Manuel Rivas: All Is Silence

She asked, ‘Is it true you know how to touch-type?’

‘What does that matter now?’

‘Sit down then! I want you to write a letter for me. You know I never got a letter?’

‘I don’t have any paper.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Type anyway. I like to hear the singing of the bars. I’ll dictate… “Dear friend, now that all is mute silense…” Did you write “silense” with an “s”?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

Leda found it difficult to carry on the game. The spines of words in her throat. ‘How was it? “Now that all is loneliness, pain…” No, better not write that.’

Fins took his hands off the keyboard. ‘I wasn’t going to anyway.’

The roof groaned with the tragedy of night. Someone poured liquid through the skylight and threw in a lit piece of cloth.

But there wasn’t just fire.

The sound of a shot pinged off the typewriter. Fins flung himself to the ground, drew his revolver and instinctively sought shelter beneath the Underwood’s tiny shield.

‘Go where it’s dark!’ he shouted to Leda.

From the fire, the intruder shot at the darkness, but soon turned his attention back to the figure huddled beneath the teacher’s desk. A shot hit Fins’ shoulder. It was obvious, the intruder must have known, because Fins’ face was exposed, contorted with pain, in the moonlight, at the feet of the blind mannequin and the one-armed skeleton. But the intruder was also exposed, the length of his body, as he proudly grasped the powerful shape of a Star. Never trust an automatic. The ocean around the equator caught fire. Fins shot his revolver and the shadow fell like a sack of sand on top of the flames. A thick smoke, as from a volcano, crept all over the map.

‘Where are you, Leda?’

He shouted several times. Got no answer. Dragged himself outside, convinced he’d find her there.

Carburo stood in the doorway of the Ultramar, watching the fire on the hill. ‘Boss, boss! The old school is burning!’

Mariscal shoved him aside. Took a few steps forward, leaning on his staff.

‘It’s burning again, boss!’

He grumbled without turning around, ‘I can see that. I can see it’s burning.’

He started walking towards the fire. Accompanied by a small crowd.

His eyes were wide open. Seemed to be gazing at the trickle of blood. Brinco lay dead in the ocean. After the initial blaze this was a meek fire, trying to gnaw at the noble wood. Where it grew was over in the darkness, where the pupils’ desks had been stacked up. From there the flames aimed for the roof. The smoke disorientated the bats, which flew into the walls and from time to time collided with the mannequin and the skeleton. Had they been able to see, Brinco’s eyes would have met Leda’s. She was a little further south. Near Cape Verde. From there, down towards the Antarctic, a part of the map had been disjointed. Leda lifted the plank, using an iron bar, and revealed a leather suitcase lying on the seabed. Full of wads of notes, except for a gap in the middle with pharmaceutical tools. An Astra Llama pistol. Chelín’s pendulum.

With Carburo for company, Mariscal approached the outside of the school, where people were assembling.

‘Shall we put out the fire, Mariscal?’ asked a voice.

He swung around in a rage. Glared at them all. The shadow of the flames reflected on their faces. Glinting in their eyes as they climbed the back of night. An ancient mirror whose mercury was pouring out. A hypnotic silence whose only sound was the scoffing of flames. He thought they all owed him something. Would do whatever he commanded. But he was overcome by an unusual feeling, something he’d never experienced before. The fear of his own kind.

‘What are you asking me for?’

The other person didn’t know what to say. Felt confused by the Old Man’s reaction. The anger in his voice. Especially when the Old Man added, ‘Who am I, after all?’

He scrutinised every face. Conducted an inspection. They glanced at each other enquiringly. Things to do with the Old Man. Everybody remained quiet. The only sound the flames gnawing at the cracks, the umbilical resistance of ivy and stone.

Leda emerged from the school barefoot, her feet, arms and face blackened. At a gesture from Mariscal, Carburo went over to her and took the suitcase. Someone finally paid attention to Fins, who was leaning against the wall, badly wounded, squeezing his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. Leda glanced at him as she passed. Just for a moment. The length of an absence.

‘Is there anybody else left inside?’ Mariscal asked her.

‘No.’

Mariscal cleared a way through the barrier of people. Seemed to have difficulty walking, leaning on his cane, but only to start with. As Leda approached, he passed his hand over her blackened cheek, with the care of a portrait artist, and then put his arms around her.

‘Come on, girl, let’s go.’

Carburo followed behind, with the suitcase. Mariscal glanced over at the veteran porter.

‘What have we here?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ replied Leda. ‘Things of mine. Memories mostly.’

And Mariscal murmured:

‘Memories, eh? Then it must be heavy.’