All Is Silence (7 page)

‘See? I’m not afraid. It’s my hidden powers.’

‘You fool,’ she says. ‘I’ve always stood up for you. Now you’re going to have to kiss my feet.’

THEY WERE ALWAYS
there, as volunteers, to help turn the cinema into a dance hall. Rumbo would give them a few cold drinks as a tip. And let them take the bits of celluloid he cut in order to splice the film when it was broken. To tell the truth, they all ended up in the hands of Fins, who was crazy about stills. He’d put together his own collection, and would order all those fragments of cinema at home. One memorable day Rumbo came back to A de Meus, the sea heaving in the background, with
Moby Dick
and Captain Ahab, Gregory Peck, in his pocket. That was several years ago, though the film was still included each season because it was one of his favourites. He had his obsessions, one of which was Spencer Tracy. He showed
Captains Courageous
more than once, and the film about the life of Thomas Alva Edison. When Edison invented the filament of light, all the audience applauded. But Rumbo’s admiration for Tracy could be summed up in a single gesture. He’d take his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket, which hung down like a one-armed man’s, and declare the title with great exaggeration: ‘
Bad Day at Black Rock
!’ He always said the name of that accursed place, Black Rock, with a croak in his voice. His attraction for this actor may have had something to do with the fact that Rumbo looked like him. Whenever anybody pointed this out, he would reply ironically, ‘Or vice versa!’

That said, the films he liked best were Westerns. Followed by gangster movies. From time to time there would be an Italian film and he’d attend the projection with the bearing of a navigation officer on the bridge. He’d declare, ‘Too much truth for the cinema.’ An opinion he let slide into the cans when he was putting away the rolls of film, as if he had no one else to talk to. ‘That Magnani puts them all to shame.’ He definitely didn’t like films with swordsmen, an opinion he shared with his boss, Mariscal. Fins knew this, having heard a curse that was regularly used in the Ultramar: ‘I shit on the Three Musketeers and Cardinal Richelieu!’ Rumbo’s theory was that, in the age of firearms, it was backward to make films with steel. And, together with the audience, he celebrated the progress that saw Indians equipped with Winchester rifles. ‘That gives them a fighting chance.’ Though in the end they just died more and more quickly.

Today, as night fell after the afternoon’s session, the sound of shots being fired, Clint Eastwood’s horse on the move and the lazy flight of scraps of dried grass all descended into the dunes’ desert. Rumbo whistled the catchy tune to
For a Few Dollars More
and so set the rhythm for the methodical, simple transformation that turned the cinema into a dance hall. All the lights went on, emphasising the colours of the garlands. Brinco, Leda and Fins placed the chairs against the wall and swept the floor, though Belvís was the quickest, riding his noisy, invisible Montesa. On the stage they let down a velvety black curtain that covered the screen. The musicians entered without a sound. Sometimes you weren’t even sure they were there until they took out their instruments and began to warm up. Rumbo arranged a buffet at the other end of the hall, opposite the stage, in a dimly lit area. The band of musicians today included two guitarists. Today was special. Sira was going to sing. She hadn’t sung since the previous New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t that she was responsible for livening up the dance; she wasn’t even the main voice. But she’d always come out to sing two or three
fados
. And this was a starlit moment. As the schoolteacher Barbeito used to say, there were two nights after listening to Sira Portosalvo. The night that froze the sense of unease. And the night that gave it shelter.

Everybody was waiting. The eldest were sitting down on either side of the hall. In front of them, couples dancing. The youngest in the middle and at the back. While the musicians played
merengues
and
cumbias
, a group led by Brinco mucked about with Leda and Fins, pushing them so that they would dance together. The girl was wearing a printed summer dress and turning round and round. Fins felt annoyed. He had his arms crossed and defended himself with his elbows against the others, who jumped around at the end of ‘La piragua’. The moment Sergeant Montes and Vargas the guard came in, a few of the elders sitting down stopped talking and glanced in their direction. The guards surveyed the scene and headed for the bar, where Rumbo made sure they were well attended.

Then Sira came in. Wearing a black shawl and large silver hoop earrings inlaid with jet. She looked around, her head raised, then removed her shoes.

‘I would like to dedicate the first song of the night to the dance’s finest couple,’ she said. ‘The one from the Civil Guard!’

