SPORTING NOITÍA ON A TOUR OF AMERICA
‘Now isn’t that wonderful? A team in the third division out to conquer the world! And captain of the expedition is their new manager, Chelín, a friend of all things pharmaceutical. I’m off. You can carry on slaving away for the Apocalypse. At dawn the moon will be eclipsed by a flight of hens! You’ll be able to watch it from this tower, where the most secret confidential report on the ills of the world is currently being written. Not that there are many people left in Noitía who don’t know about it.’
Micho Grimaldo left, scattering the sheets of newspaper in a triumphant cynical wake. Fins raised his middle finger. ‘Go fuck yourself, Grimaldo!’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Mara. ‘Don’t waste your time with that sack of poison.’
‘He should write the report. You know why? Because he’s in on the secret.’
They were reading the section of social news in Noitía as a kind of collective obituary. Now somebody did knock at the door. Mara opened it.
‘Fins!’
In came Lieutenant Colonel Alisal and Superintendent Carro. Their appearance wasn’t exactly that of retreating superior officers being overwhelmed by a wave of corruption. The superintendent took the initiative with an effusive metaphor. ‘We’ve been given the green light!’
‘Tonight we’ll put in practice Operation Noitía,’ informed Alisal. ‘Apart from high command, you’re the first to know. We only have time to wait for reinforcements that are uncontaminated.’
‘The phone tapping, sir… That always puts paid to everything.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Alisal. ‘We’ve cut all ears and tongues. Stuffed poison inside the molehills.’
38
‘YOU FRIGHTEN THE balls, Carburo. That’s why you win.’
Mariscal took amusement from the intimidating way in which his bodyguard played billiards. Carburo arched his body and, with the cue and his gaze in threatening symmetry, seemed to be giving the balls unappealable messages.
The phone rang.
The Old Man gestured with disinterest. Let it ring. He didn’t like the way new technology stuck its nose in. Deep down the Portuguese Delmiro Oliveira was right when he joked, ‘Mariscal is one of those who believe the Yankees never landed on the moon.’ It was a personal matter. TV and videos were putting an end to cinema. The smuggling of tapes was profitable, but no more than that. Peccata minuta. It was the same with dance halls, which had finally closed owing to what he called ‘all that paraphernalia’. As for the ringing of the phone, this was for him the technical triumph of interference in private affairs. It was a personal matter. The phone had destroyed the cowboy’s way of life and put paid to horses in cinema. Without horses, there were no centaurs in the desert. Or speedboats, as Rumbo used to say. Poor Rumbo. Always trying to sound ironic.
There were three successive rings, which cut off. And then a fourth ring which continued. Mariscal paid attention to the machine. Affixed to the wall, black in colour except for the white of its dial, it gazed at him with the animal melancholy of its panoptic eye.
Without waiting for orders, Carburo picked up.
‘Whoever it is, tell them I’m not here,’ said Mariscal, looking at the other animal, the desiccated little owl. Its electric eyes had stopped working some time before. He’d ordered them to be repaired on more than one occasion, but that was the power of technology for you, he thought angrily. The old owl’s eyes were still not working.
‘Understood,’ said Carburo, adding, before Mariscal could make a sign, ‘Greetings to Mr Viriathus.’
Mariscal looked serious. Murmured, ‘Mr Viriathus, eh?’
‘Tonight, boss.’
Mariscal’s mind didn’t need further information to weave together the threads. This was a coded message reserved for extreme circumstances. ‘Let’s go, Carburo. We have to cross the border before midnight.’
Carburo immediately pulled back the green felt covering the billiard table, lifted two planks and uncovered a hole with a suitcase, which he passed to Mariscal. Mariscal opened it and checked the contents. Documents and a weapon.
An Astra.38 special revolver.
The boss glanced at Carburo. Rotated the cylinder. Weighed the gun in the air. Smaller than his hand, but fierce in appearance. Strong wood, dark steel. Snub-nosed.
‘Don’t tell me it’s small, Carburo! It’s a whole world!’
The Stick Under Orders silently prepared his.357 Magnum.
Brinco and Leda were dining in a recently opened restaurant in the new marina. The Post-da-Mar. A novelty, nouvelle cuisine making ground in Noitía. They were sharing a table with a couple their age, but there was an obvious difference between them. In the way they moved and spoke. In their clothes as well. All four looked elegant, but the clothes and ornaments of the other couple still shone as if they’d just come out of the shop window. He’d been director of a bank branch in Noitía for the last six months, while she had just taken over a jewellery franchise, which she talked about with gleaming enthusiasm.
‘Your lady of the shipwrecks looks pretty tonight,’ said Mara.
Fins ignored her comment. He was worried about something. ‘Who are the others?’
‘On glossy paper?’
‘Yes. Where did those creeps come from?’
‘Mnemosyne on the line… He’s Pablo Rocha. Director of the branch I told you about, with a sudden, unusual interest in transfers from Noitía to Panama and the Cayman Islands, passing through Liechtenstein and Jersey. A real phenomenon.’
‘He hardly needed to go so far. He could have laundered the money right here. There’s no place like home!’
‘Tell her that. Estela Oza. Just opened a jewellery store without the need for a loan or anything. Penniless before. It’s amazing what you can do.’
They were on the lookout. They’d followed Brinco’s car to this restaurant. He’d been driving calmly. There obviously hadn’t been leaks on this occasion. Things were going well. Midnight was the appointed time to act. Arrests would be carried out simultaneously to avoid possible escapes. Till then, the instructions were to avoid using the walkie-talkies. The smugglers had laser equipment. When they’d searched Tonino Montiglio’s rented apartment, the place had resembled a telecommunications hub.
Mara stuck her bare feet on the dashboard. Wiggled her toes like puppets.
‘That dark colour…’
‘Storm blue.’
‘They look like Argonauts.’
‘What do?’
‘Your toes.’
‘Like Argonauts? They’re not after gold.’
‘I’m talking about the real creatures. Those that live in the sea. The ugliest animals in existence!’
‘Well, that’s nice!’
Mara pressed ‘play’ on the cassette recorder. Listened with an exaggerated expression of amazement. To Maria Callas.
‘And this?’
‘“Casta Diva”, “La mamma morta”, “Un bel dì vedremo”… It’ll play until it breaks. If you find anything better in the universe, give me a tinkle.’
Fins put something in his mouth.
‘What are you taking?’
‘Garlic pearls.’
‘Give me one.’
‘They’re not garlic pearls.’
‘I don’t mind, give me one. I like novelties.’
‘No, you can’t take this.’
‘It’s not acid, is it? A trip with Maria Callas in the background has to be glorious.’
‘I have St Teresa’s disease,’ said Fins, in line with the humorous tone of their conversation. ‘The petit mal.’
He waited. Realised she was chewing it over. The goddess Mnemosyne’s Department of Lie Detection working overtime.