Arturo Fontaine - La Vida Doble

“Then the pistol skidded out of his path, sliding quickly over the gleaming ceramic. Someone had kicked it. Another shot rang out in the room and the Chilean bent double and collapsed to the floor. The bullet had shattered a vertebra. The Cuban doctors saved his life.

“I never found out his name. Canelo didn’t tell me. I only know that he survived and spent two years hospitalized in Cuba, he was paralyzed, and he returned to Chile at the start of Allende’s thousand days.”

“He’s our man,” said Macha. And his black eyes shone the way black marble shines. And after a silence: “This has to stay between us. Is that clear? No one else. Clear? Tell no one.”

I never saw the photos he took of me that day.

Mono Lepe looked at me with his dark-ringed eyes, then up at the post, measuring the distance. He clambered up easily and used pliers to cut the telephone lines. That disconnected the alarm, too. It was three thirty. Operation “Night of the Wild Boar” had commenced. Lepe also cut the electricity lines. They had gotten the blueprints to the house from City Hall. A couple of minutes later I made out a few pulses of light from a flashlight in the darkness of the night. They came from up above, on the other side of the house. Mono had already met up with Pancha, who had a radio. She had arrived a while earlier and gotten in position on the roof of a neighboring house. The siege was in place around the perimeter. That’s what they were saying, those lights turning off and on from the roofs, which Macha answered with his own flashlight. Macha didn’t put much trust in technology when he conducted operations. Indio Galdámez went up to the solid front door. It wasn’t the kind you could just knock down with a kick. He tried his lock pick. It didn’t work. He took out a second pick: no go. Great Dane let out a bellow of rage.

“How could you not try the picks first, Indio?”

Galdámez didn’t answer. He tried a third.

“They’re locks from that Spanish company, Azbe, with an HS-6 safety cylinder. The picks won’t work,” he said.

“Motherfucker!” growled Great Dane. “How the fuck did you not. .”

“Let’s move on to plan B,” Macha interrupted: “Bring the jack.”

He checked the time, got into his car, and picked up the radio. I was close by, and very excited.

“You woke me up, Dad,” I managed to hear. “Is something wrong? Over.”

“Are you asleep, son? Do you copy? Over.”

“Yes, I copy. No, I’m waking up now. Did something bad happen? Tell me, Dad. Are you OK? Over.”

“I’m great, how are you? How was your day at school? Did you win the game? Over.”

“We tied one to one. And I almost scored a second goal. I headed a corner shot, dad. A header that hit the crossbar. . We would’ve won, Dad. Over.”

“Good man! In the rematch, that header will be a goal. Over.”

“You think that could happen? Over.”

“Sure, of course it could happen. Listen to me, Cristóbal: Do you copy? Over.”

“Yes, Dad, I copy.”

“I want to congratulate you. And now you need to go back to sleep, OK?”

“But do you really think that’ll happen, Dad? Another corner shot the same way in the rematch, and I’ll be right there, Dad, and I’ll head the ball in?”

“Not likely, but yes, it could happen. The point is that in the next game you’ll score a goal. I’m sure of it. Now, go to sleep.”

“Hey, Dad, why’d you call me so late? Did something happen?”

“No. I just wanted to know how the game went, that’s all. And now, go back to sleep. Over.”

“Yeah, I’m going back to sleep now. Over.”

“Good night. Over and out.”

Great Dane was panting. His long, blond hair moved like ostrich feathers on a helmet. He snatched away the simple car jack that Indio Galdámez brought over, and with his giant hands he fitted it midway up between two bars in a window. When he turned the lever and put pressure on the bars, the jack let out a little metallic whine that was unsettling. Little by little the bars were buckling. Now Great Dane was smiling.

“Let’s see, Chico, put your head in.”

It didn’t fit.

“Just four or five more turns and we’re there,” Chico said.

“You’re sure you can get through there, Chico?” Great Dane asked him. “You sure?”

Chico Marín assented with his restless eyes, and Indio Galdámez put away the jack with the same calm with which he did everything. Chico traced a rectangle on the glass with the diamond-tipped glass cutter. Great Dane held up the suction cup. Macha and I watched, smoking. He pulled me farther away. He was serious and grim, even more than usual.

“You didn’t say anything about this to anyone from Analysis, right?”

“No, of course not. Not to them or anyone else.” I’m surprised. “Why do you ask?”

Great Dane removed the glass with the suction cup. Macha threw away the cigarette butt, which gleamed as it fell. He took hold of my shoulders.

“Don’t fail me,” he said, locking his terrible eyes on mine.

“Why?” I asked him. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”

“It’s just that we can’t fail. Not this time.”

“Why?”

“Because I violated procedure,” he said mockingly.

“When? Is this about the ‘Prince of Wales’?”

“Yes, well, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” And, seriously: “This is my last mission. They demoted me. They fucked me. Fucking pencil-pushing, fat-ass, scared shitless generals!”

He didn’t wait for me to react. Without looking at anyone he gave the order to go in through the window, and he jumped through. Great Dane tried to go behind him, but his corpulent body wouldn’t fit. Chico Marín tried next. Great Dane let out another roar.

“Hurry up, shithead! Put your head and your ass through right away.”

Chico Marín was more frightened than ever and all the color had gone out of his face. Though he was short, he was solid and had a big head — a cube, as I’ve told you.

“Motherfucker!” shouted Great Dane, containing the shout in a whisper. He tapped Chico’s forehead with the calloused edge of his hand. Chico’s big, shaved head bounced against the bars of the window. A few inches lower and unleashed with Great Dane’s precision and strength, and that blow would be fatal.

“Come on, boss, don’t be like that,” Chico complained.

We heard a noise at the front door. According to plan B we would open it from inside. I slipped quickly between the bars behind Iris, who had drawn her formidable CZ. Outside, Great Dane, enraged, ordered Galdámez to put the car jack back in and widen the gap. The light of a streetlamp illuminated the living room of that old house. I stopped. I took cover behind the empire sofa, which was the closest thing to me. I made out some dark red plush armchairs, a big oval mirror with a gold frame hanging on the wall, which was papered in a light green color, I think; there were bronze lamps shaped like flowers affixed to the wall, a blurry painting of a hunting scene, an immense crystal chandelier that hung from the molded ceiling. . Then we heard a shout. A woman’s shout and a roar.

“Shit. Dogs.”

It’s Iris.

“Stupid motherfucker!”

It’s Great Dane. He and Indio Galdámez are still in the street, apparently.

“How could you possibly not mention the dog, you idiot?”

“There were no dogs here,” Indio apologizes.

“I gave you the order, shithead, to check every detail.”

“I carried out the order, but there weren’t any dogs. . At the house next door, yes, but. .”

“Dumbass! You didn’t realize they had a dog, Indio, mother-fucker. You didn’t realize, right? What’s in that head of yours? Sawdust and cat piss?”