All Is Silence Page 8

  So they concentrate their attention on the sergeant and the man with him. There is a third, Haroldo Grimaldo – Micho – a veteran inspector who sometimes drops into the Ultramar. Often he drops in the literal sense.

  ‘He’s half pissed already,’ says Brinco. ‘The only thing that saves him is his suspicion. He can see the demijohn before it’s reached him. He’s the one who’s clairvoyant, not you.’

  Víctor is talking about Grimaldo, but his gaze is fixed on Leda, who sometimes helps out as a waitress. With her slender body. Her blazing long hair. Black pirate trousers. Tight-fitting white T-shirt. She’s good at her job, thinks Brinco, because she knows how to be with people. How to be and not to be. She doesn’t dole out sugar to horses.

  In ceremonial style, Chelín gets out his pendulum. While he holds it in front of himself, it doesn’t move. He guides it gently towards Brinco, who’s sitting next to him, on the steps to the back room. The pendulum begins to swing. It accelerates when the centre of gravity is located above Brinco’s groin.

  ‘Brinco, you’re on fire!’

  The other man grabs his wrist. The pendulum swings even faster.

  ‘It’s your pulse, you idiot!’

  ‘Sure, the throbbing of your dicky bird.’

  Chelín seeks out Leda with his gaze. He knows where the magnetic pole is situated. She really is worth committing a crime for. She and Brinco have been living as a couple for some time. Soon after they got together, they had a child. And here they are. Who’d have said it of Víctor, the greatest pilot in Noitía, a real wild card, that he’d stick to a single nest. Contrary to expectations, she hadn’t been just another lobster in the pot, another prawn in the cocktail, another woman for hire.

  ‘You like her, don’t you? You’ve always liked her.’

  It’s Brinco who says this suddenly to Chelín. He remains silent. Like a fool. The pendulum in the air, now still.

  ‘Why don’t you go and measure her battery with that bullet of yours?’ says Brinco.

  In other circumstances, Chelín would stay where he is. He’s used to the fact that Brinco’s thoughts, words and deeds don’t always match. You have to read between the lines. The moments when he is nice are the most perilous. They’re like little gifts before he takes off. There are other moments when he’s delirious, not working. Right now Chelín decides to take him at his word and play along. The game with the pendulum. He gets up. Goes over to Leda. Holds the pendulum in front of her breasts. The bullet starts swaying madly.

  ‘Leda, look how you put it into orbit,’ gasps Chelín. ‘You’re a universal dynamo.’

  ‘It’s your pulse,’ she replies. ‘I can hear your heart. The beating of a mouse.’

  Brinco comes over. Chelín doesn’t know whether he’s smiling or threatening. His mouth has that thick-lipped scar, which never really healed. Because of where he’s looking, in the end Chelín comes to the conclusion, with some relief, that this has nothing to do with him.

  ‘Give that to me!’ says Brinco, taking the pendulum out of his hands.

  Chelín quickly tries to work out the direction of his gaze. There’s not much point in him surveying the pair of guards. They’re dressed in plain clothes, or as Mariscal would say, their plain clothes are their uniform. One of them is an old acquaintance, Sergeant Montes. They should have left long ago, but they’re still here. It’s their job to guard the guards. So what’s he doing?

  Brinco stares arrogantly at the guards. Raises the pendulum. The bullet on the end of a chain. They pretend not to notice. The sergeant makes out he’s reading the newspaper, but he’s spent all afternoon on the same page. His colleague sips a soft drink rather too slowly. ‘Coca-Colo’, Brinco calls him.

  ‘Víctor! What’s going on?’

  Brinco turns around. Rumbo is calling him from the bar. There’s something in his codified look.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’

  Brinco holds the pendulum in front of his eyes and lets it take him in search of Leda.

  Eventually the sergeant attracts Leda’s attention with a click and gesture of his fingers and asks how much they owe. She looks at Rumbo inquisitively. He gives Montes a clear answer. Without words. The cross he makes with his hands says, ‘It’s on the house. Everything’s paid. Till next time.’

