All Is Silence Read online

At Chafariz Cross, she took the road leading uphill to the Ultramar. Fins hoped she might agree to sell the dummy after deciding on a price. But to his surprise, she kept going, turning left along a sunken path. She stopped to catch her breath. The two of them were exhausted. But their tiredness was different. His amounted to a dissatisfied fatigue. That dummy was heavy. Weighed like a blasted robot.

  ‘You’re not thinking of taking it there, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re not!’

  Leda smiled with steely determination, and lifted up the rigid beauty.

  ‘I am.’

  Inside the School of Indians, the blind mannequin made a pair with the one-armed skeleton. They called it a skeleton, though it wasn’t exactly that. It was more of an Anatomical Man. You could see the different-coloured organs and muscles, some of which had disappeared over time, starting with the heart, red-painted latex, and the glass eyes. But there he was, the homunculus, complete with bones. It was a question of entering and selecting the spot. One was calling out for the other.

  They decided to clean and explore the floor of the world, each in a different direction.

  ‘Where are you, Fins?’

  ‘In the Antarctic. And you?’

  ‘I’m in Polynesia.’

  ‘You’re miles away!’

  ‘Just whistle if you want me to come closer.’

  Fins didn’t wait long. He gave a whistle.

  She replied with another whistle, which was better and stronger.

  In this way they drew closer. She didn’t say so, but walked with her eyes closed. Felt a geographical feature at her feet. Came to a stop. Opened her eyes and looked down.

  ‘Hey, I’m on top of Everest!’ she shouted. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the Amazon.’

  ‘Well, be careful!’

  ‘You too!’

  They were interrupted by a creaking of roof tiles. Dust trailed down, along the line of light. A few bats exited the shady zone, flying with the clumsiness of sleepwalkers.

  The couple looked up. The noise stopped. The light focused on them. They decided not to worry.

  ‘I’m in . . . Ireland,’ she said.

  ‘I’m in Cuba.’

  ‘Now we have to be really careful,’ said Leda. ‘We’re going to cross the Tenebrous Sea.’

  They approached each other. Met. Felt. Touched with their hands. The hands are for touching. They embraced. When they started to kiss, another, louder noise was heard coming from the ceiling.

  Leda and Fins, half blinded by the dust, looked up again. Brinco popped his head through the crater, imitating the sound of an owl: ‘Twit twoooooo!’

  The intruder expelled a gobbet of spit, which sank to the floor next to the standing couple.

  ‘Pig Island!’ shouted Leda.

  ‘There’s nothing that can’t be eaten!’ he replied. Then they heard him moving off across the tiles.

  ‘We’d better leave. He could bring the whole roof down.’

  He stopped himself because Leda was staring at him, gently wiping the dust off his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry, nothing’s going to come down.’

  Nine Moons surveyed the map of Fins Malpica’s face with her fingers.

  ‘Arctic, Iceland, Galicia, Azores, Cape Verde . . .’

  Fins is now seated at the teacher’s desk, to the right of the blind mannequin and the one-armed skeleton. Pretending to type. Banging on keys that move a carriage without paper.

  Nine Moons is holding a book. She opened it to have a look, but started turning the pages and is now absorbed in her reading.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘It has lice marks.’

  ‘Did they eat all the letters?’

  ‘Just type.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can. I don’t have any paper.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, stupid! Look, type. “All is mute silense . . .”’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be “silence” with a “c”?’

  ‘No, it says “silense” with an “s”. It must be for a reason.’

