Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

Mara lowered her weapon. She was mute, downcast, like the lamps illuminating the street. She bent down and picked something off the ground. Leda Hortas’ high heels.

After the bulletin’s signature tune, the presenter read two news items. One referred to international politics and the other to Spanish politics. Then something about the economy, referring to the rise in petrol prices. Finally he mentioned the name of Noitía, and Mariscal let out a cloud of smoke.

‘A total of thirty-six people were arrested last night and early this morning accused of belonging to drug trafficking and smuggling rings during the so-called Operation Noitía. Among the detainees was Víctor Rumbo, president of Sporting Noitía, alleged to be at the front of a powerful organisation. The operation, in which all the different security forces took part, was conducted with the utmost secrecy. As a result of numerous checks and inspections, huge amounts of drugs, cash and firearms have been confiscated.

‘We will now hear from one of those responsible for the operation, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. “This was a harsh blow to the smugglers of tobacco. And also a way of stopping any kind of illegal trafficking. It sends out much more than a clear warning. Society should feel calm and criminals uneasy. From now on, they should know we are going to root out any such activities.”’

‘I told you you could watch Spanish television from here.’

‘It’s better than over there!’

It was early in the afternoon. Delmiro and Mariscal had just had lunch. They’d settled into the sofa in a room in Quinta da Velha Saudade to watch the news. At the end, the Old Man lit a cigar.

He exhaled and watched the smoke climb, entwine the chandelier like ivy.

He clicked his tongue. ‘You should try one of these, Delmiro!’

The ocean down by the South Pole had been lifted up. Chelín was sitting cross-legged in the Antarctic. He gazed at the image of Lord Byron contemplating the freedom of Greece. The best friend he’d never had. Serene unease. He shut the tome and placed it on top of the other on the shelf. Opened the suitcase with his nest. His tools for shooting up. The syringe, rubber band, jar of distilled water, teaspoon, filters, lighter. And, most important of all, the little ball. He secured the spoon in the gap between the two volumes of Civilisation . This way he had the bowl in front of him, the crater in which to ferment the sphere. That’s right. He still had enough heroin for a good fix. A fix in three movements. He had to pump in three movements. Pump the blood. A mouse stared at him from the middle of the ocean. He was used to them scurrying about. Used to the blind gaze of the mannequin, the gaze of the one-armed skeleton and the desiccated crane. But the mouse’s gaze was enormous. It was far away, but touched him with the graphite of its eyes. A mouse contemplating the freedom of Greece.

The nest in his suitcase was a hole surrounded by wads of dollars. There was room for the pendulum and the Astra Llama. A treasure for the freedom of Greece. He’d have given anything for a kiss. A bit of saliva in his mouth.

Chelín put everything back under the ocean’s planks.

Fins Malpica’s first impulse was to sniff the air. It wasn’t meant to be an overreaction. If he did this, it was because he felt truly dizzy, a dizziness that was accompanied by the smell of burning oil. He managed to control himself. Change his expression of disgust for one of total seriousness.

And this is how he emerged from the courthouse. Descending the stairs like someone counting the steps and finding that several are missing. There were people outside, a cluster of journalists, waiting to hear the sentence passed on Víctor Rumbo, the main detainee in Operation Noitía. Fins didn’t answer any questions. He ignored the microphones. Gulped back the historic sentences.

‘What happened, inspector?’ asked a journalist.

‘You’ll hear about it soon enough.’

He was learning to talk like a cynic. He didn’t avoid the cluster of hostile faces. Nor did he issue any challenges. He just walked on by like a man without a care in the world. Which is to say, a man who is fucked.

On his way to the car, he met Mara. She was distracted. Confused by the run of events.

‘They’re going to set him free. It’s unbelievable,’ said Fins. ‘The bail’s tiny. You’d have thought Rhesus Negative had lent a hand.’

‘Rhesus Negative?’

‘One of the court’s henchmen.’

Leda Hortas pushed open the door of the courthouse and exclaimed happily, ‘He’s been set free!’

