Turing's Delirium (35 page)

"He certainly does," Moreiras says. "Power to the top floor has been cut off. I have my men guarding the exits, but they can't do much in the dark."

"That can be fixed. We have a generator for emergencies. I'll have someone turn it on."

Ramírez-Graham is afraid of reaching the top floor only to be shot. He does not want any more twists of fate; he hopes to have the opportunity to see Svetlana again, to tell her how much he has missed her and to beg her forgiveness for having been so wrong. Even if his words and his gestures are received with indifference, he wants a chance to do what he has to do, even just once.

They go up the harshly lit stairs, yellow bulbs glaring down at them. Ramírez-Graham walks behind everyone else. He would have preferred to stay on the first floor and let those from SIN take care of this, but he is the head of the Black Chamber and has to set an example. And he wants to see the traitor's face. Can it really be someone from his inner circle?

They reach the top floor. The lights have been turned on. Moreiras asks the officers if they're ready. They reply with a slight nod, as if they aren't sure of their affirmation, as if they know that the question was rhetorical and that the truth is not required from them, just a rhetorical answer.

Moreiras kicks open the door and dives behind a desk on the right. The other officers follow him into the hallway; one joins Moreiras, the other two go to the left.
So this is it,
Ramírez-Graham tells himself,
The real thing.
He's not imagining it. And yet it still feels unreal. Better yet, it isn't unfolding as it does in the movies. Of course, if he were to get shot in the shoulder, he might change his opinion. Reality hurts.

A few minutes pass in silence. Moreiras shouts for whoever is there to surrender. No one replies.

He shouts again. There is only silence. He walks down the hallway, holding his gun in both hands, turning his body left and right. The officers follow him. Ramírez-Graham has not gone more than twenty yards when there is the sound of breaking glass and the thunder of shots being fired. He throws himself back into the stairwell, not knowing where the shots came from. When he gets up, he looks in from the doorway and sees a commotion in the hallway. Moreiras is lying on the floor, his face spattered with blood. One of the officers is trying to revive him while the other covers him and the third moves forward, firing his gun.

Suddenly Ramírez-Graham hears a scream, and another body collapses. He can't see who it is from where he is standing. The officer tells him that it is whoever shot Moreiras. Ramírez-Graham stands up and leaps into the hallway. The officer who was trying to revive Moreiras looks at him, helpless. "He's not breathing!" he exclaims, throwing himself over Moreiras's body again.

The officer who fired his gun signals the all-clear with his hand. Ramírez-Graham approaches, and together they move toward the body lying at the end of the hallway.

Ramírez-Graham does not need to see him to know that Kandinsky is Baez, that Baez is Kandinsky. Ramírez-Graham has come to the end of his career in Rio Fugitivo.

Only now does he suspect that Flavia was right: the ending is a letdown. His only thought is that it had been easy to catch Kandinsky because Kandinsky had wanted to be caught.

J
UDGE CARDONA WATCHES
the guards in the metal booth at the entrance to the gated community, silhouetted behind the glass—glass that may be bulletproof. What was that line he liked? From that novel, in school.
I bet my heart on chance and I lost it to violence.
Something like that. It doesn't matter how it really goes; what matters is how it stays in our minds, how certain biological processes are able to shape our memories out of the ruins of reality. One of the guards is reading the paper; he lifts his head, and Cardona can see that he is cross-eyed. The other is watching the news on television. Cardona knows the routine: they will ask him for his ID card and will call the. house to confirm that he is expected. There is no way to get past them. The best thing to do is to turn around and have a seat at the bus stop a few blocks away. There, in the humid breeze after all the rain, he will smoke a cigarette and the memory of his cousin will visit him, or perhaps his phantasmagoric ups and downs at the Presidential Palace.

