All Is Silence Page 15

  ‘Please tell us, Fins, who is on the cast list,’ says the superintendent when they’ve finished listening.

  ‘The one placing the call is Leda. Leda Hortas is in a relationship with Víctor Rumbo, known in Noitía as Brinco. A celebrated pilot of speedboats. He seems to be on standby at the moment, but everything indicates his power in the organisation has grown. Leda’s role, at this point, is to keep an eye on the customs patrol boats. She’s phoning a beauty salon. The other voice is that of Guadalupe, Mr Lima’s wife. Lima, sir, is Tomás Brancana. To everyone in Noitía, Mariscal. The Old Man. The Boss. The Dean.’

  ‘And Domingo? Who is Domingo?’

  ‘Domingo is the name used to refer to the customs patrol boats.’

  ‘Is that as far as we’ve got?’

  Mara Doval stands up to consult something on one of the charts. She removes a photo. Places it on top of the table. But first replies to Alisal’s question, ‘One other thing, sir. They don’t need a spy any more. They’ve hired a customs chief directly.’

  ‘I imagine these are all hypotheses,’ suggests Alisal.

  ‘Listen,’ says Fins. ‘They’re very careful, cover their tracks, but occasionally they let in a ray of light. Listen.’

  He presses ‘play’. Leda is taking her leave of Guadalupe in a less formal tone than usual, and says that this will be their last conversation.

  ‘Why is that?’ asks Guadalupe in surprise.

  Leda is obviously feeling very happy. ‘We’re going to move. It’s about time!’

  ‘And what about Domingo?’

  There is a short pause. Leda finally lets out a laugh. ‘He won the lottery!’

  ‘But Mr Lima never told me anything.’

  There is another pause. Leda, more distant, ‘You know you don’t just say those things.’ Then, ‘Ciao. Farewell!’ And she hangs up the phone.

  ‘That’s a beauty!’ remarks Alisal. ‘A real indiscretion.’

  ‘A rarity, sir,’ confirms Fins. ‘They have very good connections at the phone company. They always know when they’re going to be tapped. Here we were lucky. And very patient.’

  ‘Lots of patience with that pedicure, right, Mara?’ remarks the superintendent.

  She nods.

  ‘How do we know Lima is Mariscal?’ asks the lieutenant colonel suddenly.

  Fins Malpica stands up, unlocks a drawer in the filing cabinet and pulls out a folder. Inside, in transparent plastic sleeves, are several handwritten sheets of paper, some creased, torn and put back together.

  ‘The boss’s handwriting,’ says Fins with satisfaction. ‘He never places a call. Never shows himself where he doesn’t have to. Measures every single step he takes. Lives like a hermit. But here is his hand giving orders. In this scribble is the Old Man’s twisted mind. A treasure for graphology. At last!’

  Lieutenant Colonel Alisal has come to check a report of corruption in the barracks of the Civil Guard. Superintendent Freire was right. But with these new revelations, the expression on his face is now that of a shocked, confused man.

  ‘What quantity of cocaine are we talking about? Our statistics say we’ve been keeping them under control . . .’

  ‘Statistics, as someone said, are the first lie.’

  Fins feels he is able to be precise only through irony. ‘I believe some of them may even have been doctored by the hand of the organisation’s foremost lawyer, Óscar Mendoza.’

  Alisal is downcast. Their gazes follow Mara Doval when, having opened a second drawer, she returns with another surprise. This time it’s a chess set. She places it on the table. The pieces are large, expertly made, and imitate medieval figures. The colours are striking. Red and white.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ exclaims Alisal. ‘Just like the Lewis chessmen.’

  ‘A fantastic imitation,’ agrees Doval. ‘For those in the know. Of course they’re not made of walrus ivory. Do you play chess, sir?’

  ‘There are few things I enjoy more,’ says Alisal. ‘Even on my own.’

  ‘Me too. Without pieces.’

  Mara Doval unscrews one of the pieces, a pawn in the shape of an obelisk.

  ‘They think cocaine is just this . . .’

  She turns the pawn upside down and a small pile of white dust falls on to one of the squares. She does the same with the bishop and the rook in the shape of a warrior. Till she reaches the king and queen.

  ‘But in fact it’s this and this and this . . .’

  Suddenly she lifts the board, revealing a false bottom full of the drug.

