A strong-complexioned man crossed the street. In a black leather jacket. She knew who it was. Carburo. He growled some kind of greeting. Hello, girl.
‘You know something? Guadalupe’s not coming.’
‘Not coming? Till when?’
‘Till… I don’t know. She’s not coming.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to understand. She’s not here. She’s gone. She won’t be coming back. The beauty salon’s closed. Got it now?’
Mónica managed to unhook a cloud of smoke from her mouth.
She watched Carburo pull an envelope out of his jacket pocket, which he slapped against the palm of his hand in a gesture that was as meaningful as it was redundant, the way you would a wad of notes.
‘Take this. It’s a message for you. A very valuable one. Fifty thousand pesetas. Listen, Mónica…’
The girl stuffed the envelope into her bag as quickly as possible. She was afraid.
‘While you were here, you saw nothing, heard nothing. You remember nothing. Am I right?’
She was incapable of answering. Not even a monosyllable. She shook her head in a panic. No, no, no.
‘Good. Now the best thing for you to do is go. Far away from here, understand?’
‘Far away?’
‘Yes, far away. The further the better. And don’t wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow is too late.’
As he said this, Carburo’s gaze encompassed the surroundings, the insides of people passing by.
No, he couldn’t believe it. She’d been the singer. Had had to wait twenty-five years like a dead cat.
He looked up at the sky. Too much light.
Is this how the devil repays the one who serves him? My very own prima donna!
The sinking was as a result of the height.
And that snotty-nosed Malpica calling me ‘capo’. An idiot, a troublemaker, who thinks he’s going to sort out the world.
Capo? He wasn’t a capo. Like that other guy, who called him the head honcho. ‘You’re the head honcho, Don Mariscal.’ He’d already warned him. ‘There’s no honcho around here, let alone a head one.’ Aliases like that gave you away, made you look ridiculous. He could see himself on the front page of the Gazeta, ‘Tomás Brancana the Head Honcho’. Then he thought about who he was. Gazed at the horizon, searched for the bell tower of St Mary’s. He was… What was he? A dean. The Dean. That’s right. There were priests in different parishes, and then there was the dean. No, the director of the seminary hadn’t liked him. Because let’s stop beating about the bush. The director knew what he’d said, and nobody else. He wasn’t going to spill the beans. ‘Are you sure about your vocation?’ the director had asked. ‘Yes, father.’ ‘How do you think you can serve God?’ And here he’d noticed a touch of irony. Keep calm. The storm clouds are coming. As a child, ringing the bell of St Barbara’s. No, he’d never said anything about becoming pope. Or bishop. Or even dean. ‘The way God chooses.’ ‘But there must be something in your head?’ ‘A good parish.’ This is what he’d heard as an acolyte in the sacristy, what one priest had said to another: ‘Listen, Bernal, parishes are measured by the number of hosts that are consumed and the number of pesetas they bring in.’ Neither pope nor dean. ‘What I want is a good parish, father.’ That’s what he’d said. And who doesn’t?
Mutatis mutandis.
Who’d have thought she would be the principal singer. The prima donna!
Floating like a butterfly, stinging like a bee.
Cassius Clay, aka Muhammad Ali.
The butterfly and the bee.
A good epitaph for Guadalupe.
37
HIS FINGERS TRIED to keep up with his thoughts, but couldn’t. They galloped over the keys but sometimes had to go back, and then he would click his tongue in annoyance. He only stopped when he heard her mocking voice: ‘Go for it, Simenon!’
‘I lack the gift he had for writing and fucking at the same time, I’m sorry.’
‘One has to appreciate one’s limits. Take it easy.’
Mara’s bare feet lay on top of the keyboard of her typewriter. The nails painted midnight blue. One of the last jobs in Bellissima. His colleague’s gaze didn’t exactly encourage an erotic game.
‘Do you see something?’
In her lap were photographs of Guadalupe Brancana taken on the beach and the autopsy table.
‘I see the face of someone who was afraid before she died. Very afraid. Long before she died. Years, perhaps… But I don’t think that will be any use to the coroner or for the forensic report. It’s artistic criticism, nothing more.’
‘There are no skid marks on the road. Did you talk to the coroner?’
‘He behaved very well. Whatever we may think, there’s no way of connecting Mariscal to this death. And the girl, Mónica, has gone to ground. The fact is, Guadalupe was taking tranquillisers, which confirms the hypothesis of driver error. There are witnesses who saw her make several mistakes while out driving. They had no further consequences. Until yesterday, that is. In the end, though, barbiturates may have been her only source of affection.’
‘I’m amazed. It’s impressive working with someone who did their thesis on post-mortem expressions.’
‘The head of department suggested I do it on post-mortem auctoris. The duration of authors’ rights after their death. These are the legal cases of the future. Especially once the world has succumbed to those clever little machines that will do away with paper. But I wanted to compete with Darwin, who wrote on The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals.’
Mara placed her feet on the floor, leaned her elbow on the table thoughtfully and stared at Fins.
‘You’re doing all right yourself. Though the nickname Simenon wasn’t my idea. I’m a fan of Hammett. They say you wrote a report that resembles a novel. A good novel at that.’
‘If you want to screw a novel, say something nice about it. They’ll bury the report, Mara, you’ll see.’
‘Well, I liked it. “Most excellent sirs: real power in Noitía is being exercised in darkness and silence…” Good opening. Sounds like an anarchist skit.’ She then continued with the voice of a distant radio presenter: ‘“The only way to take effective action against organised crime is by seeing and listening in that zone of shadow and silence.”’
As he listened to her in surprise, it occurred to Fins that the voice of truth had a hankering for fiction.
‘I was just thinking…’
The one who opened the door, without knocking as usual, was Grimaldo, an overweight veteran inspector with fishy eyes and a sharp tongue. He was dressed like a careless dandy, carrying a copy of the Gazeta de Noitía which he threw on the table in front of Fins to reveal the front page.
There was a picture of Mariscal smiling and the following large headline:
Brancana, favourite for mayor
‘NOITÍA WILL BE A MODEL OF PROGRESS’
Underneath the photograph, the subheading: ‘In these parts, smugglers are honourable people.’
Grimaldo was obviously in his element.
‘Now there’s a work of art to add to your chart on the Last Judgement. “Smugglers are honourable people.” With a pair of balls! Don’t let it get you down, Fins, enjoy yourself! Old Mariscal is quite the comedian. Check out this other pearl.’
ÓSCAR MENDOZA
NEW PRESIDENT OF THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE
‘As with miracles, there are not two, but three. Let’s have a look at the sports page. Allow me…’
With Víctor Rumbo as President