There is no one on the bench at the bus stop. He sits down, resting his briefcase on his knees, and is suddenly overcome by exhaustion. The stitches above his right eye throb, and his legs feel heavy. He can no longer stand his wet shirt and pants, the squelching of his leather shoes. He touches the wine-colored spots on his cheeks. Have they grown? They are unpredictable but never fail in situations of nervous tension: little islands that are capable of growing into enormous archipelagos. He is desperate for Bolivian marching powder. Mirtha would not be proud of him. No one is, not even himself. It is his redemption, his dissolute mortal burden, his irrefutable error, his inherent corruption. He believed he was doing all of this just so that he would be able to look at himself in the mirror again. Now he knows that there's no way out, that nothing can save him, no matter whom he shoots. And yet he still shoots, already beyond himself, because if he has to choose between doing it and not doing it, it's just better to do it. He should lock himself up in an abandoned monastery; it would be better that way. He thinks he can hear the blood flowing in his veins. What sound does blood make as it circulates inside you? Is it like a rushing torrent of water? Or a quiet stream on a calm afternoon? On the surface he appears to be a stream, but deep down he's really more like the explosive rumble of a flood.

Sitting on the bench in the bus shelter, he momentarily convinces himself that the best thing would be to turn himself in to the guards, to confess what he has done. He realizes that in prison the memories, the words, would still be with him, lurking day and night, not letting him rest. It wouldn't work.

The bench is dilapidated; there is graffiti on the walls, cans and bottles are scattered on the floor. Cardona regrets the albino guard's death, not Albert's. Now that he is a criminal like Albert and Turing, what would he do with Turing?

He opens the briefcase and toys with the gun. Maybe he decided a long time ago that he could not live with himself anymore and that the only way to repent would be through his own sacrifice.

Yes, that's the word, sacrifice. But he would never be able to do it himself, just as he could not kill Montenegro with his own hands. Others had to die, and in the process, hopefully, mercifully, somebody would put a bullet in his brain. That's what the guards at Turing's community are for. Maybe they would be able to do their job better than the albino had done.

Cardona doesn't want to take chances. He opens the briefcase and removes the silencer from his gun.

He cannot sit still and heads to the guard booth. He has no idea what he will say, but something will come to him. The cross-eyed guard sees him approach and slides open the window; the other is still absorbed by the television.

"Good evening, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Ruth Sáenz. I'm Judge Gustavo Cardona. I have an interview with her."

"Can I see your identification?" The judge opens his wallet and hands over his ID card. The guard looks at the photo and then studies Cardona.

"You look familiar."

"I was minister of justice a few years ago."

"In the previous government?"

"In this one. I wasn't there for long. Not even a year. You know how things are, we're in and out like a revolving door."

"Sorry, I don't have the best memory for that sort of thing. I haven't seen Mrs. Sáenz since yesterday. It's been a couple of chaotic days, what with the blockades. But it looks like they've finally reached an agreement."

"You're telling me. These stitches are because of the damn blockades. When will we learn? As if the government ever listens to the people. And her husband?"

"Miguel Sáenz? I haven't seen him since yesterday either. He usually gets home around seven—we'll see what happens today It's already seven, isn't it? Anyhow, I'll call. Have you heard the latest news? Some ministers have arrived to meet with GlobaLux. Looks like they're going to rescind their contract."

The guard lifts up the receiver and dials a number. Cardona looks left and right, shifts his feet, tries to conceal his nervousness. He concentrates on the images on the TV. A reporter is interviewing a group of young people near the main plaza. What do you think of the prefect's resignation? The storming of GlobaLux's installations? The decision by GlobaLux executives to leave the country and demand millions in compensation from the government? Their answers speak of how the people, led by the Coalition, have triumphed. So naive. Two days spent destroying the city, more than ten people dead. One step forward, twenty steps back. The people haven't won a thing; the people are still without electricity. But it is true that Montenegro is more fragile than ever and a mere puff could knock him down. It is simply a question of whether or not the vice president will do it. He won't; no one will. Misunderstood loyalty will result in Montenegro's finishing his term. And meanwhile the recession will deepen and the country will sink even further.

"Their daughter says to go ahead," the guard says. "Her parents aren't home, but she says you can wait for them there."

The guard lets him pass. Cardona nods his thanks, then stops.

