At Close Quarters (6 page)

Olmedo sat on the terrace of the restaurant of the navy headquarters – his uniform did not look out of place there – and chose a tastier dish than those available at the canteen. Alone, facing the wide beach, he searched for a response to the only question he had not known how to answer. What would he do when they closed down San Marcial?

He asked for only one glass of Rioja, but the waiter, who recognised him and was grateful for his tips, left the bottle on the table for him to refill his glass at will while he nibbled some delicious tomato-topped bread and waited for the fish.

He had to make a decision, could no longer postpone it. No matter how the details came to be arranged, there were two
possible
roads ahead of him: one looked easy and clear and would take him to professional success, quite likely towards a promotion, prestige and the satisfaction of a job well done. The other was a winding road, but at the same time a fascinating one, because it meant entering virgin territory, without tracks or signs or bridges, where he’d have to clear his own path. It led to Gabriela, but he could not be sure that, on arrival, she would welcome him as openly as a new office would. He knew that she liked him, that things worked out when they saw each other, when they made love, or when they occasionally travelled together. But her commitment went only so far. Gabriela still kept things back, did not share the embers of grief that awakened her in the middle of the night, the pain that singed her heart at any recollection of her son’s death. Her feelings of loss had prevented him from suggesting they live together or, if she wanted, even get married. Olmedo had finally understood their relationship would not move forward before his
capacity for consolation improved. There might be a degree of pain, he thought, that encourages other feelings, enhances one’s sensibility, nourishes the hope to find the kind of happiness that will cure one’s wounds. But too much suffering is sterile, searing the heart and scorching the ground of feelings with the salt of tears. Gabriela was very close to being in that position, and he wouldn’t be able to pull her out if he was too far away.

A little later he realised the bottle was half empty and he’d
finished
the fish without tasting or even noticing what he was eating. Surprised, he put down his knife and fork, and looked at the beach where at that moment, the onset of the afternoon, more and more strollers and sunbathers were arriving and spreading out their towels on the sand. He felt a strong desire to take off his uniform for a few hours, put on a bathing suit, and swim to the point of exhaustion. Suddenly, with absolute clarity, he saw what his life without Gabriela would be like: a job in which it would not be easy for him to befriend new people; a separation from his
daughter
now she seemed so happy with her quiet boyfriend, who was so different from her ex-husband; quick solitary meals which he would wolf down rather than savour; the odd cultural event in which he would confirm that men of the past had created
enduring
works of art to relieve themselves of anxieties not unlike the one he was experiencing.

At first, when he met Gabriela, he thought it was loneliness that had brought them together; they satisfied each other’s need for company, tenderness, and the spice of sex. Gabriela was
attractive
, but he soon realised that, even if that were not the case, it would not have made any difference. At his age canonical female beauty didn’t matter so much. All women are equal, he’d once thought; if there’s anything that distinguishes one from the other it is what each might be prepared to give. It is generosity,
affection
, sweetness and intelligence that establish the enormous gap between one and the other, what makes them vulgar or
magnificent
. In only a few weeks he had realised that his feelings were not just a form of pleasure. He’d fallen in love with her when he was
getting used to living alone and now she was as essential to him as the wind to the flag. Now he had hopes for the future, he didn’t know how much solitude he could bear. Since his wife had died in those ridiculous circumstances – at an operating theatre, as she underwent aesthetic surgery – he had not felt like this. He liked to compare his love for Gabriela to the grains of wheat that
archaeologists
, digging into a pyramid, had found in a three-thousand-year-old vase, left there to feed the deceased pharaoh in his new life. Brought back to light, the grain had germinated. Gabriela, he told himself, had made him flower again, awakened him from his sentimental apathy. In return he was prepared to be generous and would try to make up for all she had suffered.

