All Is Silence (8 page)

‘Don Marcelo is of a different vintage,’ intervened Amparo.

‘All saints are endowed with manhood,’ said Malpica.

‘Don’t talk for the fair, Lucho! A good speaker is one who stays silent.’

‘I talk in round terms, keep nothing silent from the sun’s son . . . Oh, enough of that! It went from mouth to ear, as they say around here.’

‘Then why did he leave the seminary?’ asked Fins.

Malpica smiled at Amparo, seeking her complicity in the story.

‘He must have been there for three years. When he’s drunk, he says it was because he wanted to become pope. What he doesn’t deny is that he started a roaring trade in foodstuffs. Had a grocery store beneath his bed! There was cold and hunger. And he took advantage of the situation. He had coffee liqueur and Western novels. He always was a competent supplier. But I don’t think they chucked him out because of that. The trouble is, a chalice and image were stolen during a pilgrimage he went on as an acolyte. They found the chalice under his mattress. Nothing was ever known about the Virgin. Though he always had a taste for virgins. The family covered it up, compensated the Church with money. It all remained under wraps. As did what came afterwards.’

Fins’ father turned to the radio and slowly moved the dial in an effort to tune into some frequency. For radio waves as well, A de Meus was a place in shadow. Fins was afraid his struggle with the static would put paid to the story about Mariscal.

‘So what happened afterwards that people don’t know?’

‘He went to prison.’

‘Mariscal was in prison?’

‘That’s right. Tomás Brancana, Mariscal, was in prison. And not as a visitor either. He started by helping out in the family business, which was well established. But he was ambitious, and he found another, more lucrative activity. He got himself a tanker, but didn’t transport oil or wine. He transported people! He had his agents, his
engajadores
, in Portugal. The emigrants gave him everything they had in order to get to France. And during the night, on top of some mountain, he’d tell them to get out and shout, “You’re in France, for crying out loud.
La France
, remember! Run, run!” Of course it wasn’t France. He left them sometimes on this side of the border, lost on some snowy mountaintop, without food or money, dying of cold. One day there was a collision, an accident, and they had no choice but to declare it was him since he was the one who’d been driving. He went to prison, but not for long. Nobody knows. I’m not sure there was even a court case. Evil knows how to float. It floats like fuel, just beneath the surface. And he had a tidy sum of money set aside. And partners! So when people say he was in America, you can give that country this name: the clink on Prince Street in Vigo!’

Fins Malpica recalled the first time he’d listened to Mariscal up close. That sermon he’d spouted in the School of Indians when they discovered the stash of whisky. He tried to remember his Latin phrases, the rhetoric they were couched in.
Learn that and you’ve gained half a life. The rest is also very simple.
Oculos habent, et non videbunt.
They have eyes, and see not.
Aures habent, et non audient.
They have ears, and hear not.

They have mouths, and speak not.

‘You’ll be thinking I know a lot about a man I never talk about. Well, you’re right. And do you know how I know? Because I also tried to get to France . . . Later on, when I could have gone there legally, I didn’t want to. I still had icicles on my beard from the first time. That man only ever did one good thing in his life, which is when he burned his hands in the School of Indians. They say it was on account of the books, but it was because of the desiccated animals. Even better. Desiccated makes you feel more sorry for them. Not even the fox got away. That’s what he did. God knows why.’

Fins stared for a moment at the burn scars on his father’s hands. Lucho Malpica rolled his son’s note into a ball and flicked it across the table. The ball veered to one side and came to a halt in front of Amparo.

‘She’s also partly to blame,’ said Amparo suddenly.

‘Who?’ asked Lucho.

‘That loudmouth who drives him crazy, Antonio’s daughter. You should say something to Antonio. You spend all that time together out fishing.’

Lucho glanced at his son and then at his wife. They should know by now that sorrows on a boat were for spitting into the sea. ‘What am I supposed to tell him? That he should keep her tied up at home?’

‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea. She’s far too wild. She’s always going barefoot. Like a beggar or something.’

‘It has nothing to do with us,’ remarked Lucho bitterly. He could barely hide it when a topic of conversation annoyed him. ‘Let her walk however she likes.’

