At Close Quarters (13 page)

The corridor led to a hallway with signs hanging from the ceiling that pointed in every direction. They followed the one indicating the operating theatres and, after wandering around for a few minutes and walking up and down different staircases, they found a door with a plaque that read Dr L. Beltrán,
Anaesthetist
. It was in a narrow, silent corridor, and a sign forbade the entrance of unauthorised personnel. No one replied when they gently knocked on the door.

‘I rang and they said he was working today. Let’s wait for a while,’ said Cupido.

Fifteen minutes later they saw a small slim man walking towards them. He looked emaciated, as though he were about to faint, like someone who’s been ill for a long time and has not fully recovered. They would have mistaken him for a patient had they not seen his ID badge clipped over the pocket of his coat. The man looked at them with suspicion before inserting the key in the lock.

‘Dr Lesmes Beltrán?’ asked Cupido.

‘Yes.’

‘Could we have a word?’

He finished turning the key but didn’t open the door, as if he wanted to hide something. Then he turned towards them and looked at them for few seconds.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Someone who’s died.’

‘In this place,’ – he made an ample gesture – ‘we prefer to talk about how to prevent people from dying.’

‘But it’s not always the case, right? Sometimes there’s nothing you can do for them. Sometimes they come in when it’s too late, when they’re terminally ill and you can only ease their final
suffering
. And sometimes there are accidents.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked with a strange expression, as if he feared that bad luck would strike him at any moment. ‘Who are you?’

Cupido said his name and profession.

‘Police?’

‘No, private detective,’ he corrected.

‘Isn’t it the same?’

‘No. A private detective is not even a kind of police officer.’

‘What’s the difference?’ he asked in a dry, incurious tone, as if he were indifferent to the answer.

‘It’s not you who pays me, it’s my client. I can’t arrest anyone. Nor have I taken an oath, and so I’m free to choose which job I accept. Marina Olmedo has hired me to clarify some doubts she has about the death of her father. She doesn’t believe it was suicide.’

‘And does she think I can help her with that?’

‘No, she didn’t mention your name. On the contrary, she’d rather not talk about this business. But among Olmedo’s papers I found the file of the lawsuit concerning his wife’s death.’

‘It was an accident. No matter what sentence was passed, it was a tragic accident,’ he said in a low voice, barely moving his lips, as if it weren’t he who was talking.

‘I see no reason to doubt that,’ conceded Cupido. ‘But that’s
precisely
what I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘If it was an unjust sentence, anyone might think you’re glad Olmedo is dead.’

The next door along opened, and a doctor came out into the
corridor. As she walked past, she looked at them with curiosity.

Cupido’s direct, almost impertinent words made the anaesthetist want to turn his back on the two of them, go into his office and close the door behind him. He was under no obligation to discuss all that with a man who had no authority to interrogate him. When Olmedo died, he’d feared the police would come to talk to him, even though according to the press everything
indicated
it had been suicide. After ten days he’d stopped worrying about a possible visit from the police. And yet this private
detective
appeared, at the very door of his office, making compromising statements within earshot of the passing doctor. He could call a security guard and have them thrown out from the area reserved for medical staff, but he held back. If he didn’t answer his
questions
, the detective might make things difficult, bring about loud, annoying complications. Lesmes pictured this tall fellow and his small dark sidekick scuttling about all the corridors and asking his colleagues whether they remembered seeing him in the hospital on the evening Olmedo had died, or whether they’d ever heard him talking about revenge. He imagined them digging up what had happened with the woman, rummaging through the
clinical
files and even stealing the dossier. And that was the last thing he needed now that he was back at work and starting to feel his presence was appreciated, now that the chief surgeon had
complimented
him on his work, now that he was on his way to regaining his old pride in being Lesmes Beltrán, the best anaesthetist in the city, the master of pain, Doctor God come back from the dead. So he opened the door and said:

‘Come in. We’ll talk inside.’

The window in the small office was open, but there lingered a faint smell of tobacco. Beltrán went to the other side of the desk while he invited them to take two chairs. From a drawer, he took out a pack of cigarettes, matches and an ashtray full of water for the butt ends.

