All Is Silence Page 9

  These women had been his world. They’d all passed through it. Guadalupe, Amparo, Sira, Adela, Belvís’ mother, Chelín’s mother, even Leda, with their buckets full of cockles and sacks of clams.

  ‘It is. I heard he studied to become a policeman.’

  ‘Do you have to study for that?’

  ‘It all depends . . . Not if you want to walk around with a truncheon in your hand, like your husband.’

  ‘That’s right, woman!’ The gatherer of shellfish gestured with the rake between her legs. ‘I bet you wish your husband had a truncheon like mine!’

  They all burst out laughing.

  ‘Go wash out your mouth!’

  ‘Leda . . . she’s a clever one.’

  The shellfish harvesters resumed their work. In search of molluscs, their bodies transformed themselves into strange, prehistoric monsters.

  ‘They say he’s going to be an inspector, a secret investigator.’

  ‘It can’t be that secret if you know all about it!’

  ‘That’s what I heard. Doesn’t bother me! He can be an astronaut for all I care.’

  ‘Oooh, an astronaut would be nice!’

  The women’s voices and laughter combined at that hour with the sea’s phonemes, the screeching and splashing, greedy warnings of vigilant birds. Fins couldn’t help himself. He took a photograph. Just one. And withdrew like a poacher.

  In front of the house in A de Meus, the hand on the door, calling outwards. Inside what gave him the warmest welcome was the oilskin tablecloth, on which stood an abandoned bottle, with a trail of wine like a tidemark. At dusk Fins wandered along the coastal road. Stopped at Chafariz Cross, where he used to wait for the bus. Stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. A normal man should always have some spare change. He hesitated. He had a good excuse for staying where he was. But by the time he realised, his feet had already transported him to the door of the bar. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a Friday night.

  Without touching the door handle, he moved to one side and peered in. The luminous novelties of the Rock-Ola and game machines.

  Behind the glass, in that large belljar, memory fermented. Life twisted and turned to the sound of music. With him on the outside.

  Rumbo was filling glasses on a tray placed on the counter.

  A little further down, on the other side of the counter, Leda and Víctor. He was sitting on a tall stool with a glass in his hand, looking serious. She was standing up, playing with her finger at curling the taciturn man’s hair. At that point the mocking, seductive gesture was the centre of the world. A gesture he recognised, which said, ‘Where are you?’

  Leda turned to heed Rumbo’s call. Fins could see her face to face. The pottery of time had improved any memory. He was afraid he might be seen, he who was an expert in angles of shade. A specialist in shade. He could measure the textile thickness of shadows. There were shadows of satin, wool, cotton, nylon, polyester, velvet. Transparent. Waterproof. But when he peeped in again, she had her back to him, with the tray in her hand. From the eye of the catafalque, life became painful again. People were coming. He ran away from their intrusive radiance.

  21

  WELL, LOOK WHO’S coming. Look who’s just come in. I’m not surprised the bats are bothered. They’ve been hanging there for months, chewing on the shade, and now they’ve woken. Hear, I don’t think they have any problem hearing, and anyway Malpica has forgotten where to put his feet. Who’d have thought he’d end up looking so ugly? He knocks against all the geographical features. We’re all right. I’m a local. My nest is made. The blind mannequin and the one-armed skeleton no longer surprise me. Or the desiccated crane. How well they did those eyes. Those little dots that look everywhere at once. Wherever I am, they can see me. They’re watching out for me. I found my place. My hideaway. Even the pendulum has calmed down. And in this little corner, this screened cubbyhole with its slats of disarranged books, there’s a scent of coves, as if the sea itself came up here one night, to the map of wood, and left all these cracks and beads. The box with its glass lid and sign that says ‘Malacology’, whoever thought of that name, full of all kinds of shells and periwinkles, which I took out of the grid and put somewhere else. There were also collections of butterflies, beetles and spiders imported from America, some of them as big as your fist. I have respect for spiders. I once squashed one, a little one, on my best shirt. It was a white shirt and the bug kept climbing up, so in the end I squashed it. Never squash a spider on your shirt. You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood a bug like that can hold. A whole life’s worth. The same as a hit. The gentle pulling of the piston once you’ve found the vein. The colour of blood, the initial colour, can handle everything. The same with the amber liquid. And then you pump blood of your own blood. A blood pump. In three movements. I like to pump in three movements.