  11

  THE PARISH PRIEST climbed into the pulpit and, before speaking, tapped the microphone with a mixture of caution and shyness until several smiling faces nodded in his direction. It was working. At which point Don Marcelo said that we all more or less knew that God was eternal and infinite. He lasts for ever and is omnipresent, knows no limits. Which is why he is said to have invented human beings, so he had somebody to attend to the minor details. Somebody, so to speak, who could use the Decimal System. Who’d look after the smaller things. Such as changing broken roof tiles. Unblocking drains. Watching the introduction of novelties that make all our lives more bearable. ‘To give free rein to the spirit, one must keep an eye on worldly matters. Which is why it is so important to recognise the progress represented by the outdoor speakers we are using for the first time today owing to the kind donation of our fellow parishioner Tomás Brancana, known to all and sundry as Mariscal the Marshal’ – though obviously he didn’t say this – ‘to whom we owe other improvements in this church of St Mary, such as the recent repairs to the roof. One day such generosity will be repaid,’ etc., etc. And Mariscal, who had Dona Guadalupe to his right, and to his left the couple formed by Rumbo and Sira, responded with a reverential bow. Don Marcelo, with the increasing confidence supplied by new technology, after his initial nerves, gradually spurred himself on as he realised, indeed felt, that his voice was filling the temple, spreading across the whole valley, climbing the mountainsides and crashing into the sea over at Cape Cons. Even the pagans, to avoid using a stronger word, however much they tried, would never be able to bar this outburst of the spirit. And as he gained in both potency and dominion, he also felt he was gaining in rhetorical quality, in eloquence, and Mariscal himself, a connoisseur of such things, was moved to lift his head and prick up his ears. Because of this, and because it was time, the priest took it upon himself to discuss the mystery of the Holy Trinity. ‘In many images,’ he said, ‘the Supreme Being appears as a venerable old man. And we can all recognise the figure of his Son on the Cross. But then there’s the most complex person. The third person. The Holy Spirit. What is the Holy Spirit like?’

  At this point Belvís unexpectedly jumped up and whirled his arms like wings. ‘It’s me! It’s me!’

  The simpleton had been sitting in the pew for young people. Next to Brinco from the Ultramar. They spent a lot of time together, because Brinco enjoyed his company. And treated him well. Could even be said to be fond of him. Always had been. Which might be why he smiled. Others turned to look at Belvís in surprise, but the priest decided to ignore him. This was a day to remember. Everything was going swimmingly. The speakers were working. So he picked up from where he’d left off, with an explanation of the Holy Spirit.

  Belvís did the same. Whirled his arms as if he was going to fly, like one of those wading birds that need a run-up in order to take off. ‘It’s me! It’s me!’

  I remember it well because it was the day the outdoor speakers were first used. The priest couldn’t take any more, and from the pulpit, without realising that his words were being broadcast over the whole valley, as far as the sea, blurted out, ‘That’s right, yes. The Holy Spirit is everywhere. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to fool around!’

  Several adults went over to where Belvís was, and he was forced to leave. He never returned to church. I’m told that in St Mary’s, during Mass, whenever the priest makes reference to the Holy Spirit, there are still some who spontaneously turn around and glance at the spot where Belvís was, moving his arms like wings: ‘It’s me! It’s me!’

  He stayed in Noitía for a few more years. He’d run errands, take fish and shellfish to the restaurants, goods to old people who were unable to fend for themselves, always gadding about on his imaginary motorbike.

  ‘Will you be long, Belvís?’

  ‘No, I’m on the Montesa.’

  Vroom vroom.


  He ended up in the loony bin in Conxo. By which I mean the psychiatric hospital. But I don’t think he was mad either then or now. He had no father, and suffered a lot when his mother died. When he was a child, his mother looked after him as best she could. In abject misery. The child walked around half naked, without nappies, his willy and bits hanging out in the wind. Which meant he did his necessities wherever he felt like it. One day he chose as a firing range the porch of a neighbour living in the Big House. She had plants, begonias and so on, it seemed like a good enough place and he dropped his entire payload. He needed to go and so he went. But it so happened that the neighbour spotted him and gave him a real spanking. He returned home in floods of tears. When his mother found out, she took him in her arms, went to the Big House and called to the neighbour until she appeared on the balcony. Then Belvís’ mother lifted him up, his naked bum in the air, kissed him on his buttocks and shouted out, ‘What a bottom, what a blessing!’ Now that is love.

