The Return (5 page)

Although it was hard to believe, I knew he hadn’t seen me: I thanked my
lucky stars, and, when he got close enough, I grabbed him by the feet and pulled
him down.
Once he was on the floor I started kicking him with the aim of doing
as much damage as possible.
He’s here, he’s here, I shouted, but the women
didn’t respond (I couldn’t hear them running around either), and the unfamiliar
room was like a projection of my brain, the only home, the only shelter.
I don’t
know how long I was in there, kicking that fallen body, I only remember someone
opening the door behind me, words I couldn’t understand, a hand on my shoulder.
Then I was alone again and I stopped kicking him.
For a few moments I didn’t
know what to do; I felt dazed and tired.
Eventually, I snapped out of it and
dragged the body to the living room.
There I found the women, sitting very close
together on the sofa, almost hugging each other.
I don’t know why, but something
about the scene made me think of a birthday party.
I could see the anxiety in
their eyes, and a fading trace of the fear caused not by the episode as a whole
but by the sight of Bedloe’s body after the beating I’d given him.
And it was
the look in their eyes that made me lose my grip and let his body drop onto the
carpet.
Bedloe’s face was a blood-spattered mask, garish in the light of
the living room.
Where his nose had been there was just a bleeding pulp.
I
checked to see if his heart was beating.
The women were watching me without
making the slightest movement.
He’s dead, I said.
Before I went out onto the
porch, I heard one of them sigh.
I smoked a cigarette looking at the stars,
thinking about how I’d explain it to the authorities in town.
When I went back
inside, the women were down on all fours stripping the body and I couldn’t
stifle a cry.
They didn’t even look at me.
I think I drank a glass of whiskey
and then went out again, taking the bottle, I think.
I don’t know how long I was
out there, smoking and drinking, giving the women time to finish their task.
I
went back over the events, piecing them together.
I remembered the man looking
in through the window, I remembered the look in his eyes, and now I recognized
the fear, I remembered when he lost his dog, and finally I remembered him
reading a newspaper at the back of the store.
I also remembered the light the
previous day, the light inside the store and the porch light seen from the room
where I’d killed him.
Then I started watching the dogs, who weren’t sleeping,
either, but running from one end of the yard to the other.
The wooden fence was
broken in places; someone would have to fix it some day, but it wasn’t going to
be me.
Day began to dawn on the other side of the mountains.
The dogs came up
onto the porch looking for a pat, probably tired after a long night of playing.
Just the usual two.
I whistled for the other one, but he didn’t come.
The
revelation struck me with the first shiver of cold.
The dead man was no killer.
We’d been tricked by the real killer, hidden somewhere far away, or, more
likely, by fate.
Bedloe didn’t want to kill anyone—he was just looking for
his dog.
Poor bastard, I thought.
The dogs went back to chasing each other
around the yard.
I opened the door and looked at the women, unable to bring
myself to go into the living room.
Bedloe’s body was clothed again.
Better
dressed than before.
I was going to say something, but there was no point, so I
went back to the porch.
One of the women followed me out.
Now we have to get rid
of the body, she said behind me.
Yes, I said.
Later I helped to put Bedloe into
the back of the pickup.
We drove into the mountains.
Life is meaningless, said
the older woman.
I didn’t answer; I dug a grave.
When we got back, while they
were taking a shower, I washed the pickup and got my stuff together.
What will
you do now?
they asked while we were having breakfast on the porch, watching the
clouds.
I’ll go back to the city, I said, and I’ll pick up the investigation
exactly where I got off track.

And the end of the story, as Pancho Monge tells it, is that six months
later William Burns was killed by unidentified assailants.

Detectives

What kind of weapons do you like?”

“Any kind, except for blades.”

“You mean knives, razors, daggers,
corvos
, switchblades,
penknives, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“What do you mean, more or less?”

“It’s just a figure of speech, asshole.
I don’t like any of that
stuff.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But how can you not like
corvos
?”

“I just don’t, that’s all.”

“But you’re talking about our national weapon.”

“So the
corvo
is Chile’s national weapon?”

“Knives in general, I mean.”

“Come off it, compadre.”

“I swear to God, I read it in an article the other day.
Chileans don’t
like firearms, it must be because of the noise; we’re silent by nature.”

“That must be because of the sea.”

“How do you mean?
What sea?”

