All Is Silence (15 page)

‘Actually I got it from a dealer. You know what a dealer is, don’t you? Someone who deals cards. Well, there’s another sort of dealer, one who deals in smack.’

Santiago laughed, repeated the word ‘smack’.

The man clicked his tongue. He had a big mouth that sometimes sounded off for him.

‘That’s right. We’ll go and see him one day. But in the meantime, don’t tell anyone about him. All right?’

He stared at the sea. The jumping of the waves. The waves’ mane. The beating surf, piercing sound. Exhaled. Focused. Set the trigger.

‘Nature’s amazing, Santi. The blessed host in verse. Now let’s take aim. Let’s blast that cow out of the skies.’

The shot reached its target. Left a perfect hole in the cow’s flank. To start with, the triangular sign groaned, as if wanting to avoid the fall.

‘Again, Santi!’

The wind fingered the new hole. Took it calmly. The sign finally succumbed to its fate.

‘See? Your lazy eye’s working already.’

Standing up, Chelín kissed his weapon and put it away. Looked around. Ruffled the child’s hair. Smiled. Turned towards the sea and unzipped his trousers.

‘Come on, champ! With style. Legs apart. Looking ahead, but keeping an eye on the dicky bird. Never into the wind. The birdie has to ride out the storm.’

Chelín laughed as he watched the rigorous, disciplined way in which the boy copied his movements. He then stood upright, looking martial, eyes to the front, to give the solemn message:

‘And this is the first thing a man should know. How not to get piss on his trousers!’

‘I’m fed up of counting boats,’ said Leda.

They were still together, next to the window. In the urban dusk it was the eyes that switched on the lights in a succession of candles. Unlike other cities, Atlántica grew at night. Next to the docks and in the estuary, the small lights on the cranes, showing the position of vessels, green and red, implied the hybrid awakening of animal and machine, the movements of a remarkable somnambulist.

Leda moved away from Brinco. Took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Fed up of everything!’

The woman returning to the frame of the window underlined her exclamation by blowing out smoke. She added with a hint of scorn, ‘Fed up of this sofa, most of all! You end up feeling like your whole body is imitation leather.’

‘Soon you’ll live in a palace,’ affirmed Brinco. They’d had this conversation before, but this time he had an air of determination.

‘Oh yes? What palace?’

‘Your own! I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry! With a large pool. So you can swim on your own like a mermaid.’

‘Better give it an outlet to the sea. Mermaids prefer the sea.’

‘I’m being serious. You won’t have to keep a lookout any more.’

‘So how you going to do that?’

‘If I were Mariscal, I’d have paid off the customs chief by now.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL
spring day on the coast. Sunny, but windy as well. The east wind not only ruffles the sea, but for the first time after the long winter seems to want to distance it from the earth with gusts that whirl about its surface. It gathers up all the greens, pulling them in different directions. But this wind encourages the light, a succession of flashes, which perhaps lessens resistance and promotes sympathy.

We can see all of this with the help of Sira.

We can see it through the window in the Ultramar’s master bedroom. The largest, the one with the best views. The one known as La Suite. She is sitting on one side of the bed. Dressed. As she watches, she loosens her hair, which was tied up in a bun. The thing with windows that have the best view is they pique the curiosity of what they’re looking at. Here they come. To see Sira.

As her hair unfolds and falls, she appears hieratic, expressionless, but everything on the outside, starting with the wind and the restless light, is in the eyes. Sira watches a car on the coastal road moving slowly, as if wanting to linger over the potholes. It’s Mariscal’s white Mercedes. It passes in front of a clothes line where the yellow shirts and black shorts and socks of the Noitía football team are hanging out to dry like flashing pennants.

On the ground floor, in the bar of the Ultramar, closed at this hour of the afternoon, Rumbo is using a white cloth to wipe a glass. From time to time the wind can be heard whistling and an old iron sign creaking. The barman’s wearing spectacles. The way he’s polishing the glass even the most casual observer would describe as obsessive. He lifts it to the light, stares at it, as if seeking a sporadic stain that hides and then reappears.

Rumbo’s intensive work is interrupted by Mariscal knocking at the door. Rumbo can see his face on the other side, behind the thin curtain with lace edges. He’s dressed like an emigrant in a white linen suit, a red bow tie and a thin straw hat. His cane is hanging off his arm by the handle.

Rumbo takes one last look at the glass and places it upside down on the counter, on top of a white cloth, next to the other polished glasses.

