Manuel Rivas: All Is Silence

‘The payment’s been made. I’m sure of it.’

‘Milton’s two-thirds? Don’t be so sure. Who was the courier?’

An unfamiliar sweat appeared on his forehead, dripping into the caverns of his nose. He thought about it quickly. Didn’t reply to Mariscal’s question. Said, ‘I’ll check it out.’

‘That’s better.’

He talked to Chelín. It took him a while to call, but in the end he called. There’d been a complication. He’d been late for the meeting. He knew it was in Benavente. But everything was OK. Under control. He sounded confident. He’d organised a second meeting. Had all the coordinates. Everything was arranged. The payment would take place in Madrid. To make up for the inconvenience.

Brinco spent the following day in the Vaudeville. He was expecting a confirmation call that evening. That was what they’d agreed on. But the call came from Carburo. Nobody had turned up for the meeting in Madrid. Brinco set Inverno, Chumbo, everybody he had, in motion. He even spoke to Grimaldo. Find Chelín. No, he didn’t want him to call. Bring him in. As quickly as possible. Whatever it took. By the balls if necessary.

But Chelín had gone to ground. A long time passed. Three days was far too long. The whole world could go crazy in under three days. And that was what was happening. The rumbles got louder and louder. Closer to home. And one of the loudest, this annoyed him, came from Óscar Mendoza.

He’d drunk too much. That night and the previous nights. To see if one hangover could cure another. He was leaving the Vaudeville with Cora. He’d come up with one of those stupid, wonderful ideas. To take her somewhere special.

OK, he hadn’t drunk so much. He was OK. Yes, he felt better. Come on, you. Tonight is going to be special. He was just about to unlock his car when another ground to a halt. Out got Inverno, who opened the back door. Chumbo shoved Chelín outside.

‘Here he is,’ said Inverno. ‘We caught him in Porto. About to board a plane.’

‘We got a tip-off from a friend of Wiggy’s,’ added Chumbo.

‘Where the hell were you going?’ Brinco demanded of Chelín. Or rather of the half-man that had once been Chelín.

‘To Greece.’

‘To Greece? What the fuck were you going to do in Greece?’

‘I always wanted to go to Greece, Brinco. You know that.’

A bag of bones. Since the last time he’d seen him, he’d lost a lot of weight. He was as thin as a flatfish. But the worst thing was his face. Those sunken eyes. Better calm down a bit.

‘So where’s the money, Chelín?’

‘There’s nothing left, Brinco. They played that trick with the aeroplane. Went and stole it. I thought it was them when it was someone else.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, Chelín?’

‘You have to help me, Brinco. They’re after me. They’re going to kill me!’

Víctor tore back the sleeve on his left arm. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! For the love of God! Hadn’t you given this up, you prick?’

‘Don’t leave me, Brinco, don’t leave me…’

The lights in a few windows had gone on. The first sign of complaints.

‘No, I won’t leave you. It’s not your fault. Let’s get out of here. Come on!’

Inverno pushed back the levers in the junction box to turn on the floodlights. The football pitch lit up. Chumbo took a throw-in. Víctor Rumbo was leading Chelín by the shoulder. Not violently, but holding on to him. They walked towards the nearest area. It was cold on that large open pitch and Cora waited behind, trying to warm herself up with her own embrace. The boss called to her, however. ‘Come on, you.’ And she obeyed, moving like a tightrope walker, her heels sinking into the grass.

‘Don’t fuck me, Brinco. What the hell are we doing here?’

‘What do you think? We’re going to play!’

He pushed Chelín into the goalmouth. As he was talking, he placed the ball on the penalty spot.

‘We won a lot of matches together, remember? You were a fucking great goalie. OK, a good one. A guy I could trust. Isn’t that right?’

In the middle of the goalmouth, Chelín looked disorientated, shipwrecked. But the position he was in helped him. He remembered the keeper he’d been. Stood tall. A little bit.

Brinco gave himself a run-up to take the penalty. But then suddenly turned to Cora.

‘Why don’t you take it?’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

Cora took off her shoes.

‘Oh, come on, Brinco! Don’t let her take it.’

‘Go on, girl.’

Cora ran barefoot and kicked the ball with all her might. Chelín tried to save it. A dive to one side, at the limit of his strength, which left him lying on the ground, moaning softly.

The others left. He saw them from where he was lying. With their backs to him. Cora’s shoes, which she held in her hand. The only thing similar to a farewell.

He tried to get up, but his body preferred to remain on that bald patch of earth. His eyes were taken in by the leathery, indifferent line of grass, the goalkeeper’s nightmare.

‘I always brought you good luck. What do you think?’

Carburo cut a strange, solitary figure that night in the Ultramar. In a white apron, static as papier mâché, his arms crossed, an angry expression, rooted in front of the television. The map of isobars. There was a knock at the door. He used to like haranguing the weatherman. What had happened to the weatherman? Perhaps he was a fugitive and this was him at the door, seeking shelter.

There was another rap at the glass door. The beating of a tambourine. Carburo moved the curtain and saw it was Brinco. With merry company. Just what he needed. He opened up silently. He wasn’t the kind to pretend he was pleased to see you.

‘Evening, Captain Carburo! We’ve come to ride out the storm!’

‘What storm?’

Brinco laughed. Carburo’s permanent bad mood always struck him as funny. Having climbed the stairs, on the landing he embraced Cora around the waist from behind. They walked like this, swaying slightly, covered and uncovered by the curtains the wind puffed out.

‘How well you ride the wind!’

When he saw the door of the suite, Brinco’s expression changed suddenly. Became tense. Hardened. Looked back.

‘Fucking wind! Why don’t they ever shut the blasted windows?’

‘What you looking at?’

‘The sea!’ Cora seemed moved, like someone who’s found an image she’s always dreamed of.

‘The sea? Aren’t you sick of looking at the sea?’ Brinco went over to the window. ‘Besides, you can hardly see it.’

She knew he was half drunk. She’d started to know him well. The other half filled sometimes with electrified passion, others with a sickly blackness. When he spat out his words, she didn’t flinch.

‘Yes, you can. It’s on fire.’

‘On fire, eh? That’s good, girl. Stay where you are.’

She stayed. On the bed. Gazing through the window at a sea that could be seen and not seen. Víctor went into the bathroom and switched on the light, the door half open. He looked at himself in the mirror. This sweat. This unfamiliar sweat. He rinsed his face with cold water. And again. Looked at his wet face. Raised his fist to break the face that was now in the mirror. But in the end moved his fist aside and banged the wall. Had difficulty breathing, as after a long fight. His forehead pressed against the mirror. The freshness.

Cora came over to the door. Didn’t push or look. Just whispered, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Every night I smash a mirror with my fist. It’s a custom of mine…’

He glanced at her, and, used as she was to the tones of his voice, this time she couldn’t say whether she was the witness or object of his hostility. Unsettled, she went back to the bed, to her side next to the window, and slowly began to undress.