‘Well, this enlightened bastard, Dead Man’s Hand, I have to admit it, was equally refined when it came down to business. Though we got off to a bad start. After the Portuguese revolution, the captains of April, carnations and all that, he escaped to Galicia and took up with another crowd. That was back in 1974, Franco was still alive and the idea was to provoke a squabble between Spain and Portugal. I know because I was one of the people involved. It was a line of business, or so I thought. Weapons were always an option, but things didn’t go well and they had to be sold on the cheap. Then, when Cinderello turned his attention to the new life, he ended up showing a talent for business. His experience, old contacts, stuff like that, was pretty useful. And the hairpiece fitted. He looked quite different, to tell the truth. I remember all of that. I’m worried about memory. Everybody complains about their memory. I’m worried I remember too much. I get caught up on names, recollections. And from time to time, that’s an absence of comfort.’
Mutatis mutandis, he looked away from Guadalupe Brancana. Felt his presence had lost its triumphal air. In the end said, ‘This is the one I need an urgent response for. You can send it via Mónica.’ Guadalupe nodded. Mariscal opened the door. Stood still for a moment on the border. One of his favourites was playing, ‘Garúa’. That tango about the rain. The two of them were young enough to dance tangos. They didn’t care about the murmuring gaze. Then he thought, in relation to himself, that a man could improve himself. He hummed along to the music on the cassette. ‘The wind brings a strange lament…’ Looked one way and then the other, as he always did. Without turning around, let the door close behind him. And since there was no one in sight, either to the left or to the right, he spat on the pavement.
Ex abundantia cordis.
25
FINS STAYED CLOSE to her for days, stroking her face, without her realising. From a sports boat moored in the harbour he photographed the woman framed in the window. Several moments which struck him as special, in particular those when she appeared in the window with company, he also recorded on film with a Super 8 camera. But the thing he’d never forget — an unknown trembling, his optic nerve setting all the other senses on edge, immersing everything in a strange tense, remembered present — was when yet again he scoured the fronts of the buildings facing the docks and located the window. The woman in the window. Leda Hortas. He tried out the zoom. Focused, unfocused and focused again. A Nikon F with a 70-200 lens like a piercing prolongation. Rude, desirous, infallible. Yes, Leda was the lookout. A photo. The photo. Another. And another.
‘You’re going to have a change of air, Leda,’ the Old Man had said to her one day. ‘You’re off to the capital.’
‘Are you going to give me an apartment then?’ she replied slyly. She liked to joke with Mariscal. And he liked to play along. He was an expert in irony.
‘You deserve a manor house, girl.’
‘That would need a lot of cleaning.’
‘With every convenience. A noble palace.’
‘Nonsense. All the men around here worship Our Lady of the Fist.’
‘It’s the memory of the famine, girl. The best enchantments are those that come free. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth…’
‘Right. So what do I have to do in this apartment?’
‘Keep your eyes wide open.’
He said this in a very serious tone. Not playing along any more. His voice had changed. He spoke like someone in authority entrusting a mission and expecting to be obeyed.
‘Brinco will give you the details.’
From where Leda kept a lookout could be seen the movements of the customs boats arriving and leaving. Next to the window was a small table with a telephone. Which started ringing.
The voice that said hello could only be one voice, and it was. Guadalupe’s. Even so, they went through the ritual.
‘Is that the home of Domingo?’ asked Guadalupe.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And how is he?’
‘He’s OK. But he’s resting at the moment. He worked all night.’
‘Then I’ll call again later.’
‘Thank you, madam. That’s very kind. I’ll expect your call.’
Leda hung up and leaned out of the half-open window. Had another look at the customs patrol boats. Fins remained where he was. Spying on the spy. Zooming in slowly. Taking time over the portrait. Waiting for a look of melancholy. There it was.
‘These are good,’ said Mara Doval back at the police station, after the photos had been developed. ‘You should devote yourself to this full time, become a paparazzo.’
26
CARBURO DIDN’T LIKE being rushed. But the boss was impatient today. Rubbing his hands. All he needed now was to start singing ‘Mira que eres linda’. Which was what he sang when things were going well. Carburo was familiar with the whole repertoire. The counterpoint came when he hummed ‘Tinta roja’, for example. Carburo had a fondness for this tango. For the way the Old Man sang it. ‘That carmine letter-box, that dive where the Eyetie was crying.’ People didn’t sing well when they were happy. Exactly the opposite. But today he was in a good mood. ‘See how pretty, how lovely you are.’ There was nothing he could do about it.
It was his job to start up the radio transceiver and do the talking. Mariscal might sing, but never in public. He never broadcast. He never touched a phone, let alone one of those machines that reached further than he could tell. They were parked in one of his favourite miradors, Cape Vento Soán, which they’d driven to along a secret track surrounded by protective ferns which closed again once they’d passed. At the crossroads, in another vehicle, Lelé kept watch.
Inside the car, Carburo handled the radio transceiver, which had been fitted and camouflaged in the dashboard.
‘Ready to go, boss.’
He proceeded to repeat what Mariscal told him word for word, using the International Code of Signals.
‘Here Lima Alfa Charlie Sierra India Romeo, calling Sierra India Romeo Alfa Uniform, do you read me? Over.’
‘Here Sierra India Romeo Alfa Uniform. We read you loud and clear! Over.’
‘Attention. You have to work using the same coordinates as Imos Indo. All clear? Over.’
‘OK. Understood. Same coordinates as Imos Indo. So we don’t have to wait for Mingos. Over.’
‘Correct, correct. That is correct. Mingos is not going. Mingos is resting. He worked all night. Good fishing! Over.’
‘OK, understood. We’ll be on our way then. Over and out.’
Mariscal bent down next to the window. ‘Tell them that this time the wind is fair, there’s no room in the sea for all that bass.’
Carburo glanced at the Old Man in surprise. He seemed to be waiting for a translation or confirmation. No one gave messages like that any more. Such nonsense was a thing of the past.