All Is Silence (20 page)

There were three successive rings, which cut off. And then a fourth ring which continued. Mariscal paid attention to the machine. Affixed to the wall, black in colour except for the white of its dial, it gazed at him with the animal melancholy of its panoptic eye.

Without waiting for orders, Carburo picked up.

‘Whoever it is, tell them I’m not here,’ said Mariscal, looking at the other animal, the desiccated little owl. Its electric eyes had stopped working some time before. He’d ordered them to be repaired on more than one occasion, but that was the power of technology for you, he thought angrily. The old owl’s eyes were still not working.

‘Understood,’ said Carburo, adding, before Mariscal could make a sign, ‘Greetings to Mr Viriathus.’

Mariscal looked serious. Murmured, ‘Mr Viriathus, eh?’

‘Tonight, boss.’

Mariscal’s mind didn’t need further information to weave together the threads. This was a coded message reserved for extreme circumstances. ‘Let’s go, Carburo. We have to cross the border before midnight.’

Carburo immediately pulled back the green felt covering the billiard table, lifted two planks and uncovered a hole with a suitcase, which he passed to Mariscal. Mariscal opened it and checked the contents. Documents and a weapon.

An Astra .38 special revolver.

The boss glanced at Carburo. Rotated the cylinder. Weighed the gun in the air. Smaller than his hand, but fierce in appearance. Strong wood, dark steel. Snub-nosed.

‘Don’t tell me it’s small, Carburo! It’s a whole world!’

The Stick Under Orders silently prepared his .357 Magnum.

Brinco and Leda were dining in a recently opened restaurant in the new marina. The Post-da-Mar. A novelty, nouvelle cuisine making ground in Noitía. They were sharing a table with a couple their age, but there was an obvious difference between them. In the way they moved and spoke. In their clothes as well. All four looked elegant, but the clothes and ornaments of the other couple still shone as if they’d just come out of the shop window. He’d been director of a bank branch in Noitía for the last six months, while she had just taken over a jewellery franchise, which she talked about with gleaming enthusiasm.

‘Your lady of the shipwrecks looks pretty tonight,’ said Mara.

Fins ignored her comment. He was worried about something. ‘Who are the others?’

‘On glossy paper?’

‘Yes. Where did those creeps come from?’

‘Mnemosyne on the line . . . He’s Pablo Rocha. Director of the branch I told you about, with a sudden, unusual interest in transfers from Noitía to Panama and the Cayman Islands, passing through Liechtenstein and Jersey. A real phenomenon.’

‘He hardly needed to go so far. He could have laundered the money right here. There’s no place like home!’

‘Tell her that. Estela Oza. Just opened a jewellery store without the need for a loan or anything. Penniless before. It’s amazing what you can do.’

They were on the lookout. They’d followed Brinco’s car to this restaurant. He’d been driving calmly. There obviously hadn’t been leaks on this occasion. Things were going well. Midnight was the appointed time to act. Arrests would be carried out simultaneously to avoid possible escapes. Till then, the instructions were to avoid using the walkie-talkies. The smugglers had laser equipment. When they’d searched Tonino Montiglio’s rented apartment, the place had resembled a telecommunications hub.

Mara stuck her bare feet on the dashboard. Wiggled her toes like puppets.

‘That dark colour . . .’

‘Storm blue.’

‘They look like Argonauts.’

‘What do?’

‘Your toes.’

‘Like Argonauts? They’re not after gold.’

‘I’m talking about the real creatures. Those that live in the sea. The ugliest animals in existence!’

‘Well, that’s nice!’

Mara pressed ‘play’ on the cassette recorder. Listened with an exaggerated expression of amazement. To Maria Callas.

‘And this?’

‘“Casta Diva”, “La mamma morta”, “Un bel dì vedremo” . . . It’ll play until it breaks. If you find anything better in the universe, give me a tinkle.’

Fins put something in his mouth.

‘What are you taking?’

‘Garlic pearls.’

‘Give me one.’

‘They’re not garlic pearls.’

‘I don’t mind, give me one. I like novelties.’

‘No, you can’t take this.’

‘It’s not acid, is it? A trip with Maria Callas in the background has to be glorious.’

‘I have St Teresa’s disease,’ said Fins, in line with the humorous tone of their conversation. ‘The
petit mal
.’