He pushed the full glass away and made up his mind, although he was aware that his decision implied renouncing some
advantages
. But he had an answer now. That very afternoon he intended to buy a ring and everything he needed for an intimate dinner the next day. He would ask her to move in with him. If she said yes, he would ask for an extended leave of absence of at least two years, even if that would not help his career. If she said no, well, he’d rather not think about that possibility…

One morning, as he was walking out of the flat he had rented, a journalist and a photographer from the local paper, armed with a microphone and a camera, waylaid him to ask him a few
questions
about a case known as ‘Bling’, which, touching as it did on the intimate conflicts of some well-known families of the city, had whetted the already voracious appetite of the tabloid press. Cupido had pushed away the camera without saying a word. Such stories evoked in him the worst memories of the rural world he was from: unhealthy gossip, the dictatorship of appearances, the shady complacency that some people felt at the disgrace of others. In a Shakespeare play he’d read: “What great ones do, the less will prattle of.” Now he watched in astonishment how that petty curiosity percolated down to all levels of society. No doubt other detectives would have seen in this an opportunity to satisfy their vain glory, publicise their services and raise their fees, but Cupido had always stayed away from the public eye. He liked anonymity and tried to remain unknown and escape people’s notice. Besides, he knew that being unknown, if possible invisible, was essential in his line of work.

And then he was in a city that wasn’t his own. He’d first visited it the previous July – a sojourn motivated not by a desire for a holiday but the need to accompany his mother. She had liked the climate and the seabathing so much that they had decided to return in the middle of March for a stay at the same guesthouse catering for elderly customers. Cupido had rented a flat for the period and
had invited Alkalino, as he knew how few opportunities his friend had to do the things he enjoyed most: travelling, visiting cities and places that differed from the provincial, rural Breda he knew so well, and observing – with astonishment and scepticism, but never outrage – habits and beliefs that were sometimes opposed to his own. Alkalino was very grateful for it and had planned to stay for two or three weeks, not wanting to make a nuisance of himself. But a month had gone by and he was still there. Which actually suited Cupido just fine; he was amused by Alkalino’s
comments
and witticisms, and interested in his moralistic yet compassionate view of the human condition. Besides, Alkalino visited his mother now and again at the guesthouse. The place was nice, they answered the phone promptly, and there always seemed to be an employee cleaning the corridors, the windows or the toilets.
Alkalino
, who felt at ease with old people, already knew some of the guests. One afternoon, Cupido could not help but laugh out loud on seeing him dressed in a track suit, with a label still attached to his trousers, ready to go to an aerobics session for the old timers.

Cupido didn’t know how he’d started getting commissions, as he hadn’t advertised his services anywhere. He guessed it had to do with the nature of his job – a lot of people wanted to clear up something disquieting, or shady, or shameful – and his discretion in previous jobs attracted customers who were looking precisely for someone who solved cases inconspicuously.

He’d accepted a first commission just to please his mother. An old man from the guesthouse engaged him to help his daughter. She’d been unlawfully dismissed from work, without any
severance
pay, accused of an obscure cyber crime, when in fact they had sacked her for other reasons. They had withdrawn all
disciplinary
sanctions and had paid her compensation when Cupido appeared at the owner’s office and threw on his desk an envelope containing a dozen pictures showing him entering and leaving a hotel with his new employee, his arm around her waist.

A little later he was asked to work on relatively uncomplicated cases; he accepted them because he was extending his stay in the
coastal town and it would be good for his finances, which were suffering considerably although he couldn’t quite tell what he spent his money on. He looked into an insurance claim by someone who was pretending he’d sustained an injury; searched for a girl who had run away from home, never finding her; investigated yet another case of adultery, which made him think that it’s
impossible
to be a private eye without encountering deception and lies, passion and jealousy. The saddest part was the discovery that the people who hired him were almost always right, their suspicions astonishingly accurate.

But he had always been discreet. He never divulged anything a client told him in confidence, and only when the law was broken did he encourage the intervention of the police. He guessed it was his reserve, as well as the fact that he was a stranger in town, that had driven the dead colonel’s daughter to approach him to see if he could uncover the truth behind her father’s death.

