Manuel Rivas - All Is Silence

‘Getting by, sir,’ replies Fins.

‘I’ve been in there as well!’ says Mariscal, addressing the other boy. ‘Mmmm! It’s strange, but I always liked that smell.’

Without touching the mouths, taking care not to stain his immaculate suit, he goes over to inspect the vats’ vast interiors.

‘This is a job that needs doing! It certainly does,’ he declares in solemn tones. ‘If the vats aren’t clean… what’s the word?… un-ble-mished… the whole crop goes to waste. On account of the tiniest speck of shit. For that simple reason, the whole lot is wasted. Think about it. Imagine one of those vats is the globe. A single speck of shit could finish off the planet.’

Pondering his own statement, with a look of concern, he stresses his point. ‘No joke. It could finish off the planet. Ipso facto . Think about it!’

Mariscal puts his hand in his pocket and solemnly chucks a coin through the air in Brinco’s direction. Brinco grabs it with a swift gesture, as if his arm has acted by itself and is used to this game. But his mouth refuses to say thank you. As for the eyes, any casual observer would think it better, now and in the future, to steer clear of this person’s trajectory. But the man in white doesn’t seem surprised or affected by the boy’s silent hostility.

‘And you, you…’

‘Fins, sir.’

‘Fins?’

‘Yes, Malpica’s son, sir.’

‘Malpica! Lucho Malpica! A fine sailor, your dad. One of the best!’

He fumbles in his pocket and throws another coin at Fins, who catches it in the air. Mariscal takes his leave with a greeting, by caressing the brim of his hat.

‘Now you know. Not a speck of shit!’

He walks quickly towards the back door of the Ultramar.

He is muttering something. Talking to himself. The memory, the name of Malpica, bothers him for some reason. ‘A fine sailor, yes sirree. Sensu stricto . Stubborn as well. One of the dumbest!’

The boys watch him go. Shortly afterwards, when he’s disappeared through the door, they hear his ingratiating tones: ‘Sira? Sira, are you there?’

His voice echoes in the yard. Fins glances over at Brinco. His gaze now contains the fuse, dynamite, anemones. Like someone playing with a whip, he brushes his feet with the broom.

‘What do you say we search for that speck of shit that’s going to finish off the world?’

Brinco doesn’t want to play along. All Fins gets back is a ration of sullen eyes. Fins knows how the other boy’s face can change. He finds it difficult to say, for example, when it’s friendly or not, happy or not. Brinco’s mood swings from one state to another, as the sky changes in Noitía. His eyes now are focused on the point where Mariscal has gone in. They scour the front of the house, pierce the stones. Gaze up at the windows on the first floor. In one of which the face of the white-suited gallant appears for a moment behind the curtain. A woman slips past him. It’s Sira. The man follows. Both vanish from sight in a flicker of shadows.

BRINCO WENT IN through the back door and climbed an inner staircase which led to the first-floor landing, where the Ultramar’s rooms were. On the staircase was a warm light, of the kind afforded by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling by twisted wires. Up on the landing, the wind introduced gusts of light which clung to the curtains. On the opposite wall, without windows, were a few typical souvenirs: ceramic plates painted with marine scenes, scallop shells, starfish and coral branches on varnished wood, oil paintings of flowers and leaves on polished planks the sea had cast up on the shore.

With a grimy face and tense expression, Brinco walked down the carpeted landing, not bothering to push aside the curtains. He was heading for the room at the end, known by everyone at the inn simply as ‘La Suite’. He stopped in front of the closed door.

For a short while he listened to the sighs and murmurs of the amorous struggle. Coming through a door, the human Morse emitted by pleasure sounds remarkably like the language of pain. Brinco suddenly heard his own name. A voice from afar, which penetrated the curtains’ turbulence. His father always called him by his Christian name. He didn’t like his nickname.

‘Víctor! Where the hell are you? Víctor!’

Rumbo’s voice made him even angrier. With the back of his sleeve he dried the tears streaming down his grimy face. Left very carefully. Quickened his pace. Started running, furiously barging into the curtains that, with the sash windows half open, seemed to flutter in time, when in fact each was governed by its own wind in rigorous, stormy succession.

The walls of the Ultramar’s bar were covered in posters and stills from Westerns. There was also a poster from a local group dressed up as mariachis with the name ‘Noitía’s Magicians’. And there were a few well-known faces of singers and film stars, all of them women: Sara Montiel, Lola Flores, Carmen Sevilla, Aurora Bautista, Amália Rodrigues, Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren. In the midst of them all, of a smaller size but in a prominent position, a black and white photograph of Sira Portosalvo with the following dedication: ‘To the one I most love and make suffer’.

Fins was seated at a table, eating mussels boiled in their shells, which Rumbo had served him when he’d finished cleaning. As he ate, he seemed to watch and listen to everything that was being said. Over at the counter, Rumbo and a couple from the Civil Guard — Sergeant Montes and a younger guard, Vargas — were talking about cinema.

‘There I agree one hundred per cent with the authority,’ declared Rumbo, staring at the sergeant. ‘There’s nobody like John Wayne. Wayne and a horse. That’s enough to make a film. No need for a pretty girl or anything.’

This categorical exclusion was followed by a silence Rumbo correctly interpreted as profound disagreement.

‘Though if there is a pretty girl, it makes for a perfect trio. Wayne, horse and girl, in that order,’ he clarified before redirecting the conversation. ‘Even though he had to change his name.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the sergeant in confusion. ‘Wasn’t he called John?’

‘No, his name wasn’t John. His name was… Marion.’

‘Ma-ri-on?’ repeated the sergeant, barely able to suppress his disappointment. ‘You don’t say!’

Then, after taking a sip of his drink, the sergeant added, ‘Someone else who changed his name was Cassius Clay. Now he’s called Muhammad Ali or something.’

‘That’s different entirely,’ muttered Rumbo in a low voice, looking in the other direction.

‘They’re going to throw him in prison because of his refusal to go to war. The world champ! Those Yankees sure don’t hang about with half-measures.’

Rumbo’s attention was focused on the front door, where Brinco finally appeared. He’d deliberately gone a longer way to avoid coming down the inner stairs. He had the glazed look of someone whom the sea has deposited directly on the shore.

‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Rumbo in annoyance. ‘I went to the yard, but you weren’t there. You left Fins all on his own, cleaning that shit. This boy wasn’t born for work, damn it! Couldn’t you get him a job as a guard, my sergeant?’

Sergeant Montes slapped Brinco on the back. ‘He has himself a good sponsor, Rumbo. Who wouldn’t want him? You were born on your feet, lad.’

After that it was Rumbo who felt uncomfortable, taking refuge in the silence at the other end of the bar and making out he was busy. Later he returned, bringing Víctor a sandwich. ‘Here you go. It’s got omelette inside, don’t you know?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Made by your mother’s own fair hands.’