He waited. Realised she was chewing it over. The goddess Mnemosyne’s Department of Lie Detection working overtime.

‘You’re talking about a kind of epilepsy,’ she said eventually.

‘Without seizures or anything. Old people called them “absences”. Having absences. It’s not an illness. More like a poetic property. A secret. I thought I’d got over it, but it returned.’

‘More reason to give me one.’

‘No.’

‘Yes!’ Mara stretched out her hand. ‘You know? She also belonged to the club of barbiturates.’

‘Who did?’

‘Casta Diva.’

The two couples dining in the Post-da-Mar were engrossed in conversation. The communication was especially good between Víctor and the banker Rocha. Without being rude to Estela, Leda paid more attention to the men’s conversation. She approved of it, she liked it, but couldn’t help noticing Víctor’s growing and passionate interest in business affairs.

‘But do you really think there are buyers in this part of Noitía for an estate with hundreds of villas?’

‘You bet. Multiply by three.’

‘Multiply what by three?’

Pablo Rocha spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the infinite. ‘Everything!’

It was half an hour before midnight.

A waiter came to the table and placed a leather folder next to Brinco. The folder with the bill.

‘Mr Rumbo, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

Brinco was taken aback. He hadn’t asked for the bill yet. He knew the waiter. They’d spent some time at sea together. Pepe Rosende. He was about to call him to order. Give him a ticking-off. But it was better not to create a scandal in front of the others. He opened the folder.

There was no bill. There was the restaurant’s business card. He turned it over and read surreptitiously, with the folder half open. On the back, a handwritten message in the International Code of Signals:
Victor India Romeo India Alfa Tango Hotel Uniform Sierra
.

Maintaining his composure, Brinco turned to Leda, ‘Don’t forget we have to make a call to Viriathus. Without fail. Before midnight.’ Then to the other couple, ‘Well, that was lucky! It’s on the house.’

Leda stood up and took her handbag.

‘Please excuse me, I have to visit the ladies’ room.’

Brinco followed her. The other couple seemed mildly surprised, but carried on smiling.

‘What are you thinking? I’m going to the gents, eh?’

The Post-da-Mar’s emergency exit gave on to a small alleyway illuminated by tired lamps. Leda was waiting in the middle of the street with the car running. She didn’t realise that Fins and Mara had followed her there and were hiding behind a parked car. ‘It’s the Nuova Giulietta,’ whispered Mara. Brinco was about to get in the car when Fins floored him. Mara backed him up, aiming her revolver.

‘Let go of me, you bastard! You’ve never grown up. You stink of shit!’

Fins forced him on to his front and managed to handcuff him.

‘You’ve been living on borrowed time ever since you came back here,’ muttered Brinco. ‘But I swear this time I’ll get you. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘I see you still have a few coffins . . .’

‘The Old Man was right. We should have packed you off to Chacarita cemetery as soon as you arrived.’

Leda suddenly opened the car door. Leaned out and shouted, ‘Let go of him, Fins! Is this why you came back, you idiot?’

Mara now aimed her revolver at the voice that was speaking. Walked slowly towards Leda.

‘What do you want? Don’t tell me you’re going to shoot. Fins, how good is this whore at target practice?’

‘Much better than me!’

‘We’ll see . . .’

‘Get out of here, Leda!’ shouted Brinco, giving orders.

Mara was very close to her now. She stared in quiet surprise at the other’s bare feet, the iridescent colour of her nail varnish. But unable to take any other decision, even to shout ‘halt’, she allowed Leda to lean back in, put the car in reverse, turn and accelerate noisily out of the alley.

Mara lowered her weapon. She was mute, downcast, like the lamps illuminating the street. She bent down and picked something off the ground. Leda Hortas’ high heels.

After the bulletin’s signature tune, the presenter read two news items. One referred to international politics and the other to Spanish politics. Then something about the economy, referring to the rise in petrol prices. Finally he mentioned the name of Noitía, and Mariscal let out a cloud of smoke.

‘A total of thirty-six people were arrested last night and early this morning accused of belonging to drug trafficking and smuggling rings during the so-called Operation Noitía. Among the detainees was Víctor Rumbo, president of Sporting Noitía, alleged to be at the front of a powerful organisation. The operation, in which all the different security forces took part, was conducted with the utmost secrecy. As a result of numerous checks and inspections, huge amounts of drugs, cash and firearms have been confiscated.

