A Crack in the Wall (18 page)

“Are you sure that he's dead?”

“Yes,” said Borla, categorically, not to leave room for doubt. “Grab him by the feet.”

“What if he's just unconscious?” Pablo insisted.

Borla, looking annoyed, stopped to think for a moment and seemed to be about to say something before finally reaching over to get hold of one of Jara's arms. He took his pulse while looking straight into Pablo's eyes and said:

“Dead.”

Then, without letting go of that arm, he seized the other, stood up and ordered, “Let's get this over and done with.” Then Borla pulled Jara's arms, manoeuvring the body towards him so that he could take hold of it under the arms. And he repeated, “Come on, grab his feet.”

The first glimmers of daylight were beginning to appear behind neighbouring buildings; a glow illuminated them, the same that would in a few minutes filter through Jara's window. Pablo made himself look at this man's face for the last time; he had a birthmark on his forehead, his eyes were open very wide and his mouth formed an expression that seemed to have been cut off in mid-articulation, as if Nelson Jara had been speaking when he died. Borla dragged the body over to where he could drop him in the centre of the footing.

“Bring him over this side,” he said to Pablo, “and then let go of him.”

But, although Pablo moved the body over as Borla requested, he couldn't let go of him. An oblique ray of light falling across the dead man's face now showed more clearly what Pablo had first thought to be a superficial mark: Jara had taken a blow to the forehead. He could see a wound and something dark that looked like blood.

“Let him go,” Borla said again, but Pablo was transfixed by what he had seen. “What's going on, man?”

“His forehead,” Pablo murmured, and he had the impression Borla knew what he was talking about.

“Just let him go, Pablo, get on with it. Let him go, I said.”

In the face of his inaction, Borla dropped the body. Pablo's hands were locked onto Jara's ankles, but they couldn't contend with a dead weight, and even though Pablo Simó wanted to hold onto him, even though he tried – at least that is what he believes and honours in his final version of that night – the muddy body slipped out of his grasp as he felt himself losing a hold on the dirty skin, the old nylon socks and ugly pleated shoes that he knew so well, until Jara finally fell into the bottom of the footing, almost without a sound, sliding down its sides, leaving no trace except for the mud on Pablo's dirty hands, those hands that still throbbed from their recent futile effort.

“Done,” said Borla with relief.

“His forehead,” Pablo said again.

Borla paid no heed; he was already on his way back up the ladder. Pablo Simó waited a few more moments beside the improvised tomb, then followed him. Once at the top, he saw how Borla embraced Marta Horvat, who was no longer crying but was still trembling.

“It's all right, Marta, don't be upset. It's over,” Borla said, consoling her, and as he held her he said to Pablo, “It would be good to tidy things up a bit. I don't know – throw some earth in over him, put the ladder back where it was, clean up the leftovers in the workshop, don't you think?”

Pablo went to get the spade, climbed back into the pit and shovelled earth into the footing. It was the work of a few movements, but he made them with enormous energy, almost with violence, gripping the spade's wooden
handle so hard it hurt his knuckles. Then he retraced his steps, climbing up the ladder and pulling it out after him. For a moment he stood on the edge looking into the pit, which was now completely lit up by the early-morning sun. Patiently he kept looking, even though there was nothing to see there now but mud, footings, formwork and their own footsteps, gradually dissolving in the mud and water.

“We'd better go and wash, then come back before everyone else arrives,” Borla said. “Pablo, as soon as you can get back here I want you stationed beside the footing. Nobody but you is allowed within two yards of it until everything has dried and the cement's gone in. And you, Marta, stay at home this morning…”

“No, I want to be here,” she said.

“Rest first,” Borla insisted. “We'll take care of everything, I promise. Why don't you come in the afternoon? This isn't going to dry before lunch anyway and I don't want people to see that you're upset.”

Marta said nothing, but seemed to understand. Each one of them had their orders. Borla would drive her home in the car; she would let herself be driven. Pablo would take responsibility for making the pizza, the wine and Jara's radio disappear.

