The Skating Rink (13 page)

Gaspar Heredia:

Until El Carajillo fell asleep we talked about women

Until El Carajillo fell asleep we talked about women, food, work,
children, illness and death . . . When I heard him snoring, I
switched off the light in the office and went outside to pursue my reflections.
At dawn I went back into the office, told El Carajillo there was nothing to
report, and said I had to get going. Still half asleep, El Carajillo mumbled
some incomprehensible words. Something about a gigantic tear. A titanic tear. I
thought he must have been dreaming about the lyrics of a song. Then he opened
one eye and asked me where I was going. Just out for a walk, I said. He wished
me luck and went back to sleep. Walking briskly, I estimated, it would take me
forty-five minutes to reach the Palacio Benvingut. I had plenty of time, so
before leaving town, I stopped for breakfast in a cantina full of fishermen. I
didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying, but I think it was something
about a whale that had been spotted by several boats and a fisherman who had
been lost at sea. At the back of the bar, surrounded by men in oilskins, a kid
who must have been about fourteen was gesturing wildly, laughing, then groaning,
repeating words that others had spoken that night. “The Accident,” “The Whale,”
“The Big Man,” “The Wave” rang out like winning lottery numbers. I paid and left
inconspicuously. On my way out to the mansion, I didn’t see a single car heading
for Z or Y, or anyone walking in either direction. Viewed from the top of the
coves, the town seemed to be asleep; no doubt only the fishermen were awake. A
few boats were still working near the beach. When I finally reached the mansion,
I automatically went straight to the skating rink. The lights were on, so I
thought the skater and the fat guy might be there. But no, inside, I saw poor
Carmen, and in the fat guy’s usual place, at the edge of the rink, Caridad,
staring at the body. Her eyes were blurry, the way they used to be in the
campground at night. Her face was covered with blood; it was running from her
nose. She didn’t realize I was there until I put my hands on her shoulders. For
some reason I felt that if she stepped onto the ice, which I thought she was
about to do, I would lose her forever. There was blood on her tee shirt and her
hands. Both of us were shaking. As I held her shoulders, my arms were as limp as
cables and my chattering teeth made a sound in keeping with the scene. Caridad
was trembling too, but the movement was coming from deep inside and returning to
its source, in a secret circuit perceptible only to the sense of touch. I even
thought that my trembling was induced by hers, and would stop if I let go of
her, but I didn’t. It was only when she felt my hands on her shoulders that
Caridad looked at me, as if I was a stranger, as if she believed that I had
killed the singer. What happened, I asked? She didn’t reply. The knife, the ice,
the morning, the singer’s body, the mansion, Caridad’s eyes, everything began to
spin . . . I gripped her shoulders as if I was afraid that she
was going to disappear. I remembered how kind and generous the singer had been
with Caridad, and how kind and generous Caridad had been with the singer.
Outsiders in Z, they had helped each other as best they could throughout that
summer. It took a few moments to turn my gaze away from the body lying on the
ice. Then I said we should leave, although I suspected we had no place to go. I
pushed Caridad gently toward the mansion. She let herself be guided with a
docility that surprised me. Let’s go and get your things, I said. Before we knew
it, we were roaming through the building, along corridors, up and down stairs,
more and more hurriedly, as if our ultimate departure from the scene of the
crime was conditional on searching the building from top to bottom. I remember
whispering in her ear at some point as we wandered on that I was the night
watchman from the campground, that she could trust me, but I don’t think she
heard. The room that Caridad and Carmen had been sleeping in was on the second
floor. It was no bigger than a pantry and you had to go through two other rooms
to reach it, so it was fairly inconspicuous and hard to find. Change your
T-shirt, I said. Caridad took a black T-shirt from her backpack and threw the
bloody one on the floor. I crouched down, picked up all her things, including
the bloody T-shirt and put them in the pack. The rest of the stuff belonged to
the singer: empty bottles, candles, plastic bags full of clothes, comics,
plates, glasses. There’s no hurry, said Caridad. I looked at her in the
semidarkness: one night in that room the two women had heard the chords of the
“Fire Dance,” and it must had given them a fright. I imagined them going down
the stairs toward the music, all on their own in the dark world, one with the
knife, the other with a stick or a bottle, toward the dazzling brilliance of the
skating rink. Or maybe not, in any case it didn’t matter now. When we left the
room, Caridad took the lead. Instead of going downstairs we went up to a room on
the third floor. Stay with me until they come, said Caridad, looking me in the
eye. I assumed she was referring to the police. We’ll go down for this together,
I thought. Both of us were chilled to the bone, so we wrapped ourselves in the
blankets and curled up on the wooden floor. Dim rays of light were filtering in
through the window. It was like camping. Probably because of the shared warmth,
I was asleep before I knew it. The sound of steps downstairs woke me. Someone
was opening and shutting doors. It’s illogical and silly, I know, but instead of
assuming it was the police, my first thought was: It’s Carmen, risen from her
puddle of blood and come to look for us. Not to seek vengeance or scare us, but
to settle down beside us, snug among the blankets. Of course I had absolutely no
idea what time it was. When the door opened to reveal Remo Morán, I wasn’t all
that surprised. I remembered the night I saw him coming out of the disco with a
blonde girl, the skater, so it didn’t seem strange that he should come looking
for her. You’re my father, I thought. Help me. I think Remo was afraid that
Caridad might be dead too . . .

