‘That’s what we all think, isn’t it?’
Mendoza’s immediate response. The others’ agreement, despite Macro Gamboa’s silence, meant, Mariscal could tell, that there’d been some kind of consultation in which he hadn’t taken part.
‘The time has passed for being thieves in the night,’ continued Oliveira. ‘What’s that saying, Tonino?’
‘Il potere logora chi non ce l’ha.’
Mariscal blew out his cigar smoke with the enthusiasm of someone wishing to make a point.
‘That’s right, power wears out those who don’t have it. What are you thinking, counsellor?’
‘That now’s the time.’
Mendoza had an instinct for historic opportunities. When he heard the name of Napoleon, his most diligent neurones headed for what he called the Hippocampus Department of Locksmithery. A lock opened, and he couldn’t help thinking about one of his favourite books, the one Karl Marx wrote about the Eighteenth Brumaire, not of the first Napoleon, but of Louis Napoleon. The locksmith was working. One door opened another. He had paragraphs in his memory. The day he brought them out at a meeting of the law faculty, he learned how to spot the gloss of his discourse, the effect of his words on the resonance of bodies, the facial tics of those in disagreement. He remembered they got not only a caricature of the old Napoleon, but the old Napoleon in caricature.
‘Now’s the time. Everybody’s talking about the crisis. Politicians are afraid, discredited. In polls they’re dismissed as part of the problem. In the eyes of most people they’re incompetent and corrupt, they’ve got shit stuck in their hair and are unable to rid themselves of this manure, this reputation… The noise of swords is constantly heard in the barracks.’
As he spoke, Mendoza noticed that first, pleasurable moment of intoxication produced by saliva with the cereal of language. A fermenting that is only possible when it is shared. As a student, during the dictatorship, he’d defended revolutionary ideas. He’d avoided ‘jumps’, public demonstrations, and more or less risky acts such as spreading leaflets, putting up posters and spraying walls with graffiti. That was to play a game of cat-and-mouse with a superior brute force. The dictatorship was in ruins, had the same illness as the dictator, multiple sclerosis with a rotting of the internal organs. The real task consisted in forming senior management for the future, for the day after the taking of power. He’d prepared, avoided having fights with the police. Attended class in a suit and tie, availed himself of the services of shoe-shiners. His appearance surprised people at meetings, especially when he opened his mouth and produced an eloquent, radical discourse whose main target was no longer the tottering regime, so old its teeth were falling out, but the revisionists, the social democrats, the puppets of capitalism.
Everything can be put to good use. It had been useful training. For the first time he felt on his fingertips the clear sensation of being able to control vital threads.
‘It’s time the king ascended the hill and moved the pieces without being in the thick of battle. It’s time, yes,’ said the lawyer, preparing with the dynamo of his hands a remark that would bring the conciliabule to a close and hoist him on to Mariscal’s shoulders. ‘As the ancients used to say, Hic Rhodus, hic salta! That’s right, gentlemen. Here is Rhodes, jump here!’
Mariscal appreciated the tribute and nodded thoughtfully. His head had to cope with the weight of the crown. And it leaned on its temples for support.
‘There’s a level here,’ he said finally. ‘This is what makes it nice to work with people!’
Macro Gamboa had remained silent, with his hands between his legs. He’d worked for a long time transporting things by land and sea and had risen to the condition of businessman on his own merits. He hadn’t once glanced at the landscape. He seemed more interested in the others’ shoes. Their oscillating movements.
It was some time before his hoarse voice emerged from his inhospitable mouth.
‘What the hell are we talking about?’
31
ON THE RIGHT of his desk, Óscar Mendoza had a large globe. The lawyer was standing up, watching it and making it turn. Víctor Rumbo was sitting opposite.
‘You’ve gone quiet, what’s the matter?’
‘I have an opinion, but it hasn’t got to my head yet.’
The lawyer smiled. He recognised the quip. This was one of his standard jokes about Galicians. Mendoza thought he’d have to change this habit of his. Telling jokes about Galicians. Yes, they laughed at their jokes, but then they chewed the words in a corner, as cows chew the cud. No, he wasn’t going to say that aloud. Besides, Víctor had a quick temper. Not for nothing was he called Brinco. He would jump out of his seat, react to the slightest provocation. If they cut off his arms, he’d row with his teeth. Better this way. No turning sharp corners, no dropping hints, no change of heart. He hated all that wrong-footing in the dance. Brinco was determined. His ambition was clear to see. Obviously much more of a wolf than a fox. They understood each other. And would get closer all the time.
‘That Brinco’s crazy,’ he’d said once to Mariscal about Víctor Rumbo. It was true he’d done something crazy, unloading a boat in broad daylight. But what the lawyer wanted to know was what the Old Man really thought. They called him that and he didn’t mind. So when Mariscal remained silent, he rephrased his statement: ‘To do what he did, you have to be off your rocker. It won’t be easy to defend him if he carries on like this.’
‘Did he burn some money?’ said Mariscal abruptly.
‘Why would he burn some money?’ asked Mendoza in surprise.
‘Well, if he didn’t burn any money, then he’s not crazy.’
That was the end of Brinco’s mental check-up. The one sitting opposite Mendoza. The madman who didn’t burn any money and was going to be his henchman. His right-hand man.
‘Anyway, no more being the Atlantic’s fastest pilot. You’re a captain now. You have to take better care of your spine.’
The lawyer pushed the globe with his forefinger, making it spin, but this time more slowly. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead of us. But first you should go and see the Old Man, Víctor.’
‘I see him every day!’ he replied sombrely. ‘He’s my favourite ghost.’
‘You’re like a son to him…’
It was Brinco who approached the globe now and gave it a shove. ‘What do you mean, like a son? If I’m going to be your boss, don’t go talking to me like some idiot out of a soap opera!’
‘If the client doesn’t agree with the discourse, one has to change the discourse.’
Mendoza pushed the globe in the other direction, his voice seeming to slide all over it. ‘Confucius travelled somewhere and was told, “Straightness rules in this kingdom. If a father steals something, the son turns him in; if the son steals something, the father turns him in.” Confucius replied, “Straightness also rules in my kingdom. There the son covers up for his father and the father covers up for his son.”’
At this point in time, Mendoza would have liked to have Mariscal before him. He would have come out with some Latin, appreciated the elevation in style.
‘Got you, Confucius,’ barked Brinco before slamming the door behind him. As he did with cars. Something that made Mendoza very nervous.
32
FINS MALPICA WAS driving an unmarked car along the coastal road. He was accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Humberto Alisal of the Civil Guard, who’d come from Madrid in plain clothes. They were heading for the barracks in Noitía. It was an inspection without prior warning.