All Is Silence (5 page)

‘I’ve been in there as well!’ says Mariscal, addressing the other boy. ‘Mmmm! It’s strange, but I always liked that smell.’

Without touching the mouths, taking care not to stain his immaculate suit, he goes over to inspect the vats’ vast interiors.

‘This is a job that needs doing! It certainly does,’ he declares in solemn tones. ‘If the vats aren’t clean . . . what’s the word? . . . un-ble-mished . . . the whole crop goes to waste. On account of the tiniest speck of shit. For that simple reason, the whole lot is wasted. Think about it. Imagine one of those vats is the globe. A single speck of shit could finish off the planet.’

Pondering his own statement, with a look of concern, he stresses his point. ‘No joke. It could finish off the planet.
Ipso facto
. Think about it!’

Mariscal puts his hand in his pocket and solemnly chucks a coin through the air in Brinco’s direction. Brinco grabs it with a swift gesture, as if his arm has acted by itself and is used to this game. But his mouth refuses to say thank you. As for the eyes, any casual observer would think it better, now and in the future, to steer clear of this person’s trajectory. But the man in white doesn’t seem surprised or affected by the boy’s silent hostility.

‘And you, you . . .’

‘Fins, sir.’

‘Fins?’

‘Yes, Malpica’s son, sir.’

‘Malpica! Lucho Malpica! A fine sailor, your dad. One of the best!’

He fumbles in his pocket and throws another coin at Fins, who catches it in the air. Mariscal takes his leave with a greeting, by caressing the brim of his hat.

‘Now you know. Not a speck of shit!’

He walks quickly towards the back door of the Ultramar.

He is muttering something. Talking to himself. The memory, the name of Malpica, bothers him for some reason. ‘A fine sailor, yes sirree.
Sensu stricto
. Stubborn as well. One of the dumbest!’

The boys watch him go. Shortly afterwards, when he’s disappeared through the door, they hear his ingratiating tones: ‘Sira? Sira, are you there?’

His voice echoes in the yard. Fins glances over at Brinco. His gaze now contains the fuse, dynamite, anemones. Like someone playing with a whip, he brushes his feet with the broom.

‘What do you say we search for that speck of shit that’s going to finish off the world?’

Brinco doesn’t want to play along. All Fins gets back is a ration of sullen eyes. Fins knows how the other boy’s face can change. He finds it difficult to say, for example, when it’s friendly or not, happy or not. Brinco’s mood swings from one state to another, as the sky changes in Noitía. His eyes now are focused on the point where Mariscal has gone in. They scour the front of the house, pierce the stones. Gaze up at the windows on the first floor. In one of which the face of the white-suited gallant appears for a moment behind the curtain. A woman slips past him. It’s Sira. The man follows. Both vanish from sight in a flicker of shadows.

BRINCO WENT IN
through the back door and climbed an inner staircase which led to the first-floor landing, where the Ultramar’s rooms were. On the staircase was a warm light, of the kind afforded by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling by twisted wires. Up on the landing, the wind introduced gusts of light which clung to the curtains. On the opposite wall, without windows, were a few typical souvenirs: ceramic plates painted with marine scenes, scallop shells, starfish and coral branches on varnished wood, oil paintings of flowers and leaves on polished planks the sea had cast up on the shore.

With a grimy face and tense expression, Brinco walked down the carpeted landing, not bothering to push aside the curtains. He was heading for the room at the end, known by everyone at the inn simply as ‘La Suite’. He stopped in front of the closed door.

For a short while he listened to the sighs and murmurs of the amorous struggle. Coming through a door, the human Morse emitted by pleasure sounds remarkably like the language of pain. Brinco suddenly heard his own name. A voice from afar, which penetrated the curtains’ turbulence. His father always called him by his Christian name. He didn’t like his nickname.

‘Víctor! Where the hell are you? Víctor!’

Rumbo’s voice made him even angrier. With the back of his sleeve he dried the tears streaming down his grimy face. Left very carefully. Quickened his pace. Started running, furiously barging into the curtains that, with the sash windows half open, seemed to flutter in time, when in fact each was governed by its own wind in rigorous, stormy succession.