He makes his way to the door. He’s wearing a white apron. Before he opens up, the two men exchange looks through the gap in the curtain. The barman seems to hesitate, looks down at the lock, but carries on anyway, takes the key from his pocket and quickly opens the door.

Mariscal’s cough could be understood as a greeting. Quique Rumbo turns around and goes to switch on the television. He presses the button with the end of a broom handle. A meteorological map appears on the screen, complete with isobars.

Mariscal glances at Rumbo, Rumbo’s back, the television in the background, and starts to climb the stairs.

‘They haven’t a fucking clue,’ he says. ‘Here they never get it right. We’re
terra incognita
for them! Tomorrow’s the first of April, there’ll be drum rolls in the sky . . .’

Rumbo keeps his position. Doesn’t comment. Meanwhile Mariscal continues with his forecast in a monotone, as if trying to disguise the percussion of his feet on the wooden steps. ‘. . . and the first spiders will start to weave their webs.’

He moves slowly through the chiaroscuro of the landing. There are lamps on the walls now with green shades, and a series of small pictures showing English country scenes, horsemen chasing after foxes. A job lot. All of which gives the impression of a colonial setting, provisional screens, that fluttering of the curtains as they’re lifted by the wind. A tunnel of flags, he thinks. Don’t they ever shut the blasted windows? He stops at the door to the suite, at the far end of the landing. Hangs his cane from the wrist of his left hand and slowly removes the white gloves. It’s the first time we see his bare hands with the old burn scars on the back. His right hand hovers in the air for a moment. Eventually he knocks gently. Takes a handkerchief from his pocket to hold the handle and open the door.

Sira doesn’t move when Mariscal comes in. She still has her gaze on the seascape outside the window. Mariscal looks at her and then follows her gaze. Without saying a word, he goes to the other side of the bed. Sits down, wipes his brow with his handkerchief, that tic he has, and carelessly stuffs it into his breast pocket.

‘There’ll be a storm tomorrow.’

On the wall, on wallpaper decorated with acanthus leaves, is a souvenir picture showing a wooden bridge in Lucerne covered in flowers, with the Alps in the background. Mariscal stares at it, as if he’s only just discovered it’s there, this photograph of flowers and snow.

‘We should go somewhere together. At some point.’

Sira doesn’t reply. She carries on gazing at the seascape outside the window. The wind is there, beating with a world of things on its back. Mariscal stands up. Goes to wash his hands in a bowl on top of the chest of drawers. Before doing so, he takes a couple of sachets from his pocket and pours the contents into the water. As the grains mix with the water they produce a kind of bubbling, and that is when Mariscal places his hands inside the bowl. In the meantime:

‘There are places that are a wonder, Sira. You always wanted to go to Lisbon, I know. All your life singing
fados
, and we never went to Lisbon. “In the Madragoa district, in Lisbon’s window, Rosa Maria was born . . .” We have to go to the Alfama during the feast of St Anthony, Sira! We never even went to Madrid! I could take you to a good hotel. The Palace, the Ritz. To the Opera. The Prado Museum. Yes, the museum . . .’

In the bar on the ground floor, Quique Rumbo stares at himself in one of the vertical mirrors that flank the central shelf of bottles. In the mirror frame is a cover plate concealing a lock. Rumbo takes a key from his pocket and slowly unlocks the mirror door. Inside is a weapon. A double-barrelled shotgun. And a pack of cartridges. Rumbo takes two cartridges and loads the weapon.

Mariscal bends down, looks at the ground. He’s searching in his memory, and his voice becomes more grave.

‘The truth is, it had never occurred to me to enter the Prado, but the meeting was there. Something to do with Italians, I thought. But what a piece of luck, Sira, what a marvel. Museums are the best places in the world. Better than natural landscapes. Better than the Grand Canyon or Everest, I’m telling you. Always at the same temperature. The climate is ideal.’

Something is happening on the other side of the bed. Sira’s gaze is now that of someone trying to stem her tears.

‘It’s because of the paintings. The temperature has to be . . . constant. Paintings are very delicate, you know. More than people. We cope with hot and cold much better than paintings. Funny, isn’t it? A scene with snow cannot withstand the cold as well as we can. We’re the strangest thing in the universe, Sira. Remember those people who used to go fishing for cod in Newfoundland? They’d stick breadcrumbs between their fingers so their skin wouldn’t fall off. And on their genitals. They say nothing burns like the cold. That must be true! That girl whose mouth was dry and she stuck her tongue on a block of ice, remember? She couldn’t get it off, had to call for help . . . Who’d have believed it?’