There was Brinco with his ace’s smile, accompanied by two other important detainees, Inverno and Chumbo, and by the lawyer Óscar Mendoza. From the top of the stairs, the lawyer took control of the situation. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a good day for Noitía! My client, Víctor Rumbo, has been set free. Later on we’ll give the details. The important thing now is to celebrate the fact that justice has been done and our beloved neighbour can come home. Thank you, everyone!’

‘Mr Rumbo, how are you feeling?’ asked the journalist Lucía Santiso.

‘Better than those who arrested me. I slept very well in fact.’

He caressed Leda. Put his arm around her. Kissed her. The scene was reminiscent of a medal ceremony.

‘And tonight I’m sure I’ll sleep even better!’

In the car Mara suddenly asked Fins, ‘What would you do if you got home and found your cat dead?’

‘By “dead”, do you mean really dead?’

‘Yes, I mean they killed him. Killed him and hung him on the door handle. Just like in the old days.’

Fins placed his hands on the steering wheel. Didn’t dare look at her. Or touch her.

‘Can I put on Casta Diva?’ she asked.

‘Of course you can. It’s there until it breaks.’

IN THE MIDDLE of the Vaudeville’s stage was a Cadillac Eldorado. Víctor Rumbo had bought it in Cuba. Seen it in Miramar, contacted the owner and not stopped until, when Brinco said it was his last day on the island, the owner had gestured to him to get in the car and take it for a drive. ‘Let’s go for a paseíto !’ He always told this story. And whenever he got mad, this was what he said, ‘Let’s go for a paseíto !’ He was terrifying when he said it. Because the business with the Cadillac got complicated. When it was finally unloaded in Vigo, Brinco’s expression changed. He spat out curses so foul they wounded the clouds. All that had arrived was the Eldorado’s bodywork. It wasn’t that he minded so much, despite all the administrative headaches. He only wanted the sedan for decoration. What bothered him was that the emblem on the bonnet was missing.

‘Where’s the lark? Where’s the fucking skylark?’

The package had been sealed, they explained in customs. Encased in wood. This was how it had travelled. Víctor Rumbo was spewing smoke. In his rage he’d forgotten the owner’s name. Called him ‘Let’s Go’. Shouted it out. Across the sea. A raving lunatic. ‘Let’s Go’ and ‘Skylark’.

‘Don’t get so upset over a steel bird,’ commented Óscar Mendoza. ‘I’ll get you one from a Rolls-Royce. The Spirit of Ecstasy. Now there’s an emblem!’

‘You don’t understand,’ shouted Brinco. ‘This one was mine. My own fucking skylark! I didn’t know what it was. And that bastard went and told me it was a lark.’

So he sent Inverno to Havana with the details, Let’s Go’s address and the instructions, ‘Don’t come back until you’ve got the emblem.’

In the middle of the stage was the Cadillac with its emblem.

Víctor Rumbo wanted to turn the Vaudeville into something straight out of a film. A before and afterwards in Noitía’s history. Till then, most singles clubs on coastal roads had been run-down, sinister places with depressing architecture oozing neon pus. The Vaudeville was going to be different. Unforgettable. A club that would cause stylish scandal among the jet set after a wild night out. Mendoza, Rocha and the increasingly active and enterprising Estela Oza were partners, with the corresponding front. For his part, Brinco wanted the Vaudeville to be an outrageous present for Leda. He went so far as to imagine her as the great madam reigning over her kingdom, controlling everything from an office with screens relaying what was going on in every corner. In the public and private rooms, but also in the bedrooms. She had character, ambition and style. Come on. She had more style, a savage attraction, than Estela Oza ever would. But things turned out otherwise. As expected, he did his bit. Went and found the women. Because this is how it works. People think prostitutes travel around like tourists. Well, no. You have to attend the auction. Check their teeth. Compete with other buyers. Tame them. Protect them. So to speak. This was Brinco’s business. And he did what he had to. He bought the meat.