  Once the guards have left the premises, the barman presses a switch under the counter. In the back room, the little owl’s eyes finally go out. A sign, the switching on and off of the lights, that is repeated three times. Until the eyes are extinguished.

  ‘Finally! Let’s get moving. Inverno, Carburo, let’s conquer the West!’

  Mariscal heads towards the billiard table and grabs the cue. Everyone else has suspended their game. The cards and pieces, which seconds earlier were hooting and cawing like carriers of destiny, have lost their purpose and are abandoned haphazardly.

  ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but night has fallen,’ begins Mariscal. ‘If anyone has domestic obligations, well . . . I don’t want anyone’s wife to be annoyed with me. No one? Good. This could be a great day for all of us. For . . . the Society.’

  Mariscal surveys the billiard table as if he’s just discovered terra incognita.

  ‘You all know what a mamma is, now, don’t you?’

  He is clearly bursting at the seams. With a message for the world.

  ‘Always thinking about one thing . . . A woman takes her child to the doctor’s and the doctor enquires, “How’s it going? Is the baby sucking well?” And the mother replies, “Very well, Doctor! Just like an adult.”’

  This is followed by the first round of nods and laughter.

  ‘Talking of sucking people dry, we have a new lawyer. A brilliant guy, who should be around here somewhere. Try and avoid him. You all know priests and lawyers are not allowed on board.’

  Their looks seek out Óscar Mendoza and quickly find him on account of the spotless suit and refined bearing which contrast with the sheepskin coats and leather jackets.

  ‘Humour’s good for business. There’s lots of bitterness and what money wants is joy. Money’s like people!’

  He turns his attention back to the billiard table. Changes expression. He has a collection of faces, which he puts to good use. Thoughtful. Serious.

  ‘Go on then, Carburo!’

  To everyone’s surprise, Carburo pulls back the green felt from one corner and quickly rolls it up to reveal a large map of Europe. Maritime coordinates in the Mediterranean and Atlantic are marked with a red cross where a second assistant, Inverno, deposits billiard balls.

  Mariscal follows the operation carefully, with an enigmatic half-smile, and when his subordinate has finished, he uses the cue as a pointer, gently stroking the balls as he reveals the crux of his discourse.

  ‘Gentlemen, look. There are twenty-five mammas loaded with tobacco along the coasts of Europe. Most are in the Mediterranean. Near Greece, Italy, Sicily and in those parts. There are also several in the Adriatic, next to the communist countries. They enjoy a bit of vice just as much as we do!’

  He pauses for effect, remaining thoughtful and serious while the others laugh at his joke. Then he makes another movement with the cue, which is like wielding a baton. And heads westwards in the middle of absolute silence.

  ‘Where are we?’

  He suddenly bangs the table with the cue.

  ‘Right here! North-west quarter west. Sensu stricto.’

  Everyone gazes at their home. The surprise that comes from viewing where you live from the outside.

  ‘If we head further south, just a little bit, we come to the part that interests us. A mamma. Our very own mamma. Right here, very close, in northern Portugal. Of course it’s not our mamma in the sense of ownership. We’ve been suckling until recently on Delmiro Oliveira’s. Now Mr Oliveira is a man with a sense of humour. I said to him, “Listen, Delmiro, do you know what a Galician hates most of all?” And he replied, “No, I don’t.” And I said, “What a Galician hates most of all is being subservient to som
eone from Portugal.”’

  The border joke is accompanied by smiles. But they remain silent. Watchful.

  ‘You see? He laughed as well. Because he’s a skilled businessman. And has a sense of humour. He understood. And said, “I don’t have servants, Mariscal. I have partners. What’s more,” he continued, “I’ve no desire to be a Midas, a shit who feeds on other people’s leftovers.” Now that Delmiro guy is smart.’

  Mariscal lifts his head with satisfaction and surveys the room.

  ‘What made Delmiro Oliveira understand? What made them understand in Antwerp and Switzerland? They understood that we have something. We have the best arguments for business. An amazing, endless coastline full of nooks and crannies. A secret sea which keeps us safe. And we’re the closest to the mother port, to the source. So we’ve got everything. Coast, depots, boats, men. And most important of all, we’ve got balls!’