  ‘And this! All of it flour.’

  ‘We’re talking about tons of the stuff,’ says Fins. ‘Thousands of kilos of cocaine. Thousands of millions in profit. Snow, blow, stardust! They want to turn this coast into the largest landing stage in Europe. It may already be that.’

  Mara Doval adds, ‘They’ll buy out people, territory . . . They’ll buy out everything. That’s magical capitalism for you!’

  Alisal is deep in thought, his gaze fixed on the chess set.

  ‘It’s the institutions that worry me. A worm is just a worm. The problem arises when the worm rots the apples. Superintendent, it’s time we had a comprehensive, definitive report. They can write it. And I’ll make sure it gets to where it has to.’

  ‘We’ve already written the odd report,’ remarks Fins.

  ‘This time will be different, I promise.’ Lieutenant Colonel Alisal bangs his fist on the table. ‘If it’s up to me, there’ll be tremors in Babylon!’

  36

  IN A SMALL bay next to Cons lighthouse, between the rocks, lay the body of Guadalupe. There were local police, Civil Guards and ambulance staff. They’d recovered the body from the inside of her car, which had left the road and fallen like a lead weight into the water. Mariscal was informed and soon arrived. He looked grief-stricken. An accident. A mistake. The light had blinded her. When the coroner arrived, he offered his condolences. Mariscal’s eyes were red. He looked old. Found it difficult to talk. The occasional murmur, apparent delirium. ‘Chaves da vida.’ ‘That carmine letter box . . .’ ‘I’m not going, I’m not going.’

  ‘As everyone knows, we spent some time apart. This wasn’t something I wanted. I was very sorry about it. She had this problem with depression . . .’

  He mentioned this when the doctor from the Red Cross came over to compare notes with the coroner. ‘It must have been early in the morning. Judging by the corpse, I’d say she’s been dead for six hours.’

  ‘What condition is the body in?’

  ‘There’s nothing strange about it, sir. Not a scratch. Certainly no sign of violence. With what we’ve got, I’d say it was death by drowning.’

  Mariscal talked to himself and to others.

  ‘She loved walking barefoot along the beach, feeling the water tickling her feet. She couldn’t bear to be a day without seeing the sea. It was in her veins. Ever since she was a girl, you know? . . . I’m sure you don’t . . . she worked over there, on the shore, gathering shellfish, the sea up to her waist. And that is where she died.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brancana, but given the circumstances we’ll have to perform an autopsy. A forensic autopsy.’

  He breathed in through his nostrils. An energetic, hoarse inhalation of air which distorted his face. A forensic autopsy. He glanced over at that woman, Malpica’s colleague, madly taking photographs of the corpse.

  ‘Of course, coroner. Everyone is here to do their duty.’

  Mónica, who worked in Bellissima, arrived at the beauty salon at the usual hour. Guadalupe, the owner, was the one who usually opened up. She did so an hour earlier. There weren’t normally customers, but she used this time to make calls, place orders, etc.

  Mónica rang the bell again. She was surprised. She looked at her watch. Tried to peer in through the frosted glass of the door.

  This had never happened before. If there was some kind of problem, Guadalupe always let her know.

  Nothing.

  She got ready to wai
t. Half an hour at least. Guadalupe didn’t like being called at home. But if she didn’t turn up, Mónica would have to call. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and lit one.

  A strong-complexioned man crossed the street. In a black leather jacket. She knew who it was. Carburo. He growled some kind of greeting. Hello, girl.

  ‘You know something? Guadalupe’s not coming.’

  ‘Not coming? Till when?’

  ‘Till . . . I don’t know. She’s not coming.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t have to understand. She’s not here. She’s gone. She won’t be coming back. The beauty salon’s closed. Got it now?’

  Mónica managed to unhook a cloud of smoke from her mouth.

  She watched Carburo pull an envelope out of his jacket pocket, which he slapped against the palm of his hand in a gesture that was as meaningful as it was redundant, the way you would a wad of notes.

  ‘Take this. It’s a message for you. A very valuable one. Fifty thousand pesetas. Listen, Mónica . . .’

  The girl stuffed the envelope into her bag as quickly as possible. She was afraid.

  ‘While you were here, you saw nothing, heard nothing. You remember nothing. Am I right?’

