All Is Silence Read online

  The cigar was forming low clouds, and for the first time Lucía Santiso decided to break a taboo. She looked down at Mariscal’s hands.

  He understood. He never spoke about this matter, but thought he would make an exception for this girl who listened and wrote with such intelligent meekness.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why I wear gloves.’

  The editor-in-chief had already briefed her on this and had been strangely emphatic. ‘He always wears white gloves. Don’t even think about asking him about the gloves. It would seem he burned his hands while trying to rescue some money from the engine of a tanker. The tanker caught fire. He was taking emigrants to France. It was a miracle they got out.’

  Lucía lifted her biro in a gesture of confidence. ‘There’s a journalist at the Gazeta who’s allergic to touching door handles, phone receivers . . . And typewriter keys.’

  ‘That’s the one who’ll be in charge!’ said Mariscal, finally getting the journalist from the Gazeta de Noitía to laugh out loud.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t mention your clothing. Just say you dress like a gentleman.’

  ‘Then you’ll be telling the truth. But I want you to ask about the gloves. There are all sorts of rumours, idiotic comments. All of it nonsense.’

  ‘Why then? Why do you wear them?’

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve never told anyone before. Because I swore to my dying mother I would never again touch a glass of alcohol. That’s a real scoop now, isn’t it?’

  Lucía thought this might be a good moment to ask about something that interested her both professionally and personally.

  ‘How did you make your fortune, Mr Mariscal?’

  ‘With culture, basically.’

  ‘With culture?’

  ‘Yes, with culture! The cinema, the dance hall . . . I brought the classics. Juanito Valderrama, for example, singing “El emigrante”! Everybody cried. Now that’s how you show you’re a classic. Of course nobody remembers that any more. My motto was always the same as Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s: Ars gratia artis. We even set the benchmark for hamburgers, way before McDonald’s. Ours were better, of course. Nobody gave me anything, miss. But I’m going to let you in on a secret. I have always, always believed in Noitía. Noitía is an endless work in progress. It’s fashionable nowadays to preserve the environment. Yes, that’s fine. But what do we eat? The environment? . . . Did you include that bit about eating the environment?’

  ‘It’s a good metaphor.’

  ‘It’s not a metaphor!’ exclaimed Mariscal, trying to stifle his cough. ‘I already said I was apolitical. There are two kinds of politicians. Those who are off their heads. And those who walk about in water, asking for water. I’m not here to sing carols.’

  The journalist decided to broach a sensitive subject in the gentlest tone possible.

  ‘Which party will you stand for, Mr Mariscal?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. The one that’s going to win!’

  She understood his jokes. Mariscal accompanied the journalist’s smile with a pleasurable exhalation of smoke. He felt jolly.

  ‘Listen, the only party I’ll stand for is Noitía. I like our way of life. Our religion, family, constant partying . . . If that bothers somebody, well, that’s their problem.’

  ‘But in Noitía strange things are happening. Do you approve of smuggling, Mr Mariscal? They say drug trafficking is spreading its nets here.’

  Mariscal paused, never once taking his eyes off the journalist. There was an absolute silence in the Ultramar at that time, interrupted only by the fleeting sound of suppliers. The bakery van. The beer lorry. And so on. But now the Mental Department of Bothersome Sounds was reached by the voice of this journalist criticising the ever-increasing power of drug traffickers in Noitía. Another Muhammad Ali. With a butterfly’s wings and a bee’s sting. Biff!

  ‘Nets? Did you know that you’ll have a better catch if a hunchbacked woman goes on board and pisses on your nets? Yes, yes. That’s a fact and the rest is myth. Write that down. That is information. Listen, Miss Santiso, I don’t go around complaining, asking, “What kind of shitty town is this?” Are we in the back of beyond? Well, no. Velis nolis. I like this place just as it is. I even like the flies here. You can tell we’re prospering because we have a magnificent police station! And supposing, just supposing, there were smugglers in Noitía. Smugglers are honourable people. Those in Noitía anyway! Who are they hurting? The Inland Revenue? Listen, miss, if there weren’t umbrellas, there wouldn’t be banks.’

  ‘I’m not sure I see the connection.’

