Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

Everything can be put to good use. It had been useful training. For the first time he felt on his fingertips the clear sensation of being able to control vital threads.

‘It’s time the king ascended the hill and moved the pieces without being in the thick of battle. It’s time, yes,’ said the lawyer, preparing with the dynamo of his hands a remark that would bring the conciliabule to a close and hoist him on to Mariscal’s shoulders. ‘As the ancients used to say, Hic Rhodus, hic salta! That’s right, gentlemen. Here is Rhodes, jump here!’

Mariscal appreciated the tribute and nodded thoughtfully. His head had to cope with the weight of the crown. And it leaned on its temples for support.

‘There’s a level here,’ he said finally. ‘This is what makes it nice to work with people!’

Macro Gamboa had remained silent, with his hands between his legs. He’d worked for a long time transporting things by land and sea and had risen to the condition of businessman on his own merits. He hadn’t once glanced at the landscape. He seemed more interested in the others’ shoes. Their oscillating movements.

It was some time before his hoarse voice emerged from his inhospitable mouth.

‘What the hell are we talking about?’

ON THE RIGHT of his desk, Óscar Mendoza had a large globe. The lawyer was standing up, watching it and making it turn. Víctor Rumbo was sitting opposite.

‘You’ve gone quiet, what’s the matter?’

‘I have an opinion, but it hasn’t got to my head yet.’

The lawyer smiled. He recognised the quip. This was one of his standard jokes about Galicians. Mendoza thought he’d have to change this habit of his. Telling jokes about Galicians. Yes, they laughed at their jokes, but then they chewed the words in a corner, as cows chew the cud. No, he wasn’t going to say that aloud. Besides, Víctor had a quick temper. Not for nothing was he called Brinco. He would jump out of his seat, react to the slightest provocation. If they cut off his arms, he’d row with his teeth. Better this way. No turning sharp corners, no dropping hints, no change of heart. He hated all that wrong-footing in the dance. Brinco was determined. His ambition was clear to see. Obviously much more of a wolf than a fox. They understood each other. And would get closer all the time.

‘That Brinco’s crazy,’ he’d said once to Mariscal about Víctor Rumbo. It was true he’d done something crazy, unloading a boat in broad daylight. But what the lawyer wanted to know was what the Old Man really thought. They called him that and he didn’t mind. So when Mariscal remained silent, he rephrased his statement: ‘To do what he did, you have to be off your rocker. It won’t be easy to defend him if he carries on like this.’

‘Did he burn some money?’ said Mariscal abruptly.

‘Why would he burn some money?’ asked Mendoza in surprise.

‘Well, if he didn’t burn any money, then he’s not crazy.’

That was the end of Brinco’s mental check-up. The one sitting opposite Mendoza. The madman who didn’t burn any money and was going to be his henchman. His right-hand man.

‘Anyway, no more being the Atlantic’s fastest pilot. You’re a captain now. You have to take better care of your spine.’

The lawyer pushed the globe with his forefinger, making it spin, but this time more slowly. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead of us. But first you should go and see the Old Man, Víctor.’

‘I see him every day!’ he replied sombrely. ‘He’s my favourite ghost.’

‘You’re like a son to him…’

It was Brinco who approached the globe now and gave it a shove. ‘What do you mean, like a son? If I’m going to be your boss, don’t go talking to me like some idiot out of a soap opera!’

‘If the client doesn’t agree with the discourse, one has to change the discourse.’

Mendoza pushed the globe in the other direction, his voice seeming to slide all over it. ‘Confucius travelled somewhere and was told, “Straightness rules in this kingdom. If a father steals something, the son turns him in; if the son steals something, the father turns him in.” Confucius replied, “Straightness also rules in my kingdom. There the son covers up for his father and the father covers up for his son.”’

At this point in time, Mendoza would have liked to have Mariscal before him. He would have come out with some Latin, appreciated the elevation in style.

‘Got you, Confucius,’ barked Brinco before slamming the door behind him. As he did with cars. Something that made Mendoza very nervous.

FINS MALPICA WAS driving an unmarked car along the coastal road. He was accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Humberto Alisal of the Civil Guard, who’d come from Madrid in plain clothes. They were heading for the barracks in Noitía. It was an inspection without prior warning.

‘Where are you from, inspector?’

‘I was born here, sir. Nearby. In a fishing village in Noitía. A de Meus.’

‘Do your parents still live here?’

‘My father died some time ago. At sea…’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘A stick of dynamite went off in his hands.’

When he gave this detail, something he endeavoured to do as quickly as possible, Fins knew there would be an infinite moment, something like the pause between the ticking of a clock.

‘Oh!’

It was raining lightly. Fins allowed the windscreen wiper to introduce a couple of asides. Then he expanded on the information. ‘My mother’s still alive. She has problems managing her memory. Of memory loss, I should say.’

‘Alzheimer’s is terrible,’ remarked Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. ‘My mother had it. She’d mix me up with the weatherman! Blow kisses whenever he appeared on television…’ He made the contained gesture of someone blowing a kiss from the palm of his hand. ‘I don’t know how she made that association.’

‘Maybe the weatherman’s pointer and the staff of office,’ said Fins.

Humberto Alisal laughed and shook his head. ‘No, she never saw me with a staff of office.’

Fins was about to say something about body language, but they were reaching their destination. He slowed down. The windscreen wiper groaned out of laziness. From the car park where they came to a halt they could hear the low panting of the sea muffled by blasts of errant water.

The car park opposite the Civil Guard barracks was full of mostly new, top-of-the-range cars. Given that this was a restricted space, it made the conglomeration of luxury vehicles even more obvious. The contrast between the one Fins Malpica had just parked, his Citroën Dyane, and the others was like that between a barge and a fleet of high-class yachts.

Once out of the vehicle, with Fins behind him, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal seemed to be giving the impressive sedans the once-over. His was a silent review that didn’t conceal his displeasure. He walked slowly, paying careful attention to the minor details, starting with the number plates, all of which indicated that the cars had only just been bought. ‘This is shameful!’

Fins had been hugely surprised when Superintendent Carro called him into his office to inform him of Alisal’s visit and request that he should accompany him. Ever since, on a different trail, he’d located these ‘trout in the milk’, he’d been in touch with Chief Superintendent Freire of the Civil Guard. The kind of guy he trusted, with whom he would have entered the heart of darkness. Freire paid an undercover visit. And was the one who informed his superiors.

‘It hurt me to discover the truth, sir. To start with, I tried to look the other way, but more and more trout kept appearing in the milk. So then I spoke to Chief Superintendent Freire. He came here incognito. Saw first hand what there was.’