  The point is, several years ago, when I was more hung up than ever, they saved my life. I gathered and sold the zoological troop, the ranked creepy-crawlies, spiders, silver-plated beetles, American butterflies. I said to the guy, ‘I’ve brought you the whole of Genesis, this lot is worth a fortune.’ So he went and gave me a ball of smack, ‘Here’s your globe, so you can stuff it up your arm.’ That’s why there are species, so I can get a fix. But not the collection of malacology. He didn’t want to see it. It must have been because of the name. Or because we’re sick of shells around here. Not me. I get genuinely sentimental whenever I set eyes on anything remotely shelly. Like the conch of a hermit. Now that’s what I call architecture. That is art. Like sea urchins. That is beauty, their spines. If I was standing face to face with one of those famous artists, I’d stick a sea urchin in his hands and say, ‘Go on then, do it, if you’ve got the balls!’ There has to be a mysterious mystery for such symmetries to grow in the sea. Now they’re uninhabited, the crabs have gone to hell, but the shells are good company, they adorn the ruins on this side of the School of Indians. The hermit crabs will be hiding behind some geographical feature, I suppose. I’m not quite sure what part of the world I’m in. It feels like the Antarctic on account of the cold. But everything went well. Everything was going well. The spoon secure, stuck between two volumes of Civilisation. Don Pelegrín Casabó y Pagés. Chronicles can be extremely useful. Thank God for Civilisation. At the height of his work, my hands are free to warm the smack in the water. To see the amber colour of smelting. And so on until you pump the geographical feature in three movements.

  I didn’t forget that bit about the geographical features. ‘The eagle now is hunting flies. Tell me, Balboa, the names of some geographical features.’ It’s funny what stays and what doesn’t. That teacher, Lame, Exile, always used to say, ‘We are what we remember.’ What do I know? We are what we remember. We are what we forget. Whenever I forget something, I stick my tongue where my tooth is missing. Where all the things I forget go. I’ve a hiding place there that is a bottomless well. Exile also said, ‘Nothing is heavy for someone with wings. You have wings, don’t you?’ Of course I have wings, Don Basilio. Like Belvís. He wasn’t a bad guy, Don Basilio, though he looked tired of children and was always playing around in the clouds or out gathering words. That’s what he was like, always on the trail of other sayings, in the same way we used to search for grapes left over from the harvest. When he came down, he did so very carefully. One day he asked what we wanted to be when we were older, and I went and said, ‘A smuggler!’ He replied, ‘Better to say “entrepreneur”, child. “Entrepreneur”!’

  That catechist with the cropped white hair told us we all had an angel. A guardian angel, we all knew that. But she gave details. She wasn’t fooling around. There were angels whose task was to watch over and care for God’s throne, organise the celestial rehearsals. I could understand that. It all seemed reasonable enough. God’s not going to keep tabs on everything, on whether they move his chair this way or that, what time the sun is going to rise, whether there’s a flood over here and a drought over there. And then there are the guardian angels, those
who side with us, with the flock we are. I really liked the explanation about why they aren’t visible, why they don’t have a shadow, so to speak. Because they’re a profession, not matter. They come and go, do their work, this is good, that isn’t, but they don’t inspect you, don’t pop the bill in the post or pester you. They work and let others work without getting in the way. If it wasn’t like that, it would hardly be life. For you or for them. ‘Where you going?’ ‘I dunno, for a walk.’ ‘What you using that for?’ ‘I like it.’ ‘It ain’t good, you know it ain’t good.’ ‘If I like it, it can be good, so stop bugging me.’ ‘What you want a weapon for?’ ‘What weapon?’ ‘That pipe.’ ‘What pipe?’ Blasted angel, digging around where he’s not wanted, his feathers on fire. But on the other hand, you know your Guardian A. is there for you, to give you a message and bugger off. That’s what I would call a transparent profession. Then we’ll get the Last Judgement. Sounds reasonable enough. ‘Proceedings were instituted, here you have the report on so-and-so.’ ‘Mr Xosé Luís Balboa, also known as Chelín, we understand from your Guardian Angel that you were in possession of a firearm. What was it for?’ ‘For lining dogs up against the wall, Mr St Michael.’ ‘Very well, let us proceed to weigh your soul.’ At which point St Michael gets out the scales for weighing human souls, which are remarkably like the scales used by a refined dealer who supplied me in a villa on the outskirts of Coruña. Shame that catechist never came back. That girl I met once in the disco Xornes. With the cropped hair. She looked younger than she really was. Had a man’s hoarse voice. She must have been an angel. Because there’s a third class of angels, or so I understand. Errant angels like her. For whom sky and earth are closed.