  ‘In the summer, banks lend umbrellas. When it rains, they ask for them back. Then there are people who make fantastic umbrellas for themselves. And the banks show interest. The Inland Revenue shows interest. In their own way everybody shows interest. Do you get me?’

  ‘You haven’t said anything about drug trafficking.’

  ‘Did you write down that bit about umbrellas? Good. Listen, if I become mayor one day, I’ll put an end to drugs. And drug addicts. I’ll send them all to cut stone in quarries! There’s a lot of talk about organised crime. Organised crime here, organised crime there. Your newspaper recently talked about organised crime in Noitía. What I’m saying is there are barefoot dogs everywhere. If crime is organised, then the state has to be better organised. And that’s something we all have to contribute to. Ipso facto.’

  Víctor Rumbo showed his face through the swing doors.

  Mariscal glanced at him and gestured to him to wait. Then he gazed at Lucía’s notebook, her calligraphic scrawl. He was about to make some comment about her fingers and nail varnish, something to do with crustaceans, but his tongue got caught in the only gap in his teeth. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Did you write that down? About organised crime?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s a good thesis.’

  ‘Well, now I want you to record the most important bit.’

  A change overcame the whole of Mariscal. His expression. His voice. He gave weight to this organic transformation by rising to his feet.

  ‘Of course if the first part isn’t true, then the rest isn’t either. The ancients used to say: Modus tollendo tollens. The way that denies by denying. I always rely on the ancients. They never make a mistake. There are no mafias in Noitía, miss. That’s a myth. There may be the odd bit of smuggling. As always. As everywhere. But that’s all.’

  He said this out loud so that Brinco could hear. See how he was controlling the situation. Keeping a tight rein on the conversation.

  Full stop.

  Finis certaminis.

  ‘That’s the first interview I’ve given,’ said Mariscal afterwards. He seemed satisfied with the experience. He became less formal with the journalist. ‘I hope it’s not your last . . . Include a bit of criticism, why not? The best way to sink somebody in the shit is by praising them to the skies!’

  He turned towards the swing doors. Brinco gazed at them obliquely.

  ‘Come in, son!’

  Víctor Rumbo entered like someone clearing his way through a current of air.

  ‘You’re . . . aren’t you . . . ?’

  ‘I’m nobody,’ Brinco interrupted her.

  Lucía felt the violence contained in his voice. Took shelter behind Mariscal’s presence.

  ‘Would you permit me a photograph, sir? I don’t know where that photographer’s got to. He hasn’t arrived yet.’

  The Old Man glanced over at his new captain. He knew him well. He recognised the surge in his breathing, the wake of a confrontation.

  ‘There was a man outside,’ said Brinco suddenly. ‘Taking photographs of the cars. I don’t like people taking photographs of cars.’

  ‘And what happened?’ asked Mariscal uneasily. ‘Did you send him to hospital for taking snaps of a few vehicles?’

  ‘No. He’ll just have to buy a new camera, that’s all.’

  Mariscal looked at Lucía and
made a gesture of patience and apology with his arms. Agreed to have his photograph taken with the journalist’s own camera. A way of making up for the damage.

  ‘Go ahead!’ he said finally. ‘An old gallant can be persuaded to do anything!’

  The boss positioned the brim of his hat, then crossed his arms with confidence, allowing the metal handle of his cane to appear next to the pocket silk handkerchief. Wrought silver with a pheasant’s head.

  ‘That cane is a beauty, Mr Mariscal.’

  ‘The silver is silver, my girl, and the wood is from Itín. Always getting harder.’

  His face seemed to harden as well, with carved features, as if offering a natural resistance to the succession of flashes.

  ‘Is that it? If all goes well, you’ll sell every copy. It’ll be a great day for the Gazeta!’

  ‘And if it doesn’t go well?’ asked Víctor Rumbo. This time he looked past her face. Lucía Santiso felt invaded by the piercing gaze of someone commonly known as Brinco, who now addressed her directly. ‘If you wait outside, I’ll tell you who nobody is.’

  She hesitated. Said, ‘I’ve a lot of work.’ And then, ‘I’ll wait.’

