Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

Full stop.

Finis certaminis .

‘That’s the first interview I’ve given,’ said Mariscal afterwards. He seemed satisfied with the experience. He became less formal with the journalist. ‘I hope it’s not your last… Include a bit of criticism, why not? The best way to sink somebody in the shit is by praising them to the skies!’

He turned towards the swing doors. Brinco gazed at them obliquely.

‘Come in, son!’

Víctor Rumbo entered like someone clearing his way through a current of air.

‘You’re… aren’t you…?’

‘I’m nobody,’ Brinco interrupted her.

Lucía felt the violence contained in his voice. Took shelter behind Mariscal’s presence.

‘Would you permit me a photograph, sir? I don’t know where that photographer’s got to. He hasn’t arrived yet.’

The Old Man glanced over at his new captain. He knew him well. He recognised the surge in his breathing, the wake of a confrontation.

‘There was a man outside,’ said Brinco suddenly. ‘Taking photographs of the cars. I don’t like people taking photographs of cars.’

‘And what happened?’ asked Mariscal uneasily. ‘Did you send him to hospital for taking snaps of a few vehicles?’

‘No. He’ll just have to buy a new camera, that’s all.’

Mariscal looked at Lucía and made a gesture of patience and apology with his arms. Agreed to have his photograph taken with the journalist’s own camera. A way of making up for the damage.

‘Go ahead!’ he said finally. ‘An old gallant can be persuaded to do anything!’

The boss positioned the brim of his hat, then crossed his arms with confidence, allowing the metal handle of his cane to appear next to the pocket silk handkerchief. Wrought silver with a pheasant’s head.

‘That cane is a beauty, Mr Mariscal.’

‘The silver is silver, my girl, and the wood is from Itín. Always getting harder.’

His face seemed to harden as well, with carved features, as if offering a natural resistance to the succession of flashes.

‘Is that it? If all goes well, you’ll sell every copy. It’ll be a great day for the Gazeta !’

‘And if it doesn’t go well?’ asked Víctor Rumbo. This time he looked past her face. Lucía Santiso felt invaded by the piercing gaze of someone commonly known as Brinco, who now addressed her directly. ‘If you wait outside, I’ll tell you who nobody is.’

She hesitated. Said, ‘I’ve a lot of work.’ And then, ‘I’ll wait.’

Carburo got out of the van and approached the newspaper seller in the kiosk on Camelio Branco Square in Noitía.

‘The Gazeta ,’ he growled.

This was his way of asking for things. The newspaper woman realised this and handed him a copy.

‘No, no, I want them all.’

Now she did look at him in surprise. But this being the Ultramar, she was used to not sticking her nose in. She handed him all the copies. Finally let out, ‘Has it got your obituary or something?’

Carburo pointed at the front page, with a picture of Mariscal. ‘The boss is in it.’

His portrait occupied the centre of the page. His hat and white suit gave him the appearance of a dandy, which was reinforced by the way he grasped his cane in the middle, lifting the handle to the height of his chest.

‘Yes, I saw. He looks very smart,’ said the kiosk woman with a hint of irony. ‘Obviously he’s the one who wields the stick. Why don’t you take some flowers, Carburo? They’re my last ones.’

The giant stared at the roses. ‘No, I’m not hungry.’

He has a sense of humour, thought the woman. Only when he imitates himself.

‘THE OLD MAN is sorry.’

Víctor Rumbo got up from the rock where they were sitting next to Cons lighthouse, by the crosses in memory of dead sailors, and chucked a stone in the water. Turned around and stared at Fins. ‘Sorry he’s been so good to you.’

‘What did he think? That I was going to come and buy some dynamite from him?’

‘See what a troublemaker you are? The Old Man’s right. Why is it so hard for you to be more pleasant? More… honest?’

‘Honest? What do you mean?’

‘Set your price. That would be the honest thing to do.’

‘What’s your price? Help me. Get yourself out of this web as soon as you can. It’s not going to last for ever, Brinco. The judicial system will work, sooner or later.’

‘You’re dumb. Don’t refuse my offer. I’m not going to be a grass. An informer. You know why? For one simple reason. There’s more money on this side. The Old Man said, “Go talk to him, I’m still not sure if he’s dumb or not.” And I asked him, “How will I know, Mariscal?” He said, “If he burns any money, then he’s dumb.” How much do they give for a dead policeman, Fins? A medal perhaps. And a couple of lines in the newspaper.’

‘Sometimes they don’t even get that.’

‘Do you want medals? We’ll buy you some medals. Do you want to appear in the newspaper? Better to do it when you’re alive than when you’re dead.’

‘Yes, it’s always a bit more lively.’

They laughed together for the first time.

‘Then you could devote yourself full time to your artistic photography…’

As he was making this suggestion, Víctor Rumbo pulled a couple of photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket. Handed one to Fins.

‘As you see, we have people we can trust in all places. This is one you took of me in Porto airport with Mendoza. An interesting trip, as I’m sure you heard.’

‘Yes, I heard something about it,’ confirmed Fins, suppressing his surprise. Without further ado, he stretched out his hand for Víctor to give him another image. Brinco toyed with the photograph, using it to make the arching movement of an airship.

‘This isn’t one of yours!’

Fins examined every corner of the photographic paper. Tried to ascertain if it was a montage. He was amazed. It showed Brinco with the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar. Both of them laughing.

‘Yes, yes… that’s right! No, you’re not hallucinating. With Pablo Escobar, on the Naples estate between Medellín and Bogotá. You should have seen the zoo. He had elephants, hippopotamuses, giraffes, lakes with black-necked swans… But the thing he liked best was cars. That day he was over the moon. His wife had just bought him a car driven by James Bond. He showed me another car that had belonged to Bonnie and Clyde… No, there’s no trick. It’s authentic. A real treasure, right?’

He stretched out his hand for Fins to return it.

‘How much do you think it’s worth… was worth?’

Brinco pulled out a lighter and set the image on fire. Let it burn to cinders. Then handed Fins the third and final photograph.

‘This is the tops! A work of art.’

It was one of the photos Fins had taken from the docks, showing Leda in the window with a look of pleasure and Víctor embracing her from behind.

‘Keep it…’

He stood up. Threw another stone into the sea. Headed back to the car, which was parked on the track leading to the lighthouse, but first turned around.

‘The day you know your price, write it on the back.’

‘How did it go?’

Mariscal was waiting for him in the back room of the Ultramar.

‘He’s turned ugly and there’s no changing him,’ replied Brinco.

The Old Man was about to say something, but interrupted it with a cough. He had this ability. He realised when something was inappropriate and stopped himself in time by drowning it in his throat.

‘His father… Did he ask you about his father?’

‘No, we didn’t discuss the old days.’

‘Better like that,’ said the Old Man, standing up, swinging his cane, gazing at the little owl. ‘ Mutatis mutandis , what do you know about his companion, that busybody who helps him?’