“But be quick about it, Pablo, because I'm going to have to give you a lift home. No taxi will pick you up looking like that.”

Before heading for Borla's car, Marta came over to Pablo and said, “Thank you.”

He looked into her eyes as they filled with tears again, and at the wet T-shirt clinging to her body, the nipples, the breasts that rose as she sighed deeply and at Borla's muddy hand, invariably present on Marta's shoulder. She cracked her knuckles again and said:

“I mean it – thank you so much.”

Pablo smiled as much as he was able: it was an effort to say anything lucid in the context of his own exhaustion, Marta's grief and the strange sensation of not knowing for sure whether he had just taken part in a crime or an act of heroism.

“It's fine, don't worry. We did what we had to do,” he said finally to this woman whom he had so often desired and whom, at that moment, on that night, he desired more than ever.

But no sooner had she disappeared behind the security fence than Pablo began to question what he had just said.
We did what we had to do
? And from that night until the present day he had continued to question the rationale without finding a satisfactory answer. Then, as now, the deed was done: he had agreed to it, he had brought the ladder and gone into the pit with Borla, he had lifted Nelson Jara by his feet in order to let him slide down into the footing. And as if that were not enough, he had been the one charged with restoring normality while Marta and Borla waited for him in the car, perhaps in each other's arms, perhaps kissing each other.

The remains of the supper went into the skip: pizza, glasses, the empty bottle and the full one, Jara's radio. No, not the radio. He took two steps away from the skip, then went back for it with the idea of hurling it into the footing from the edge of the pit, so that Jara had something of his own to take with him. He stuck his hand deep into the skip's debris and rummaged through the remains of pizza and the wine bottles until he felt an object he took to be Jara's radio. Pulling it out, though, he found that it wasn't a radio but a hammer; Pablo Simó was about to chuck it back in the skip when he felt something sticky and knew
instinctively that it wasn't mud. He looked at the hammer and then at his dirty fingers, then back at the hammer; there was no doubt that it was blood.

Pablo walked a few steps away from the skip, squatted down by the broken pipe, washed the hammer until there were no traces of blood, dried it with his own T-shirt and only then, when there were no remaining marks, did he put it back in the workshop from where it should never have been taken that night.

And he left.

“What's going on? What are you doing here?”

This is what Pablo Simó says, turning away from the cracked wall to face Leonor.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“What?” she says.

Without answering, Pablo watches her for a moment then, with sudden determination, walks over to Leonor's rucksack, opens it and delves inside as though he knows very well what he is looking for. The camera slips in his hands and nearly falls to the floor, but Pablo manages to retrieve it and return it to the rucksack.

“What are you doing?” she says angrily.

Leonor wrests the rucksack away from him, takes out the camera and checks that it's not damaged, but Pablo keeps hold of her wallet and moves away from the girl as he looks through it. She goes after him.

“Are you mad? Can you tell me what's going on?”

Pablo finds banknotes, a telephone card, a strip of small pills – contraceptives? – and receipts. He ignores everything but the identity card. Leonor makes a lunge for her wallet; he grabs her wrist and says:

“Who are you? You're the daughter, aren't you?”

“Whose daughter?”

“Jara's daughter.”

Leonor says nothing and he shouts:

“Are you the daughter or not?”

“No, I'm not Jara's daughter. And give me back my things,” Leonor demands, but Pablo ignores her. He brings the ID card close to his eyes and reads:

“Leonor Corell,” he says and looks back at her. “Who are you, then?”

“You hardly need me to tell you since you're holding my ID in your hand.”

“Why do you live in this apartment?”

“Because it's mine.”

“Did you inherit it?”

“Something like that.”

“What were you to Jara?”

“Nothing you need to know about.”

“A niece?”

“No.”

“What, then? His lover?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Just tell me.”

“Why should I?”

Pablo waits deliberately, watching her, and then says:

“Because I lied to you…”

“You lied to me about what?”

“When I said I didn't know anything about Nelson Jara. I do know, I've always known, and of course I also knew the day that you came asking after him.”