  Carburo got out of the van and approached the newspaper seller in the kiosk on Camelio Branco Square in Noitía.

  ‘The Gazeta,’ he growled.

  This was his way of asking for things. The newspaper woman realised this and handed him a copy.

  ‘No, no, I want them all.’

  Now she did look at him in surprise. But this being the Ultramar, she was used to not sticking her nose in. She handed him all the copies. Finally let out, ‘Has it got your obituary or something?’

  Carburo pointed at the front page, with a picture of Mariscal. ‘The boss is in it.’

  His portrait occupied the centre of the page. His hat and white suit gave him the appearance of a dandy, which was reinforced by the way he grasped his cane in the middle, lifting the handle to the height of his chest.

  ‘Yes, I saw. He looks very smart,’ said the kiosk woman with a hint of irony. ‘Obviously he’s the one who wields the stick. Why don’t you take some flowers, Carburo? They’re my last ones.’

  The giant stared at the roses. ‘No, I’m not hungry.’

  He has a sense of humour, thought the woman. Only when he imitates himself.

  34

  ‘THE OLD MAN is sorry.’

  Víctor Rumbo got up from the rock where they were sitting next to Cons lighthouse, by the crosses in memory of dead sailors, and chucked a stone in the water. Turned around and stared at Fins. ‘Sorry he’s been so good to you.’

  ‘What did he think? That I was going to come and buy some dynamite from him?’

  ‘See what a troublemaker you are? The Old Man’s right. Why is it so hard for you to be more pleasant? More . . . honest?’

  ‘Honest? What do you mean?’

  ‘Set your price. That would be the honest thing to do.’

  ‘What’s your price? Help me. Get yourself out of this web as soon as you can. It’s not going to last for ever, Brinco. The judicial system will work, sooner or later.’

  ‘You’re dumb. Don’t refuse my offer. I’m not going to be a grass. An informer. You know why? For one simple reason. There’s more money on this side. The Old Man said, “Go talk to him, I’m still not sure if he’s dumb or not.” And I asked him, “How will I know, Mariscal?” He said, “If he burns any money, then he’s dumb.” How much do they give for a dead policeman, Fins? A medal perhaps. And a couple of lines in the newspaper.’

  ‘Sometimes they don’t even get that.’

  ‘Do you want medals? We’ll buy you some medals. Do you want to appear in the newspaper? Better to do it when you’re alive than when you’re dead.’

  ‘Yes, it’s always a bit more lively.’

  They laughed together for the first time.

  ‘Then you could devote yourself full time to your artistic photography . . .’

  As he was making this suggestion, Víctor Rumbo pulled a couple of photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket. Handed one to Fins.

  ‘As you see, we have people we can trust in all places. This is one you took of me in Porto airport with Mendoza. An interesting trip, as I’m sure you heard.’

  ‘Yes, I heard something about it,’ confirmed Fins, suppressing his surprise. Without further ado, he stretched out his hand for Víctor to give him another image. Brinco toyed with the photograph, using it to make the arching movement of an airship.

  ‘This isn’t one of yours!’

  Fins examined every corner of the photographic paper. Tried to ascertain if it was a montage. He was amazed. It showed Brinco with the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar. Both of them laughing.

  ‘Yes, yes . . . that’s right! No, you’re not hallucinating. With Pablo Escobar, on the Naples estate between Medellín and Bogotá. You should have seen the zoo. He had elephants, hippopotamuses, giraffes, lakes with black-necked swans . . . But the thing he liked best was cars. That day he was over the moon. His wife had just bought him a car driven by James Bond. He showed me another car that had belonged to Bonnie and Clyde . . . No, there’s no trick. It’s authentic. A real treasure, right?’

  He stretched out his hand for Fins to return it.

  ‘How much do you think it’s worth . . . was worth?’

  Brinco pulled out a lighter and set the image on fire. Let it burn to cinders. Then handed Fins the third and final photograph.

  ‘This is the tops! A work of art.’

  It was one of the photos Fins had taken from the docks, showing Leda in the window with a look of pleasure and Víctor embracing her from behind.

  ‘Keep it . . .’