Enric Rosquelles:

In the afternoon Pilar called my office to inform me

In the afternoon Pilar called my office to inform me, in a dry and
official tone, that a body had been discovered at the Palacio Benvingut. The
receiver fell out of my hand, and when I picked it up, there was no one at the
other end. As I was dialing Nuria’s number I realized I was shaking, but I
pulled myself together, and when Laia answered the phone I was able to ask for
her sister in a reasonably steady voice. Nuria wasn’t there. Under normal
circumstances I would never have dared to ask if she had come home the previous
night, but circumstances were not normal. Laia giggled teasingly before
answering. Yes, what did I think? Of course she had come home last night. I
sighed with relief and asked her to get Nuria to contact me as soon as possible.
If she didn’t call me within the next half hour, I would be coming around to the
apartment. You’re jealous, said Laia. No, I said, I’m not jealous. She started
asking what was going on, poor kid, but I was at my wits’ end, I had to hang up.
I desperately needed to think, so I took some deep breaths and tried to give
myself another dose of calm. I had almost succeeded when there was a knock at
the door: it was old García, the municipal police chief. He was holding a bundle
of papers and wearing his usual good-natured expression, although it was looking
a little strained. He asked if he could sit down for a while. Don’t stand in the
doorway, come in, take a seat, make yourself at home, I said. I think I raised
my voice a bit. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked over to the chair I had
offered him, and for a moment we both remained silent: he sat with his knees
wide apart, while I stood looking out of the window at the street. Come on, spit
it out, I said, cutting to the chase. García advised me to lower my voice. The
secretary can hear you, he said, but he said it so quietly I had to ask him to
repeat himself. Feeling despondent but slightly calmer, I sat down and decided
to try the unblinking stare. As I had anticipated, García averted his gaze
almost immediately, looking instead at the diplomas hanging on the wall. You
have lots of qualifications, he observed in a whisper. I nodded without taking
my eyes off him. Yes, those were my trophies, proof of my intelligence and
dedication: the photocopy of my psychology degree (my mother has the framed
original), and diplomas from the numerous short courses I have done, on special
education, youth work, teaching in prison, first aid and community medical
centers and drop-in centers, juvenile delinquency and drug addiction,
socio-cultural event organization, urban psychology, criminal psychology (two
days, in Paris), social education (a weekend in Cologne, with vaguely Nazi
instructors), psychosocial motivation, psychology and the environment, aging and
the aged, rehabilitation centers and camps,
Toward a Socialist Europe
, Spanish politics and economics, politics
and sports in Spain, politics and the Third World, problems and solutions in
small municipalities, etc, etc. I didn’t know you’d studied so much, said García
with a sigh. I declined to reply; my mind, as the saying goes, was miles away,