‘We will now hear from one of those responsible for the operation, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. “This was a harsh blow to the smugglers of tobacco. And also a way of stopping any kind of illegal trafficking. It sends out much more than a clear warning. Society should feel calm and criminals uneasy. From now on, they should know we are going to root out any such activities.”’

‘I told you you could watch Spanish television from here.’

‘It’s better than over there!’

It was early in the afternoon. Delmiro and Mariscal had just had lunch. They’d settled into the sofa in a room in Quinta da Velha Saudade to watch the news. At the end, the Old Man lit a cigar.

He exhaled and watched the smoke climb, entwine the chandelier like ivy.

He clicked his tongue. ‘You should try one of these, Delmiro!’

The ocean down by the South Pole had been lifted up. Chelín was sitting cross-legged in the Antarctic. He gazed at the image of Lord Byron contemplating the freedom of Greece. The best friend he’d never had. Serene unease. He shut the tome and placed it on top of the other on the shelf. Opened the suitcase with his nest. His tools for shooting up. The syringe, rubber band, jar of distilled water, teaspoon, filters, lighter. And, most important of all, the little ball. He secured the spoon in the gap between the two volumes of
Civilisation
. This way he had the bowl in front of him, the crater in which to ferment the sphere. That’s right. He still had enough heroin for a good fix. A fix in three movements. He had to pump in three movements. Pump the blood. A mouse stared at him from the middle of the ocean. He was used to them scurrying about. Used to the blind gaze of the mannequin, the gaze of the one-armed skeleton and the desiccated crane. But the mouse’s gaze was enormous. It was far away, but touched him with the graphite of its eyes. A mouse contemplating the freedom of Greece.

The nest in his suitcase was a hole surrounded by wads of dollars. There was room for the pendulum and the Astra Llama. A treasure for the freedom of Greece. He’d have given anything for a kiss. A bit of saliva in his mouth.

Chelín put everything back under the ocean’s planks.

Fins Malpica’s first impulse was to sniff the air. It wasn’t meant to be an overreaction. If he did this, it was because he felt truly dizzy, a dizziness that was accompanied by the smell of burning oil. He managed to control himself. Change his expression of disgust for one of total seriousness.

And this is how he emerged from the courthouse. Descending the stairs like someone counting the steps and finding that several are missing. There were people outside, a cluster of journalists, waiting to hear the sentence passed on Víctor Rumbo, the main detainee in Operation Noitía. Fins didn’t answer any questions. He ignored the microphones. Gulped back the historic sentences.

‘What happened, inspector?’ asked a journalist.

‘You’ll hear about it soon enough.’

He was learning to talk like a cynic. He didn’t avoid the cluster of hostile faces. Nor did he issue any challenges. He just walked on by like a man without a care in the world. Which is to say, a man who is fucked.

On his way to the car, he met Mara. She was distracted. Confused by the run of events.

‘They’re going to set him free. It’s unbelievable,’ said Fins. ‘The bail’s tiny. You’d have thought Rhesus Negative had lent a hand.’

‘Rhesus Negative?’

‘One of the court’s henchmen.’

Leda Hortas pushed open the door of the courthouse and exclaimed happily, ‘He’s been set free!’

There was Brinco with his ace’s smile, accompanied by two other important detainees, Inverno and Chumbo, and by the lawyer Óscar Mendoza. From the top of the stairs, the lawyer took control of the situation. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a good day for Noitía! My client, Víctor Rumbo, has been set free. Later on we’ll give the details. The important thing now is to celebrate the fact that justice has been done and our beloved neighbour can come home. Thank you, everyone!’

‘Mr Rumbo, how are you feeling?’ asked the journalist Lucía Santiso.

‘Better than those who arrested me. I slept very well in fact.’

He caressed Leda. Put his arm around her. Kissed her. The scene was reminiscent of a medal ceremony.

‘And tonight I’m sure I’ll sleep even better!’

In the car Mara suddenly asked Fins, ‘What would you do if you got home and found your cat dead?’

‘By “dead”, do you mean really dead?’

‘Yes, I mean they killed him. Killed him and hung him on the door handle. Just like in the old days.’

Fins placed his hands on the steering wheel. Didn’t dare look at her. Or touch her.