"Do you need to check my briefcase?"

"No, that's OK. Second block, fourth house on the right."

Judge Cardona walks down the cobblestoned main street. The houses on his left and right are all the same, from the shape of the chimney on the roof to the brick walls and the winding driveway leading to the garage. The only details that change are the state of the plants in the garden and whether the gleam in the second-floor windows is yellow or blue. He trembles at the thought of going to the wrong house and being mistaken for a burglar. Second block. First, second, third, fourth ... He stops and rings the bell. Ruth's daughter opens the door and lets him in. She is barefoot, wearing a gray sweatsuit with a yellow Berkeley logo. Who does she think she is with those dreadlocks, Bob Marley's daughter? She seems to be in a rush.

"Hi. Come on in. I have no idea where my mom is. My dad called and said he'd be a bit late. Make yourself at home. If you're thirsty, there's beer or lemonade in the fridge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my room."

"You're in an awful hurry," Cardona says. "What's so important, if I might ask?"

"Sorry, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"It's secret."

"I promise I won't say a word. I'll never tell. None of us will."

Flavia rolls her eyes as if considering it, a proud look spreading across her face.
Just a kid,
Cardona says to himself.
Incapable of holding back. Dying to talk.
How disappointing. No one is ever any different from the stereotype. But Flavia turns around and goes up the stairs two at a time. Cardona is left alone, wondering whether the conversation he just had was real. He heads into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and gets himself a Paceña beer. It tastes bitter. He finishes it off and gets another. He sits down at the table, taking in the domesticity that surrounds him: bottles of spices lined up along the wall—garlic powder, orégano, cumin, mint—a can of olive oil, coffee stains on the tile floor, a cracked glass beside the blender. Turing, the same man who was capable of performing his work with such cold efficiency and who was responsible for countless deaths, also ate breakfast here, poured himself a cup of hot coffee, shook salt on his scrambled eggs on Sunday mornings. Oh, if only Cardona were capable of compassion: this would be the ideal moment to be overcome by it. He wonders who will get home first. He takes his gun out of his briefcase and puts it in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He watches the slow tick of the clock that is hanging on the wall.

Less than half an hour later the front door opens and Miguel Sáenz hesitantly enters his own home. From the kitchen, Cardona observes someone who is uncomfortable wherever he might be. The thick-rimmed glasses, the wrinkled jacket, the black leather shoes: Cardona is in no position to judge the outward appearance of anyone right now, but he is still surprised by the pathetic, defeated air around Sáenz. Could
this
be the person who was indirectly responsible for the death of his cousin and so many others? He had been expecting someone more sure of himself, someone whose talent was obvious at first glance. Cardona stands up from the table and leans against the door frame that separates the kitchen from the front hall. Sáenz lifts his eyes and sees him there.

"Who ... who are you?"

"I'm Judge Gustavo Cardona. Good evening, Turing."

"Ah, yes. You used to be a minister, right? What are you doing here? Who let you in?"

"Your daughter."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine."

"Are you waiting for my wife?"

"I'm waiting for you. Just you."

"Is it important?"

"You have no idea how important."

I
N THE END
, you did not go home or to a church. Something, perhaps the force of habit, made you go to the Black Chamber. You went to tender your resignation, you told yourself, and yet you knew that it was just an excuse. You wanted to say goodbye to the building where you had spent half your life. You were forced to leave your car two blocks away; the blockade prevented you from driving any farther, and you were not prepared for confrontations. The protesters let you through on foot, but not before you paid a few pesos. You were surprised there were no soldiers; perhaps the main demonstrations were in the plaza and on the bridges, and there weren't enough troops to be on every corner. Even so, there was no excuse for the lack of protection near a place that was so strategic to national security. You should look for news on your cell phone, find out what was happening.

A wave of melancholy washes over you as you enter the Otis elevator that you have ridden in so often before. This is how everything ends: not with a bang but a pitiful sob. You go down to the ends of the earth, to the land of the dead. You are heading to the archives; you are already part of the archives.