lost in a fantasy land. Without realizing, I’d started to hum the “Fire Dance.”
García cleared his throat and said, You know why I’m here. I don’t like being
interrupted, who does? It seemed grossly impolite, but what else could I expect
from a policeman? Get to the point, get to the point, I said, raising my voice
again. García blushed so deeply I thought he was going to have a heart attack or
a stroke or both at once. You’re under arrest, he said, looking at the floor.
There you go, see: it wasn’t that hard, I said with a smile, and God knows what
an effort it took to keep that smile on my face. Then, when the smile had
eventually faded, I asked what I was supposed to have done. Murdered a woman,
said García, and embezzlement. Although I had a slight hunch, I was genuinely
curious to know whom I was supposed to have killed, so I asked. A beggar, said
García, looking through his papers: Carmen González Medrano. I asked if he had
reached that conclusion on his own, or if it was a collective effort. Garciá
shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t understand. If you think you’re going to
score points at my expense, you’ve got another think coming, I warned him.
García replied that it wasn’t about scoring anything, and he really regretted
having to arrest me, but I had to understand, he was only doing his job. I
didn’t believe a word he said, you could see the joy sparkling in his eyes: for
the first time in his life, the son of a bitch had got in ahead of the national
police and the
guardia civil
. If you
think you’re going to get your picture in the paper, you better watch out,
García, I bellowed, because there’s a big surprise in store for you and the
others. García was mumbling something in reply when the phone rang and I lunged
forward, as if my life depended on it. Nuria’s voice at the other end of the
line was like a bird shivering in the cold. I swear I had never felt so close to
her. Nuria, I said, Nuria, Nuria, Nuria. To give him his due, García was
discreet; he stood up, turned his back on me and looked at the diplomas. Before
I knew it, I began to cry. Somehow Nuria realized and, sounding unsure and very
worried, she asked if I was crying, a conjecture that I hastened to correct in
word and deed. García was glancing at me sideways from a corner. I could hear
shouting outside: it was my secretary, and other voices that I couldn’t
recognize, making requests and demands. Quite a racket, in any case. Right then,
I would gladly have volunteered to be smitten by a thunderbolt. United by the
telephone line, Nuria’s breathing and mine mingled in a timeless marriage: the
bond, the consummation and the passing of our quiet days—our secret. My teeth
started grinding horribly. What’s happening? asked Nuria. I noticed that García
had approached me again and was grimacing incomprehensibly. The noises from
outside were getting louder: chairs falling over, bodies bumping against the
walls, someone shouting, Be quiet and calm down, please, we don’t want to have
to charge you with obstruction of justice. Then I uttered, syllable by syllable:
Nu-ri-a-I-have-to-hang-up-what-ev-er-hap-pens-re-mem-ber-I-love-you-re-mem-ber-I-love-you . . .

Remo Morán:

