Carlos Gamerro - The Islands

He’d walked over to a chair, from the back of which he picked up a short silk robe and proceeded to wrap himself in it, and pace up and down in the grave pose of a Renaissance sage.

‘Canal will point you in the direction of the unconscious. He says I’ve a way to go before it can manifest itself. Manifest itself! Sometimes he sounds like a spiritist. I don’t know. That’s another of the paradoxes that make me feel uncomfortable. In order to do the most desirable things you have to lose your consciousness (or conscience; I never could tell them apart) and regain it to enjoy them. Conscious, unconscious … When I think about it, I feel so bad that I seek solace in cocaine and alcohol, the only combination that reconciles the best of both states. Care for some more?’

I shook my head because the last snort had closed my throat so much that I was having difficulty speaking. He took another paper envelope from the pocket of his robe and, opening it, sank his nose directly into it.

‘Didn’t you have a heart attack once?’ I managed to croak.

‘Yes, but that was after five grams. I look after myself now,’ he answered, nodding in thanks for my concern. ‘Ah. What cold. What clarity,’ he exclaimed, the tip of his nose as white as a snow-capped peak. ‘Clarity and altitude go together,’ he said, approaching a console on his desk and pressing a button. All the windows overlooking the river opened and the icy breath of the south-easterly swept into the room, scattering his papers and making his robe flap like a flag.

‘You realise, Félix,’ he crooned in delight, closing his eyes to the wind like an adventurous captain standing on the prow of his ship, ‘they were wrong. It isn’t the artists, it isn’t the lunatics, it isn’t the revolutionaries. It’s us. The only ones who dare to confront society and shake it out of its inertia, who wrest from the instrument the notes that nobody thought lay in it, in pursuit of the unattainable melody that’s always a little further on, almost touching it with our hands …’

‘Sr Tamerlán!’

Canal had spoken. We both ran to his side because no one could remember how to walk any more.

‘So? Do you have them?’ Tamerlán asked anxiously.

‘Cross-referencing our data with the SIDE’s I got three more. That makes fifteen. We’re still ten short.’

‘That’s what you interrupted me at the best part for? I was scaling such heights …’

‘There’s nothing else to do at this end. The hacker,’ he said as if I wasn’t there, ‘has only contributed three names. At a hundred thousand each, that’s …’

I interrupted before I heard the embarrassing result of his calculation.

‘You only had some names and the most basic data before; now you have what each one knows, or at least declared, as well. And you have their complete records, which may be useful if you want to put the squeeze on them,’ I insisted, making an effort not to sound like a street vendor on a packed bus extolling the virtues of a set of Chinese needles with a threader thrown in. ‘Why don’t we go through the back-ups one more time?’

Canal offered me his seat and I gave them a quick look only to discover that not one of the original names had survived. The nerd had been more than thorough: he hadn’t wanted to play a joke on me, but to fuck up my work. My mind went blank for a few seconds, my eyes fixed on the name Prince Charles.

‘There’s something funny here,’ I said.

‘Another joke from your friend?’ Tamerlán inquired.

‘Maybe, but I don’t think so. Why would he only add a name to the Federal Police back-up file? And it comes with a statement too. He didn’t have time to write that himself. No, this is something else.’

‘Spit it out, Félix, I’m not on opium,’ Tamerlán urged me, manically wiping his nostrils with the back of his hand as they leaked like a dripping tap. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a twenty-sixth witness. The police or the SIDE erased him or her from the final copies, but they’ve been overlooked in this draft.’ I keyed in ‘search 26’ and the screen changed, the cursor blinking under the number searched. ‘Here it is. “Twenty-six persons.” I was right.’

‘Your evidence, Sr Félix,’ Dr Canal intervened with exaggerated calm, even for him, ‘is not very persuasive. Not to mention the fact that this would increase the figure of your failure by one witness. Your faithful disciple no doubt forgot to …’

I let him prattle on while I went back to the main SIDE file and keyed in another search command. At the fifth attempt I found what I was looking for.

‘Eureka!’ I yelled. ‘Got him! There were twenty-six of them and here’s the proof.’

‘What proof?’ said Tamerlán, virtually climbing into the screen.

‘In this witness’s statement. See where it says “I left my house at 6.00 p.m. and took the 125, which dropped me at the port at 7.00 p.m. … ” You don’t notice anything?’

‘He took a bus. So? I’ve already told you they were nobodies.’

‘Tell me the route of the 125.’

‘Listen, Félix. Don’t try and be funny. I haven’t taken a bus since I was eighteen. You tell him, Canal, you who know everything.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Come on, be a good fellow, let’s play along with the lad.’

‘I can’t, Sr Tamerlán. The 125 doesn’t exist.’

‘Go on, tell him,’ I interrupted enthusiastically, ‘tell him which bus runs from La Matanza to the port.’

‘The 126, obviously,’ he snarled. ‘But you still haven’t convinced me.’

‘What about this? “Benjamín Menéndez” works at the Cangallo, I mean Perón branch of the Boston Bank. Look at the phone number: 325-8425.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘It should be 326.’

‘You know the phone book by heart, do you?’ he retorted, trying to disguise his annoyance with sarcasm.

‘I scammed them once.’

He knew he was defeated and, turning his back on me, went and looked out of the window.

‘Have you two been rehearsing this?’ Tamerlán asked bad-temperedly. ‘Maybe you should try and explain.’

‘It’s simple,’ I said. ‘Whoever made the change ordered the program to put “25” wherever it said “26”. But they forgot to specify that that was valid only for isolated sequences. The program recognised the “26” in the “126” and turned it into “125”. Same thing with the phone number. Result: a bus that doesn’t exist and a witness at large somewhere, who, for some reason, someone at the SIDE has taken the trouble to erase all trace of from their computers …’

I felt radiant, like a schoolboy on a TV quiz show who just got the last question right and won a trip to Bariloche for his class. Tamerlán too was looking at me with poorly disguised satisfaction.

‘Sr Félix, you’ve managed, however fleetingly, to renew my wilting confidence in your abilities. I’ll give you another chance. Now get me the real names of the missing witnesses, including your mysterious phantom.’

‘I don’t think I can get back into the SIDE,’ I began.

‘You’ll have to do it door to door then. You have the addresses there.’

‘Computers are my thing; people are too complicated. Isn’t there anyone suitable on your staff who …?’

‘They’ll be working in parallel, you can be sure of that. If, between you, you get what I need, I pledge to pay you the agreed sum. But if you don’t try, and they don’t succeed, you’ll have to return every red cent.’

It was a convincing argument: I’d already spent quite a few.

‘There’s something I’m going to need,’ I said. ‘The logical place to start is over there.’ I pointed at the opposite floor of the neighbouring tower, where some workers in overalls were standing on ladders taking measurements of the windows. ‘The pyramid sales people: I’ll need some background on them and a contact to get in.’