Mariscal paused, never once taking his eyes off the journalist. There was an absolute silence in the Ultramar at that time, interrupted only by the fleeting sound of suppliers. The bakery van. The beer lorry. And so on. But now the Mental Department of Bothersome Sounds was reached by the voice of this journalist criticising the ever-increasing power of drug traffickers in Noitía. Another Muhammad Ali. With a butterfly’s wings and a bee’s sting. Biff!
‘Nets? Did you know that you’ll have a better catch if a hunchbacked woman goes on board and pisses on your nets? Yes, yes. That’s a fact and the rest is myth. Write that down. That is information. Listen, Miss Santiso, I don’t go around complaining, asking, “What kind of shitty town is this?” Are we in the back of beyond? Well, no. Velis nolis. I like this place just as it is. I even like the flies here. You can tell we’re prospering because we have a magnificent police station! And supposing, just supposing, there were smugglers in Noitía. Smugglers are honourable people. Those in Noitía anyway! Who are they hurting? The Inland Revenue? Listen, miss, if there weren’t umbrellas, there wouldn’t be banks.’
‘I’m not sure I see the connection.’
‘In the summer, banks lend umbrellas. When it rains, they ask for them back. Then there are people who make fantastic umbrellas for themselves. And the banks show interest. The Inland Revenue shows interest. In their own way everybody shows interest. Do you get me?’
‘You haven’t said anything about drug trafficking.’
‘Did you write down that bit about umbrellas? Good. Listen, if I become mayor one day, I’ll put an end to drugs. And drug addicts. I’ll send them all to cut stone in quarries! There’s a lot of talk about organised crime. Organised crime here, organised crime there. Your newspaper recently talked about organised crime in Noitía. What I’m saying is there are barefoot dogs everywhere. If crime is organised, then the state has to be better organised. And that’s something we all have to contribute to. Ipso facto.’
Víctor Rumbo showed his face through the swing doors.
Mariscal glanced at him and gestured to him to wait. Then he gazed at Lucía’s notebook, her calligraphic scrawl. He was about to make some comment about her fingers and nail varnish, something to do with crustaceans, but his tongue got caught in the only gap in his teeth. He looked at his watch.
‘Did you write that down? About organised crime?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s a good thesis.’
‘Well, now I want you to record the most important bit.’
A change overcame the whole of Mariscal. His expression. His voice. He gave weight to this organic transformation by rising to his feet.
‘Of course if the first part isn’t true, then the rest isn’t either. The ancients used to say: Modus tollendo tollens. The way that denies by denying. I always rely on the ancients. They never make a mistake. There are no mafias in Noitía, miss. That’s a myth. There may be the odd bit of smuggling. As always. As everywhere. But that’s all.’
He said this out loud so that Brinco could hear. See how he was controlling the situation. Keeping a tight rein on the conversation.
Full stop.
Finis certaminis.
‘That’s the first interview I’ve given,’ said Mariscal afterwards. He seemed satisfied with the experience. He became less formal with the journalist. ‘I hope it’s not your last… Include a bit of criticism, why not? The best way to sink somebody in the shit is by praising them to the skies!’
He turned towards the swing doors. Brinco gazed at them obliquely.
‘Come in, son!’
Víctor Rumbo entered like someone clearing his way through a current of air.
‘You’re… aren’t you…?’
‘I’m nobody,’ Brinco interrupted her.
Lucía felt the violence contained in his voice. Took shelter behind Mariscal’s presence.
‘Would you permit me a photograph, sir? I don’t know where that photographer’s got to. He hasn’t arrived yet.’
The Old Man glanced over at his new captain. He knew him well. He recognised the surge in his breathing, the wake of a confrontation.
‘There was a man outside,’ said Brinco suddenly. ‘Taking photographs of the cars. I don’t like people taking photographs of cars.’
‘And what happened?’ asked Mariscal uneasily. ‘Did you send him to hospital for taking snaps of a few vehicles?’
‘No. He’ll just have to buy a new camera, that’s all.’
Mariscal looked at Lucía and made a gesture of patience and apology with his arms. Agreed to have his photograph taken with the journalist’s own camera. A way of making up for the damage.
‘Go ahead!’ he said finally. ‘An old gallant can be persuaded to do anything!’
The boss positioned the brim of his hat, then crossed his arms with confidence, allowing the metal handle of his cane to appear next to the pocket silk handkerchief. Wrought silver with a pheasant’s head.
‘That cane is a beauty, Mr Mariscal.’
‘The silver is silver, my girl, and the wood is from Itín. Always getting harder.’
His face seemed to harden as well, with carved features, as if offering a natural resistance to the succession of flashes.
‘Is that it? If all goes well, you’ll sell every copy. It’ll be a great day for the Gazeta!’
‘And if it doesn’t go well?’ asked Víctor Rumbo. This time he looked past her face. Lucía Santiso felt invaded by the piercing gaze of someone commonly known as Brinco, who now addressed her directly. ‘If you wait outside, I’ll tell you who nobody is.’
She hesitated. Said, ‘I’ve a lot of work.’ And then, ‘I’ll wait.’
Carburo got out of the van and approached the newspaper seller in the kiosk on Camelio Branco Square in Noitía.
‘The Gazeta,’ he growled.
This was his way of asking for things. The newspaper woman realised this and handed him a copy.
‘No, no, I want them all.’
Now she did look at him in surprise. But this being the Ultramar, she was used to not sticking her nose in. She handed him all the copies. Finally let out, ‘Has it got your obituary or something?’
Carburo pointed at the front page, with a picture of Mariscal. ‘The boss is in it.’
His portrait occupied the centre of the page. His hat and white suit gave him the appearance of a dandy, which was reinforced by the way he grasped his cane in the middle, lifting the handle to the height of his chest.
‘Yes, I saw. He looks very smart,’ said the kiosk woman with a hint of irony. ‘Obviously he’s the one who wields the stick. Why don’t you take some flowers, Carburo? They’re my last ones.’
The giant stared at the roses. ‘No, I’m not hungry.’
He has a sense of humour, thought the woman. Only when he imitates himself.
34
‘THE OLD MAN is sorry.’
Víctor Rumbo got up from the rock where they were sitting next to Cons lighthouse, by the crosses in memory of dead sailors, and chucked a stone in the water. Turned around and stared at Fins. ‘Sorry he’s been so good to you.’
‘What did he think? That I was going to come and buy some dynamite from him?’
‘See what a troublemaker you are? The Old Man’s right. Why is it so hard for you to be more pleasant? More… honest?’
‘Honest? What do you mean?’
‘Set your price. That would be the honest thing to do.’
‘What’s your price? Help me. Get yourself out of this web as soon as you can. It’s not going to last for ever, Brinco. The judicial system will work, sooner or later.’