  He was so taken aback when his mother died that he lost all his voices, even the Montesa. He’d always been good at voices, ever since he was a little boy. A man or a woman’s. He could make puppets out of anything, out of cardboard and rags, and get them to talk. He did a fine impersonation of the singer Four Winds, who starred at local festivities and had this nickname because of four missing teeth. He would sing, ‘Let the boat leave the beach, it will come back again. There is his lover, she is constant, constant, constant, constant . . . in her feelings towards him.’ This repetition of the word ‘constant’ occurred to him as a boy and people couldn’t stop laughing. He had that ability. His best voice was definitely Charlie the Kid, by which I mean Charlie Chaplin with a Buenos Aires accent. He was good at that. The puppet and voice were all he inherited from a great-uncle who came back from Argentina to die.

  Then things changed at the hospital. They let him out. Well, they discharged him, but then they let him come back. On account of the Kid, he says, who feels better there. At weekends he hits the road, a kind of one-man orchestra, out with his puppet to make a few pesetas. He’s very good, though that is hardly surprising. So much time talking to themselves. That must be why Víctor Rumbo hired him to perform at that club of his, the Vaudeville. So he could earn himself a few pesetas. He probably did it as a joke. But I don’t think that was any place for Belvís. People who go there are after something else. And I don’t just mean the scroungers and hangers-on, as the Kid would say. That’s the thing about Brinco, he was always like that. Attracted to strange people like Chelín or Belvís. Those he loved, he loved a lot. But those he hated, he hated with enthusiasm.

  I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Now I can see them as children. They’re playing football in a flat area of the old dunes, halfway between A de Meus and Noitía. A good place to use as a pitch. The dunes protect them from the north-east wind and act as a wall to stop the ball running down to the sea. You have to see Belvís, who is broadcasting the game as if it was a match between football legends, in which he himself is an ace. And now they’re going to take penalties. Chelín is in goal. He’s just made a superb save from Brinco. He’s euphoric, having just stopped Fins’ pile-driver. And now Leda is running up. It’s her turn to shoot. She takes aim, but has to stop all of a sudden. Chelín abandons his post.

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’ asks Leda, feeling annoyed.

  ‘Women don’t take penalties.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Belvís darts and swoops about them. Continuing to commentate in his exaggerated style. ‘There’s a moment of great tension in the stadium of Sporting Noitía. Nine Moons has got in the way of Chelín the goalkeeper. Chelín’s not happy about it. Attention. Fins the referee is having to intervene,’ etc., etc.

  ‘Tell the truth, Chelín,’ barks Brinco, who finds the whole situation very amusing. ‘You’re shitting yourself.’

  ‘No, it’s just I’m not a homo.’

  In a rage, Leda picks up speed and drives the ball with all her might. But Chelín shows his reflexes, makes an arc in the air and stops it. He embraces the ball, lying on the ground, his face in the sand, smiling, victorious and out of breath.

  ‘See? I’m not afraid. It’s my hidden powers.’

  ‘You fool,’ she says. ‘I’ve always stood up for you. Now you’re going to have to kiss my feet.’

  12

  THEY WERE ALWAYS there, as volunteers, to help turn the cinema into a dance hall. Rumbo would give them a few cold drinks as a tip. And let them take the bits of celluloid he cut in order to splice the film when it was broken. To tell the truth, they all ended up in the hands of Fins, who was crazy about stills. He’d put together his own collection, and would order all those fragments of cinema at home. One memorable day Rumbo came back to A de Meus, the sea heaving in the background, with Moby Dick and Captain Ahab, Gregory Peck, in his pocket. That was several years ago, though the film was still included each season because it was one of his favourites. He had his obsessions, one of which was Spencer Tracy. He showed Captains Courageous more than once, and the film about the life of Thomas Alva Edison. When Edison invented the filament of light, all the audience applauded. But Rumbo’s admiration for Tracy could be summed up in a single gesture. He’d take his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket, which hung down like a one-armed man’s, and declare the title with great exaggeration: ‘Bad Day at Black Rock!’ He always said the name of that accursed place, Black Rock, with a croak in his voice. His attraction for this actor may have had something to do with the fact that Rumbo looked like him. Whenever anybody pointed this out, he would reply ironically, ‘Or vice versa!’

