Robert Wilson - The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

'Charisma,' said Ortega, returning with beer, olives and capers, and nodding at the painting, 'is like a force field. You don't see it and yet it has the power to suspend everybody's normal levels of perception. Now that the world has been told that the emperor has no clothes it's easy, and all those art historians that Francisco so despised are endlessly writing about what an evident departure the four nudes were from his other work. I'm with Francisco. They're contemptible.

They delighted in his fall but do not see that now all they're doing is writing about their own failures. Charisma. We are kept in such an ordinary state of boredom that anybody who can light up our life in any way is treated like a god.'

'Francisco used to substitute the word "genius" for "charisma",' said Falcón.

'If you have mastered the art of charisma you don't even need genius.'

'He certainly knew that.'

'Quite right,' said Ortega, guffawing back into the armchair.

'We should get down to business,' said Falcón.

'Yes, well I knew something was going on when I saw that rat-faced bastard out there, smug and comfortable in his expensive lightweight suit,' said Ortega. 'I'm always suspicious of people who dress well for their work. They want to dazzle with their carapace while their emptiness seethes with all forms of dark life.'

Falcón scratched his neck at Ortega's melodrama.

'Who are we talking about?'

'That… that cabron… Juez Calderón,' said Ortega. 'It even rhymes.'

'Ah yes, the court case with your son. I didn't…'

'He was the cabron who made sure that Sebastián went down for such a long time,' said Ortega. 'He was the cabron who pushed for the maximum sentence. That man is just the letter of the law and nothing else. He is all sword and no scales and, in my humble opinion, for justice to be justice you have to have both.'

'I was only told about your son's case this morning.'

'It was everywhere,' said Ortega, incredulous. 'Pablo Ortega's son arrested. Pablo Ortega's son accused. Pablo

Ortega's son blah, blah, blah. Always Pablo Ortega's son… never Sebastián Ortega.'

'I was preoccupied at the time,' said Falcón. 'I had no mind for current affairs.'

The media monster ate its fill,' said Ortega, snarling and scoffing at the end of his cigar.

'Do you see your son at all?'

'He won't see anybody. He's shut himself off from the rest of the world.'

'And his mother?'

'His mother walked out on him… walked out on us, when he was only eight years old,' said Ortega. 'She ran off to America with some fool with a big dick… and then she died.'

'When was that?'

'Four years ago. Breast cancer. It affected Sebastián very badly.'

'So he knew her?'

'He spent every summer with her from the age of sixteen onwards,' said Ortega, stabbing the air with his cigar. 'None of this was taken into consideration when that cabron

He ran out of steam, shifted in his chair, his face crumpled in disgust.

'It was a very serious crime,' said Falcón.

'I realize that,' said Ortega, loudly. 'It's just that the court refused to accept any mitigating circumstances. Sebastián's state of mind, for instance. He was clearly mentally deranged. How do you explain the behaviour of someone who kidnaps a boy, abuses him, lets him go and then gives himself up? When his time came to defend himself in court he said nothing, he refused to dispute any point of the boy's statement… he took it all. None of that makes any sense to me. I am not an expert, but even I can see he needs treatment, not prison, violence and solitary confinement.'

'Have you appealed?'

'It all takes time,' said Ortega, 'and money, of course, which has not been easy. I had to move from my house…'

'Why?'

'My life was made impossible. They wouldn't serve me in the cafes or the shops. People would cross the street if they saw me. For my son's sins I was being ostracized. It was intolerable. I had to get out. And now here I am… alone with only the shit and stink of others for company.'

'Do you know Sr Vega?' asked Falcón, seizing his opportunity.

'I know him. He introduced himself about a week after I moved in here. I rather admired him for that. He knew why I'd ended up here. There were photographers in the street. He walked straight past them, welcomed me and offered me the use of his gardener. I asked him over for a drink occasionally and when I had the trouble with the cesspit he gave his opinion, sent round a surveyor and costed it all out for me for nothing.'

'What did you talk about over drinks?'

'Nothing personal, which was a relief. I thought he might be… you know, when people come round to your door and want to be your friend. I thought he might have a prurient interest in my son's misfortunes or want to associate himself with me in some way… there are plenty of people out there who'd like to add another dimension to their social standing.

But Rafael, despite his apparent charm, was enclosed… everything went in but not a lot came out on a personal level. If you wanted to talk about politics, that was a different matter. We talked about America after September 11th, for instance. That was interesting because he was always very right wing. I mean, he thought Jose Maria Aznar a little too communist for his liking. But then the World Trade Centre came down and he maintained that the Americans had that coming to them.'

'He didn't like Americans?' asked Falcón.

'No, no, no, que no. He liked Americans. He was very friendly with that couple from next door. Marty is working for him and I'm sure Rafael was interested in fucking his wife.'

'Really?'

'No, I was just being mischievous, or perhaps giving you a more general truth. We'd all like to fuck Maddy Krugman. Have you seen her?'

Falcón nodded.

'What do you think?'

'Why did he think the Americans had it coming to them?'

'He said they were always messing about in other people's politics and when you do that things blow up in your face.'

'Nothing specific then, just bar talk?'

'But quite surprising, given that he liked Americans and he was going there on holiday this summer,' said Ortega, kissing the end of his cigar. 'Another thing he said about Americans was that they're your friends while you're useful to them, and as soon as you stop making money for them or giving them help, they drop you like a stone. Their loyalty is measured, it has no faith in it. I think those were his words.'

'What did you make of that?'

'Judging by his vehemence it seemed to come from direct experience, probably in business, but I never found out what that was.'

'How often have you seen him this year?'

'Two or three times, mostly to do with the cesspit.'

'Did you notice any difference in him since last year?'

Silence, while Ortega smoked with narrowing eyes.

'Has he killed himself?'

'That's what we're trying to determine,' said Falcón. 'So far we have discovered that there was a change in him at the end of last year. He became more preoccupied. He was burning papers at the bottom of his garden.'

'I didn't notice anything, but then our relationship was not intimate. The only thing I remember was in the Corte Ingles in Nervion one day. I came across him picking over leather wallets or something. As I approached to say hello he looked up at me and I could see he was completely spooked, as if I was the ghost of a long-lost relative. I veered away and we didn't speak. That was probably the last time I saw him. A week ago.'

'Have you noticed any regular visitors to the house or any unusual ones?' said Falcón. 'Any night-time visitors?'

'Look, I know I'm here all the time, especially these days with the work not coming my way, but I don't spend my days looking over the fence or squinting between the blinds.'