The walls of the Ultramar’s bar were covered in posters and stills from Westerns. There was also a poster from a local group dressed up as mariachis with the name ‘Noitía’s Magicians’. And there were a few well-known faces of singers and film stars, all of them women: Sara Montiel, Lola Flores, Carmen Sevilla, Aurora Bautista, Amália Rodrigues, Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren. In the midst of them all, of a smaller size but in a prominent position, a black and white photograph of Sira Portosalvo with the following dedication: ‘To the one I most love and make suffer’.

Fins was seated at a table, eating mussels boiled in their shells, which Rumbo had served him when he’d finished cleaning. As he ate, he seemed to watch and listen to everything that was being said. Over at the counter, Rumbo and a couple from the Civil Guard – Sergeant Montes and a younger guard, Vargas – were talking about cinema.

‘There I agree one hundred per cent with the authority,’ declared Rumbo, staring at the sergeant. ‘There’s nobody like John Wayne. Wayne and a horse. That’s enough to make a film. No need for a pretty girl or anything.’

This categorical exclusion was followed by a silence Rumbo correctly interpreted as profound disagreement.

‘Though if there is a pretty girl, it makes for a perfect trio. Wayne, horse and girl, in that order,’ he clarified before redirecting the conversation. ‘Even though he had to change his name.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the sergeant in confusion. ‘Wasn’t he called John?’

‘No, his name wasn’t John. His name was . . . Marion.’

‘Ma-ri-on?’ repeated the sergeant, barely able to suppress his disappointment. ‘You don’t say!’

Then, after taking a sip of his drink, the sergeant added, ‘Someone else who changed his name was Cassius Clay. Now he’s called Muhammad Ali or something.’

‘That’s different entirely,’ muttered Rumbo in a low voice, looking in the other direction.

‘They’re going to throw him in prison because of his refusal to go to war. The world champ! Those Yankees sure don’t hang about with half-measures.’

Rumbo’s attention was focused on the front door, where Brinco finally appeared. He’d deliberately gone a longer way to avoid coming down the inner stairs. He had the glazed look of someone whom the sea has deposited directly on the shore.

‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Rumbo in annoyance. ‘I went to the yard, but you weren’t there. You left Fins all on his own, cleaning that shit. This boy wasn’t born for work, damn it! Couldn’t you get him a job as a guard, my sergeant?’

Sergeant Montes slapped Brinco on the back. ‘He has himself a good sponsor, Rumbo. Who wouldn’t want him? You were born on your feet, lad.’

After that it was Rumbo who felt uncomfortable, taking refuge in the silence at the other end of the bar and making out he was busy. Later he returned, bringing Víctor a sandwich. ‘Here you go. It’s got omelette inside, don’t you know?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Made by your mother’s own fair hands.’

Vargas the guard had remained on the margins. He’d clearly been deep in thought ever since they started discussing cinema. ‘You know the one who drives me crazy . . .’

The sergeant didn’t let him finish. ‘Listen, Rumbo. If the baddy’s a good ’un, the film’s a good ’un. Now is that or isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Rumbo abruptly, with a fixed stare. He was keeping his thoughts to himself.

‘For example, I reckon I’d make a real good baddy,’ said Sergeant Montes. ‘Don’t you reckon, Rumbo?’

‘I reckon you would, sergeant. A real good baddy.’

The sergeant fell silent, chewing over Rumbo’s answer. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said finally, with an inquisitive look.

Vargas seemed blissfully unaware that he’d just been party to a short duel of words. He was still trying to finish his sentence. ‘As for Westerns, the one who drives me crazy is that woman . . . in
Johnny Guitar
. . . wearing trousers.’

This invocation changed everything. Rumbo grew enthusiastic, as if he could see the screen. ‘Vienna, Vienna . . . That’s it, Joan Crawford!’ he exclaimed, pointing to the guard. ‘Clever man. The force is going up in the world, sergeant!’

‘But let’s be serious,’ replied Sergeant Montes. ‘For a woman in arms, take
Duel in the Sun
. Can you name her, Rumbo?’

‘Jennifer Jones!’

Quique Rumbo, barman at the Ultramar, in charge of the dance hall and cinema Paris-Noitía, was a man of resources. He was seldom prone to exaggeration, but possessed a fine sense of spectacle. He lifted his arms in a liturgical gesture which he prolonged by drawing voluptuous curves in the air.

‘
Pange, lingua, gloriosi Corporis mysterium!
’

They heard the cough and footsteps of someone coming down the stairs from the Ultramar’s rooms. From the table where he was sitting with Fins, Brinco saw this person’s white shoes. Followed by Mariscal himself.