  He gestures to quieten the jovial uproar. Addresses a corner of the room, where someone sits on the margins, split by a diagonal line dividing light from shade.

  ‘È vero o non è vero, Tonino?’

  ‘It’s true, boss. And no mistake.’

  18

  FINS HAD HIS eyes closed. When you close your eyes, beware of what might open. He took a deep breath, let it go slowly, like a mouth of wind. He heard a snort that attracted his attention. Aroused him from his absence. A herd of horses was grazing on the eastern slope of the mirador, where the morning sun lazily disentangled the strips of mist. The stallion’s gaze, pricked ears, defensive teeth, warning neigh, reminded him he was a nuisance. A stranger, a poacher, in his own land.

  On top of the mountain named Curota, part of the Barbanza range, were large rocks with a wish to be altars. The highest one was reached by a flight of steps carved out of the stone. Fins climbed them.

  Before his eyes stretched the broadest maritime view in the whole of Galicia. He looked south, had the impression he could make out the earth’s curve. It was the best place to see the estuary, which appeared as a vast stage. A marine womb set in earth. Across each other’s wake moved very different kinds of seafaring vessels. Crane boats headed in the direction of palafittic floating structures, the large estates that were the mussel platforms.

  Fins glanced now to his right. There, in the west, was the open, the Atlantic Ocean. An infinite, restless monotony of hoarse mercury in the process of meltdown shielded the enigma. Each ripple or blade of light seemed to release the bud of a seabird. Their screeches grew louder, as when they had good or bad news to tell. A burgeoning shoal, a storm. The sky appeared clear, but it wasn’t an enthusiastic clarity.

  Behind the line of the horizon, no one knows how the dead water will awake.

  The sound of an engine came up the road. Fins hid behind the rocks.

  The person driving didn’t hesitate. He turned, followed the other tracks, parked the Mercedes-Benz with whitewall tyres in the large expanse of the first mirador.

  The Old Man had got up early. Been forced to take a roundabout route. Follow the line of the estuary. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill appointment. He never made a phone call in person. He used carrier pigeons, people he could trust. So this wasn’t an ordinary assignation. The fish he’d been sold wasn’t rotten. Fins climbed down through the gorse, sought out a good position. Felt the camera inside his jacket, stroked the Nikon F as he’d seen a hunter stroke his ferret when he was a child. Mariscal stood with his back to him. There was no mistaking the white linen suit, the panama hat and steel-tipped cane. Facing the other way, next to the stone bust of Ramón María del Valle-Inclán, his bearing was sculptural.

  Time passed and both spy and target began to grow impatient. Mariscal glanced at his pocket watch twice, but not as often as he glanced at the sky in the west. There where you could see the first line of the Azores front. A logging truck slowly ground its way uphill. Mariscal followed it out of the corner of his eye until it disappeared around the corner, in the direction of the mountain.

  Fins hadn’t lost hope. All his life he’d been trained to deal with the unexpected. There was the sound of heavy machinery. A storm always starts by sending in the air force. Mariscal glanced at his watch a third time. The way he placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat, it was his ferret. He surveyed the surrounding area with suspicion. The writer’s stone bust as well. Banged the base of the plinth with his cane to shake off any mud. Went into reverse and then returned the way he’d come.

  Fins patted his camera affectionately.

  A day is a day.

  Someone had gone and sold the same fish twice.

  19

  ‘MOTHER. CAN YOU hear me, mother? It’s me, Fins!’

  She eyed him again in surprise. ‘Fins? There was a party. My son will be called Emilio. Milucho. Lucho.’

  ‘It’s a good name, isn’t it, mother? I’m going to work there, in Noitía.’

  Again that surprise in Amparo’s tone of voice. ‘Noitía, Noitía . . . I spent an afternoon in Noitía, buying thread. It was hot, very hot. The whole place was burning from the inside out, like a log. And I got caught in a storm.’

  They fell silent. Whenever the word ‘storm’ was mentioned, the other words waited a bit.

  ‘What are you going to work as?’

  ‘As a secret agent,’ he said in order to see her reaction.

  She did what Fins least expected. She burst out laughing. ‘A secret agent? There’ll be lots of those!’