As she waited for an answer at the other end of the phone line, Cupido remembered what he’d read in the local press a few days before. The story appeared on the front page, and he’d been surprised that a military man had committed suicide, because although suicides were not rare among troops who were under pressure, Cupido had the impression they were infrequent among officers. The paper spoke of ‘puzzling circumstances’, the usual euphemism when something illegal was suspected, but also reported that a note had been found suggesting it was suicide. Cupido half remembered the picture of a man in his early fifties, dressed in uniform, with cropped hair and that air of energy so common among army men on active service.

‘You’ll take the case, won’t you?’ she’d asked after a few seconds of silence, only to add: ‘I’d like to speak with you.’

Cupido gave her the address and they arranged to meet in an hour.

Alkalino came back from the street, from one of his solitary and slightly mysterious walks, and when he saw Cupido underlining a piece of news in an old newspaper, he asked:

‘More work?’

‘Yes.’

‘What member of the family hired you?’

‘How do you know it’s a family member?’

‘Because I doubt it’s a colleague. I can’t imagine a soldier hiring a private detective. Soldiers don’t usually like civilians and prefer to solve their problems within the walls of their own institutions. To ask for help would be like admitting professional incompetence.’

‘Sometimes I think you should be the detective and I your assistant,’ said Cupido, smiling at Alkalino’s sagacity.

But Alkalino wasn’t smiling. On the contrary, his expression suggested that this was one of those days on which he surrendered to apathy and tiredness – he whose nickname referred to his resistance to fatigue and his inability to stay quiet – and terribly missed the drink, the old feeling of oblivion and the pleasure of the cognac bathing his tongue, the velvety heat going down his throat and swaying in his stomach. In those moments he was torn between his thirst and the guilty desire of quenching it, and none of his dialectical ingenuity could get him to break out of it: it was painful to hear the loud call of booze, but he knew he would feel even worse if he answered it. A few months before, in Breda, he had succumbed: every night he vowed not to drink the following day, and every morning he cursed himself after taking the first sip. But he’d managed to overcome it, and since then his sympathy for the weak seemed to have increased, as had his scepticism towards those who boasted of their virtue and strength of will.

‘That would be as ridiculous as teaching a frog to catch flies,’ replied Alkalino. ‘I mean, you’re already very good at what you do, and you don’t need any help.’

‘No, that’s not true. You know how much I appreciate your contribution. You know I value your words, and not simply as ingenious or eccentric speculations.’

Alkalino looked doubtful.

‘Sometimes I do get that impression, but there are moments when I’m not so sure my opinions are worth much.’

‘You’ve known me long enough not to doubt it.’

‘Well, I don’t know much about you,’ he said, still serious.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re in the business of knowing. You’re the one who asks and listens and thinks things over and knows. The rest of us are what is known. I haven’t heard you talk about yourself for a long time, Cupido.’

The detective looked at him in silence, weighing up the words Alkalino had used to describe him. It was true. He’d never been someone given to confidences or talking about himself, but with the passage of time he was becoming even more secretive. He hid from everyone his disappointments, his loneliness, his fears and how fed up he was with his job, the profession that led him to believe that no person can love another forever. He kept those impressions to himself, where no one might see them and point out their painful harshness. Looking back, he realised he’d been able to salvage very few things from the wreckage of time, that the wealth of his youthful dreams had rotted before they could come true. He no longer hoped to have children. Nor did it seem likely that he would have for a woman feelings as intense as when he had first loved. He no longer believed that an ideology could make the world a better place; and as for the human condition, well, he’d seen his fair share of evil and misery, and had concluded that some men can only do harm. He’d seen people die and people kill. It was true that, when he thought of the future, the moral landscape he identified in himself was not lacking in dignity, but it wasn’t the kind best shared with anyone else. He was over forty and knew that, unless he did something about it, he’d get lonelier as each year passed. Up to this age, he often told himself, most of the people one has met and known are alive, but from now on the balance will start to even out, until the presence of the living weighs as much as the memories of the dead. And a little later
everyone
would start dying around him, if his number didn’t come up first. Nowadays, all he felt was a sort of pity towards innocent victims, filial love for his mother, and friendly affection for half
a dozen people. Alkalino took pride of place among them, and Cupido didn’t want him to feel scorned, or that he was someone who didn’t matter, someone one doesn’t count on, and whose opinion is not consulted because one’s indifferent to it.