  She was incapable of answering. Not even a monosyllable. She shook her head in a panic. No, no, no.

  ‘Good. Now the best thing for you to do is go. Far away from here, understand?’

  ‘Far away?’

  ‘Yes, far away. The further the better. And don’t wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow is too late.’

  As he said this, Carburo’s gaze encompassed the surroundings, the insides of people passing by.

  No, he couldn’t believe it. She’d been the singer. Had had to wait twenty-five years like a dead cat.

  He looked up at the sky. Too much light.

  Is this how the devil repays the one who serves him? My very own prima donna!

  The sinking was as a result of the height.

  And that snotty-nosed Malpica calling me ‘capo’. An idiot, a troublemaker, who thinks he’s going to sort out the world.

  Capo? He wasn’t a capo. Like that other guy, who called him the head honcho. ‘You’re the head honcho, Don Mariscal.’ He’d already warned him. ‘There’s no honcho around here, let alone a head one.’ Aliases like that gave you away, made you look ridiculous. He could see himself on the front page of the Gazeta, ‘Tomás Brancana the Head Honcho’. Then he thought about who he was. Gazed at the horizon, searched for the bell tower of St Mary’s. He was . . . What was he? A dean. The Dean. That’s right. There were priests in different parishes, and then there was the dean. No, the director of the seminary hadn’t liked him. Because let’s stop beating about the bush. The director knew what he’d said, and nobody else. He wasn’t going to spill the beans. ‘Are you sure about your vocation?’ the director had asked. ‘Yes, father.’ ‘How do you think you can serve God?’ And here he’d noticed a touch of irony. Keep calm. The storm clouds are coming. As a child, ringing the bell of St Barbara’s. No, he’d never said anything about becoming pope. Or bishop. Or even dean. ‘The way God chooses.’ ‘But there must be something in your head?’ ‘A good parish.’ This is what he’d heard as an acolyte in the sacristy, what one priest had said to another: ‘Listen, Bernal, parishes are measured by the number of hosts that are consumed and the number of pesetas they bring in.’ Neither pope nor dean. ‘What I want is a good parish, father.’ That’s what he’d said. And who doesn’t?

  Mutatis mutandis.

  Who’d have thought she would be the principal singer. The prima donna!

  Floating like a butterfly, stinging like a bee.

  Cassius Clay, aka Muhammad Ali.

  The butterfly and the bee.

  A good epitaph for Guadalupe.

  37

  HIS FINGERS TRIED to keep up with his thoughts, but couldn’t. They galloped over the keys but sometimes had to go back, and then he would click his tongue in annoyance. He only stopped when he heard her mocking voice: ‘Go for it, Simenon!’

  ‘I lack the gift he had for writing and fucking at the same time, I’m sorry.’

  ‘One has to appreciate one’s limits. Take it easy.’

  Mara’s bare feet lay on top of the keyboard of her typewriter. The nails painted midnight blue. One of the last jobs in Bellissima. His colleague’s gaze didn’t exactly encourage an erotic game.

  ‘Do you see something?’

  In her lap were photographs of Guadalupe Brancana taken on the beach and the autopsy table.

  ‘I see the face of someone who was afraid before she died. Very afraid. Long before she died. Years, perhaps . . . But I don’t think that will be any use to the coroner or for the forensic report. It’s artistic criticism, nothing more.’

  ‘There are no skid marks on the road. Did you talk to the coroner?’

  ‘He behaved very well. Whatever we may think, there’s no way of connecting Mariscal to this death. And the girl, Mónica, has gone to ground. The fact is, Guadalupe was taking tranquillisers, which confirms the hypothesis of driver error. There are witnesses who saw her make several mistakes while out driving. They had no further consequences. Until yesterday, that is. In the end, though, barbiturates may have been her only source of affection.’

  ‘I’m amazed. It’s impressive working with someone who did their thesis on post-mortem expressions.’

  ‘The head of department suggested I do it on post-mortem auctoris. The duration of authors’ rights after their death. These are the legal cases of the future. Especially once the world has succumbed to those clever little machines that will do away with paper. But I wanted to compete with Darwin, who wrote on The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals.’

  Mara placed her feet on the floor, leaned her elbow on the table thoughtfully and stared at Fins.

