superior brute force. The dictatorship was in ruins, had the same illness as the dictator, multiple sclerosis with a rotting of the internal organs. The real task consisted in forming senior management for the future, for the day after the taking of power. He’d prepared, avoided having fights with the police. Attended class in a suit and tie, availed himself of the services of shoe-shiners. His appearance surprised people at meetings, especially when he opened his mouth and produced an eloquent, radical discourse whose main target was no longer the tottering regime, so old its teeth were falling out, but the revisionists, the social democrats, the puppets of capitalism.

  Everything can be put to good use. It had been useful training. For the first time he felt on his fingertips the clear sensation of being able to control vital threads.

  ‘It’s time the king ascended the hill and moved the pieces without being in the thick of battle. It’s time, yes,’ said the lawyer, preparing with the dynamo of his hands a remark that would bring the conciliabule to a close and hoist him on to Mariscal’s shoulders. ‘As the ancients used to say, Hic Rhodus, hic salta! That’s right, gentlemen. Here is Rhodes, jump here!’

  Mariscal appreciated the tribute and nodded thoughtfully. His head had to cope with the weight of the crown. And it leaned on its temples for support.

  ‘There’s a level here,’ he said finally. ‘This is what makes it nice to work with people!’

  Macro Gamboa had remained silent, with his hands between his legs. He’d worked for a long time transporting things by land and sea and had risen to the condition of businessman on his own merits. He hadn’t once glanced at the landscape. He seemed more interested in the others’ shoes. Their oscillating movements.

  It was some time before his hoarse voice emerged from his inhospitable mouth.

  ‘What the hell are we talking about?’

  31

  ON THE RIGHT of his desk, Óscar Mendoza had a large globe. The lawyer was standing up, watching it and making it turn. Víctor Rumbo was sitting opposite.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I have an opinion, but it hasn’t got to my head yet.’

  The lawyer smiled. He recognised the quip. This was one of his standard jokes about Galicians. Mendoza thought he’d have to change this habit of his. Telling jokes about Galicians. Yes, they laughed at their jokes, but then they chewed the words in a corner, as cows chew the cud. No, he wasn’t going to say that aloud. Besides, Víctor had a quick temper. Not for nothing was he called Brinco. He would jump out of his seat, react to the slightest provocation. If they cut off his arms, he’d row with his teeth. Better this way. No turning sharp corners, no dropping hints, no change of heart. He hated all that wrong-footing in the dance. Brinco was determined. His ambition was clear to see. Obviously much more of a wolf than a fox. They understood each other. And would get closer all the time.

  ‘That Brinco’s crazy,’ he’d said once to Mariscal about Víctor Rumbo. It was true he’d done something crazy, unloading a boat in broad daylight. But what the lawyer wanted to know was what the Old Man really thought. They called him that and he didn’t mind. So when Mariscal remained silent, he rephrased his statement: ‘To do what he did, you have to be off your rocker. It won’t be easy to defend him if he carries on like this.’

  ‘Did he burn some money?’ said Mariscal abruptly.

  ‘Why would he burn some money?’ asked Mendoza in surprise.

  ‘Well, if he didn’t burn any money, then he’s not crazy.’

  That was the end of Brinco’s mental check-up. The one sitting opposite Mendoza. The madman who didn’t burn any money and was going to be his henchman. His right-hand man.

  ‘Anyway, no more being the Atlantic’s fastest pilot. You’re a captain now. You have to take better care of your spine.’

  The lawyer pushed the globe with his forefinger, making it spin, but this time more slowly. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead of us. But first you should go and see the Old Man, Víctor.’

  ‘I see him every day!’ he replied sombrely. ‘He’s my favourite ghost.’

  ‘You’re like a son to him . . .’

  It was Brinco who approached the globe now and gave it a shove. ‘What do you mean, like a son? If I’m going to be your boss, don’t go talking to me like some idiot out of a soap opera!’

  ‘If the client doesn’t agree with the discourse, one has to change the discourse.’

  Mendoza pushed the globe in the other direction, his voice seeming to slide all over it. ‘Confucius travelled somewhere and was told, “Straightness rules in this kingdom. If a father steals something, the son turns him in; if the son steals something, the father turns him in.” Confucius replied, “Straightness also rules in my kingdom. There the son covers up for his father and the father covers up for his son.”’

  At this point in time, Mendoza would have liked to have Mariscal before him. He would have come out with some Latin, appreciated the elevation in style.

  ‘Got you, Confucius,’ barked Brinco before slamming the door behind him. As he did with cars. Something that made Mendoza very nervous.

  32

  FINS MALPICA WAS driving an unmarked car along the coastal road. He was accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Humberto Alisal of the Civil Guard, who’d come from Madrid in plain clothes. They were heading for the barracks in Noitía. It was an inspection without prior warning.

  ‘Where are you from, inspector?’

  ‘I was born here, sir. Nearby. In a fishing village in Noitía. A de Meus.’

  ‘Do your parents still live here?’

  ‘My father died some time ago. At sea . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘A stick of dynamite went off in his hands.’