‘You may be right in part,’ admitted Cupido.

‘I am, Cupido, I am.’

‘Some day I might talk about myself.’

Alkalino still looked doubtful.

‘I’m not so sure. You’re very self-sufficient. You’ve become isolated, and … and …’ He looked at the furniture, searching for an inexistent bottle of something, and made a vague gesture, as if he suddenly didn’t know where he was or whether his words meant anything. Nor did he seem to be expecting a reply. ‘I think I’d better go back to Breda,’ he said, leaving the previous sentence unfinished.

‘What, now? When summer is coming and the city fills up with all those tourists you like to watch so much?’

‘Precisely now that the first ones are arriving. I’ve come back from the beach, and people have already started sunbathing. The girls were coming out of the water in their wet, almost see-through bikinis, cold and trembling, as if they were waiting for someone to come and wrap them up in a towel.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’

‘Wrong? Nothing wrong if it was me they were waiting for. No,’ he said, serious again. ‘I’d better get away from all this fun. I’m beginning to miss Breda, the Casino Bar, my routines, even the landscape … And I’ve been living off you for a few weeks now.’

‘Nonsense,’ protested Cupido. ‘On the contrary, I’d still owe you money if you were not so pig-headed and refused payment for the help you give me when I need it. At least wait a couple of days before making a decision. Any time now the daughter of the man who died from a gunshot will be here,’ he said, pointing to the paper. ‘A family member, as you said. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.’

‘All right, all right,’ he accepted. ‘It’s impossible not to be
whenever someone comes round to ask you to help them put together again what someone else has shattered. But I don’t know if curiosity is as powerful as that …’

‘If I take this job here, in a city where I barely know anyone, I’ll definitely need your assistance.’

Although he was able to handle the investigation on his own and bring it to a successful conclusion – as he’d done many other times – he wanted Alkalino to feel needed.

The entry phone rang at that moment, as if bearing news. Cupido walked over to the door and stopped for a few seconds in front of the small screen to look at the woman waiting at the door.

‘She’s pretty,’ whispered Alkalino, who’d followed him.

The detective buzzed her in without a word. A minute later the lift stopped on his floor, and the woman came out trailing a
delicate
lilac perfume. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

She’s left-handed, thought Cupido as he watched her sit in the armchair he’d offered her. Although she was wearing dark clothes, a soft clarity emanated from her – a sort of troubled serenity.

Alkalino had disappeared before she came in, and was hiding in his room so as not to meddle in the interview, but he’d left the door ajar. Better that way. The woman could just talk directly to Cupido, wouldn’t have to worry about someone else listening to her words. The conversation was bound to include confidential information about the victim, and a third party, watching, listening and saying nothing, would only inspire nervousness.

‘I don’t entirely understand what you expect from me,’ said Cupido. ‘With a death like this, a judge always commissions an inquiry. And since your father was a high-ranking officer, I don’t think the police will be inclined to shelve the case before it’s solved. Your father was, in a way, one of them.’

‘The judge has ruled, perhaps too soon, that it was suicide. But my father didn’t kill himself. I know the circumstances would appear to indicate he did. The note he left seems to prove it. But I know it’s not true, it cannot be true.’

‘From what I’ve read, the post-mortem doesn’t rule it out either.’

‘I know, I’ve got the report. But then I don’t think anyone’s interested in proving the contrary.’

‘What do you mean?’

Marina took a deep breath. Her face registered an expression of tiredness and defeat.