Andrés Neuman - The Things We Don't Do

Rojo heard the door go behind him. Vázquez was in front of him again. He was staring at him with a mocking expression.

“Damn it, Artigas, it seems the patient has improved! What did you do to him?”

“He fucked me up the ass,” Rojo replied.

Artigas celebrated Rojo’s wisecrack with a guffaw. Vázquez made a face like he hadn’t quite understood and thought someone had called him a queer.

“I’m going to slice your balls off, you piece of shit!” he bawled at Rojo.

“Vázquez,” Artigas declared abruptly. “Enough, Vázquez. Thank you.”

Vázquez stared straight at Artigas, who held his gaze until Vázquez lowered his eyes. Then he shrugged and, tucking his stained tie into his trousers, said:

“Well, he’s your friend, not mine.”

And he started to leave. Before he reached the door between the living room and the hallway, he added:

“At least I don’t kill my friends.”

Unflappable, Artigas corrected him:

“You’ve never had any friends, Vázquez.”

Rojo heard a door slam behind him. When he looked back at Artigas, he noticed he was no longer grinning at him. Artigas was silent now and was staring into his eyes. A trickle of blood escaped from between Rojo’s lips when he admitted:

“It hurts, Artigas. It hurts all over.”

But he wasn’t exactly complaining. Artigas understood.

“I can imagine,” said Artigas. “Don’t worry. You’ve held out long enough.”

“A lot longer than you would have,” said Rojo.

Artigas, pensive, replied:

“Probably.”

Then he plunged his hand into his jacket and Rojo concentrated on the glare from the lamps, on clenching his jaw and waiting for the shot. Yet the way Artigas’s arm moved seemed odd, and, feeling his neck crack, he attempted to turn his head: Artigas was offering him a cigarette.

“Thanks,” Rojo said opening his fleshy lips.

Artigas lit Rojo’s cigarette and then another for himself. In the midst of a comforting silence, Rojo slowly carried out the simple act of breathing in smoke. Apart from the pain in his ribs, beyond it, Rojo felt as though water from a spring had returned to the dried-up riverbed of his chest, as though something had softened the channels flowing into his lungs and now everything was air, air at last. The second puff made breathing in and out feel almost normal again. By the time he was about halfway through the cigarette, a sleepy well-being had pervaded his muscles. He imagined he and Beatriz were lying in bed smoking, that they had just made love and were taking a rest before making love again. His hands tied behind his back, Rojo sucked on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of one corner of his mouth and, partially, through his blocked nose. The lamps ringed the thick blue cloud. Artigas was watching him carefully as he was about to finish his cigarette.

“Delicious, Artigas. Is it the same as usual?”

“The same as usual, Rojo,” said Artigas.

“How odd,” he said, “the tobacco tastes different.”

He figured he had two long puffs left and possibly a third short one. He decided to take the first two quickly and wait a few seconds. Then he filled his lungs, unhurriedly, exhaled all the air and drew deeply one last time on the cigarette, noting the taste of the burning strands and the burnt paper. Then he parted his lips and let the filter drop onto his trousers. A pleasantly familiar sourness had formed on the back of his tongue. With his good eye he glanced at Artigas, who was no longer smoking.

“Do you want another one?” Artigas asked.

“No, thanks,” he replied. “One is enough.”

Rojo saw that Artigas was grinning. He detected no trace of resentment in his voice when he heard him murmur:

“You’re one of a kind, Rojo, one of a kind.”

Then Artigas slipped his hand into his jacket and did his job.

YES. I like it that the police question me. We all need someone to confirm to us that we truly are good citizens. That we are innocent. That we have nothing to hide.

I drive fearlessly. I feel calmed by the obedience of the steering wheel, the compliance of the pedals, the order of the gears. Ah, highways.

Suddenly, two police officers signal to me to stop my car. This isn’t an easy manoeuvre, because I have just come out of a left-hand bend and was already beginning to accelerate. Trying not to be abrupt or alarm the other drivers and showing off, modesty aside, my skill at the wheel, I cross into the right-hand lane and pull over gently. The two motorcycles do the same, tilting as they brake. Both policemen have on white and blue-checked helmets. Both are wearing boots they stomp across the road in. Both are appropriately armed. One is burly and stands erect. The other is lanky and stooped.

“Papers,” says the burly officer.

“Of course, at once,” I reply.

I perform the reasonable duty of identifying myself. I hand over my documents, insurance, driving licence.

“Aha,” the lanky officer declares perusing them.

“Yes…?” I respond, expectantly.

“Aha!” confirms the burly one, emphatically.

“What…?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Is everything in order, officers?”

“We already told you, sir: everything’s okay.”

“So, there’s nothing wrong with my documents.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s only a manner of speaking, officer. I see, or rather you see, that I can be on my way.”

The police officers look at each other, apparently with a certain suspicion.

“You will resume your journey when we say so,” the burly one replies.

“Naturally, naturally,” I hasten to add.

“Well, then…”

The officers hesitate.

“Yes?” I decide to help them, “do you have any more questions? Perhaps you’d like to search my car?”

“Hey,” says the burly one, “don’t tell us how to do our job.”

The lanky one lifts his head like a tortoise seeing the sun for the first time, and grasps his partner’s arm in an attempt to calm him.

“And you, take your hands off me,” the burly one says. “Next we’ll be taking orders from this guy.”

“Not at all, officers,” I intercede. “I’m sure you could do your job blindfolded. Only…”

“Only what? What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, officer, nothing. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Then stop being so helpful.”

“As you say, officer.”

“That’s more like it,” the burly one approves.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Enough, already!”

“Do whatever you think fit. I’m in no hurry, take your time.”

“We are taking our time. We always take our time.”

“Oh, of course! I would never suggest otherwise.”

The burly one glances at the lanky one. The lanky one, looking down, stays silent.

“Are you taking the mickey or what?” the burly one asks.

“Who, me, officer?”

“No. My paralysed grannie.”

“Wow, officer, I applaud your sense of humour.”

“Turn around,” the burly one brusquely orders.

“I beg your pardon, officer?”

“I said, turn around,” and then he adds, addressing the lanky one: “I don’t like this guy one little bit.”

“I assure you, officers, I understand your position,” I say, slightly anxious. “I know you’re just protecting our security.”

“Hands flat on the vehicle.”

“Yes, officer.”

“Legs wide apart.”

“Yes, officer.”

“And keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, officer.”

Apparently enraged, the burly one knees me hard in the side. I feel a ring of fire in my ribs.