She’d done this before. No one was surprised. Sergeant Montes smiled with satisfaction. Hungered after the singer. And the
fado
began, ‘I had the keys of life, but didn’t open the doors where happiness lived’, at which point all the other details lost their meaning. Sira, Sira’s voice, captivated every nook and cranny, every glance. The door of the dance hall opened and in came Mariscal, who walked diagonally without taking in the stage. At the buffet, he gestured in greeting to the guards with his hat. Whispered something to Rumbo, who nodded and offered the guards a second drink. Imported whisky. Johnnie Walker. They were grateful and raised their glasses in a toast.

And while Sira sang ‘Chaves da vida’, Brinco left the dance hall. Followed by Leda and Fins.

Brinco ran towards the beach, abandoned the dance hall, in an attempt to escape his mother’s charming voice. He realised there were two hangers-on. Stopped and turned around with an angry expression. ‘What? Always sniffing around my bottom.’

‘We belong here as much as you!’ said Leda defiantly.

‘You really never stop talking. My mother’s right.’

Brinco knew how to wound with his tongue, but this time he realised that his last sentence was an arrow aimed at himself. He set off running. Leda’s voice chased after him, ‘Well, look who’s doing the talking, mummy’s boy!’

The whore who gave birth to her, he thought, how well she knew how to hit the spot. He came to the beached boat where two men were waiting, the veteran Carburo and younger Inverno. Garbled the message, tripping on his words because of all the running and the annoyance caused by the others, like carrying along a string of cans. ‘Rumbo says you can start unloading!’

‘Unloading what?’ asked Carburo. The boy needed training.

‘The tuna, of course!’

The other two approached, running.

‘And these two Martians?’ asked Inverno.

‘Oh, these two will work for free.’

The two men laughed. ‘Well, aren’t we the lucky ones?’

The group started walking with Carburo at the front. His large head, his body slightly bowed. A sculpted figure wounding the night. Leda heard what Brinco said to Inverno and reacted bravely. ‘Free, my arse.’

‘She’s a wild one,’ said Inverno. ‘That’s it, girl, make sure you protect your interests.’

In a whisper, to Brinco, ‘That girl, in a few years’ time, will be pure dynamite.’

From the end of the breakwater, a man signals in Morse with a torch. Another replies from a boat not far out at sea. It’s summer and the sea is calm. Shortly afterwards there is the sound of a nautical engine, and the silhouette of a fishing boat comes into view.

The fishing boat docks. Heavily laden, fore and aft, with large shapes covered in nets and other fishing tackle, such as buoys and creels. When the sailors remove the camouflage, cardboard boxes containing smuggled tobacco are revealed. Mussel-raft blond. More people have arrived, mostly men, but also some women, moving between the darkness of the nearby pine groves and the light of the moon, which illuminates the ramp of the old harbour.

A Mercedes turns up and out gets Mariscal. All the carriers take up position, quickly forming a well-spaced human line. Mariscal follows their movements from the promontory. He has a good panoramic view, but he also knows that he is visible. Raised in the night. The mouth that talks.

‘Everything all right, Gamboa?’

‘Everything OK, boss.’

‘Carburo, get these people moving!’

‘Everybody listen. At full speed. In order and in silence. There’s no need to worry. The guards are still at the dance.’

One of the women taking part in the procession starts singing a ballad, ‘Did you dance, Carolina? Yes, I danced! Tell me who you danced with! I danced with the colonel!’ and Mariscal smiles. Orders quiet. Claps his hands in the air.

‘Now let’s get to work. It’s not true that God gives time for nothing.’

The line begins transferring the packages in absolute silence, from the ramp to the old salting factory, a sombre stone building of a single storey. There are about twenty of them. They work with diligence and normality, except for the children, whose sweat shows they’re doing it for the first time. When it’s all over, Mariscal pays everybody in person. Listens to the murmured litany of appreciation. When it’s Brinco’s turn, he grabs him by the shoulders with satisfaction.

‘This time you’ve earned yourself a Catholic Monarchs!’

Then he whispers in his ear so that only Brinco can hear. Does so with a paternal smile. ‘Don’t bring volunteers without telling me first, got it?’

‘But they stick to me!’

‘I know, they’re just stray dogs.’

‘Boss, the guards are coming!’

‘Not to worry, Inverno. They come when they have to.’

Sergeant Montes emerges from the pine groves. Vargas quickly takes up position behind him.

‘Nobody move!’ shouts Montes. ‘What’s going on here?’