“The Pacific, of course.”

“Oh, you mean the
ocean
.
And what’s the Pacific Ocean got to
do with silence?”

“They say it absorbs noises, useless noises, I mean.
I don’t know
whether there’s anything to it.”

“So what about the Argentineans?”

“What have they got to do with the Pacific?”

“Well, they’ve got the Atlantic and they’re pretty noisy.”

“But there’s no comparison.”

“You’re right about that, there’s no comparison—but Argentineans like
knives as well.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t.
Even if they’re the national weapon.
I
could make an exception, maybe, for penknives, especially Swiss Army knives, but
the rest are just a curse.”

“And why’s that, compadre?
Come on, explain.”

“I don’t have an explanation, compadre, sorry.
That’s just how it is,
period; it’s a gut feeling.”

“OK, I see where you’re going with this.”

“Do you?
Better tell me then, because I don’t know myself.”

“Well, I know, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Mind you, the knife thing does have its advantages.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, imagine a gang of thieves armed with automatic rifles.
Just an
example.
Or pimps with Uzis.”

“OK, I’m following you.”

“So you see the advantage?”

“Absolutely, for us.
But that’s an insult to Chile, you know,
that argument.”

“An insult to Chile!
What?”

“It’s an insult to the Chilean character, the way we are, our
collective dreams.
It’s like being told that all we’re good for is suffering.
I
don’t know if you follow me, but I feel like I just saw the light.”

“I follow you, but that’s not it.”

“What do you mean, that’s not it?”

“That’s not what I was talking about.
I just don’t like knives,
period.
It’s not some big philosophical question.”

“But you’d like guns to be more popular in Chile.
Which doesn’t mean
you’d like there to be more of them.”

“I don’t care one way or the other.”

“Anyway, who doesn’t like guns?”

“That’s true, everyone likes guns.”

“Do you want me to explain what I meant about the silence?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t put me to sleep.”

“I won’t, and if you start feeling sleepy, we can stop and I’ll
drive.”

“So tell me about the silence then.”

“I read it in an article in
El Mercurio
.”

“When did you start reading
El Mercurio
?”

“Sometimes there’s a copy lying round at headquarters, and the shifts
are long.
Anyway, the article said we’re a Latin people, and Latin people are
fixated on knives.
Anglo-Saxons, on the other hand, live and die by the
gun.”

“It all depends.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“Until the moment of truth, you never know.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“We’re slower, you have to admit.”

“How do you mean, slower?”

“Slower in every respect.
Old-fashioned in a way.”

“You call that being slow?”

“We’re still using knives, it’s like we’re stuck in the Bronze Age,
while the gringos have moved on to the Iron Age.”

“I never liked history.”

“Remember when we arrested Chubby Loayza?”

“How could I forget?”

“There, you see—the guy just gave himself up.”

“Yeah, and he had an arsenal in that house.”

“There, you see.”

“So he should have put up a fight.”

“There were only four of us, and five of them.
We just had standard
issue weapons and Chubby had an arsenal, including a bazooka.”

“It wasn’t a bazooka, compadre.”

“It was a Franchi SPAS-15!
And he had a pair of sawn-off shotguns.
But
Loayza gave himself up without firing a shot.”

“So you were disappointed, were you?”

“Or course not.
But if he’d been called McCurly instead of Loayza,
Chubby would have greeted us with a hail of bullets, and maybe he wouldn’t be in
jail now.”

“Maybe he’d be dead.”

“Or free, if you get my drift.”

“McCurly?
.
.
.
the name rings a bell; wasn’t he in a cowboy
movie?”

“I think he was, I think we even saw it together.”

“We haven’t been to the movies together for ages.”

“Well, this would have been ages ago.”

“The arsenal he had, Chubby Loayza; remember how he greeted us?”

“Laughing his head off.”

“I think it was nerves.
One of his gang started crying.
I don’t think
that kid was even seventeen.”

“But Chubby Loayza was over forty and he made himself out to be a
tough guy.
Though if we’re going to be brutally honest, there aren’t any tough
guys in this country.”

“What do you mean there aren’t any tough guys, I’ve seen really tough
guys.”

“Crazies, for sure, you’ve seen plenty of them, but tough guys?
Very
few, or none.”

“And what about Raulito Sánchez?
Remember Raulito Sánchez, with his
Manurhin?”