What bothered him even more, however, was a breakdown in the domestic order. And so he adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘We do talk, from time to time. But you can’t touch Antonio’s daughter. She’s the most precious thing he has in the world. He’d do anything for her.’

MALPICA HAS A
small motorboat which he uses for coastal fishing. It handles well, is definitely seaworthy, but Lucho and Antonio Hortas rarely stray from their familiar marks. They have their points of reference along the coast, the main one being Cape Cons. With these marks, their eyes trace invisible lines, the coordinates of their sardine shoals for fishing. Underwater places that almost never leave them empty-handed.

This time they go further out. Even the seabirds seem surprised by their new direction and abandon them. The boat bobs up and down, in unfamiliar territory. The men are two grafts who resist the swaying of the boat impassively. It’s Malpica who decides where they’re going, who acts as captain from time to time. And now they’re headed north. Antonio neither asks anything nor makes any comment. He’s one of those who respect silences. They pass Sálvora. Head towards the outer sea. The cormorants on Death Coast peer at them with the look of medieval sentinels. Lucho Malpica still hasn’t said a word, but Antonio can hear his nasal hoarseness, his sibilant pout, those two murmurs that compete in his friend’s silences.

The captain opens a wickerwork basket lined with canvas. Antonio knows what’s in there. He knows Malpica visited the Ultramar the previous night. He didn’t enter the bar, but he saw him arrive on his ‘little horse’, as he calls his Ducati. He must have gone in through the shop door. The attendant called to Rumbo through the hatch which communicates with the bar. And the barman disappeared for a while. Then Antonio heard Malpica leave. Heard the motorbike. The put-put of the engine. The annoyance of old engines at having to start up again. They left in daylight, too early. When Fins came round with the countermand that they would be heading out to sea, Antonio knew the fishing would be special.

He’s seeing all this now, with absolute clarity, in causal sequences. He may not have heard the engine from the bar. It may be the engine on the boat, its laborious bad temper, providing a soundtrack to his memory.

The sticks are wrapped in an immaculate white cloth inside the basket. Even there he’s being too careful, observes Antonio. Dynamite doesn’t like being thought about so much. Antonio remembers seeing maimed people. The idea has to get back to the hands. If the idea stops to think, it doesn’t reach the hands. That’s when you get injured people. Amputees.

‘Leave that to me, Lucho.’

‘Why?’ he says, turning around with an angry expression.

‘You haven’t the experience.’

He was going to say, ‘You don’t know how.’ Like someone saying, ‘You don’t know how to fuck.’

Antonio doesn’t mind. He knows others use dynamite. The sea takes whatever’s thrown at it, etc., etc. But deep down he’s annoyed that Malpica has given in. Has lit the damn fuse.

‘What science is there in this, Antonio?’ says Lucho uneasily, waving the stick in his hand. He’s on the starboard side and heads towards the bow.

‘To start with, it doesn’t have a very long fuse!’ shouts Antonio.

Malpica turns around. See? Do you see what’s happening? The idea has got caught in his head, entangled in the brambles en route to his damn consciousness, and isn’t going to reach his hand in time.

‘What’s that?’ asks Malpica.

The idea doesn’t get there. It’s the dynamite which has decided to explode. And explodes.

Fins starts throwing stones at the sky. There are so many seagulls he has the impression he hasn’t hit any of them. Then he takes it out on the sea. Looks for the flattest pebbles and skilfully hurls them by arching his body. Like a discus thrower. His initial intention is for the stones to skim the surface of the sea. To jump on the back of the waves. After that, he doesn’t mind. Small, big. In a fury. Let the stones explode. It’s the sea’s fault. That generous, greedy giant. That crazy lunatic. ‘The sea prefers the brave ones and that’s why she takes them first,’ says the priest at the funeral. Everyone nods. They all wear expressions that suggest agreement with that part of the sermon. Enough said. What happened happened. It was written in the stars. It was out of his hands. Fins thinks he’s being looked at askance. Are you brave too? Are you like your father? Yes, there is compassion in their gaze, but also a hint of suspicion. He never put to sea with his father. It was time he lent a hand. Are they in on the secret? Do they realise he’s not fit for the sea?

