Carlos Gamerro - The Islands

‘Here it is,’ I said.

‘What.’

‘A vampire.’

‘Expand please.’

‘A program that activates itself at night. A species of virus. This is what’s replaced the real names on the list with these ridiculous ones.’

‘How did it get in there?’

I reread the list to confirm my initial suspicions. The nerd’s revenge, for sure.

‘You see all the names referring to Malvinas? It has nothing to do with you people; it’s personal. My replacement at the SIDE: my disciple.’

‘Is that how they all remember you?’

‘Never heard of Judas? Brutus? Jung?’

‘Yes. But I’d rather hear how you mean to fix this.’

I went back to the files and scrolled through them while he watched.

‘Look: nothing else has been touched — statements, addresses, documents, phone numbers … all real. I expect you’ve already got some of the names — the real names, I mean. And for the others, all you have to do is phone and ask …’

I didn’t even find myself convincing. I looked skywards to avoid my reflection. Through the skylights, the grey clouds of the winter evening swirled past. I watched the pensive Canal out of the corner of my eye as he tapped his kneecap with one of the floppy disks, making his leg twitch almost imperceptibly every so often. In the end he sighed and, signalling to me to stand up, he led the way to the mirror that connected with Sr Tamerlán’s office, which, instead of dissolving magically like last time, remained fixed and frozen, taking sadistic glee in conspiring with its neighbours to reflect my thousand faces of a dog that’s just wet the carpet. The psychoanalyst touched the glass with his fingers, paused for a moment, then removed them.

‘We’ll have to wait. Sr Tamerlán’s lobbying support.’

Five interminable minutes went by before the door opened and our reflections disappeared in the stream of air as in the choppy waters of a lake. Even before my eyes registered it, Tamerlán’s presence announced itself with an unmistakable bellow.

‘You’re hopeless! Hopeless! A poxy little law to get that fucking reserve off my back and you can’t get it passed! You should have twisted the president’s arm to sign a decree then! Why do you think I put you in Congress? The ecologists are going to eat me alive now!’

When I went inside, I could see them. There was a stoutish, balding man with a skimpy little beard sheltering under the desk, trying to nestle deep into the tangle of computer wires like a wounded animal in the undergrowth while Tamerlán ran round the desk dealing out kicks and taking swipes at him with his riding-crop whenever he got the chance. The congressman was very well dressed, in an Italian-cut silk suit of a shiny, metallic blue like the sides of a swordfish; Tamerlán sported black shorts, red satin vest and unlaced white boxing shoes. A punchball that hung from the ceiling partially justified his outfit. He stuck his hand in and managed to grab the congressman by one foot and pull, while his prey clung to the wires and squealed. When he had him within range, he let fly a kick to his buttocks, which wobbled like a waterbed under the silken trousers.

‘Pah! Silicone!’ roared Tamerlán, kicking him again to check. ‘Instead of pulling his finger out and getting my law passed, his lordship decides to spend his time and my money getting his cute little arse lifted!’ he said, and noticed me. Momentarily forgetting his prey, he put down the riding-crop and advanced on me, smiling and holding out his right hand.

‘He’s failed, Sr Tamerlán.’

The doctor could at least have given me the chance to shake it. Tamerlán’s face became as hard and expressionless as a cliff face.

‘What do you mean?’ His booming voice sounded like he was gargling with rocks.

Canal held out a printed copy of the list. Tamerlán read it down to the last name.

‘What the fuck is this!’

Canal explained succinctly; Tamerlán eyed me grimly.

‘Damn it, Félix! You too?’ He turned to his analyst. ‘And all I can do is take it out on this guy,’ he said, grinding his heel into one of the congressman’s hands as he tried to crawl away. He howled with the pain and took refuge under the desk again, where he set about licking his injured hand.

‘Why not me?’ I said defiantly. ‘I thought you were the superman. So?’

‘Precisely,’ he answered.

‘The abject personality …’ began the analyst.

‘Be quiet; I can explain myself,’ Tamerlán interrupted him. ‘You see that guy?’ he asked me. ‘Look.’

Hopping on one foot, he took off his other boot and hurled it across the room, where it bounced off the glass; it had barely landed on the carpet before the congressman had scampered to fetch it and carry it proudly back in his mouth. Tamerlán, after tugging it about in play for a bit, took it off him and dried the slobbered leather on his pet’s silk tie, who pranced excitedly around him, eager to repeat the game. Tamerlán put the shoe on and kicked him out of the way.

‘Do you see him suffering? Do you see him looking at me with hatred? Humiliation has to be desired to be deserved. You aren’t cut out for it, Sr Félix.’ He gave me the once-over like a judge at a cattle show and wrote me off. ‘Fodder for professional thugs, that’s all you are. Nothing of interest to me. Check against what we have, Canal, and see what can be salvaged.’

The analyst went over to one of the computers and inserted the floppy disk. Tamerlán, meanwhile, had gone across to his desk (the congressman trying to inch closer, unnoticed, to lick the tip of his shoes) where he poured himself a glass of water from a brim-full cut-glass decanter. He paced about the room, drinking thirstily, gnawing on the handle of his riding-crop between swigs.

‘Doesn’t coke make you thirsty?’

He was trying to be friendly, entertaining me with a little light conversation.

‘Very. Acid’s worse.’

‘Definitely.’

There was an awkward silence. Neither of us knew how to go on. He was the one who broke it, naturally.

‘What did you think about what happened the other day?’

‘You’re referring to …’

‘… to me buggering my son, that’s right. We’re both grown-ups; I think we can discuss these things like adults. Fortunately, there’s no censorship in this country any more. I swear to you, the military sometimes … They’re like those unwanted dinner guests you invite out of a sense of obligation, who stay till three in the morning, drinking your whisky and boring the pants off you, convinced you’re having as wonderful a time as they are. The things we have to put up with. And I was brought up by one, mind. I’m not saying they haven’t made a contribution,’ he added, correcting himself slightly, like a helmsman shifting course with an imperceptible movement, perhaps in the belief that, as a former soldier, I might take offence. ‘A keen observer can learn from his dog. We learned from the military not to be afraid, to bare our teeth — to bite. The politicians had us too used to negotiating. Haven’t you finished yet, Sr Canal?’ he asked impatiently.

‘No.’

‘No. Idiot!’ he muttered, landing the congressman a kick in his unprotected left kidney. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. Fathers and sons. The father’s influence over the son. Let’s take another example. Yourself. Just look at you. I’m sure your father did far worse things to you.’

‘I’m the son of a single mother.’

‘Don’t you see? Beating about the bush only creates traumas. A frank and open attitude, on the other hand, may cause annoyance early on, but never confusion. And in the long run they’re grateful to you. Isn’t that right, Sr Canal?’

Canal made no answer, in deference to that time-honoured mania of psychoanalysts for playing tennis without a ball. It made no difference; Tamerlán was unstoppable.