  Fins now, for her, was the memory of an outing. Nothing more. Lucho Malpica, a child who was yet to be born. And Noitía, a nightmarish place, a place she’d gone to one day to buy thread and been attacked by a storm. She was behind him, calm, unconcerned, with her cushion, teaching her carer the secret art of making lace. He stood staring at the sea through a large window which let in the combined sound of the waves’ hiss and the seagulls’ scream. He’d have loved to draw the curtain. Cover that vision. He couldn’t understand people who found gazing at the sea restful. For him it was deeply disturbing. He couldn’t bear to be alone with the sea for more than five minutes. And it seemed the feeling was mutual. He was sure its mood changed and it grew angry whenever he stood looking at it.

  Diving was something else. When you were inside the sea, that was different. The only way to understand the sea was by getting wet. Surveying the underwater forests of kelp, sea lettuce, thongweed, bladderwrack, toothed wrack, knotted wrack, sea fans, sugar kelp, purple seaweed such as carrageen or Irish moss. Sailing, on the surface, he got seasick, felt as if he was dying. He sneezed, spat, drawled, coughed up his lungs, liver, prefixes, saliva, interjections, onomatopoeias, phlegm, tubercles, roots, bile, the inaccessible; the worst thing was throwing up what came after the void, after air, all of it yellow, the sky, sea, skin, the back of the eyes, the soul. Except when he was rowing. If he was rowing, and the more energy he put into it the better, with his back towards his destination, there was a temporary suspension of the disease. But he had to make sure he kept going.

  He closed the window of the room and all he could hear was the unmistakable knocking of the boxwood needles. They were in a home for old people and not such old people with Alzheimer’s. Amparo’s illness was something else. She was convinced she could remember everything.

  ‘Poor things! They sometimes forget their own names. I’m the one who has to remind them.’

  She tapped her forehead with her index and middle fingers. ‘It’s all in here!’

  Next to Amparo was her carer, a young and kind girl.

  ‘Her hands get more and more agile,’ she said. ‘Look at them. It’s as if the skin is smoother and her hands move more quickly. Good hands for making lace, aren’t they, Amparo? And who’s this little marvel for?’

  Amparo Malpica stared through the large window with melancholy.

  ‘It’s for my son. For when he’s born.’

  The neuropsychiatrist had said, ‘Her mind has suppressed a time that hurts her. Her illness is a property. The property of erasing a period
of her life. Or at least erasing it as an explicit memory. Something we call retrograde amnesia.’ The period she’d kept alive was precisely her experience as a girl, before she left Uz and went to live with Lucho in the seaside house in A de Meus. Fins knew the dynamite had exploded not only on the boat. His mother, in her own way, had put an end to a life that included him. But seeing her there, physically well, with her agile fingers, that fertile gaze, dispossessed of the fears that used to hold sway over her, knowing her name, smiling at anyone passing by, he couldn’t help feeling annoyed.

  ‘So what you’re saying is she forgets what she wants to forget?’ he asked reproachfully.

  Talking to Dr Facal, he had the impression that he was before the sea and the sea was stronger than him.

  ‘No. Memory is often painful. She’s gone past the limit of pain. In order to survive, her mind has rejected the bit that’s hurting her. Memory has these strategies. She could have chosen a different path. But she’s chosen this one. We’ll never fully understand why.’

  ‘Is it reversible?’

  The doctor took her time. In Fins’ experience, he knew that if the answer was positive, he’d have been told it already.

  ‘The truth isn’t always pleasant,’ she said eventually.

  And this was the truest thing he’d hear in a long time.

  20

  ‘ISN’T THAT THE son of Malpica, the one who died using dynamite?’

  They gazed from the sea. Used to seeing from the outside in. From west to east. From darkness to dawn. From mist to morning. At varying depths. Several of them half submerged, the water around their waists. They moved like amphibians, with effective slowness, overcoming hydraulic resistance with their home-made diving suits of waterproof clothing over wool, their whole bodies like pistons plunging down, digging, scratching, harvesting the sea with ancient implements, long-handled hoes, rakes, forks. Their heads covered in an array of scarves and hats.