All Is Silence (16 page)

‘You’ll always have Mendoza to apply a bandage rather than a wound,’ his host continued. ‘To avoid further misfortunes. There’s nothing worse for a firm than hatred between factions. The firm looks after everybody. Factions plunder on their own.’

‘That’s true,’ said Mendoza. ‘The merit of my profession consists not in winning lawsuits, as people think, but in avoiding them. It’s a question of seeking out allies, not enemies.’

‘And how’s the new captain of the fleet?’ asked Fabio.

‘He has courage . . . and ambition.’

Delmiro Oliveira seemed to come to at this point, with that capacity he had for walking between the audible and the inaudible, and made his own connection between the two nouns, ‘Courage and ambition? Misfortunes never come singly.’

All his jokes, uttered in a serious tone, like those of good comedians, had their meaning. Were acts in themselves. So Mariscal laughed along with the others until the laughter died down.

‘That’s right. He has courage. Too much perhaps. The wolf will have to learn how to be a fox, isn’t that so, Mendoza? On Galician coats of arms there are plenty of wolves and not enough foxes. Then it turned out there were too many foxes and not enough wolves. Or vice versa.’

‘I think he’s inherited the best of both animals,’ declared Mendoza. ‘He possesses an innate talent that will go hand in hand with his ambition.’

‘Before coming here, I managed to talk to Palindrome,’ said Fabio mysteriously. ‘Do you know what he said, Mariscal? He said, “Mariscal is like Napoleon.”’

‘Napoleon?’

‘That’s what he said. But he added something that impressed me. First of all, “Power needs shade.” And then, “There’s no shade better than power.” I think the same, Mariscal.’

‘That’s what we all think, isn’t it?’

Mendoza’s immediate response. The others’ agreement, despite Macro Gamboa’s silence, meant, Mariscal could tell, that there’d been some kind of consultation in which he hadn’t taken part.

‘The time has passed for being thieves in the night,’ continued Oliveira. ‘What’s that saying, Tonino?’

‘
Il potere logora chi non ce l’ha.
’

Mariscal blew out his cigar smoke with the enthusiasm of someone wishing to make a point.

‘That’s right, power wears out those who don’t have it. What are you thinking, counsellor?’

‘That now’s the time.’

Mendoza had an instinct for historic opportunities. When he heard the name of Napoleon, his most diligent neurones headed for what he called the Hippocampus Department of Locksmithery. A lock opened, and he couldn’t help thinking about one of his favourite books, the one Karl Marx wrote about the Eighteenth Brumaire, not of the first Napoleon, but of Louis Napoleon. The locksmith was working. One door opened another. He had paragraphs in his memory. The day he brought them out at a meeting of the law faculty, he learned how to spot the gloss of his discourse, the effect of his words on the resonance of bodies, the facial tics of those in disagreement. He remembered they got not only a caricature of the old Napoleon, but the old Napoleon in caricature.

‘Now’s the time. Everybody’s talking about the crisis. Politicians are afraid, discredited. In polls they’re dismissed as part of the problem. In the eyes of most people they’re incompetent and corrupt, they’ve got shit stuck in their hair and are unable to rid themselves of this manure, this reputation . . . The noise of swords is constantly heard in the barracks.’

As he spoke, Mendoza noticed that first, pleasurable moment of intoxication produced by saliva with the cereal of language. A fermenting that is only possible when it is shared. As a student, during the dictatorship, he’d defended revolutionary ideas. He’d avoided ‘jumps’, public demonstrations, and more or less risky acts such as spreading leaflets, putting up posters and spraying walls with graffiti. That was to play a game of cat-and-mouse with a superior brute force. The dictatorship was in ruins, had the same illness as the dictator, multiple sclerosis with a rotting of the internal organs. The real task consisted in forming senior management for the future, for the day after the taking of power. He’d prepared, avoided having fights with the police. Attended class in a suit and tie, availed himself of the services of shoe-shiners. His appearance surprised people at meetings, especially when he opened his mouth and produced an eloquent, radical discourse whose main target was no longer the tottering regime, so old its teeth were falling out, but the revisionists, the social democrats, the puppets of capitalism.

Everything can be put to good use. It had been useful training. For the first time he felt on his fingertips the clear sensation of being able to control vital threads.