  When he gave this detail, something he endeavoured to do as quickly as possible, Fins knew there would be an infinite moment, something like the pause between the ticking of a clock.

  ‘Oh!’

  It was raining lightly. Fins allowed the windscreen wiper to introduce a couple of asides. Then he expanded on the information. ‘My mother’s still alive. She has problems managing her memory. Of memory loss, I should say.’

  ‘Alzheimer’s is terrible,’ remarked Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. ‘My mother had it. She’d mix me up with the weatherman! Blow kisses whenever he appeared on television . . .’ He made the contained gesture of someone blowing a kiss from the palm of his hand. ‘I don’t know how she made that association.’

  ‘Maybe the weatherman’s pointer and the staff of office,’ said Fins.

  Humberto Alisal laughed and shook his head. ‘No, she never saw me with a staff of office.’

  Fins was about to say something about body language, but they were reaching their destination. He slowed down. The windscreen wiper groaned out of laziness. From the car park where they came to a halt they could hear the low panting of the sea muffled by blasts of errant water.

  The car park opposite the Civil Guard barracks was full of mostly new, top-of-the-range cars. Given that this was a restricted space, it made the conglomeration of luxury vehicles even more obvious. The contrast between the one Fins Malpica had just parked, his Citroën Dyane, and the others was like that between a b
arge and a fleet of high-class yachts.

  Once out of the vehicle, with Fins behind him, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal seemed to be giving the impressive sedans the once-over. His was a silent review that didn’t conceal his displeasure. He walked slowly, paying careful attention to the minor details, starting with the number plates, all of which indicated that the cars had only just been bought. ‘This is shameful!’

  Fins had been hugely surprised when Superintendent Carro called him into his office to inform him of Alisal’s visit and request that he should accompany him. Ever since, on a different trail, he’d located these ‘trout in the milk’, he’d been in touch with Chief Superintendent Freire of the Civil Guard. The kind of guy he trusted, with whom he would have entered the heart of darkness. Freire paid an undercover visit. And was the one who informed his superiors.

  ‘It hurt me to discover the truth, sir. To start with, I tried to look the other way, but more and more trout kept appearing in the milk. So then I spoke to Chief Superintendent Freire. He came here incognito. Saw first hand what there was.’

  ‘Trout, you say? You’re far too polite. Are they all this filthy?’

  ‘No, sir. There are three clean ones. They had a bad time.’

  ‘A bad time? Why? Because they were carrying out their duty?’

  ‘They’re off sick. Severe depression.’

  ‘Depression!’

  Lieutenant Colonel Alisal marched towards the barracks building. His indignation could be heard moving through the gears. As he walked, he expressed his thoughts aloud, ‘Three honourable, sick men. Well, that is something!’ Suddenly he stopped and turned to Fins. ‘What’s going on here? Please explain it to me.’

  Fins was always at the ready, but even so he couldn’t pinpoint the right answer. He might have said, ‘Corruption, sir, and this is just the tip of the iceberg.’ But he didn’t like to be direct. He was never that direct. Lieutenant Colonel Alisal gazed up at the front of the building, the motto ‘All for the Fatherland’, and then sought out the sea’s horizon. It was a thick, dark, oily sea, across which slid and swept a ragged bunch of clouds.

  ‘All of this on account of some tobacco and a handful of drugs?’

  ‘That’s prehistory, sir.’

  ‘But the statistics . . . This doesn’t comply with the statistics. We’ve increased the number of seizures.’

  The lieutenant colonel stopped in front of the guard standing sentry at the entrance to the building.

  ‘I wish to talk to the superintendent on duty. At once!’

  The guard raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like that tone, especially coming from a civilian.

  ‘At once? Who are you then, the Generalissimo?’

  The lieutenant colonel took his papers out of the inner pocket of his jacket.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Colonel Party Pooper.’

  The guard checked his papers. Immediately stood to attention.

  ‘At your orders, sir!’

  He was about to call the sergeant in the guardroom. Tell him to find the superintendent as quickly as possible. But this plain-clothes superior didn’t seem too worried about formalities. He had other obsessions. ‘Tell me, which of these cars is yours?’

  The guard glanced at the third man, who had remained silent. He knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place him. He had the appearance of a shadow. Fins, however, knew who the guard was. One clue had led to another without him even trying. Most of the cars had been bought from the same dealer. They hadn’t even bothered to cover their tracks. The owner shared business interests with Mariscal. Though the latter wasn’t exactly crazy about cars. He still drove his 1966 Mercedes-Benz. Its tail fins formed part of the Wild West landscape.

  ‘Are you happy, does it run well?’

  ‘I can’t complain. The car runs well. If you increase your speed, the consumption goes up. But I’m not one to do that.’

  ‘At ease!’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  33

  ‘AN INTERVIEW? WHAT for, counsellor? Cui prodest?’

  ‘You do. You stand to gain. You’re a gentleman, you can’t go down in history as a cattle thief.’

  Óscar Mendoza had already accepted on his behalf. An image campaign, he explained. Cui prodest. Cui bono, etc., etc. He had nothing to lose. On the contrary, everything to gain.