“So what, exactly, do you know?”

He draws out another pause and she gets annoyed.

“Just tell me what you know.”

“I know where he is.”

“Where is he?”

“First tell me why you're living here.”

“Is he coming back?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Does he know that I live here?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No, if you and I can come to a proper agreement,” says Pablo, and now he does return the wallet and identity card.

“And what would constitute a proper agreement between you and me?”

“One that benefits both of us.”

“Such as…?”

“For my part, I want you to answer the questions I've already put to you: who you are, why you're living in this apartment and why you came to the studio to ask after Jara.”

“And what will be the benefit for me?”

“That I promise not to tell Jara or anyone else that you're living here.”

“Did he go abroad?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“Why didn't he keep up payments on the bills?”

“I suppose he thought that it would end up costing him more than he could recoup. This flat isn't worth much.”

“He could have rented it.”

“He could, yes. If he knew that you'd moved in he could even charge you a bit of rent.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No, I've just proposed a deal.”

Leonor looks at him and rearranges the towel, which has been dislodged by the confrontation, exposing one of her nipples. For a moment they stand watching each other in silence. And the proximity induces Pablo to stop
thinking of Jara and think instead that by simply reaching out and pulling away the towel he could be caressing Leonor's naked body again, touching her breasts and feeling her nipples harden under his hand, moving down to her belly, following the line down between her legs to linger there and finally lose himself in her, forgetting about Jara and reclaiming that person he was just a moment ago, perhaps for the first and only time. But he looks in her eyes and sees that Leonor isn't thinking along the same lines at all; she's thinking that Nelson Jara could take away her home.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because you haven't got many alternatives. I know that you're in a flat that isn't yours, and that's already more information than you'd like me to have. The rest doesn't really change anything – the why, the how – it's all anecdotal. Think of it as a whim: I just want to know what happened.”

She watches him, as though sizing him up. Then she says:

“OK, you're right. Even with what you already know you could totally screw things up for me.”

“I could, yes…”

“So the deal is still on?”

“It's still on.”

“Right,” she says, and she bends down to gather up the banknotes, the strip of pills and the telephone card.

Pablo watches her: Leonor squatting, holding her towel around her, each one of the vertebrae on her curving spine defined, a sizable mole under her bottom rib. He imagines the two points that mark the start of her coccyx hidden under the towel. The girl finishes arranging the things in her wallet and stands up, still holding in her hand the receipts, which she looks at briefly then balls up and
throws onto the table. Pablo follows her movements with the same desire he felt just now when they were making love on the wooden floor that smells of wax. She seems to realize and says:

“Do you mind if I get dressed before we carry on?”

“No, of course not, you go and get dressed.”

“I won't be long,” she says, and leaves the room.

Pablo is left alone. He glances at the things around him, feeling guiltily that, whatever Leonor's reasons for being here, he has misrepresented himself in front of her. He wonders if this table belonged to Jara, if these are the chairs he once sat on, if the watercolour hanging next to the front door would also have been his, or if Leonor brought it when she came to live here. Then he returns to the crack. He stands in front of it, lifts the cloth, studies the gash in the wall and touches it again, running his finger along it, and in doing so he can't help smiling with the same sense of wry defeat he would feel if a friend had just taken the last point off him with two fours and a horse in a game of
truco
. Pablo, with all his cards on the table and the game already lost, knows that the crack never existed, that what Jara photographed and what he has in front of him now was deliberately carved into the wall, inch by inch. He knows finally, three years after the fact, that Nelson was vermin, the same as him. And the realization makes him smile. But, even after that revelation, the burden he has felt since the night he let Jara's dead body fall into a footing to be entombed in concrete isn't about to disappear. Pablo Simó feels not relief but the opposite, because his discovery, rather than mitigating his actions at the time, makes him believe – rightly or wrongly – that Nelson Jara and he were not so different from one another. And he can't help imagining himself entering this apartment three
years ago, when Jara was still alive, to do what he ought to have done there and then: personally evaluate the crack.