‘It’s time the king ascended the hill and moved the pieces without being in the thick of battle. It’s time, yes,’ said the lawyer, preparing with the dynamo of his hands a remark that would bring the conciliabule to a close and hoist him on to Mariscal’s shoulders. ‘As the ancients used to say,
Hic Rhodus, hic salta!
That’s right, gentlemen. Here is Rhodes, jump here!’

Mariscal appreciated the tribute and nodded thoughtfully. His head had to cope with the weight of the crown. And it leaned on its temples for support.

‘There’s a level here,’ he said finally. ‘This is what makes it nice to work with people!’

Macro Gamboa had remained silent, with his hands between his legs. He’d worked for a long time transporting things by land and sea and had risen to the condition of businessman on his own merits. He hadn’t once glanced at the landscape. He seemed more interested in the others’ shoes. Their oscillating movements.

It was some time before his hoarse voice emerged from his inhospitable mouth.

‘What the hell are we talking about?’

ON THE RIGHT
of his desk, Óscar Mendoza had a large globe. The lawyer was standing up, watching it and making it turn. Víctor Rumbo was sitting opposite.

‘You’ve gone quiet, what’s the matter?’

‘I have an opinion, but it hasn’t got to my head yet.’

The lawyer smiled. He recognised the quip. This was one of his standard jokes about Galicians. Mendoza thought he’d have to change this habit of his. Telling jokes about Galicians. Yes, they laughed at their jokes, but then they chewed the words in a corner, as cows chew the cud. No, he wasn’t going to say that aloud. Besides, Víctor had a quick temper. Not for nothing was he called Brinco. He would jump out of his seat, react to the slightest provocation. If they cut off his arms, he’d row with his teeth. Better this way. No turning sharp corners, no dropping hints, no change of heart. He hated all that wrong-footing in the dance. Brinco was determined. His ambition was clear to see. Obviously much more of a wolf than a fox. They understood each other. And would get closer all the time.

‘That Brinco’s crazy,’ he’d said once to Mariscal about Víctor Rumbo. It was true he’d done something crazy, unloading a boat in broad daylight. But what the lawyer wanted to know was what the Old Man really thought. They called him that and he didn’t mind. So when Mariscal remained silent, he rephrased his statement: ‘To do what he did, you have to be off your rocker. It won’t be easy to defend him if he carries on like this.’

‘Did he burn some money?’ said Mariscal abruptly.

‘Why would he burn some money?’ asked Mendoza in surprise.

‘Well, if he didn’t burn any money, then he’s not crazy.’

That was the end of Brinco’s mental check-up. The one sitting opposite Mendoza. The madman who didn’t burn any money and was going to be his henchman. His right-hand man.

‘Anyway, no more being the Atlantic’s fastest pilot. You’re a captain now. You have to take better care of your spine.’

The lawyer pushed the globe with his forefinger, making it spin, but this time more slowly. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead of us. But first you should go and see the Old Man, Víctor.’

‘I see him every day!’ he replied sombrely. ‘He’s my favourite ghost.’

‘You’re like a son to him . . .’

It was Brinco who approached the globe now and gave it a shove. ‘What do you mean, like a son? If I’m going to be your boss, don’t go talking to me like some idiot out of a soap opera!’

‘If the client doesn’t agree with the discourse, one has to change the discourse.’

Mendoza pushed the globe in the other direction, his voice seeming to slide all over it. ‘Confucius travelled somewhere and was told, “Straightness rules in this kingdom. If a father steals something, the son turns him in; if the son steals something, the father turns him in.” Confucius replied, “Straightness also rules in my kingdom. There the son covers up for his father and the father covers up for his son.”’

At this point in time, Mendoza would have liked to have Mariscal before him. He would have come out with some Latin, appreciated the elevation in style.

‘Got you, Confucius,’ barked Brinco before slamming the door behind him. As he did with cars. Something that made Mendoza very nervous.

FINS MALPICA WAS
driving an unmarked car along the coastal road. He was accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Humberto Alisal of the Civil Guard, who’d come from Madrid in plain clothes. They were heading for the barracks in Noitía. It was an inspection without prior warning.

‘Where are you from, inspector?’