The policemen were young and they didn’t look too smart

The policemen were young and they didn’t look too smart, although on
the way there one of them said he had a degree in economics. The other one was
an amateur mechanic, crazy about motorbikes; whenever he could get away, he went
racing at the various meets in Catalonia and Valencia. Both were married and had
kids. They weren’t so chatty when they got to Lola’s office, although after
listening to my story and scribbling a bit in a none-too-clean notebook, they
looked at each other as if thinking, This could be our big day. They decided to
set off immediately for the Palacio Benvingut. A little apprehensively, they
asked me to accompany them. Lola didn’t want me to go on my own (I don’t know
what she thought might happen) and insisted on joining the group; after all, she
was the only one who would be able to identify the body. When Lola had located
the victim’s record card in a bulging file, the four of us left for the crime
scene in the patrol car, an arrangement that I was to regret later on, because
it meant I had to go back to Lola’s office to get my car, and by then I didn’t
have much time or energy to spare. Nothing had changed at the Palacio Benvingut,
except that the general impression of desolation, the atmosphere of premature
autumn enveloping the house and its surroundings, had perhaps intensified. The
body was still there, but the spilt blood didn’t seem as sinister, nor as red.
Lola took a couple of steps on the ice and identified the victim without
difficulty: Carmen González Medrano, vagrant. Later on, the police chief turned
up to congratulate his officers, along with a kind of coroner, followed by three
guys from the Red Cross and then a young woman of about thirty who identified
herself as the local judge. She and Lola knew each other. They wrangled over the
beggar’s record card. The judge wanted to keep it, but Lola flatly refused.
Watching the two of them argue, both so young and energetic, I thought, This is
the new Spain, striding boldly toward the future. By contrast, the old woman and
I, nostalgic or passive or maybe just patient, were like two arrows flying back
into the past, one quickly, the other in very slow motion. Finally, thanks to
the coroner’s mediation, the women reached an agreement: Lola would keep the
card and send a photocopy to the judge. As for me, I had to repeat my story a
couple of times, and when we were allowed to go there was no one left to give us
a lift. We walked back to Z. Lola looked slightly pale but very pretty. At first
she told me what little she knew about the dead woman, but we ended up talking
about her recent trip to Greece and what our son had got up to. In the
afternoon, after various fruitless attempts to get in touch with Nuria, I
decided to go to her apartment again and find out where she was. Her mother
opened the door but didn’t invite me in. Her eyes were red and she was clearly
in no mood for conversation. Nuria had gone to Barcelona. She didn’t know when
she’d be back. At the hotel, Alex was waiting for me with a bombshell: the
police had arrested Enric Rosquelles on suspicion of murder. I was obliged to
repeat the story I had already told hundreds of times that morning; then I went
up to my room to think. But instead I fell asleep, sitting on the sofa, and
dreamed that bird-women, gathering in a flock outside, near the balcony, were
looking at me through the windows, their wings beating quietly in the warm humid
air. One by one I began to recognize them: Lola and Nuria, and other women from
Z, although their faces were blurry so I couldn’t be sure. The old woman was
fluttering in the middle, like a queen surrounded by her entourage. She was the
only one really watching me. A gust blew the windows open and I felt her voice,
just as the group of bird-women began to rise and clouds came down over the
town. Even so, the dead woman’s voice made the windowpanes shake. She was
singing. The words of her song were simple and repetitive: Avenge me, avenge me,
avenge me—dear colleague, avenge me, avenge me, avenge me. Just before I woke
up, I heard myself promising that I would, but first I had to find her killer.
That night, after taking a shower, I went out for a walk and headed for Stella
Maris. Gasparín, El Carajillo and a camper in a T-shirt were sitting outside the
office, enjoying the cool of the evening. I stopped to chat for a while. Then I
told Gasparín and El Carajillo to follow me. When we were alone on a path in the
campground, I asked Gasparín where the girl was. Sleeping, he said, in my tent.
Do you know where we found her? I asked El Carajillo. I can guess, he said. Well
forget it, or keep it quiet until things are sorted out. That’s fine by me, said
El Carajillo, but there might be a problem when the police get hold of her. They
won’t, I said, and if they do, she’ll leave us out of it. We can trust her,
can’t we? Gasparín didn’t reply. I repeated the question. It depends, said
Gasparín, some people can, others can’t. Can I, for example? Yes, said Gasparín,
I think so. El Carajillo too. And what about you? I don’t know, said Gasparín,
what I’m trying to work out is whether she can trust me. We agreed that it would
be best if both he and the girl kept a low profile. The police could find you
through her, though the way things are going I don’t think they will. Gasparín
was an illegal immigrant in Spain and as for his girlfriend, God only knew. When
we went back to reception, the guy in the T-shirt was still there, and he
started asking all sorts of questions about what had happened at the Palacio
Benvingut. He told me it had been on the TV3 news, and it sounded like the
scandal was just beginning . . .