Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

‘A real fairy tale. Let me see those photos!’

Fins immediately recognised the two younger men. A magnificent couple who were clearly on the same wavelength. The estuary ace and his lawyer. Víctor Rumbo and, in glasses, Óscar Mendoza.

‘Who are the others? That strange-looking man… and the woman in mourning. That waxen face. They look as if they’ve just come out of Tenebrae, having sung the Miserere.’

‘What makes him look so strange? He’s just a well-dressed old man in a tie.’

‘I don’t know. That waxen face… There’s something strange about it.’

‘He’s wearing a wig,’ said Mara. ‘That’s what it is. It’s not so unusual to wear a wig.’

‘On him it looks like some kind of geographical feature.’

‘He’s called Dead Man’s Hand,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you want to know more?’

‘Yes.’ Fins nodded. She was right, as always. You had to be patient.

Nuno Arcada, Dead Man’s Hand, had worked for the PIDE, the dictator Salazar’s secret police. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill policeman. He’d been assigned abroad for several years, most of the time in France. He’d infiltrated several groups in exile and also belonged to various emigrants’ associations with trade-union or cultural concerns. This was how he obtained information, not only about them, but also about what was going on back in Portugal.

‘He hunted inside and out,’ said Mara Doval. ‘And inside he had his own, very special hand, which he used during interrogations. He’s said to have been an expert in electricity. Obviously he had some very good Spanish friends with similar interests and occupations. This collaboration enabled him to go into hiding in Galicia after the Carnation Revolution. And it opened up several lines of business for him afterwards.’

‘The cars! It was an exchange. Probably the one Dead Man’s Hand was driving is the one with the upholstery. Financial, of course.’

‘That money’s in heaven by now!’

‘I’m impressed, Miss Mnemosyne. Did you mention this to the Portuguese Judiciary Police?’

‘No.’

‘No? You know there are some good people…’

‘Yes. But it was one of Berta’s cats who recognised the old man in the photo and told me his story. A Portuguese journalist. Working for the Jornal de Notícias . He’s been studying the PIDE’s crimes for years. Anything else?’

‘Yes, talk to me about Bellissima, please!’

CHELÍN TOOK SANTIAGO to a deserted beach in Bebo, the typical sort of cove that knows how to stay hidden, but when it’s found, opens like a shell. The path meandered between old stone walls protecting impossible crops. They’d obviously been erected by some intelligent mind because they had strategic holes for the wind to escape through. Which made them a bit nosy. Cabbages peered through. Sometimes sent the odd, restless bird to have a look. A black redstart, for example.

A haven of peace. A good firing range.

At the end of the path, where it met the beach, was an abandoned rusty road sign. A triangle with a red border. Inside the triangle, a black cow on a white background.

‘The things the sea comes up with!’

Chelín lifted the sign and placed some stones around its base to keep it upright.

‘I’m going to teach you the second most important thing a man should know.’

He took out the pistol he wore hidden on his back, next to his waist, under his jacket.

‘Something else the sea came up with,’ remarked Chelín with an ironic smile.

His ease calmed the boy’s initial amazement. He stopped next to him. Both of them eyed the sign. The cow. The man bent down and placed his right knee on the sand. Then wrapped his arms around the boy, helping him to hold the weapon and take aim.

‘That’s right, with gentleness,’ said Chelín, who set about preparing the weapon as he was speaking. ‘Do you know its name? Astra Llama. Nice, isn’t it? It’s a special one, with wooden grips. Everybody wants mother-of-pearl grips, but wood’s better. Wood is more loyal.’

‘Did the sea really give it to you?’

He gave free rein to his voice, he wasn’t quite sure why. It must have been as a result of removing the safety catch.

‘Actually I got it from a dealer. You know what a dealer is, don’t you? Someone who deals cards. Well, there’s another sort of dealer, one who deals in smack.’

Santiago laughed, repeated the word ‘smack’.

The man clicked his tongue. He had a big mouth that sometimes sounded off for him.

‘That’s right. We’ll go and see him one day. But in the meantime, don’t tell anyone about him. All right?’

He stared at the sea. The jumping of the waves. The waves’ mane. The beating surf, piercing sound. Exhaled. Focused. Set the trigger.

‘Nature’s amazing, Santi. The blessed host in verse. Now let’s take aim. Let’s blast that cow out of the skies.’

The shot reached its target. Left a perfect hole in the cow’s flank. To start with, the triangular sign groaned, as if wanting to avoid the fall.

‘Again, Santi!’

The wind fingered the new hole. Took it calmly. The sign finally succumbed to its fate.

‘See? Your lazy eye’s working already.’

Standing up, Chelín kissed his weapon and put it away. Looked around. Ruffled the child’s hair. Smiled. Turned towards the sea and unzipped his trousers.

‘Come on, champ! With style. Legs apart. Looking ahead, but keeping an eye on the dicky bird. Never into the wind. The birdie has to ride out the storm.’

Chelín laughed as he watched the rigorous, disciplined way in which the boy copied his movements. He then stood upright, looking martial, eyes to the front, to give the solemn message:

‘And this is the first thing a man should know. How not to get piss on his trousers!’

‘I’m fed up of counting boats,’ said Leda.

They were still together, next to the window. In the urban dusk it was the eyes that switched on the lights in a succession of candles. Unlike other cities, Atlántica grew at night. Next to the docks and in the estuary, the small lights on the cranes, showing the position of vessels, green and red, implied the hybrid awakening of animal and machine, the movements of a remarkable somnambulist.

Leda moved away from Brinco. Took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Fed up of everything!’

The woman returning to the frame of the window underlined her exclamation by blowing out smoke. She added with a hint of scorn, ‘Fed up of this sofa, most of all! You end up feeling like your whole body is imitation leather.’

‘Soon you’ll live in a palace,’ affirmed Brinco. They’d had this conversation before, but this time he had an air of determination.

‘Oh yes? What palace?’

‘Your own! I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry! With a large pool. So you can swim on your own like a mermaid.’

‘Better give it an outlet to the sea. Mermaids prefer the sea.’

‘I’m being serious. You won’t have to keep a lookout any more.’

‘So how you going to do that?’

‘If I were Mariscal, I’d have paid off the customs chief by now.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL spring day on the coast. Sunny, but windy as well. The east wind not only ruffles the sea, but for the first time after the long winter seems to want to distance it from the earth with gusts that whirl about its surface. It gathers up all the greens, pulling them in different directions. But this wind encourages the light, a succession of flashes, which perhaps lessens resistance and promotes sympathy.

We can see all of this with the help of Sira.

We can see it through the window in the Ultramar’s master bedroom. The largest, the one with the best views. The one known as La Suite. She is sitting on one side of the bed. Dressed. As she watches, she loosens her hair, which was tied up in a bun. The thing with windows that have the best view is they pique the curiosity of what they’re looking at. Here they come. To see Sira.