  And in he comes, Ugly Mug, digging around. I’d just got my fix, the flash had gone by and I was coming down slowly. I was back in the Antarctic, next to Malacology, and thinking of giving Don Pelegrín a go. You can’t read very well in the semi-darkness of the Antarctic, but I’ve read plenty of saints in here. I’ve a soft spot for Lord Byron. You what? Lord Byron contemplating the freedom of Greece. And in he comes, stepping on the geographical features. Sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. Both matter and profession. He could be an eagle, I suppose. While he’s up north, he won’t spot me. All the same, I’d better put the tools in the shed of Civilisation, stay still as the crane, between the planks of wood. He’ll be reminiscing about Johnnie Walker. He sits down at the teacher’s desk. Pokes around inside the typewriter. Removes bits of fallen tiles. Blows away the fluff and dust. Pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. Wipes the keys, bars, carriage, platen. Starts typing with his eyes closed. Mission nostalgia, Malpica!

  O my godmother! You never know where to expect her next! Be amazed, blind mannequin. Be amazed, one-armed skeleton. Well, blow me down. Be amazed, Mr Crane. Be amazed, Mr Chelín. Because who should enter the stage but Nine Moons! Earth, swallow me up. No, Leda, you shouldn’t be here. What’s she doing in Operation Nostalgia? A century, a millennium, has gone by. Franco snuffed it years ago. Some weirdo went and shot John Lennon. Leda’s working in the Ultramar. She has a son with Brinco. And Brinco, well, he’s the number one. When Brinco’s involved, everything goes swimmingly. He’s the best pilot in the whole estuary. The best pilot in the world. There’s not a submarine will catch him. He’s got himself an iron angel, a fearless guardian. The women are crazy about him. What you doing here, girl?

  Mr Nosy starts typing without paper. Reads aloud what he’s typing.

  ‘All is mute silense . . .’

  ‘You see? Was I right or not?’ says Leda. ‘Didn’t I tell you she wrote “silense” with an “s”? And you kept laughing, saying how would Rosalía de Castro write “silense” with an “s”?’

  ‘You were right. She could hear. “Silense” is more silent when it’s written like that,’ remarks Fins. The hole in the roof has grown bigger and the areas of shade on the map are smaller. ‘You can see better now. Your nails are painted black. You’re in the ocean.’

  ‘Like always. In the middle of the fucking ocean. Where letters never arrive. Just condolences. It was kind of you to write whenever someone died. My dad, the schoolteacher, the doctor. The condolences looked as if they’d come straight out of a book of correspondence.’

  ‘I remembered you, everything here, more than you can imagine.’

  ‘Every day, at all hours, right? I could feel some kind of Morse. Keys from the beyond. Of course you were learning how to touch-type. That must have taken a while.’

  Fins gets up and heads towards her. Leda retreats until she’s leaning against the teacher’s desk, back in the shadows. As he approaches, she spits on the ground, in the sea, between the two of them. He remains still, quiet.

  ‘Well, I didn’t. I learned how to forget. Every hour of every day. I’m an expert at forgetting.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I thought a lot about myself. My life. And time went by.’

  ‘The boy with the absences!’

  ‘That’s in the past. I’m better now. Far too present.’

  ‘I have a son,’ she says with growing confidence. ‘A son by Víctor.’

  Yes, he knows.

  ‘What do you want? Me to talk about Brinco? About Rumbo? The Old Man’s business? The Ultramar’s secrets?’