‘I thought I heard some kind of prayer. Was that you with the divine words, Rumbo?’

He took a while to respond. And did so uncomfortably, looking askance. ‘We were talking about cinema, boss.’

‘We were talking about females!’ clarified Sergeant Montes. ‘Jennifer Jones in
Duel in the Sun
.’

‘Now that’s a topic of conversation! Personally I would go for the glorious body of St Teresa, by which I mean Aurora Bautista.’

He let them chew over the unexpected billing in order to cap it off, ‘Though let’s not forget the bodies in
Ben-Hur
!’

The others laughed, but Vargas was confused. ‘
Ben-Hur
?’

The younger guard followed the movement of Mariscal’s arms as he demonstrated the to-and-fro motion of galley rowers.

‘Why don’t you ever take your gloves off?’ asked the guard abruptly.

Sergeant Montes feigned a cough and pretended to pay particular attention to what was going on outside the window. That simpleton Belvís was walking along the road, imitating the sound of a motorbike.
Vroom vroom
. Which was how he went about his errands. Mariscal ignored Vargas’ question and instead carried on rowing in a roundabout motion, till he clapped his hands together to signal the end.

‘
Mutatis mutandis
. There’s no one like John Wayne!’

Rumbo agreed, gestured OK and served him a glass of Johnnie Walker.

‘With him and a horse, you can make a film,’ Mariscal went on, blessing his statement with a swig. ‘You don’t even need a woman. What’s more, you don’t even need a horse. But a weapon, yes. You need a weapon, that’s for sure.’

In ceremonial style he clanked the ice cubes against his glass. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

‘And keep on doing so for many years!’ said Montes, raising his glass.

Brinco stood up and walked towards the front door. This insipid exit drew the men’s attention. Rumbo immediately fired a warning shot. ‘Víctor, I don’t want to see you in the ruins of that school.’

‘Lame goes there. I saw him,’ replied Brinco, referring to the schoolteacher Barbeito.

‘He knows where to step.’

‘Your father’s right,’ said Mariscal solemnly. ‘That place is bewitched. Always has been!’

After this, everyone waited for him to add something. Mariscal realised at once that his statement had been a key and not a lock. Instead of bringing the matter to a close, he had just opened or reopened the mystery. He suddenly changed subject, with a mocking expression. He had that ability. One face concealed another. ‘Listen, boys. Talking of school, I want to teach you something useful.’

As he addressed the two boys, he winked at the guards. ‘Never forget this saying: when you’re working, you’re not earning any money.’

He chucked a coin, which landed at Brinco’s feet. The boy stared at it, with contempt to start with. He didn’t even bend down. The group of men carried on watching him. Fins as well, sitting next to him. Through the half-open door the wind danced inside the curtains, not pushing them very far. Finally Brinco bent down and picked up the coin.

Mariscal smiled, turned to the bar and rang the ice cubes in his glass, ‘Another spiritual, Rumbo, if you don’t mind!’

LEDA GRABBED THE
door knocker. She liked this hand made of metal and green rust. It was cold and hot at the same time. Then she knocked insistently at the door of the Malpicas’ home. Three and one. Three and one. Fins went to answer the door. Nine Moons stared at him. Laughingly to begin with, then more seriously. She had a collection of different expressions. She pulled at him imperiously. ‘Come on, move!’

This time she picked a short cut through the old dunes, jumping from side to side to avoid the sea holly. They ran to the top of the primary dune, from where they contemplated the beach’s Dantesque spectacle. The sea had now vomited up mannequins, of the kind used in shop windows for displaying the latest fashions. Wooden corpses. Mostly disjointed. The waves nuzzled amputated bodies, loose extremities. Arms, bare feet, heads twisting and turning in the sand.

Nine Moons and Fins trudged their way through the field of casualties, unearthing and lifting up members they then returned to the ground.

They were searching for survivors. Leda finally came across an intact body. A black, female mannequin. She bent down and wiped the sand from its mouth and eyes. Its face had sculptural features and was attractive.

‘Pretty, hey?’ she said.

The dry sand resembled silver make-up. Fins gazed at this face that was both alive and dead, that seemed to be forming itself as its features emerged. But he didn’t say anything.

‘Give me a hand, will you?’ said Leda, standing up. ‘We’re going to take this one.’