  He stood up. Threw another stone into the sea. Headed back to the car, which was parked on the track leading to the lighthouse, but first turned around.

  ‘The day you know your price, write it on the back.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  Mariscal was waiting for him in the back room of the Ultramar.

  ‘He’s turned ugly and there’s no changing him,’ replied Brinco.

  The Old Man was about to say something, but interrupted it with a cough. He had this ability. He realised when something was inappropriate and stopped himself in time by drowning it in his throat.

  ‘His father . . . Did he ask you about his father?’

  ‘No, we didn’t discuss the old days.’

  ‘Better like that,’ said the Old Man, standing up, swinging his cane, gazing at the little owl. ‘Mutatis mutandis, what do you know about his companion, that busybody who helps him?’

  ‘She’s another one. Doesn’t stop digging around. She’s not afraid of anything.’

  ‘There’s always something.’

  ‘Well, she has a cat. I didn’t know there were police cats!’

  Brinco had used a touch of irony and the Old Man appreciated his effort.

  ‘Once, in the cinema, somebody launched a cat from the top balcony. The Madman of Antas probably. He ruined the film. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to catch a good cat.’

  35

  A MAP OF the world with pinned notes: tax haven, offshore, mother port, supply ship, transfer, unloading, consignment . . . The lines of routes and journeys indicated in different colours. The black line shows tobacco, the yellow line videotapes, and a third line, in red, cocaine. A green line, the transfer of personnel. One of these shows the following stages: Porto–Río–Bogotá–Medellín–Mexico–Panama–Miami–Madrid, with the initials VR–OM: Víctor Rumbo–Óscar Mendoza. In another section, photographs have been affixed using pins with different-coloured heads. There are more notes and Post-its placed according to their colour in such a way that they create a certain symmetry. The chart is like a kind of family tree, with the following label at the top: ‘Limited Company’. The section devoted to personnel is headed by photographs of Mariscal Brancana, Macro Gamboa, Delmiro Oliveira and Tonino Montiglio, with several other, unidentified silhouettes.
Lower down are Óscar Mendoza, with a question mark between brackets, and Víctor Rumbo. They appear as a hub from which there are connections to different places. One of the larger ones: Círculo Ltd, with dozens of photographs. One of the many secondary portraits shows Leda Hortas framed in the spy’s window, and another one, Chelín Balboa, who seems to be smiling at the camera. A third section, denominated ‘Grey Area’, shows establishments, properties and businesses that act as fronts or laundries. Last of all is a chart called ‘Shady Area’, with branches leading to courts, security forces, communications, customs and banks. Here, like a kind of epigraph, are not specific notes, but codified numbers.

  The map, photos, pins, coloured stickers, the different sections, all indicate a craftsman’s patient hand and give the small workroom the appearance of a classroom. This is the space used hour after hour by Sub-inspector Mara Doval. Even though she’s younger than he is and one of the first women in the body of investigators, Fins refers to her in private as Mnemosyne or The Professor. Tall and spindly. Long curly hair, a nest for the wind. She’s making the most of her solitude and working barefoot at the moment. Wondering where to place the photograph of Dead Man’s Hand.

  When she hears the door groan, her first reaction is to find her sandals and put them on. When she lifts her eyes, she comes across the familiar faces of Fins Malpica and Superintendent Carro. And a third, unfamiliar man in uniform. Her look registers the significance of badges and stripes. He can’t help himself, even if only for a moment, gazing at her painted toenails.

  ‘Mara Doval, sir.’

  The lieutenant colonel puts on some glasses and slowly, geologically explores this world emerging from the darkness. His gaze begins and ends with those feet.

  ‘All this work . . .’

  ‘No, it wasn’t just me.’ Fins makes the most of this opportunity to laud her to the skies. ‘The goddess of memory, sir. It’s all in her head.’

  She tries to stop him with the language of signs, but Fins refuses to heed them. ‘What’s more, she’s the only one around here who really speaks other languages.’

  They sit down at a round table, in the middle of which is an Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder. Mara presses a button, and the tape plays the voices of two women. A phone call between Leda and Guadalupe. Mara mouths the words. She knows every single sentence that is coming. The constant references to Lima and Domingo.