  ‘You’re doing all right yourself. Though the nickname Simenon wasn’t my idea. I’m a fan of Hammett. They say you wrote a report that resembles a novel. A good novel at that.’

  ‘If you want to screw a novel, say something nice about it. They’ll bury the report, Mara, you’ll see.’

  ‘Well, I liked it. “Most excellent sirs: real power in Noitía is being exercised in darkness and silence . . .” Good opening. Sounds like an anarchist skit.’ She then continued with the voice of a distant radio presenter: ‘“The only way to take effective action against organised crime is by seeing and listening in that zone of shadow and silence.”’

  As he listened to her in surprise, it occurred to Fins that the voice of truth had a hankering for fiction.

  ‘I was just thinking . . .’

  The one who opened the door, without knocking as usual, was Grimaldo, an overweight veteran inspector with fishy eyes and a sharp tongue. He was dressed like a careless dandy, carrying a copy of the Gazeta de Noitía which he threw on the table in front of Fins to reveal the front page.

  There was a picture of Mariscal smiling and the following large headline:

  Brancana, favourite for mayor

  ‘NOITÍA WILL BE A MODEL OF PROGRESS’

  Underneath the photograph, the subheading: ‘In these parts, smugglers are honourable people.’

  Grimaldo was obviously in his element.

  ‘Now there’s a work of art to add to your chart on the Last Judgement. “Smugglers are honourable people.” With a pair of balls! Don’t let it get you down, Fins, enjoy yourself! Old Mariscal is quite the comedian. Check out this other pearl.’

  ÓSCAR MENDOZA

  NEW PRESIDENT OF THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

  ‘As with miracles, there are not two, but three. Let’s have a look at the sports page. Allow me . . .’

  With Víctor Rumbo as President

  SPORTING NOITÍA ON A TOUR OF AMERICA

  ‘Now isn’t that wonderful? A team in the third division out to conquer the world! And captain of the expedition is their new manager, Chelín, a friend of all things pharmaceutical. I’m off. You c
an carry on slaving away for the Apocalypse. At dawn the moon will be eclipsed by a flight of hens! You’ll be able to watch it from this tower, where the most secret confidential report on the ills of the world is currently being written. Not that there are many people left in Noitía who don’t know about it.’

  Micho Grimaldo left, scattering the sheets of newspaper in a triumphant cynical wake. Fins raised his middle finger. ‘Go fuck yourself, Grimaldo!’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Mara. ‘Don’t waste your time with that sack of poison.’

  ‘He should write the report. You know why? Because he’s in on the secret.’

  They were reading the section of social news in Noitía as a kind of collective obituary. Now somebody did knock at the door. Mara opened it.

  ‘Fins!’

  In came Lieutenant Colonel Alisal and Superintendent Carro. Their appearance wasn’t exactly that of retreating superior officers being overwhelmed by a wave of corruption. The superintendent took the initiative with an effusive metaphor. ‘We’ve been given the green light!’

  ‘Tonight we’ll put in practice Operation Noitía,’ informed Alisal. ‘Apart from high command, you’re the first to know. We only have time to wait for reinforcements that are uncontaminated.’

  ‘The phone tapping, sir . . . That always puts paid to everything.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Alisal. ‘We’ve cut all ears and tongues. Stuffed poison inside the molehills.’

  38

  ‘YOU FRIGHTEN THE balls, Carburo. That’s why you win.’

  Mariscal took amusement from the intimidating way in which his bodyguard played billiards. Carburo arched his body and, with the cue and his gaze in threatening symmetry, seemed to be giving the balls unappealable messages.

  The phone rang.

  The Old Man gestured with disinterest. Let it ring. He didn’t like the way new technology stuck its nose in. Deep down the Portuguese Delmiro Oliveira was right when he joked, ‘Mariscal is one of those who believe the Yankees never landed on the moon.’ It was a personal matter. TV and videos were putting an end to cinema. The smuggling of tapes was profitable, but no more than that. Peccata minuta. It was the same with dance halls, which had finally closed owing to what he called ‘all that paraphernalia’. As for the ringing of the phone, this was for him the technical triumph of interference in private affairs. It was a personal matter. The phone had destroyed the cowboy’s way of life and put paid to horses in cinema. Without horses, there were no centaurs in the desert. Or speedboats, as Rumbo used to say. Poor Rumbo. Always trying to sound ironic.