‘You smoke?’

‘No,’ they replied.

The doctor took out a cigarette, caressed the golden end as if it were more than just cotton and paper, put it in his mouth and lit up. Although he looked hungry for nicotine, once he gave in he seemed to feel guilty. After a few seconds the smoke streamed out of his lungs in a long, sustained exhalation, more grey than bluish, which softened his expression and appeared to have a calming effect on him.

‘So you think I’m glad Olmedo died?’ He recapped on the last words they had exchanged in the corridor and for a few seconds of silence he seemed to study the burning tip of his cigarette. ‘Well, yes, I think I am,’ he said and continued gently, without anger or defiance. ‘There’s no loss when some kinds of people die. In fact, nothing would’ve been lost if they hadn’t been born.’

He saw the two men were listening intently. He knew that, when he described his work, many people wished to ask: ‘Did any of your patients ever die on the operating table? What happened? What was it like?’ But they very rarely dared to. However, he had just offered the detective that opportunity, so he wasn’t surprised to hear:

‘What really happened during the operation after which Olmedo’s wife died? What was it like?’

‘An accident, like I told you. I didn’t do anything I hadn’t done hundreds of times. In the prep-room we didn’t detect anything. She was given the indicated dosage for her age, weight and the kind of procedure she was undergoing. However, during the operation the capnographer, the machine which monitors the concentration of carbon dioxide leaving the lungs, broke down,’ he explained. ‘Yes, I know it sounds strange, exceptionally unlikely perhaps. We’ve become used to believing that it’s always the human element that’s responsible for most accidents, and that machines never fail, but in this case it did. It stopped working without turning itself off, so the monitor wasn’t giving any information about what was happening inside her lungs and, therefore, we weren’t able to react. Without such devices, an anaesthetist is blind before the patient. The woman had a pulmonary embolism and went into
cardiac arrest.’ He went through the details quickly, in a professional, clipped manner, with the kind of clarity and consistency that disappeared as he continued: ‘Olmedo wouldn’t believe it … Or perhaps he did, but he accused me of negligence anyway. I guess when the pain is unbearable it’s inevitable to think about revenge. And you need to take revenge on someone; you cannot just accept the work of chance or fate. Olmedo looked around for a culprit and he found me: I was the one most directly involved in his wife’s death. He hired a good lawyer and obtained medical testimonies claiming that other symptoms could have indicated that something was wrong … And then, the jury … In cases like these, we doctors always look guilty. Inspiring pity is very easy for the family of someone who dies in a hospital where everything is arranged precisely to prevent people from dying. A prosecutor utters the words heart attack, coma, agony, pain, while pointing to the relatives in mourning, and he has every chance of winning the case. Which was, indeed, what happened.’

‘Did you ever speak to him again?’

‘Never. What about? What could we discuss? The operation, once again? The fact that he ruined my career? What, really?’

He took one last furious drag, blew the smoke out and threw the butt in the water-filled ashtray, where it expired with a hiss.

‘Can you remember where you were the evening of his death?’

Beltran made a face, annoyed that his previous explanation had not been at all useful.

‘Isn’t it your job to find an answer to that question?’

Cupido was tempted to reply that it wasn’t, or at least it wasn’t entirely. Each suspect – and the doctor was one – was for him more than just coordinates in space and time, for although such considerations were complex and necessary, they weren’t always definitive, and no accusation could be mounted on the basis that someone lacked an alibi. What Cupido regarded as a challenge and a mystery was the suspect as a subject, his motives, his feelings for the victim, precisely everything that wasn’t coordinates in space and time.

‘Let’s say finding out those answers is only half my job,’ he conceded.

‘And the other half?’

‘To ask the best questions.’

Beltrán looked at him rather disconcerted.

‘Why should I answer? The police already have all the detectives they need to do their job properly.’

