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

'"My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white."

'Her guilt at this stage is only a colour and not yet a stain. She is ashamed of her innocence in the matter. She wants a share in his guilt. It's a wonderful moment because, of course, by Act V it's "out damned spot" and "all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand". Why am I telling you this, Javier?'

'I have no idea, Pablo.'

Ortega took two huge gulps of red wine, which leaked out of the corners of his mouth. Drops of red appeared on his white shirt.

'Hah!' he said, looking down at himself. 'You know what that is? That is a filmic moment. This only happens in the movies, never in real life. Like… oh, come on, there must be hundreds… I can't think now.'

'The Deer Hunter.'

'The Deer Hunter?'

'A couple get married before the guy goes off to be a soldier in Vietnam. They drink out of a double cup and the wine spills on her bridal dress. It prefigures

'Yes, yes, yes. It prefigures something terrible,' said Ortega. 'An embarrassment at dinner. Extra bleach in the washing. Awful, awful things.'

'Can I show you these photographs?'

'Before I lose all visual-oral linkage you mean?'

'Er… yes,' said Falcón.

Ortega roared with exaggerated laughter.

'I like you, Javier. I like you very much. I don't like many people,' he said, and stared out into the dark lawn, the unlit swimming pool. 'I don't like… anybody in fact. I've found the people I've dealt with in my life… lacking. Do you think that's something that happens to celebrities?'

'Fame attracts a certain type of person.'

'Fawning, obsequious, deferential, flattering sycophants.'

'Francisco Falcón hated them. They reminded him of his fraudulence. They reminded him that the only thing he wanted more than fame was real talent.'

'We want people to love us for what we are not, for what we pretend to be… Or in my case all those people I've pretended to be,' said Ortega, who was becoming more dramatic by the moment. 'I'm wondering if, at my death, I'll drop to the floor and, like a mad Touretter, all the characters I've ever portrayed will pour out of me in a compressed babble to silence, leaving only a husk to be blown here and there in the wind.'

'I don't think so, Pablo,' said Falcón. 'You've got a lot to lose to become a husk.'

'I'm just layers,' he said, not listening. 'I remember

Francisco said: "The truth about an onion, Pablo, is nothing. You tease open that last bit of onion skin and that's what you find – nothing."'

'Well, Francisco was a man who knew his onions,' said Falcón. 'Human beings are a little more complicated. You tease them open -'

'And what do you find?' said Ortega, looming over Falcón, anxious with anticipation.

'That we're defined by what we hide from the world.'

'My God, Javier,' said Ortega, sucking in a vast quantity of Muga. 'You should try some of this wine, you know. It's really very, very good.'

'The photographs, Pablo.'

'Let's get that out of the way.'

'When you told me you saw two Russians going into Sr Vega's house on Noche de Reyes, were these the men?'

Ortega took the shots and went to hunt down his spectacles.

'I haven't seen your dogs tonight,' said Falcón.

'Oh, they're asleep, those two, all curled up in their pug fug. It's a good life… the canine one,' said Ortega. 'I never showed you my collection, did I?'

'Another time.'

'I am not defined by what I hide, but what I show to the world,' said Ortega, his arm sweeping slowly around the room where his collection lay on tabletops and up against the walls. 'You know the worst thing you can say to a collector?'

'That you don't like a piece?'

'No… that you do like one particular piece,' said Ortega. 'I have a Picasso drawing. It's nothing special but you can't mistake it. I divide the people I show my collection into two groups. The ones who gravitate to the Picasso with the words, "Now I do like that," and the ones who realize that a collection is about the whole. There, Javier, I've saved you some embarrassment.'

'I'll make a point of telling you how much I love the Picasso.'

Ortega held up his spectacles with a roar as if he'd won the European Cup. He put his face into them almost warily, as if it might be some hair-trigger trap he'd set for himself.

'The ones who gravitate to the Picasso are the ones who are attracted to celebrity. They see nothing else.'

'Have you ever shown your collection to someone who's looked at the whole and found it…'

'Lacking?' said Ortega. 'Nobody has ever had the nerve to say that to my face. But I know there have been some.'

'Perhaps that means you've had the nerve to express everything through your collection. The good and the bad. We've all got something we're ashamed of.'

'You must see it, Javier,' he said urgently. 'The Actor's Collection.'

Ortega confirmed that the two men in the shots were the Russians he'd seen going into Vega's house back in January. He hurled the photographs back to Falcón and refilled his glass. He sucked on his Cohiba, which he still hadn't lit. The wine spots on his shirt had burgeoned with the sweat from his chest. He tore off his glasses.

'You remember our talk about Sebastián this morning?' said Falcón. 'Have you thought any more about that?'

'I have thought about it.'

'The clinical psychologist I told you about – a woman called Alicia Aguado. She's unusual.'

'How?'

'First of all, she's blind,' said Falcón, and told Ortega about her Chinese pulse-taking technique. 'I told her about your concerns for Sebastián. She thought it would be a good idea to meet. She realizes that famous people don't like intruders.'

'Bring her over,' said Ortega, charming and amenable. 'The more the merrier.'

'How about tomorrow?'

'Coffee,' he said. 'Eleven o'clock. And perhaps when you've taken her home you'd like to come back and I'll show you everything you need to know in the clear light of day.'

Consuelo Jiménez was wearing a long, blue crepe dress and gold sandals. Her bare arms were brown and muscular. She was keeping up the gym, and not just at a social level. She sat him in the living room, overlooking the sloppy blue ingot of the lit pool, and gave him a chilled glass of manzanilla. She put a tray of olives, pickled garlic and capers out on the table and kicked off her sandals. The ice in her tinto de verano clicked on the sides of the glass.

'Guess who came to see me this morning, full of wheedling charm and flattery?'

'Pablo Ortega?'

'For one of the great actors of yesterday he's a little too easy to encapsulate,' she said. 'It must mean he's got a limited range.'

'I've never seen him on the stage,' said Falcón. 'Did you let him in?'

'I let him suffer in the heat for a bit. I was interested to hear what he had to say for himself. He didn't bring his two stage props along – Pavarotti and Callas. So I knew he hadn't come to entertain the boys.'

'Where are your boys?'

'They're with my sister. She's taking them off to the coast tomorrow and they're too riotous for dinner. They'd want to see your gun.'

'And what did Pablo Ortega want?'

'To talk about Rafael's death and your investigation, of course.'

'I hope you didn't reveal my… indiscretion.'

'I used it,' she said, lighting up a cigarette, 'but not in an overt way. I just made him feel as if he was sitting on a bad sofa. He left more uncomfortable than when he arrived.'

'I'm taking a look at his son's court case,' said Falcón.

'Personally, I think the sentences for child abuse are too lenient,' said Consuelo. 'Once a child's been damaged in that way they can never recover. Their innocence has been taken away, and I think that's not so different to murder.'