Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

Cassius Clay, aka Muhammad Ali.

The butterfly and the bee.

A good epitaph for Guadalupe.

HIS FINGERS TRIED to keep up with his thoughts, but couldn’t. They galloped over the keys but sometimes had to go back, and then he would click his tongue in annoyance. He only stopped when he heard her mocking voice: ‘Go for it, Simenon!’

‘I lack the gift he had for writing and fucking at the same time, I’m sorry.’

‘One has to appreciate one’s limits. Take it easy.’

Mara’s bare feet lay on top of the keyboard of her typewriter. The nails painted midnight blue. One of the last jobs in Bellissima. His colleague’s gaze didn’t exactly encourage an erotic game.

‘Do you see something?’

In her lap were photographs of Guadalupe Brancana taken on the beach and the autopsy table.

‘I see the face of someone who was afraid before she died. Very afraid. Long before she died. Years, perhaps… But I don’t think that will be any use to the coroner or for the forensic report. It’s artistic criticism, nothing more.’

‘There are no skid marks on the road. Did you talk to the coroner?’

‘He behaved very well. Whatever we may think, there’s no way of connecting Mariscal to this death. And the girl, Mónica, has gone to ground. The fact is, Guadalupe was taking tranquillisers, which confirms the hypothesis of driver error. There are witnesses who saw her make several mistakes while out driving. They had no further consequences. Until yesterday, that is. In the end, though, barbiturates may have been her only source of affection.’

‘I’m amazed. It’s impressive working with someone who did their thesis on post-mortem expressions.’

‘The head of department suggested I do it on post-mortem auctoris . The duration of authors’ rights after their death. These are the legal cases of the future. Especially once the world has succumbed to those clever little machines that will do away with paper. But I wanted to compete with Darwin, who wrote on The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals .’

Mara placed her feet on the floor, leaned her elbow on the table thoughtfully and stared at Fins.

‘You’re doing all right yourself. Though the nickname Simenon wasn’t my idea. I’m a fan of Hammett. They say you wrote a report that resembles a novel. A good novel at that.’

‘If you want to screw a novel, say something nice about it. They’ll bury the report, Mara, you’ll see.’

‘Well, I liked it. “Most excellent sirs: real power in Noitía is being exercised in darkness and silence…” Good opening. Sounds like an anarchist skit.’ She then continued with the voice of a distant radio presenter: ‘“The only way to take effective action against organised crime is by seeing and listening in that zone of shadow and silence.”’

As he listened to her in surprise, it occurred to Fins that the voice of truth had a hankering for fiction.

‘I was just thinking…’

The one who opened the door, without knocking as usual, was Grimaldo, an overweight veteran inspector with fishy eyes and a sharp tongue. He was dressed like a careless dandy, carrying a copy of the Gazeta de Noitía which he threw on the table in front of Fins to reveal the front page.

There was a picture of Mariscal smiling and the following large headline:

Brancana, favourite for mayor

‘NOITÍA WILL BE A MODEL OF PROGRESS’

Underneath the photograph, the subheading: ‘In these parts, smugglers are honourable people.’

Grimaldo was obviously in his element.

‘Now there’s a work of art to add to your chart on the Last Judgement. “Smugglers are honourable people.” With a pair of balls! Don’t let it get you down, Fins, enjoy yourself! Old Mariscal is quite the comedian. Check out this other pearl.’

ÓSCAR MENDOZA

NEW PRESIDENT OF THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

‘As with miracles, there are not two, but three. Let’s have a look at the sports page. Allow me…’

With Víctor Rumbo as President

SPORTING NOITÍA ON A TOUR OF AMERICA

‘Now isn’t that wonderful? A team in the third division out to conquer the world! And captain of the expedition is their new manager, Chelín, a friend of all things pharmaceutical. I’m off. You can carry on slaving away for the Apocalypse. At dawn the moon will be eclipsed by a flight of hens! You’ll be able to watch it from this tower, where the most secret confidential report on the ills of the world is currently being written. Not that there are many people left in Noitía who don’t know about it.’

Micho Grimaldo left, scattering the sheets of newspaper in a triumphant cynical wake. Fins raised his middle finger. ‘Go fuck yourself, Grimaldo!’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Mara. ‘Don’t waste your time with that sack of poison.’

‘He should write the report. You know why? Because he’s in on the secret.’

They were reading the section of social news in Noitía as a kind of collective obituary. Now somebody did knock at the door. Mara opened it.

‘Fins!’

In came Lieutenant Colonel Alisal and Superintendent Carro. Their appearance wasn’t exactly that of retreating superior officers being overwhelmed by a wave of corruption. The superintendent took the initiative with an effusive metaphor. ‘We’ve been given the green light!’

‘Tonight we’ll put in practice Operation Noitía,’ informed Alisal. ‘Apart from high command, you’re the first to know. We only have time to wait for reinforcements that are uncontaminated .’

‘The phone tapping, sir… That always puts paid to everything.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Alisal. ‘We’ve cut all ears and tongues. Stuffed poison inside the molehills.’

‘YOU FRIGHTEN THE balls, Carburo. That’s why you win.’

Mariscal took amusement from the intimidating way in which his bodyguard played billiards. Carburo arched his body and, with the cue and his gaze in threatening symmetry, seemed to be giving the balls unappealable messages.

The phone rang.

The Old Man gestured with disinterest. Let it ring. He didn’t like the way new technology stuck its nose in. Deep down the Portuguese Delmiro Oliveira was right when he joked, ‘Mariscal is one of those who believe the Yankees never landed on the moon.’ It was a personal matter. TV and videos were putting an end to cinema. The smuggling of tapes was profitable, but no more than that. Peccata minuta . It was the same with dance halls, which had finally closed owing to what he called ‘all that paraphernalia’. As for the ringing of the phone, this was for him the technical triumph of interference in private affairs. It was a personal matter. The phone had destroyed the cowboy’s way of life and put paid to horses in cinema. Without horses, there were no centaurs in the desert. Or speedboats, as Rumbo used to say. Poor Rumbo. Always trying to sound ironic.

There were three successive rings, which cut off. And then a fourth ring which continued. Mariscal paid attention to the machine. Affixed to the wall, black in colour except for the white of its dial, it gazed at him with the animal melancholy of its panoptic eye.

Without waiting for orders, Carburo picked up.

‘Whoever it is, tell them I’m not here,’ said Mariscal, looking at the other animal, the desiccated little owl. Its electric eyes had stopped working some time before. He’d ordered them to be repaired on more than one occasion, but that was the power of technology for you, he thought angrily. The old owl’s eyes were still not working.

‘Understood,’ said Carburo, adding, before Mariscal could make a sign, ‘Greetings to Mr Viriathus.’