‘Do their job properly? But they haven’t come round to ask you anything’

‘No, they haven’t. I guess it didn’t occur to them. They take it for granted it was suicide.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘I find it hard to believe,’ he said. ‘People who do others harm don’t usually harm themselves,’ he added in a hoarse voice which contained the hint of a cough.

‘In that case, you shouldn’t be surprised that I asked you where you were that evening.’

The doctor nodded several times, very slowly, as if he finally recognised that Cupido thought faster than he did. Still, he said:

‘Do you think his daughter will believe me even if I tell the truth? Will she be any different from her father?’

‘That will depend on how convincing your answer might be.’

‘Then there won’t be a problem. I was here in the hospital, delivering a baby. They can confirm that.’

It was hard to find a space in the car park at the base, which was as packed as that of a supermarket or a football pitch on a weekend afternoon: long rows of cars and buses, and lots of disorientated people who talked a little louder than usual. The women were wearing party dresses, while the men, no less smart, were animated by the promise of nostalgia and renewed vows of patriotism.

Cupido showed his invitation and identity card to the
lieutenant
at the entrance. Further down, several corporals wearing white belts and bandoliers directed people to different gates to access the compound. After one of them showed him the way, Cupido went up a staircase and emerged through a gangway onto the stands.

The place was like a football pitch, but one in which the
spectators
sat only on one of the sides. The red-carpeted stands for the authorities were on one of the shorter sides, still empty. On the pitch, however, the five companies of soldiers about to pledge allegiance to the flag were already standing in formation, in order of height. Officers and NCOs kept watch at the front. It was a
geometric
, harmonic, resplendent whole. The green of the uniforms complemented the red and yellow of the flags martially flapping in the wind. From the east, in a sky sparsely dotted with the kinds of horse-shaped clouds that seem so suited to a military scene, groups of fat cirri scudded across the blue space, casting waves of shadow over the pitch as they escaped from the sea, still ignorant of the brutal collision that, only a few kilometres inland, a chain of grey deserted mountains had in store for them, blocking their
passage onto a plateau that was always in need of water. On the horizon one could see some rocky outcrops, which appeared to have been erected by the land itself near the coast, against
invaders
. Eagles often flew from their tops towards the shore, less with the purpose of finding food than of observing in disbelief the massive flood of tourists lying in the sun. Through the
loudspeakers
, the chords of ‘Soldadito español’ lent a Castilian flavour to a not quite successful heroic scene.

Fifteen minutes later people were still arriving, but the stands had still not filled. The gaps on the cement seats were a sign of the growing public indifference toward army ceremonies ever since the military service had ceased to be compulsory. At one point murmurs were heard, and all eyes looked to the stands where the military authorities and a few civilians were beginning to take their places. From his seat, very near them, Cupido saw Colonel Castroviejo accompanied by a general, to whom he was indicating the company of recruits on the pitch. Then the bugle sounded and all the soldiers, clicking their heels and holding their rifles by the butt, stood to attention and presented arms.

After a few words of welcome from the captain who acted as the masters of ceremonies, the band launched into the first chords of the Spanish national anthem. Everyone stood up, and Cupido noticed that some people on the stands sang the Francoist lyrics, the old words with which someone had tried in vain to strengthen the bland music. For a moment, Cupido thought that the troubled identity of his country showed through in its confused symbols: a flag without patriotism, an anthem without lyrics and a coat of arms without a history.

When the music ended, the officer introduced the general, who would give the speech before the pledge.

‘Soldiers!’ the latter exclaimed from his lectern.

Cupido was near enough to see that the general was a youngish man, at least young for a general, and his youth increased everyone’s expectations. The detective too was interested in hearing the speech, and he wondered to what degree the recent death
of Olmedo would temper criticism and accusations against the person who had been directly responsible for the closure of San Marcial. After a brief greeting, the general sighed unashamedly through the loudspeakers, looked at the soldiers standing to
attention
and then at the spectators, as if he wanted to encompass both groups with his words, and said:

