Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

At Mariscal’s table there sounds the percussion of dominoes. He likes to adorn suspense. Hold the piece in the air for a moment, its value hidden from sight, before revealing the enigma with a thwack that, on triumphant occasions, is followed by outbursts of strange historical consequences. ‘Tremble, Toledo! Carthago delenda est. ’

Mariscal is on the verge of playing, but seems distracted. As almost always, he’s wearing his white gloves, which act as a shade whenever the piece is bad. He looks up at the other end of the room, above the door. There, on a ledge, is a desiccated bird in a glass case. A little owl. Its eyes shine with an electric gleam. Two illuminated lights. Inverno follows his boss’s gaze.

‘Looks like the owl’s not going to sleep tonight.’

‘Those bastards are behind schedule,’ replies Mariscal.

‘Do you think we’ve an informer, boss?’

‘No, what we’ve got is a new bedbug. That sergeant knows very well what he has to do. But tomorrow he’ll up the stakes, you’ll see. Tell us there’s another mouth that needs feeding.’

He allows his thoughts to be heard, that constant, subordinated rumour. ‘Though it comes from filthy hands, money always smells of roses,’ etc., etc. He gazes at the token’s symmetry. A double three.

‘And we’ll have no choice but to pay! That’s the way the world works, Inverno. There’s no professionalism any more.’

Brinco and Chelín’s mission is to prevent any intruders from entering the back room, which is separated from the bar by two steps and some swing doors. What they do, in effect, is act as sitting mummies. If anyone approaches, even if what they want is to play billiards, though not a sound of this game can be heard, however ignorant or foreign they may be, a simple sideways glance from Brinco, of the kind that says go jerk off a dead man , is usually more than dissuasive.

So they concentrate their attention on the sergeant and the man with him. There is a third, Haroldo Grimaldo — Micho — a veteran inspector who sometimes drops into the Ultramar. Often he drops in the literal sense.

‘He’s half pissed already,’ says Brinco. ‘The only thing that saves him is his suspicion. He can see the demijohn before it’s reached him. He’s the one who’s clairvoyant, not you.’

Víctor is talking about Grimaldo, but his gaze is fixed on Leda, who sometimes helps out as a waitress. With her slender body. Her blazing long hair. Black pirate trousers. Tight-fitting white T-shirt. She’s good at her job, thinks Brinco, because she knows how to be with people. How to be and not to be. She doesn’t dole out sugar to horses.

In ceremonial style, Chelín gets out his pendulum. While he holds it in front of himself, it doesn’t move. He guides it gently towards Brinco, who’s sitting next to him, on the steps to the back room. The pendulum begins to swing. It accelerates when the centre of gravity is located above Brinco’s groin.

‘Brinco, you’re on fire!’

The other man grabs his wrist. The pendulum swings even faster.

‘It’s your pulse, you idiot!’

‘Sure, the throbbing of your dicky bird.’

Chelín seeks out Leda with his gaze. He knows where the magnetic pole is situated. She really is worth committing a crime for. She and Brinco have been living as a couple for some time. Soon after they got together, they had a child. And here they are. Who’d have said it of Víctor, the greatest pilot in Noitía, a real wild card, that he’d stick to a single nest. Contrary to expectations, she hadn’t been just another lobster in the pot, another prawn in the cocktail, another woman for hire.

‘You like her, don’t you? You’ve always liked her.’

It’s Brinco who says this suddenly to Chelín. He remains silent. Like a fool. The pendulum in the air, now still.

‘Why don’t you go and measure her battery with that bullet of yours?’ says Brinco.

In other circumstances, Chelín would stay where he is. He’s used to the fact that Brinco’s thoughts, words and deeds don’t always match. You have to read between the lines. The moments when he is nice are the most perilous. They’re like little gifts before he takes off. There are other moments when he’s delirious, not working. Right now Chelín decides to take him at his word and play along. The game with the pendulum. He gets up. Goes over to Leda. Holds the pendulum in front of her breasts. The bullet starts swaying madly.

‘Leda, look how you put it into orbit,’ gasps Chelín. ‘You’re a universal dynamo.’

‘It’s your pulse,’ she replies. ‘I can hear your heart. The beating of a mouse.’

Brinco comes over. Chelín doesn’t know whether he’s smiling or threatening. His mouth has that thick-lipped scar, which never really healed. Because of where he’s looking, in the end Chelín comes to the conclusion, with some relief, that this has nothing to do with him.

‘Give that to me!’ says Brinco, taking the pendulum out of his hands.

Chelín quickly tries to work out the direction of his gaze. There’s not much point in him surveying the pair of guards. They’re dressed in plain clothes, or as Mariscal would say, their plain clothes are their uniform. One of them is an old acquaintance, Sergeant Montes. They should have left long ago, but they’re still here. It’s their job to guard the guards. So what’s he doing?

Brinco stares arrogantly at the guards. Raises the pendulum. The bullet on the end of a chain. They pretend not to notice. The sergeant makes out he’s reading the newspaper, but he’s spent all afternoon on the same page. His colleague sips a soft drink rather too slowly. ‘Coca-Colo’, Brinco calls him.

‘Víctor! What’s going on?’

Brinco turns around. Rumbo is calling him from the bar. There’s something in his codified look.

‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’

Brinco holds the pendulum in front of his eyes and lets it take him in search of Leda.

Eventually the sergeant attracts Leda’s attention with a click and gesture of his fingers and asks how much they owe. She looks at Rumbo inquisitively. He gives Montes a clear answer. Without words. The cross he makes with his hands says, ‘It’s on the house. Everything’s paid. Till next time.’

Once the guards have left the premises, the barman presses a switch under the counter. In the back room, the little owl’s eyes finally go out. A sign, the switching on and off of the lights, that is repeated three times. Until the eyes are extinguished.

‘Finally! Let’s get moving. Inverno, Carburo, let’s conquer the West!’

Mariscal heads towards the billiard table and grabs the cue. Everyone else has suspended their game. The cards and pieces, which seconds earlier were hooting and cawing like carriers of destiny, have lost their purpose and are abandoned haphazardly.

‘Sorry, gentlemen, but night has fallen,’ begins Mariscal. ‘If anyone has domestic obligations, well… I don’t want anyone’s wife to be annoyed with me. No one? Good. This could be a great day for all of us. For… the Society.’

Mariscal surveys the billiard table as if he’s just discovered terra incognita .

‘You all know what a mamma is, now, don’t you?’

He is clearly bursting at the seams. With a message for the world.

‘Always thinking about one thing… A woman takes her child to the doctor’s and the doctor enquires, “How’s it going? Is the baby sucking well?” And the mother replies, “Very well, Doctor! Just like an adult.”’

This is followed by the first round of nods and laughter.

‘Talking of sucking people dry, we have a new lawyer. A brilliant guy, who should be around here somewhere. Try and avoid him. You all know priests and lawyers are not allowed on board.’