  That said, the films he liked best were Westerns. Followed by gangster movies. From time to time there would be an Italian film and he’d attend the projection with the bearing of a navigation officer on the bridge. He’d declare, ‘Too much truth for the cinema.’ An opinion he let slide into the cans when he was putting away the rolls of film, as if he had no one else to talk to. ‘That Magnani puts them all to shame.’ He definitely didn’t like films with swordsmen, an opinion he shared with his boss, Mariscal. Fins knew this, having heard a curse that was regularly used in the Ultramar: ‘I shit on the Three Musketeers and Cardinal Richelieu!’ Rumbo’s theory was that, in the age of firearms, it was backward to make films with steel. And, together with the audience, he celebrated the progress that saw Indians equipped with Winchester rifles. ‘That gives them a fighting chance.’ Though in the end they just died more and more quickly.

  Today, as night fell after the afternoon’s session, the sound of shots being fired, Clint Eastwood’s horse on the move and the lazy flight of scraps of dried grass all descended into the dunes’ desert. Rumbo whistled the catchy tune to For a Few Dollars More and so set the rhythm for the methodical, simple transformation that turned the cinema into a dance hall. All the lights went on, emphasising the colours of the garlands. Brinco, Leda and Fins placed the chairs against the wall and swept the floor, though Belvís was the quickest, riding his noisy, invisible Montesa. On the stage they let down a velvety black curtain that covered the screen. The musicians entered without a sound. Sometimes you weren’t even sure they were there until they took out their instruments and began to warm up. Rumbo arranged a buffet at the other end of the hall, opposite the stage, in a dimly lit area. The band of musicians today included two guitarists. Today was special. Sira was going to sing. She hadn’t sung since the previous New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t that she was responsible for livening up the dance; she wasn’t even the main voice. But she’d always come out to sing two or three fados. And this was a starlit moment. As the schoolteacher Barbeito used to say, there were two nights after listening to Sira Portosalvo. The night that froze the sense of unease. And the night that gave it shelter.

  Everybody was waiting. The eldest were sitting down on either side of the hall. In front of them, couples dancing. The youngest in the middle and at the back. While the musicians played merengues and cumbias, a group led
by Brinco mucked about with Leda and Fins, pushing them so that they would dance together. The girl was wearing a printed summer dress and turning round and round. Fins felt annoyed. He had his arms crossed and defended himself with his elbows against the others, who jumped around at the end of ‘La piragua’. The moment Sergeant Montes and Vargas the guard came in, a few of the elders sitting down stopped talking and glanced in their direction. The guards surveyed the scene and headed for the bar, where Rumbo made sure they were well attended.

  Then Sira came in. Wearing a black shawl and large silver hoop earrings inlaid with jet. She looked around, her head raised, then removed her shoes.

  ‘I would like to dedicate the first song of the night to the dance’s finest couple,’ she said. ‘The one from the Civil Guard!’

  She’d done this before. No one was surprised. Sergeant Montes smiled with satisfaction. Hungered after the singer. And the fado began, ‘I had the keys of life, but didn’t open the doors where happiness lived’, at which point all the other details lost their meaning. Sira, Sira’s voice, captivated every nook and cranny, every glance. The door of the dance hall opened and in came Mariscal, who walked diagonally without taking in the stage. At the buffet, he gestured in greeting to the guards with his hat. Whispered something to Rumbo, who nodded and offered the guards a second drink. Imported whisky. Johnnie Walker. They were grateful and raised their glasses in a toast.

  And while Sira sang ‘Chaves da vida’, Brinco left the dance hall. Followed by Leda and Fins.

  Brinco ran towards the beach, abandoned the dance hall, in an attempt to escape his mother’s charming voice. He realised there were two hangers-on. Stopped and turned around with an angry expression. ‘What? Always sniffing around my bottom.’

  ‘We belong here as much as you!’ said Leda defiantly.

  ‘You really never stop talking. My mother’s right.’

  Brinco knew how to wound with his tongue, but this time he realised that his last sentence was an arrow aimed at himself. He set off running. Leda’s voice chased after him, ‘Well, look who’s doing the talking, mummy’s boy!’