He opens the drawer of the bedside table and rummages around. There’s plenty to rummage through. His postcards, perhaps?

Basilio Barbeito spent his final days here. So he’d be more comfortable. His presence has had a lasting effect on the room. This is something Mariscal and Sira share without mentioning it. From his time in the room, he left a shelf of handwritten notebooks as an inheritance. All from the same factory, Miquelrius. All the entries for his poor, infinite dictionary are there, in alphabetical order. Write, he wrote everywhere.

Mariscal sits down again on the bed. Leans over towards the woman. Strokes, gently tugs her hair. Lame was in the habit of putting everything to good use. His pockets were always full of words. He wrote on envelopes, on the back of cinema programmes, on bus tickets, scraps of brown paper from the shop, on the palms of his hands, like a child. He didn’t leave his hands behind, of course, just the sensation of written skin. Everything full of scraps of paper. The drawer overflowing with word worms.

‘Call me names, Sira. That encourages an old man like me. Pimp, mangy dog, rogue, crook, swindler, lech, toothless, serpent, bastard, Beelzebub, whoreson, entrepreneur, son of the four letters, beast . . . archaic! Out of date. No, out of date, no. Archaic’s a good one. And beast is even better.’

Mariscal falls silent. Curls Sira’s hair in his fingers. An electrifying pleasure for him. Like the first day Guadalupe cut his hair, the way she swept over his temples. Shame about the hairdresser. Some people are like that, they never settle down, are never content. They still sleep together. He occasionally mounts her. But she’s not on fire. She doesn’t burn. Like a fridge. That’s what I say. Memory is a discomfort, that’s right, time decays, all those words in the drawer, when suddenly the door opens.

Quique Rumbo. With agitated breathing. The wind has finally found a way in. Sira and Mariscal turn their heads towards him, but otherwise remain still where they are. To begin with, Rumbo takes aim at Sira, but then he hesitates, swings the weapon around until he has Mariscal in his sights.

Finally he turns the gun against himself. Presses it against his chin. And fires.

Reverberates.

Everything’s gone. The wind towards the landing.

Trickles of blood run down the veins of the acanthus leaves on the wallpaper. Drops fall from the ceiling. Mariscal stretches out his hand. Where the hell are these drops coming from? From the ceiling, right. He hadn’t thought about that. The way dripping blood is silent.

‘Don’t cry, Sira. I’ll take care of everything. He died because he wanted to!’

Per se
.

‘
TWO CELTIC KINGS
, let’s say, are playing chess on top of a hill while their troops are out fighting. The battle ends, but the kings carry on playing. This is an image I like a lot. You’re a king, Brancana. On top of the hill. Let the pawns do the fighting!’

They were in Delmiro Oliveira’s office, an artificial tower with its own terrace, from which the guests could enjoy a broad panorama of the Miño estuary with its islets. It was a good distance from the voices of the partygoers occupying the garden and rooms of the house in Quinta da Velha Saudade, only partly visible from the river, protected by high walls and screens of vegetation, mostly bougainvilleas in flower.

It was the host’s seventy-fifth birthday, though this was an excuse. He was happy at home and it seemed ridiculous to celebrate the falling of leaves. But he’d received a call, he didn’t let on about this, and made the most of the occasion. Around his desk, apart from Mariscal and Macro Gamboa, the silent Galician partner with him, were the lawyer Óscar Mendoza, the Italian Tonino Montiglio, and Fabio, known to his friends as the Elephant, a Colombian who lived in Madrid, but who’d recently spent a period in Galicia. His nickname was a result of the enthusiasm he’d shown for a cheerful establishment in Lisbon, O Elefante Branco.

They would soon head down to the banquet, where there would be toasts for the future. But now they were concerned with the present. Mariscal understood that the present had largely to do with him. He’d been welcomed with encouraging hugs, following the death of Rumbo in the Ultramar. ‘A misfortune. A breakdown, Mariscal. People break down.’ He’d remained silent. This mechanical diagnosis didn’t give him much comfort. One breakdown leads to another, etc., etc. He was too old to think about committing suicide. Besides, he didn’t have the guts to shit so high. Or so he thought to begin with. What to do?
Ite, Missa est.