The Black Minutes (5 page)

“I haven’t a clue,” the reporter confessed. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said in English. “That’s the key to the crime.”

Seeing the procession approaching, the journalist got up.

“Uh-oh, here comes Father Fritz. That priest is crazy, and he can’t stand the sight of me.” And Guerrero walked off in the opposite direction. Cabrera noticed he limped on his left side.

“Hey,” he asked Columba, “do you know who the blonde was who came in at the end?”

“The blonde? Cristina González, Bernardo’s ex-girlfriend.”

By his account, Cristina and the journalist met in San Antonio, when the two were studying there, and were together all through college. Then Bernardo decided to return to his home-town and broke off the relationship. “Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea.”

How strange, he thought. If I were in his shoes, I would never have left a good job in San Antonio to come back to this port town. Or left a woman like that.

“So what have you heard?” Cabrera asked his young colleague. “Was it the dealers who killed him?”

“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear about the Chato Rambal business?”

“What was that?”

“El Chato, of the port cartel. Bernardo interviewed him a year ago, because he was writing a piece about drug trafficking here.”

According to Columba, El Chato wasn’t at all upset by Bernardo’s article, since it was critical but objective, and from then on Bernardo had become the cartel’s protégé.

“Once, he was about to be mugged in the market—you know how dangerous it is in Colonia Coralillo—and Bernardo told me the muggers suddenly stopped, their eyes bugging out, and slunk off, all apologetic. When Bernardo turned, a cowboy with a pistol tipped his palm-straw hat and walked away without a word. With protection like that, nobody would get up the nerve to do him any damage. I don’t think it was the dealers.”

“Who knows, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he wrote another article, attacking El Chato.”

“That’s impossible.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Bernardo stopped writing for the paper. Over six months ago.”

It seemed to him that at the grave site, a small cloud took shape in that section of the cemetery and rose elegantly into the sky.

“And do you know why he quit?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“If he wasn’t working for the paper anymore, what was he doing at the port? How was he making a living?”

“I don’t know . . . I suppose he had savings. . . . Bernardo was a hermit: just like that he’d disappear for weeks on end and hole up to write. I hadn’t seen him for over six months when I found out he’d died.”

“And you don’t know what he was writing?”

“No idea.”

“Did he know anybody with the initials C.O.?”

Columba shrugged and, as Cabrera said nothing, stood up. There was a stir among the funeral party.

As they were lowering the journalist’s body, a tiny nun who looked to be a hundred years old shouldered her way through the crowd to the center. She tuned an ancient guitar and, as the coffin descended into the grave, began to sing, before anybody could stop her, a Christian version of “Blowing in the Wind,” in an adaptation so free that the only thing left of Bob Dylan’s song was the original melody. In place of Dylan’s lyrics the sister sang a song of protest, religiously inspired. Something on the order of “Know ye He will come / Know He will be here / Meting out His bread to the poor.” Her voice was no good, but she did sing loudly, and as she repeated the chorus some of the mourners wept, especially the dead man’s relations. Cabrera was a roughneck, but even he felt a lump in his throat: burials depressed him. To change the subject, he said to Rodrigo Columba, “If the deceased were here, he’d request a different song.”

“Don’t be so sure,” the young man answered. “Bernardo loved Bob Dylan. He loved anything that had to do with the sixties and seventies; he was obsessed with all that.”

None of this jibes, thought Cabrera: Bernardo Blanco had a job and a girlfriend in Texas, a promising stable future, and suddenly
he decides to leave it all to come here, write tabloid journalism, risk his life. Cabrera would’ve liked to know what the reporter was really up to, though most likely he’d never find out. As Bob Dylan’s song echoed through the cemetery, the cloud above broke up into ever smaller pieces, until it dissipated completely.

“Time to get back to work,” he growled.

Columba dropped him off at the tire-repair shop, where the manager was waiting for him.

“I had to put a new tire on.”

“Why, isn’t the other any good?”

“No way, not even with Viagra. Look here, officer.” He showed him what was left of the tire. “How can I fix that? It’s impossible. Who did you get in a fight with?”

The tire had been cut. Slashed, actually.

“That isn’t a tire,” the workman said, “it’s a warning.”

Cabrera’s stomach growled again.

He went looking for Ramírez twice, but the forensics expert had an assignment at the docks and hadn’t come back. Meanwhile, the kid who’d had the pistol started calling; Cabrera hung up on him a couple of times, thinking Go change your diapers, fucking snot nose. If you want your piece, let your daddy come get it.

At 3:30 he decided to go have lunch at Flamingos, well aware that he had an important date at five. He rummaged through all his desk drawers until he found a very battered book and went out to the parking lot. After he’d made sure the car didn’t have another flat tire—the last thing he needed—he headed to the restaurant: all the troublemakers from the office were there. He caught sight of Ramírez eating in a corner and went to sit down at his table.

“OK, Fatso, out with it! What were you going to tell me?”

In front of Ramírez were two orders of enchiladas
suizas
and another of
cecina
-style dried beef, waiting its turn. The expert swallowed a mouthful and wiped his lips with his napkin.

“Don’t get into that, butthead, it’s a minefield.” Ramírez spoke in a low voice.

“I’m not in it for pleasure, dude; the chief gave me the assignment.”

“It’s really weird, really weird. If I were you, I’d drop it. You’re getting in way too deep. I wouldn’t, and”—he took a deep breath, wiping sweat from his forehead—“nobody else would dare take on a case that had been El Chaneque’s.”