‘As you all know, this will be the last time we pledge allegiance to the flag here, at this square that you have washed with your sweat. The San Marcial base is being closed down!’ he exclaimed. In the pause that followed, his words echoed in the absolute silence of the compound. His voice was deep, trained not to lose
authority
even when it sounded confidential, as if he was about to tell something that no one but this audience must hear. ‘The government of our country have decided to close down this base for the greater efficiency of our army, in order to centralise our forces and improve their operational capacity. And we who obey must accept that decision, because, I suppose, they must have their reasons for this decision. But I wouldn’t want you to worry!’ he continued, in a more peaceful tone, ‘not you, the soldiers, and not you, the civilians who are concerned about how convenient that measure might be. Because they may close this and other bases in Spain, they may empty these barracks and training grounds, they may take down our fences and build houses or gardens here, but I can assure you that the Spanish army will never disappear!’

He made a theatrical pause that would have been filled with applause had he been in a less solemn place. The general was
eloquent
, and treated those present as patriots who loved Spain as much as he did himself. His tone of voice, his magniloquent yet emotive phrases, and the fact that he adopted the role of victim moved an audience that was attentive and prone to effusion.

‘It will never disappear because the spirit of the army resides less in a physical place than in our souls, less in the buildings of the base, however much we love them, than in our hearts. I know,’ he said, lowering the tone to favour complicity, as if he feared that the loudspeakers would fling his words beyond the compound,
over the barbed wire on its walls, ‘I’ve heard it myself, that in some quarters people criticise us, question our very existence, or, at best, tolerate us as a necessary evil best kept to one side, where we don’t give anyone any trouble. They ask us to do the dirty work and later refuse to shake our hands because they’re dirty! But let me tell you, soldiers, you who are at the beginning of your military career, that nowhere else shall you find the protection you find here. Here there will always be someone near you to tell you where you belong, in what corps, company or patrol, and which way to go if you get lost, and what to aspire to when they try to confuse you. The army will welcome you into a group of peers where camaraderie is the norm, and you will share your thirst and sweat, yes, but also water and bread, and you will see day by day that you are not alone, and that another soldier is your best companion and his company your best society. The army will always offer you a lesson in order, support you if you ever stumble. In return, soldiers, you will have to obey your superiors with discipline and diligence. If we do this, everything will be well, even if a base is closed down now and again. This glorious country in which we live, Spain, where does it come from if not from the intimate union of its people and its military leaders? Where indeed? Do not believe those who say otherwise, who try to tear down this country which has a history that goes back more than a thousand years.’

Just like a rally,
thought Cupido.
After twenty years I had forgotten it, but I think that, in essence, nothing has changed much since I was the same age as those lads down there who seem touched by this rough, repetitive harangue, put together with the detritus of the pompous rhetoric of the past. The only difference is that we were forced to attend and didn’t believe in anything that smacked of the army, and found speeches the more false and creepy the higher the rank of the person giving them, while these kids here enrolled voluntarily and seem to have blind faith in what the general tells them
.

Enthusiastic applause broke out on the stands. And presently the bugle sounded again and the ceremony continued. The captain stepped forward holding a luxurious golden book in his hands,
placed it on the lectern and opened it on a marked page before taking a few steps back. Then the general began reading in a loud, solemn voice:

‘Soldiers! Do you swear under God and on your honour and conscience to fulfil your military obligations, to defend and enforce the Constitution as the fundamental law of the State, to obey and respect the King and your superiors, never abandon them and, if it is demanded of you, give your lives in defence of Spain?’

What did that formula resemble? What did that stiff pledge remind him of with its demands of eternal fidelity and no provision made for any possible future reasons to reject it? But of course… Cupido took a few seconds to associate it with something he’d often heard but had never been asked directly. What had started as a rally ended as a sacrament, the open-air grounds falling silent like a temple, the officers’ stands turning into the priests’ altar, the promise of a festivity culminating in an oath.

‘Yes, we do!’ answered several hundreds of voices, in a confident, unanimous shout.

‘If you fulfil your pledge and your promise, the country will thank and reward you, and if not, you’ll deserve its scorn and punishment, like unworthy children,’ replied the general, no longer reading from the book. Then, raising his voice, he continued: ‘Soldiers, long live the San Marcial base!’