  ‘I already have a good image,’ countered Mariscal. ‘I’m known as a bit of a Casanova.’

  The lawyer played along. ‘That’s right, but it could be bettered. Do you know what Churchill used to say? “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Churchill,’ repeated Mendoza. ‘Winston Churchill.’

  ‘I know who Churchill is, counsellor!’

  Mariscal used this occasion to tell a story with mocking familiarity. ‘My father sold him wolfram at a good price. He sold it to the others as well. The Nazis wanted wolfram to make weapons and the Brits to stop them. On occasion, like other people, my father would sell the same material twice.’

  ‘A real neutral!’ exclaimed Mendoza.

  That’s right. A neutral. Many border fortunes had been amassed as a result of this mineral needed for Hitler’s cannons. Mutatis mutandis. He rather liked the idea of an image campaign. He touched his neck with his hand, pinched the skin of his double chin. The last time he’d come face to face with a journalist had been to give him a warning. Right there, on the chin.

  ‘They say you’re the perfect example of a self-made man, Mr Brancana.’

  ‘Don’t beat about the bush. Call me Mariscal.’

  He stared at the journalist in silence. Made out he was considering her statement when in fact he was thinking about her. She knew. There was an animal intelligence in her eyes. He noticed this because the first thing she did on entering the Ultramar’s back room was pay attention to the little owl. And when they sat down, on opening her notebook the first words she wrote, as he could see upside down, were ‘little owl’. The blinds were half lowered and filtered a staircase of light. Mariscal had lit a Havana cigar, the smoke of which rose in rings that lazily came back to ground. He soon saw that extended periods of silence made her nervous, and this discomfort on her part made him feel secure. The animal’s eyes were intelligent, but also meek. He liked this. He didn’t have time for high voltage.

  ‘What I mean,’ continued the journalist, ‘is that you got to where you are through your own efforts.’

  ‘Sensu stricto, miss.’

  ‘Lucía. Lucía Santiso.’

  Good, Lucía, good. He felt at ease. He puffed out his chest and came out with one of his favourite quotations: ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

  ‘Do you also speak English?’

  ‘I speak lots of languages. I’m a troglodyte.’

  He let out a guffaw. He had no problem laughing at himself. ‘The sea brings everything. Languages float as well. You just have to have a good ear. What do you think of John Wayne?’

  The girl smiled. She’d end up being the one interviewed.

  ‘He’s from another time. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. I liked him in that.’

  ‘A man is a man,’ replied Mariscal transcendentally. ‘That doesn’t belong to another time, miss. That is intemporal. Cinema began with Westerns. And will go to hell, is already going to hell, when there are no more Westerns. It’s the decline of the classic genres. Write that down.’

  ‘I will do,’ she said agreeably. ‘We were saying you were a self-made man.’

  ‘Let’s just say I learned how to ride out the storm in my own dinghy. Without fear, but with common sense. You have to pray, yes, but never let go of the helm. What was it that sank the Titanic? A blasted lump of ice? No, it was the pace of greed, a loss of perspective. Man yearns to be God, but he’s just . . . a worm. That’s right, a drunken worm who thinks he’s in control of the hook.’

  ‘Mr Mariscal, people say . . .’

  Mariscal pointed with h
is cigar at the journalist’s notebook. ‘Did you write down that bit about God and the worm?’

  Lucía Santiso nodded uneasily. She knew the interview had been agreed between the editor-in-chief of the Gazeta and the lawyer Mendoza. There were a few ground rules. But Mariscal was growing far too much, his head, eyes, arms, everything, while she felt diminished.

  ‘Mr Mariscal, your name is often bandied about as that of future mayor and possibly even senator.’

  Mariscal joked, making out he was on stage: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before I speak, I would like to say a few words . . .’ He didn’t carry on until the journalist had let out a convincing laugh.

  ‘Listen, Lucía . . . Can I call you that? Yes, good. I’m a dried fig by now, I’m not a danger to women,’ and as he said this, he winked at her. ‘Though dangerous women still get me going. Once a gallant, always a gallant. Don’t write that down.’

  Lucía lifted her biro off the paper. She was beginning to have fun and to calm down in time to the boss’s baton.

  ‘Listen, Lucía, I’m not going to lie to you. Politicians eat shit. Did you write that down? Yes? Then don’t. That’s right, I am apolitical. Absolutely apolitical. Ab-so-lu-te-ly! But put this as well. I, Mariscal, am prepared to sacrifice myself for Noitía.’

  He waited for his words to have an effect, but the journalist continued writing in her notebook.

  ‘To sacrifice myself and to fight for freedom!’

  Mariscal accompanied this strong statement by banging his fist on the table.

  This time Lucía Santiso did look up, forced to do so by the power of his rhetoric. She found herself face to face with a Mariscal transfigured. Looking serious, with flashing eyes.

  ‘Freedom! You may think I don’t go in for such a word . . .’

  ‘Why would I think that?’

  ‘Well, I do. I love freedom! Much more than those leeches who are always sucking on it. Freedom, yes, to create wealth. Freedom to earn a living with our own two hands. As we have always done!’