‘Which is where our story begins. So just be patient.
‘Berta was driving. I don’t know anything about that. I’m the co-pilot, the one with the maps, leaflets and so on. We were just about to enter the station, through the door, when I looked to my right. A red Nuova Giulietta with a Spanish number plate. Pretty, too. We went to see the tiles in the station. They’re amazing, as I told you. We took some photographs. Went to see a train that was arriving. No problems. We must have been there about an hour. We were just about to leave, coming through the door of the station, when suddenly the Shutter of my Imagination opened. I grabbed Berta. Said to her, “Wait, wait, the car park.” The Nuova Giulietta was on my right. With a group of four people standing beside it. But Mnemosyne knows that the Nuova Giulietta was on the other side, on her right when she came in. So it was. I peeked through the glass door and saw the other Giulietta. They had exactly the same number plate, both of them with a Spanish registration. So I said, “Berta, I’m going to take a portrait of you à la Andy Warhol. Fool around a little.” I love Polaroids. They make a lot of noise, but nothing you can’t disguise by pretending to be tourists. No heavy machinery, mind you. Not like others.’
‘Right. So what happened?’
‘Two youngish-looking men got into one Giulietta and an older couple got into the other. And went their separate ways. One pair towards the border. The other in the direction of Viana de Castelo. What do you think then?’
‘A real fairy tale. Let me see those photos!’
Fins immediately recognised the two younger men. A magnificent couple who were clearly on the same wavelength. The estuary ace and his lawyer. Víctor Rumbo and, in glasses, Óscar Mendoza.
‘Who are the others? That strange-looking man… and the woman in mourning. That waxen face. They look as if they’ve just come out of Tenebrae, having sung the Miserere.’
‘What makes him look so strange? He’s just a well-dressed old man in a tie.’
‘I don’t know. That waxen face… There’s something strange about it.’
‘He’s wearing a wig,’ said Mara. ‘That’s what it is. It’s not so unusual to wear a wig.’
‘On him it looks like some kind of geographical feature.’
‘He’s called Dead Man’s Hand,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you want to know more?’
‘Yes.’ Fins nodded. She was right, as always. You had to be patient.
Nuno Arcada, Dead Man’s Hand, had worked for the PIDE, the dictator Salazar’s secret police. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill policeman. He’d been assigned abroad for several years, most of the time in France. He’d infiltrated several groups in exile and also belonged to various emigrants’ associations with trade-union or cultural concerns. This was how he obtained information, not only about them, but also about what was going on back in Portugal.
‘He hunted inside and out,’ said Mara Doval. ‘And inside he had his own, very special hand, which he used during interrogations. He’s said to have been an expert in electricity. Obviously he had some very good Spanish friends with similar interests and occupations. This collaboration enabled him to go into hiding in Galicia after the Carnation Revolution. And it opened up several lines of business for him afterwards.’
‘The cars! It was an exchange. Probably the one Dead Man’s Hand was driving is the one with the upholstery. Financial, of course.’
‘That money’s in heaven by now!’
‘I’m impressed, Miss Mnemosyne. Did you mention this to the Portuguese Judiciary Police?’
‘No.’
‘No? You know there are some good people…’
‘Yes. But it was one of Berta’s cats who recognised the old man in the photo and told me his story. A Portuguese journalist. Working for the Jornal de Notícias. He’s been studying the PIDE’s crimes for years. Anything else?’
‘Yes, talk to me about Bellissima, please!’
28
CHELÍN TOOK SANTIAGO to a deserted beach in Bebo, the typical sort of cove that knows how to stay hidden, but when it’s found, opens like a shell. The path meandered between old stone walls protecting impossible crops. They’d obviously been erected by some intelligent mind because they had strategic holes for the wind to escape through. Which made them a bit nosy. Cabbages peered through. Sometimes sent the odd, restless bird to have a look. A black redstart, for example.
A haven of peace. A good firing range.
At the end of the path, where it met the beach, was an abandoned rusty road sign. A triangle with a red border. Inside the triangle, a black cow on a white background.
‘The things the sea comes up with!’
Chelín lifted the sign and placed some stones around its base to keep it upright.
‘I’m going to teach you the second most important thing a man should know.’
He took out the pistol he wore hidden on his back, next to his waist, under his jacket.
‘Something else the sea came up with,’ remarked Chelín with an ironic smile.
His ease calmed the boy’s initial amazement. He stopped next to him. Both of them eyed the sign. The cow. The man bent down and placed his right knee on the sand. Then wrapped his arms around the boy, helping him to hold the weapon and take aim.
‘That’s right, with gentleness,’ said Chelín, who set about preparing the weapon as he was speaking. ‘Do you know its name? Astra Llama. Nice, isn’t it? It’s a special one, with wooden grips. Everybody wants mother-of-pearl grips, but wood’s better. Wood is more loyal.’
‘Did the sea really give it to you?’
He gave free rein to his voice, he wasn’t quite sure why. It must have been as a result of removing the safety catch.
‘Actually I got it from a dealer. You know what a dealer is, don’t you? Someone who deals cards. Well, there’s another sort of dealer, one who deals in smack.’
Santiago laughed, repeated the word ‘smack’.
The man clicked his tongue. He had a big mouth that sometimes sounded off for him.
‘That’s right. We’ll go and see him one day. But in the meantime, don’t tell anyone about him. All right?’
He stared at the sea. The jumping of the waves. The waves’ mane. The beating surf, piercing sound. Exhaled. Focused. Set the trigger.
‘Nature’s amazing, Santi. The blessed host in verse. Now let’s take aim. Let’s blast that cow out of the skies.’
The shot reached its target. Left a perfect hole in the cow’s flank. To start with, the triangular sign groaned, as if wanting to avoid the fall.