‘Long live San Marcial!’

‘Long live the King!’

‘Long live the King!’

‘Long live Spain!’

‘Long live Spain!’

Not only the soldiers answered the call. Patriotic voices could be heard coming from the civilians’ stands, while the detective remained in stony silence, alone and removed from everyone around him. He was no longer touched by stories that weren’t intimate and individual. Any collective outburst to do with politics, religion or one’s homeland left him cold.

The band launched into the chords of ‘Himno de Infantería’
and the companies started parading under the flag. One by one, armed with a Cetme, the soldiers walked up to the two-coloured banner and kissed the cloth swiftly before moving on.

An hour and a half later, when the ceremony was over, Cupido asked a corporal where the cocktail party was taking place. He showed his invitation again to access a large room where a couple of hundred people – army men in uniform, civilians in suits and women in radiant party dresses, too much make-up for daytime and hair carefully dyed in all shades of blonde, the roots not allowed to give away their age – were consuming the drinks and canapés that were laid out on a table and being replenished by
soldiers
doubling up as waiters. He grabbed a glass of beer and took a look around, feeling quite awkward in those surroundings that represented everything he was not. To one side, a group of NCOs were heatedly discussing the army and the civilians’ patriotic obligations. Somebody said something and the others laughed, pleased in the knowledge that they believed in the same leaders and the same ideals. Behind Cupido two women were chatting, and one of them praised the general’s speech.

‘Where is he staying tonight?’ he heard one ask.

‘I don’t know, why?’

‘He’s got such a beautiful voice! I wouldn’t mind spending the whole night listening to it.’

Cupido stepped aside to let two elderly officers, who were no doubt retired by now but still in uniform, their white hair neatly combed back and thin moustaches over their top lips, approach the trays of croquettes, cheese, salmon and caviar canapés, which they instantly started grabbing with trembling, avid fingers. Cupido wandered around towards the back of the room – where
Castoviejo
was talking to the young general – hoping in vain to catch one or the other of those two names Marina had mentioned, Ucha and Bramante. Nor did he hear Olmedo’s, as if in two weeks he’d been forgotten or everyone wished to cast aside his
uncomfortable
memory, either because they suspected someone had killed him, or because they thought suicide was an act of cowardice, and
a coward was an unworthy officer. The conversations revolved around what measures should be taken to fix the sorry state of the national affairs, and included the frequent cursing of politicians, nostalgic anecdotes about San Marcial, and reveries about the more heroic times of exploits, rowdiness and beautiful women. He overheard some gruesome and malicious innuendo that went over his head, and such detailed and explicit gossip as he could hardly believe an officer capable of uttering. When he left the glass on a table and tried to catch a waiter’s eye, he saw the colonel was looking at him and beckoning him over.

‘I see you were not able to overcome your curiosity,’ he said, shaking his hand. He seemed more affable, less worried than when Cupido had seen him in his office.

‘I’ve succumbed to it.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I’ve already attended one ceremony like this. My own. Back then, from the other side, I didn’t find it that pleasant,’ he dared confess with a smile.

‘And now?’

‘Now I have to say I didn’t dislike it. The order, the perfect formation, the synchronised movements. And then …’ he hesitated.

‘Then?’

The detective was surprised to see the degree to which military men are pleased to hear civilians praise their work. But then they were used to being regarded with suspicion by a society that still hadn’t forgiven them their participation in the dictatorship, so any sign of recognition, any word of praise, must be doubly valuable to them.

‘There was an instant when I told myself: so many soldiers and officers bearing arms, and not even one shot? For a moment I was inclined to believe Olmedo’s idea that modern European armies should not be there to kill, but to stop people from killing each other.’

The mention of Olmedo ignited a spark of alertness in the colonel’s slightly veiled eyes.

‘A pity he’s no longer among us to hear your comment. I’m sure he would have liked it.’

‘May I, colonel?’ An officer with the rank of captain interrupted them apologetically.