Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

Brinco came marching down the new dyke. He was wearing a black leather jacket that turned into patent leather whenever it passed under one of the lamps. Behind him, in similar clothes, but with more zips and metal reinforcements, came Chelín, his lackey.

On several shallow-water boats preparations were under way to go out fishing. The sailors were laying out the tackle.

‘Hey, Brinco!’ shouted one of the younger sailors.

Víctor Rumbo carried on his way, but not without depositing a confidential greeting: ‘Everything OK?’

‘Doing what we can, Brinco.’ And then, to his companion, ‘See? That was Brinco.’

‘You sure?’

‘Of course I am! We played football together. Look. The other’s Chelín. Tito Balboa. A very fine goalie!’

‘Wasn’t he an addict?’

‘That guy always walked on the edge. For better and for worse.’

In his hiding place, however much the sea amplified their voices, Fins couldn’t make out their conversation. But he could hear the admiring salutations Víctor Rumbo received.

‘See you, Brinco!’

‘See you, champ!’

‘You sent for me?’

Mariscal responded with a cough, a kind of affirmative growl. Then cleared his throat. ‘It’s about time you were a little less formal, Víctor.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Brinco as if he hadn’t heard.

The Old Man gazed at the waters, which appeared calm but grumbled discontentedly against the dyke. ‘All the best stuff comes from the sea! All of it.’

‘Without the need for a single shovelful of manure!’

‘Have I told you that before?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘That’s the trouble with us ancients. We’re in the habit of repeating ourselves.’

Mariscal scratched his throat again. Stared at Víctor, adopting a more intimate tone of voice. ‘You’re the best pilot, Brinco!’

‘So they tell me…’

‘No, you are!’

Mariscal gestured to Carburo, who pulled a torch out of his pocket, switched it on and pointed it at the sea, creating Morse-like signals. They soon heard the sound of a motorboat that must have been waiting in the wings. Not a normal kind of boat. The roar of its horsepower overwhelmed the night.

‘Well, the best pilot deserves a bonus, an incentive!’

No such vessel had ever been seen in Noitía before. A speedboat of this length, its power increased by multiple engines on the stern. Inverno steered it towards the dyke.

‘How’s that barge then, Inverno?’

The subaltern was wildly enthusiastic.

‘It’s not a speedboat, boss. It’s a frigate! A flagship! We could cross the Atlantic in this!’

‘It has enough horsepower to travel around the world,’ boasted Mariscal. And then to Brinco, ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m checking out the horsepower.’

‘The flagship’s yours!’ said Mariscal. ‘And there’s no need to worry about the paperwork.’ He was overseeing delivery. ‘The boat’s in your mother’s name.’

This was what he liked to refer to as an ‘emotional coup’.

‘We’ll have to call it Sira then,’ replied Brinco, clearly waging an inner war to find the right tone of voice.

‘Why not? The name fits!’

The Old Man set off walking, with Carburo behind. Taking care not to step on his shadow. Measuring his distance. Suddenly Mariscal stopped, turned towards the dock and pointed at the boat with his cane. ‘Better name it Sira I .’

And then, ‘Well, aren’t you going to try it out?’

The last thing Fins saw was Brinco and Chelín boarding the powerful machine. Brinco taking hold of the steering wheel. And, after turning around, a swarm of bubbles rising and climbing in the night.

THERE WAS NO moon, nor was it expected. A formation of solid storm clouds, brand name the Azores, gave depth to the night’s darkness. On the surface of the sea, squeezed between two stones, a vein of graphite clarity. The high-speed customs patrol boat was hidden behind one of the crane boats for gathering mussels, which in turn was moored to a platform under repair. They were waiting for him. For Brinco. The fastest pilot. The estuary ace. A hero to smugglers.

The gurgle of his entrails may have rumbled out across the sea. The customs officer caught him clenching his teeth in an attempt to quell his gut’s rebellion. He realised the other man felt unwell, but didn’t say anything.

‘What, you seasick?’

It was the navigator who asked, with what seemed like inevitable scorn.

‘Do I look like the deceased?’ said Fins.

‘No, just dead for now.’

‘When we’re on the move, I’ll be OK,’ he said, feeling like a conspicuous bundle. Then he added with bravura, in an effort to encourage himself, ‘The faster the better!’

‘Well, now’s the time to wait,’ remarked the officer. ‘Take a deep breath. It’s all in the mind.’

Fins didn’t have time to explain that he’d been born on a boat, so to speak, during a maritime procession. Something like that. His body’s discomfort was a sort of trick or revenge.

The information was first class. Could cure any amount of seasickness.

There he was. Judging by the impressive engine, it could only be him. The kind of boat that was displayed in San Telmo and would suddenly disappear, moments before an inspection. Though recently they’d changed their habits. Started hiding the most valuable speedboats in sheds or warehouses in the most surprising places, sometimes a long way inland, at distances that could be measured in nocturnal miles, on secondary roads. This journey towards secrecy was part of the biggest change ever in the history of smuggling.

From mussel-raft blond to flour.

From tobacco to cocaine.

No, there weren’t any billboards advertising this historical change. And there were few superiors ready or willing to hear, let alone believe, his endless storytelling. Fins Malpica was a bloody nuisance, a prick, a lunatic. He should be assigned to investigating UFOs.

The boat turned. Seemed to be moving away with a mocking curtain of foam. But it came back. The ticking-over of the engine, by contrast, was like a whisper in the night. They docked next to platform B-52, exactly the one Fins had indicated. The customs officer and two agents stared with a mixture of admiration and disbelief at this pale young police inspector clinging to his camera as to a child, dressed like an apprentice on his first outing.

‘Great, golden information, inspector. My congratulations.’

A surprising informer. A nugget dropped by chance. An angry person’s betrayal of trust. These were the sources the officer turned over in his mind. Fins should have revealed the true story behind platform B-52. The hours upon hours of poring over registers. Analysing operations for buying and selling rafts. Grouping suspicious cases in a ‘grey area’. Unravelling the front man and real owner. Use, output, repairs to the structure. A whole series of dead hours and occasional living ones. And there it was, B-52. Real owner, Leda Hortas.

Somebody leaps from the speedboat on to the platform’s wooden arbour. Inverno, thinks Fins, because of the way he moves. He opens a trapdoor in one of the platform’s large floats. These used to be old drums, hulls or boilers. Now they’re made of plastic or metal and look like submersibles. On one of them is Inverno or whoever it is. He climbs into the float with a torch.

‘Full speed ahead! Let’s go get ’em!’ exclaims the customs officer.

This gives rise to shouts of alarm.

The smuggler emerges with a bundle. Skips across the wooden structure. Throws the sack to one of those on board and jumps after it.

A megaphone on the patrol boat orders them to stop. The agents point their weapons. They’re in such an advantageous position the pilot will have no problem cutting them off. What they don’t expect is such a rash manoeuvre. The speedboat’s sudden acceleration, the violent lifting of the nose so that it’s almost vertical, almost capsizing, the obvious suicidal wish, impervious to persuasion, to pass straight through the patrol boat.