Cabrera noticed two of the new guys sitting a few tables away, with Agent Chávez, nodding in agreement at everything he said. What a pity, thought Cabrera. These kids just got here, they’ve got nothing to regret, but with Chávez as their role model they soon will have. El Chaneque had been assigned to this post by Durazo, the worst specimen ever spawned by the national police. That’s why he was still here, showing these kids the ropes.

“What’re you going to do?” Ramírez asked.

Cabrera didn’t answer. A kid in filthy clothes had sneaked into the restaurant and was handing out flyers at all the tables. Soon he handed one to them. What if today was the last day of your life? Come enjoy it at El Cherokee Music Disco! This was a club that had once belonged to Freaky Villarreal, which they’d turned into a table-dance bar. A customer stood up to go, leaving a copy of
El Mercurio
on the counter, and Cabrera grabbed it. Johnny Guerrero’s column was on page three. Fuck: the bugger worked fast. After mentioning the “deplorable” death of Bernardo Blanco, “the promising young journalist back from San Antonio,” he observed that, according to some rumors, Bernardo had disturbed
“prominent residents of the area,” and investigators in charge were speculating about the possibility that “the lately deceased” had perhaps died for attempting blackmail. He went on to say that a respected officer of the secret service was carrying out a parallel investigation—Oh, shit, I’m that officer! This is totally fucked, he thought. He asked for the menu. Nothing looked good to him, and he burned his mouth on his coffee.

At a quarter to four he recalled he had an appointment and went out to his car. He made sure all four tires were in good shape, then took the main avenue down to the Paracuán Cultural Institute, the Jesuits’ school, and parked in front.

He knew for certain that school was in session because he had studied there. Everybody had studied there, even Bernardo Blanco! For years the Jesuit brothers’ school was the main educational institution in Paracuán. As was to be expected of such an institution, the majority of the students were scholarship kids. Bernardo’d had a full scholarship; Cabrera had had only half, because he never had the grades to get the other half. Aside from having been expelled during his freshman year, he had nothing but good memories of his time there: the field trips, the spiritual retreats, the arguments about social injustice, the insistence on getting better grades, and the steely discipline that strengthened moral fiber.

He knew very well this wasn’t going to be an easy chat. Fritz had studied in Rome: theology and law. He’d lived in Nicaragua and been transferred out, owing to his sympathies with the liberation theologists, but all the moving around never managed to lessen the priest’s activity. Ever since Cabrera could remember, the padre had offered psychological orientation to the local policemen and organized social services in the local prison. But mediating between police and criminals is no easy task, so—to
avoid endangering the rest of the Jesuits—the provincial superior had decided that Fritz should move into the bishop’s residence, a secure bulding, with two guards on duty. Cabrera knew for certain that Fritz could be found at the school in the afternoons, because he taught his high-school classes then. He knew all this for certain, because Fritz had told him.

I saw Macetón again the day of the funeral, in among the throngs of people, and he came by my office that afternoon. He arrived too early. “I said five o’clock.”

“I ended up being early. I hope you don’t mind.”

Of course I minded, but I couldn’t tell him that. At my age, seventy-five, I have to watch my back. Since I was caught in flagante, I remember I went on the defensive, arranging the various little objects on my desk: pencils, cards, pens, as if I were building a wall between the two of us. But Macetón got the jump on me with a surprise gambit. He took out a copy of
The Spiritual Exercises
and placed it in front of me.

“I finally read it. Let’s see if we can talk now.”

He was referring to a conversation we had begun years before, the last time we argued. Ramón “Macetón” Cabrera was never one of my best students. This is the opinion of a Jesuit who taught six leftist congressmen, at least one Sandinista battalion, one great reporter, and the best political columnist this country has produced. Compared with them (and compared with practically anyone), Macetón Cabrera’s merits paled. Once I scolded
him about his reading matter. Ramón was with a girl at recess, chatting about a detective novel. I recognized the cover and walked over. As soon as I heard him say, “Be very careful with this book,” I stepped up.

“I don’t know why you waste your time reading things like that,” I said.

He blushed, but the girl was on the verge of fainting, because I’ve always been known for being a crab, and for talking to students outside class only to report them. To cut their agony short, I showed him my battered copy of
The Spiritual Exercises
.

“Now,
this
is a truly dangerous book. On every page the reader runs the risk of feeling recognized and humbled. When you’ve finished reading it, we’ll talk again.”

Later I found out, putting two and two together, that the book jacket actually hid an erotic novel, which Macetón was in the process of lending to the girl. I considered calling him on the carpet, but I didn’t see him again one-on-one until the end of the school year, the day we gave him his diploma. Every time I ran into him in the library, he pointedly ignored me; in class, he sat all the way in the back and pretended to be invisible. That went on over thirty years ago and now Macetón had come to remind me of it.

Unfortunately for him, the day before I had taken up drinking again. The reason I’d asked him to come to my office at school and not to the bishop’s residence was that I needed a good stiff drink, and the day before I had confiscated a bottle of vodka from one of my students. When Cabrera arrived, I was about to pour myself the first drink of the afternoon, but I couldn’t do it in front of him. What’s more, the bottle was behind him, in the bookcase where I keep my files. I kept glancing over there, worried that Ramón might discover one of my secrets. That afternoon’s conversation was a battle between someone who always knew everything and
someone who never understood anything. That’s why, when he pulled out our holy patron’s book, it took me a while to react.

“Ah, yes . . . St. Ignatius’s
Exercises
. . . . And did they answer?”

“With two nightmares.”

“What?”

“As of today, it’s given me two nightmares. You said it was a dangerous book.”

He had skimmed through it over the last few weeks. I replied with a growl. My students permit me such outbursts, which they accept as an eccentricity. And just like that, I succeeded in going on the offensive.