Nobody says a word. Mariscal waits. He knows how to let the gears of time engage.

‘Forgive me, sergeant,’ he says finally. ‘Would you mind if we spoke alone for a moment?’

Once they’re at a certain distance, Mariscal casually drops something on the ground. ‘Sergeant, I do believe you dropped two notes. Two green ones,
sensu stricto
.’

The sergeant glances at the ground. Yes, there are two thousand-peseta notes.

‘Excuse me, sir.
Sensu stricto
, I do believe I dropped at least ten.’

And Mariscal proceeds to free the other notes, as if he’s already made the calculation.

BACK FROM UNLOADING
the tobacco, Fins placed his thousand-peseta note on top of the oilskin tablecloth. His mother, Amparo, put down her knitting in surprise. His father was listening to the radio closely, making an ear trumpet with the palm of his hand. Cassius Clay, newly named Muhammad Ali, had just been stripped of his world heavyweight title due to his refusal to be inducted into the military during the Vietnam War. Lucho Malpica turned down the volume and jumped to his feet. ‘What’s this money?’

‘Mr Rumbo gave it to me for cleaning the vats.’

‘He never pays that much for cleaning vats.’

‘Well, it was about time he paid more,’ said Fins uneasily.

Lucho Malpica waved the note in front of his son’s face. ‘Don’t ever lie to me!’

The boy remained silent, feeling uncomfortable, chewing over the words of before and afterwards.

‘The worst lie of all is silence.’

‘Mr Mariscal gave it to me,’ said the boy eventually. ‘I helped unload some tobacco.’

‘That’s more like it. More than I can earn fighting with the sea for a whole damn week!’

Now two of them were chewing over the past and present.

‘Have you any idea how that bastard got rich?’

‘Wasn’t it in Cuba, before the revolution?’

‘In Cuba?’

Lucho Malpica had always dodged the issue of Mariscal. He even avoided saying his name, would take a roundabout route in the conversation, like someone sidestepping a turd. But now the issue had been blown open. And the unstoppable destination was irony.

‘What did he do in Cuba? What was his job?’

‘Wasn’t he a boxing promoter, organising fights, with a cinema or something? I don’t know, Dad, that’s what I heard.’

‘Selling peanuts in a cone. In Cuba? That guy never set foot in America.’

Lucho Malpica realised it wasn’t going to be easy to tell the story of Mariscal. Even for him, who was of the same generation, there were large areas of shade. Mariscal vanished and came back. With a shadow that grew and grew, and made him more powerful.

‘After the war, his parents worked on the black market. They’d always been involved in smuggling.’

‘Everyone was involved in smuggling,’ said Amparo suddenly. ‘Where there’s a border, there’s smuggling. Even I, as a girl, went over one time with a flat stomach and came back pregnant, God forgive me. I took over sugar and three pairs of high-heeled shoes and came back with coffee and silk. I did it once and never again. It wasn’t a sin, but it was a crime. They once shot a Portuguese kid who didn’t stop when he was supposed to. He was carrying a pair of shoes. His mother came to see where he’d fallen. There was still a trace of blood. She kneeled down, took out a scarf and wiped it up. Didn’t leave a speck. Shouted, “I don’t want any to remain here!”’

‘What you’re talking about was survival,’ said Malpica. ‘There were people who hired themselves out, smuggled things in their bellies . . .’

‘That’s what I was like,’ replied Amparo. ‘Though I lit a candle to St Barbara first, so it wouldn’t thunder.’

‘What I’m talking about wasn’t to feed people’s hunger. The Brancanas ran an organisation. Like today. There were lots of part-time smugglers. Smugglers for hire. Women with bellies. But the way they made their money was with wolfram. Then oil, petrol, medicine, meat. And weapons. Whatever was needed. And the mother, who’d been a maid, when she went up in the world, got it into her head that one of her children could be a bishop or a cardinal. Someone ironically suggested they could be a marshal. And she replied with evident glee, why not? A cardinal or a marshal. Which is how Mariscal the Marshal got his name. You know how quick people are on the uptake round here. So she decided to send her precious boy to the seminary. In Tui. He was no man’s fool. Always a smart one. And even then he was good at solving problems. His own and others’. He got a private room in the seminary and turned it into a marketplace. Of course there was the odd priest who shared in the profits. And that’s where he met Don Marcelo, who was also a student.’