“How could I forget him?”

“What about him then?”

“Well, he should have got rid of the revolver straightaway.
That was
his downfall.
Nothing’s easier to trace than a Magnum.”

“The Manurhin is a Magnum?”

“Of course it’s a Magnum.”

“I thought it was a French gun.”

“It’s a .357 French Magnum.
That’s why he didn’t get rid of it.
It’s
an expensive piece and he’d gotten fond of it; there aren’t many in Chile.”

“You learn something new every day.”

“Poor Raulito Sánchez.”

“They say he died in jail.”

“No, he died just after getting out, in a boarding house in
Arica.”

“They say his lungs were ruined.”

“He’d been spitting blood since he was a kid, but he was brave, he
never complained.”

“I remember he was very quiet.”

“Quiet and hard-working, but a bit too attached to material
possessions.
That Manurhin was his downfall.”

“Whores were his downfall.”

“Come on, Raulito Sánchez was a faggot.”

“You’re kidding!
I had no idea.
Nothing’s sacred.
Time levels even the
tallest towers.”

“Give me a break, what’s it got to do with towers?”

“It’s just that I remember him as really manly, if you know what I
mean.”

“What’s it got to do with manliness?”

“But he was a man, in his way, though, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“I saw him with whores at least once.
He didn’t turn up his nose at
whores.”

“He didn’t turn up his nose at anyone or anything, but I’m certain he
never slept with a woman.”

“That’s a very definite assertion, compadre, careful what you say.
The
dead are always watching us.”

“The dead aren’t watching anyone.
They’re minding their own business.
The dead are shit.”

“What do you mean they’re shit?”

“All they do is fuck stuff up for the living.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree there, compadre, I have the greatest respect
for the departed.”

“Except you never go to the cemetery.”

“What do you mean I never go to the cemetery?”

“All right, then, when’s the Day of the Dead?”

“OK, you got me, I go when I feel like it.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I’m not sure, but I know there are experiences that make your hair
stand on end.”

“That’s what I was coming to.”

“You’re thinking of Raulito Sánchez?”

“That’s right.
Before he died for real, he pretended to be dead at
least twice.
One time in a hooker’s bar.
Remember Doris Villalón?
She spent a
whole night with him in the cemetery, under the same blanket and, according to
Doris, nothing happened all night.”

“Except that Doris’s hair turned white.”

“It depends who you talk to.”

“The fact is her hair went white in a single night, like Marie
Antoinette’s.”

“What I know from a reliable source is that she was cold and they
climbed into an empty niche; after that it’s not so clear.
According to one of
Doris’s friends, she tried to give Raulito a hand job, but he wasn’t really up
for it, and in the end he fell asleep.”

“There was a man who never lost his cool.”

“It happened later, when the dogs had stopped barking and Doris was
climbing down from the niche; that’s when the ghost appeared.”

“So her hair went white because of a ghost?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Maybe it was just plaster dust from the cemetery.”

“It’s not easy to believe in ghosts.”

“And meanwhile Raulito went on sleeping?”

“Without even having touched the poor woman.”

“And what was his hair like the next morning?”

“Black as ever, but it couldn’t be used to prove the point, because
he’d upped and left.”

“So the plaster dust might have had nothing to do with it.”

“It might have been the scare she got.”

“The scare she got at the police station.”

“Or maybe her hair dye faded.”

“Such are the mysteries of the human condition.
In any case, Raulito
never tried it with a girl.”

“But he seemed like a real man.”

“There are no men left in Chile, compadre.”

“You’re scaring me now.
Careful how you drive.
Don’t get jumpy on
me.”

“I think it was a rabbit, I must have run over it.”

“What do you mean there are no men left?”

“We killed them all.”

“What do you mean we killed them?
I haven’t killed anyone in my life.
And you were just doing your duty.”

“My duty?”

“Duty, obligation, keeping the peace, it’s our job, it’s what we do.
Or would you rather get paid for just sitting around?”

“I’ve never liked sitting around, I’ve always had ants in my pants,
but that’s exactly why I should have left.”

“That just would have helped with the shortage of men in Chile.”

“Don’t start making fun of me, compadre, especially when I’m
driving.”

“You keep calm and watch where you’re going.
Anyway, what’s Chile got
to do with it?”

“Everything, and when I say everything .
.
.”

“OK, I see where you’re going.”