His father was certainly brave. You could see that when he carried the cross. A first-rate Christ. Verisimilar. Did the priest say that, or was it an echo emanating from his mind? Do they know he suffers from the
petit mal
, has absences?

Like now.

He can see his father shaving himself. The mirror, which has a diagonal crack, reflects two faces. His mother asking. Not asking.

‘And that?’

‘It has time to grow. From now until Easter.’

Without a beard, his father looks strange. Like another. The reverse of what he is. All the bones on his face appear bereft of bandages.

THE RADIO IS
broadcasting the Holy Rosary. The litany sounds sometimes when the radio is turned on at dusk, but it never usually gets a response. Not from the mouths. Possibly from the intentional beating of the knitting needles. Fins rereads a piece of headed paper:

LA DIVINA PASTORA

NAVY SOCIAL INSTITUTION

School for Sea Orphans

Sanlúcar de Barrameda (Cádiz)

Is that someone knocking at the door? Fins stirs in discomfort. Stands up. Looks at the radio. The lamp on the dial which gleams with the intensity of a beacon in the open sea. The trembling of the cloth covering the loudspeaker like skin. The memory of his father’s fingers fishing in the short waves, tautening the dial like a fishing line. He’s listening carefully. Turns to him with a smile. ‘Do you know what he said? “No Viet Cong ever called me nigger.”’ Fins glances at his mother.

‘It’s the static,’ says Amparo. ‘Pray with me. It won’t hurt!’

He should go to see her. Her dad is still in hospital. All his skin burned off. Eight hours being beaten by the sea. From rock to rock. He has pneumonia as well. He should go to see her.

‘I should go and see Antonio.’

‘He’s still in the municipal hospital. I’ll go. He’ll get over it. He was saved.’

Her silence finishes the sentence: ‘He was saved, but your father wasn’t.’

‘At least now he may have more luck with her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you seen her? Riding around on the other’s motorbike, in a tight embrace. You have your head in the clouds.’

‘Brinco was given a motorbike. He’s trying it out. What’s wrong with that? The other day he took me for a ride.’

‘But she’s a woman. She’s a woman by now! She has to look after her father. She can’t be a source of gossip.’

Fins has always had the impression that his mother has various voices. Two at least. She keeps the rough one for Nine Moons. She sometimes tries to be polite, but when Leda comes to visit, she always ends up falling silent. It’s too much for her.

‘It’s the last night. Pray a little with me, child.’

Lord, have mercy . . . Lord, have mercy.

Christ, hear us . . . Christ, hear us.

Fins resists, moves his lips, but is unable to find his voice. Slowly he notices how the saliva kneads his words. Feels well. The litany wets its feet, steps on the soft sand, closes its eyes. Opens them. He thinks he hears someone knocking at the door again. His look pulls him in that direction. He suddenly stands up. Opens the door. The wind in the fig tree. The screeching of the sea. His mother’s rosary. Outside in, inside out, everything sounds like a single litany. The unmoved hand. Made of metal and green rust. From the
Liverpool
. He’d like to be able to pull it off. To take it with him. Three and one.

Holy Virgin of virgins, pray for us.

Mother of divine grace, pray for us.

‘Tomorrow you have to get up early. To arrive in time for the train, you have to catch the first bus. Why don’t you go to bed? I’m not sleepy.’

And she gets the expression of her feelings messed up. She wants to cry, but comes out with a twisted smile instead. ‘It’s the night of the widow.’

‘Good night, mother.’

‘Son . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t forget to take It.’

It’s funny. His mother never wants to call things, medicines or illnesses, by their name. She doesn’t even call dynamite dynamite. She says ‘the thing that killed him’. In his case, Luminal is ‘the thing for absences’.

‘I’ll send It to you every month. Dr Fonseca promised me. Your father spoke to him. And he gave his word.’

Fins climbs the stairs to the landing where the bedrooms are. Meanwhile his mother takes up her work with the cushion and needles for making lace. She carries on listening to the rosary on the radio, but stops murmuring the litany as her movement with the needles accelerates. The geometry of lace starts to confuse lines. Sound confuses rhythm. In his room, Fins hurries to open the window. The humming and screeching of the sea come in. He feels the itching of salty darkness in his eyes. Closes it again. The fig tree’s resentful shadows slice the window all through the night.