‘I was born here, sir. Nearby. In a fishing village in Noitía. A de Meus.’

‘Do your parents still live here?’

‘My father died some time ago. At sea . . .’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘A stick of dynamite went off in his hands.’

When he gave this detail, something he endeavoured to do as quickly as possible, Fins knew there would be an infinite moment, something like the pause between the ticking of a clock.

‘Oh!’

It was raining lightly. Fins allowed the windscreen wiper to introduce a couple of asides. Then he expanded on the information. ‘My mother’s still alive. She has problems managing her memory. Of memory loss, I should say.’

‘Alzheimer’s is terrible,’ remarked Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. ‘My mother had it. She’d mix me up with the weatherman! Blow kisses whenever he appeared on television . . .’ He made the contained gesture of someone blowing a kiss from the palm of his hand. ‘I don’t know how she made that association.’

‘Maybe the weatherman’s pointer and the staff of office,’ said Fins.

Humberto Alisal laughed and shook his head. ‘No, she never saw me with a staff of office.’

Fins was about to say something about body language, but they were reaching their destination. He slowed down. The windscreen wiper groaned out of laziness. From the car park where they came to a halt they could hear the low panting of the sea muffled by blasts of errant water.

The car park opposite the Civil Guard barracks was full of mostly new, top-of-the-range cars. Given that this was a restricted space, it made the conglomeration of luxury vehicles even more obvious. The contrast between the one Fins Malpica had just parked, his Citroën Dyane, and the others was like that between a barge and a fleet of high-class yachts.

Once out of the vehicle, with Fins behind him, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal seemed to be giving the impressive sedans the once-over. His was a silent review that didn’t conceal his displeasure. He walked slowly, paying careful attention to the minor details, starting with the number plates, all of which indicated that the cars had only just been bought. ‘This is shameful!’

Fins had been hugely surprised when Superintendent Carro called him into his office to inform him of Alisal’s visit and request that he should accompany him. Ever since, on a different trail, he’d located these ‘trout in the milk’, he’d been in touch with Chief Superintendent Freire of the Civil Guard. The kind of guy he trusted, with whom he would have entered the heart of darkness. Freire paid an undercover visit. And was the one who informed his superiors.

‘It hurt me to discover the truth, sir. To start with, I tried to look the other way, but more and more trout kept appearing in the milk. So then I spoke to Chief Superintendent Freire. He came here incognito. Saw first hand what there was.’

‘Trout, you say? You’re far too polite. Are they all this filthy?’

‘No, sir. There are three clean ones. They had a bad time.’

‘A bad time? Why? Because they were carrying out their duty?’

‘They’re off sick. Severe depression.’

‘Depression!’

Lieutenant Colonel Alisal marched towards the barracks building. His indignation could be heard moving through the gears. As he walked, he expressed his thoughts aloud, ‘Three honourable, sick men. Well, that is something!’ Suddenly he stopped and turned to Fins. ‘What’s going on here? Please explain it to me.’

Fins was always at the ready, but even so he couldn’t pinpoint the right answer. He might have said, ‘Corruption, sir, and this is just the tip of the iceberg.’ But he didn’t like to be direct. He was never that direct. Lieutenant Colonel Alisal gazed up at the front of the building, the motto ‘All for the Fatherland’, and then sought out the sea’s horizon. It was a thick, dark, oily sea, across which slid and swept a ragged bunch of clouds.

‘All of this on account of some tobacco and a handful of drugs?’

‘That’s prehistory, sir.’

‘But the statistics . . . This doesn’t comply with the statistics. We’ve increased the number of seizures.’

The lieutenant colonel stopped in front of the guard standing sentry at the entrance to the building.

‘I wish to talk to the superintendent on duty. At once!’

The guard raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like that tone, especially coming from a civilian.

‘At once? Who are you then, the Generalissimo?’

The lieutenant colonel took his papers out of the inner pocket of his jacket.

‘I am Lieutenant Colonel Party Pooper.’

The guard checked his papers. Immediately stood to attention.

‘At your orders, sir!’

He was about to call the sergeant in the guardroom. Tell him to find the superintendent as quickly as possible. But this plain-clothes superior didn’t seem too worried about formalities. He had other obsessions. ‘Tell me, which of these cars is yours?’