  She realises her own cocky tongue has lost control of its traction. She’s about to say something concerning dynamite. But the word gets stuck. Goes back. Like the mouse scurrying across the ocean, through the rubble.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here, Fins Malpica? I have a message for you. I never want to see you again. Don’t call me, don’t talk to me, don’t even look at me. Understand?’

  ‘I’m not going to ask you for anything, Leda,’ replies Fins. ‘Or give you anything. Even if you ask, I’ve nothing left to give.’

  They’ve gone now. What a conversation! Straight out of some soap. But it moved me. It really did. I was feeling so well, my warm body in the cold of the Antarctic, a tingling in my feet, thinking about the art of sea urchins and hermit crabs. My God, there was pain in both of them. I could see them as children playing on the beach the day they found the mannequin and carried it here, to the School of Indians. The jokes they had to put up with that day. And now I stay in my dark corner, huddled up, stiff with cold, staring at the great couple, the blind mannequin and the one-armed skeleton. I wonder what the dealer would give for them. A lump of hash. A globe of smack. Enough for two shots at least. He wouldn’t even open the door, the bastard. They’re obviously priceless.

  Mariscal had a habit of rising with the sun. Having gone around various miradors, a duty he liked to fulfil with proud punctuality, in the mornings he would sit by the window to read the newspapers. He’d sometimes stop to do the crossword. Like today. He didn’t turn around, but heard the blast that opened the door and noisily cleared a way between stools and chairs before coming to an abrupt halt beside him. He’d nearly completed the crossword. He made it obvious he was in some doubt by repeatedly tapping the biro. He could hear a hum, the electric field of Brinco Furioso.

  ‘Where is Leda?’

  ‘Give me a hand here, will you? “Part of the chequebook that is left once the cheque has been removed.”’

  ‘Fuck, Mariscal.’

  ‘F-U-C-K. No, it’s not “fuck”.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn if he has a badge. I’m going to eat him up and vomit him off the bridge.’

  Mariscal puffed on his Havana cigar and chewed, ground down the smoke. When he exhaled, the smoke was thick and stuck to the word, which appeared in the squares.

  ‘S-T-U-B. Now that’s it.’

  He turned his head and glanced at the crazed lover.

  ‘Listen, Víctor Rumbo. I don’t like being shouted at from above and certainly not from behind.’

  Brinco sat down opposite him. With a furrowed brow, but subdued gaze.

  ‘I sent her to see Malpica. To find out what the bastard wants. We need information. Information, Brinco!’

  22 />
  THE OLD LIGHT that spilled from the fluorescent strips still slid down the wall to illuminate the name of the dance hall and cinema Paris-Noitía. It could be spotted from the beach, at least by Fins Malpica. In the same way he could hear Sira’s voice, that refrain, ‘I’m not going, I’m not going’, which strangely made it easier to walk. ‘The prettiest love can go by, I’m not going, I’m not going.’ When, on a Sunday evening, she was persuaded to sing, things in the estuary already had their shadowy side. This was something Fins remembered, seeing his shadow projected on the shore. The eager progression of shadows towards the dance hall.

  ‘I’m not going, I’m not going.’

  The cinema had closed some time before. And the dance hall opened only rarely to host some prearranged party. A footprint in the sand, ‘I’m not going’, another, ‘I’m not going’. He was far away, but inside he could see and hear. Memory had the intensity of an absence. He couldn’t tell anybody. He’d been back in Noitía for almost a year and the petit mal had returned several months earlier. The episodes were much more spaced out. But he could see them coming. They passed like intermittences. Blinks. The opening and closing of a window. He had a name for these absences. The Argonaut’s void. Because it was the petit mal, yes. But it was his petit mal.

  Shortly after he left, the absences had disappeared. He thought the inconvenience would never reappear. And to begin with, when he returned, he didn’t have any short circuits. He could have said his mind went before him. Functioned well. He knew he had a long way to go, but he was starting to possess threads to weave with.

  So the petit mal wasn’t exactly an illness. After a single absence, in an outburst of humour, he decided to make it a property. A secret belonging.

  He stopped hearing the song, seeing the spectre of letters in the dance hall. From where he was, in the ruins of the salting factory, Fins could see San Telmo wharf. It was illuminated by a few street lamps. He could see people moving, but not distinguish them all clearly. Study their shadows. That was his trade.