‘You’re talking about a kind of epilepsy,’ she said eventually.
‘Without seizures or anything. Old people called them “absences”. Having absences. It’s not an illness. More like a poetic property. A secret. I thought I’d got over it, but it returned.’
‘More reason to give me one.’
‘No.’
‘Yes!’ Mara stretched out her hand. ‘You know? She also belonged to the club of barbiturates.’
‘Who did?’
‘Casta Diva.’
The two couples dining in the Post-da-Mar were engrossed in conversation. The communication was especially good between Víctor and the banker Rocha. Without being rude to Estela, Leda paid more attention to the men’s conversation. She approved of it, she liked it, but couldn’t help noticing Víctor’s growing and passionate interest in business affairs.
‘But do you really think there are buyers in this part of Noitía for an estate with hundreds of villas?’
‘You bet. Multiply by three.’
‘Multiply what by three?’
Pablo Rocha spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the infinite. ‘Everything!’
It was half an hour before midnight.
A waiter came to the table and placed a leather folder next to Brinco. The folder with the bill.
‘Mr Rumbo, if you wouldn’t mind…’
Brinco was taken aback. He hadn’t asked for the bill yet. He knew the waiter. They’d spent some time at sea together. Pepe Rosende. He was about to call him to order. Give him a ticking-off. But it was better not to create a scandal in front of the others. He opened the folder.
There was no bill. There was the restaurant’s business card. He turned it over and read surreptitiously, with the folder half open. On the back, a handwritten message in the International Code of Signals: Victor India Romeo India Alfa Tango Hotel Uniform Sierra.
Maintaining his composure, Brinco turned to Leda, ‘Don’t forget we have to make a call to Viriathus. Without fail. Before midnight.’ Then to the other couple, ‘Well, that was lucky! It’s on the house.’
Leda stood up and took her handbag.
‘Please excuse me, I have to visit the ladies’ room.’
Brinco followed her. The other couple seemed mildly surprised, but carried on smiling.
‘What are you thinking? I’m going to the gents, eh?’
The Post-da-Mar’s emergency exit gave on to a small alleyway illuminated by tired lamps. Leda was waiting in the middle of the street with the car running. She didn’t realise that Fins and Mara had followed her there and were hiding behind a parked car. ‘It’s the Nuova Giulietta,’ whispered Mara. Brinco was about to get in the car when Fins floored him. Mara backed him up, aiming her revolver.
‘Let go of me, you bastard! You’ve never grown up. You stink of shit!’
Fins forced him on to his front and managed to handcuff him.
‘You’ve been living on borrowed time ever since you came back here,’ muttered Brinco. ‘But I swear this time I’ll get you. Who the fuck do you think you are?’
‘I see you still have a few coffins…’
‘The Old Man was right. We should have packed you off to Chacarita cemetery as soon as you arrived.’
Leda suddenly opened the car door. Leaned out and shouted, ‘Let go of him, Fins! Is this why you came back, you idiot?’
Mara now aimed her revolver at the voice that was speaking. Walked slowly towards Leda.
‘What do you want? Don’t tell me you’re going to shoot. Fins, how good is this whore at target practice?’
‘Much better than me!’
‘We’ll see…’
‘Get out of here, Leda!’ shouted Brinco, giving orders.
Mara was very close to her now. She stared in quiet surprise at the other’s bare feet, the iridescent colour of her nail varnish. But unable to take any other decision, even to shout ‘halt’, she allowed Leda to lean back in, put the car in reverse, turn and accelerate noisily out of the alley.
Mara lowered her weapon. She was mute, downcast, like the lamps illuminating the street. She bent down and picked something off the ground. Leda Hortas’ high heels.
After the bulletin’s signature tune, the presenter read two news items. One referred to international politics and the other to Spanish politics. Then something about the economy, referring to the rise in petrol prices. Finally he mentioned the name of Noitía, and Mariscal let out a cloud of smoke.
‘A total of thirty-six people were arrested last night and early this morning accused of belonging to drug trafficking and smuggling rings during the so-called Operation Noitía. Among the detainees was Víctor Rumbo, president of Sporting Noitía, alleged to be at the front of a powerful organisation. The operation, in which all the different security forces took part, was conducted with the utmost secrecy. As a result of numerous checks and inspections, huge amounts of drugs, cash and firearms have been confiscated.
‘We will now hear from one of those responsible for the operation, Lieutenant Colonel Alisal. “This was a harsh blow to the smugglers of tobacco. And also a way of stopping any kind of illegal trafficking. It sends out much more than a clear warning. Society should feel calm and criminals uneasy. From now on, they should know we are going to root out any such activities.”’
‘I told you you could watch Spanish television from here.’
‘It’s better than over there!’
It was early in the afternoon. Delmiro and Mariscal had just had lunch. They’d settled into the sofa in a room in Quinta da Velha Saudade to watch the news. At the end, the Old Man lit a cigar.
He exhaled and watched the smoke climb, entwine the chandelier like ivy.
He clicked his tongue. ‘You should try one of these, Delmiro!’
The ocean down by the South Pole had been lifted up. Chelín was sitting cross-legged in the Antarctic. He gazed at the image of Lord Byron contemplating the freedom of Greece. The best friend he’d never had. Serene unease. He shut the tome and placed it on top of the other on the shelf. Opened the suitcase with his nest. His tools for shooting up. The syringe, rubber band, jar of distilled water, teaspoon, filters, lighter. And, most important of all, the little ball. He secured the spoon in the gap between the two volumes of Civilisation. This way he had the bowl in front of him, the crater in which to ferment the sphere. That’s right. He still had enough heroin for a good fix. A fix in three movements. He had to pump in three movements. Pump the blood. A mouse stared at him from the middle of the ocean. He was used to them scurrying about. Used to the blind gaze of the mannequin, the gaze of the one-armed skeleton and the desiccated crane. But the mouse’s gaze was enormous. It was far away, but touched him with the graphite of its eyes. A mouse contemplating the freedom of Greece.
The nest in his suitcase was a hole surrounded by wads of dollars. There was room for the pendulum and the Astra Llama. A treasure for the freedom of Greece. He’d have given anything for a kiss. A bit of saliva in his mouth.
Chelín put everything back under the ocean’s planks.
Fins Malpica’s first impulse was to sniff the air. It wasn’t meant to be an overreaction. If he did this, it was because he felt truly dizzy, a dizziness that was accompanied by the smell of burning oil. He managed to control himself. Change his expression of disgust for one of total seriousness.
And this is how he emerged from the courthouse. Descending the stairs like someone counting the steps and finding that several are missing. There were people outside, a cluster of journalists, waiting to hear the sentence passed on Víctor Rumbo, the main detainee in Operation Noitía. Fins didn’t answer any questions. He ignored the microphones. Gulped back the historic sentences.