‘Listen, sir. It was very polite of him to die the way he did.’
The Sahara lady had adopted a hard tone that sounded quite genuine.
‘He spent the nights coughing,’ said Dalia. ‘I even considered throwing him out, fond as I was of him. “Mr Anceis, why don’t you go to a hospital or some home?” When I said this to him, he fell quiet. He got over his cough for a time. Either that or he smothered it, who knows? He then had the decency to go and die outside. Without bothering anyone. He even made his own bed. He wrote a farewell letter, which I gave to the police. But first he made his bed. He’d smooth out the creases in his quilt with his hand, like an iron. It was very kind of him to die like this. One thing about sailors, they can fend for themselves.’
Her expression hardened further as she addressed Dez. What questions was he asking? Wasn’t he his friend? She said, ‘Mr Anceis was a correct man. Didn’t they find his polished shoes neatly placed together on the Coiraza wall in Orzán as if he’d gone and lain down on the sea?’
The next step was to go in search of Sada. When he found him, on the terrace of the Galicia Café, he spoke with the utmost caution. He had to obtain information, discover what he knew, but not slip up. Sada was either in another world or pretending to be mad. Or both. But, if he did know the truth, he had plenty of reasons to plot his revenge.
‘Anceis?’
‘It’s not an official matter, Sada, my friend. I’m acting as intermediary. They’ve expressed interest in him from the Index in Madrid. He sent some poems. They’re impressed and want to publish them with a fanfare. Funny thing is he only wrote his name and the following address: Orzán Sea, Coruña.’
‘Orzancy is a poet. That’s right.’
‘Not Orzancy. I’m talking about Aurelio Anceis. He hasn’t published a book. I said I’d look into it. Try and remember, Sada. Is there a hidden Parnassus among the bars of Orzán?’
‘Anceis? Never heard of him. There was an Aurelio, the great Aguirre, who drowned in the wildness of Orzán, not in a bar. He’d go around with his head uncovered during God’s storms. Wie wenn am Feiertage. .’
Dez the censor was aware that words, even those pulled out of a hat by chance, had a purpose. ‘As on a Holiday. .’ He knew the poem, he’d heard it before, but what was the point of quoting Hölderlin? Sada was starting to rise. Ascending through clouds of expressionist Atlantic thunder. He was getting away and the mystery hadn’t been solved yet.
‘But that, Mr Dez, was another time, when shells were still coated in nacre.’
He made a final attempt.
‘He may not still be alive,’ said Dez. ‘Is there anyone whose absence has been noted? If not in Orzán, then on other seaside Parnassuses. The heroic route of the Star, Elms, the Galley, the Strip. . To say nothing of the islands in Coruña’s Aegean: Enrique’s, Leonardo’s, Delicacies, Nautilus, the Cribs. .’
‘Don’t torture me now, Dez. I was born yesterday in the Cuckoo’s Song, resuscitated in the Ship’s Lantern and died in the Cuckoo’s Feather. There are abstemious poets too. Go and find one. After all, it never rains but it pours.’
‘Don’t try to be difficult, master. Geniuses like you are not allowed to indulge in such flaws. Please. Take a trip around the world of spirits. If there’s any news, give me a call.’
‘I’ll toast you with Ferrero Tonic. And the soul of the loin of pork in Enrique’s. By the way. .’
Tomás Dez realised he’d kept the conversation going too long. There were seconds that got stuck in time like bits of dust in the eye.
‘What is it, Sada?’
‘How’s it going with Oeste?’
He was about to say, ‘It’s fine, being processed.’ But the dust had taken its toll and Dez replied carelessly:
‘Between you and me, there is a problem. Have you read it all?’
‘No, not all of it. I did the cover and a few illustrations. What I can tell you is that magazine is more innocent than Carral bread, Mr Dez.’
‘In the strictest confidence. My report was favourable, but authorisation has been withheld somewhere up the line. The Madrid offices are in disarray. The Julián Grimau case has made a mess of things. We have to be patient.’
‘Patient? Do you know why there are so many seagulls and mullets in this city? Because they feed on patience. The drains are full of patience.’
He made as if to summon the waiter and said, ‘A foie gras of patience, if you please.’
‘Remember, Sada, that was in confidence. Oeste will be published. We may have to pull some strings. Prune it back a bit. But you can trust me. Whatever the circumstances, I’ll always be on the side of art, you know. Which reminds me, I’ve a new work on the way. The Moment of Truth. That’s the title.’
‘Very good,’ said Sada. ‘Very bullish.’
Dez left without looking at the seagulls, but he heard their calls like a soundtrack of suspense on the way to his office. Very bullish. What to make of that? The bastard. He had things to do, the sooner the better.
He hatched his plan. He would have to shake up, send tremors towards, the director of the Expreso. They’d never been close. His professional style, the way he kept his distance.
The other key figure was Samos.
He gave him a call. There was a problem with Oeste and he preferred to discuss it with him out of friendship and to avoid disturbing Chelo Vidal. He then made another call. To the printer’s. He’d decided to withdraw three poems he wasn’t quite sure about: ‘Zero’, ‘Infinite’ and ‘Standard Vivas’.
He met the judge that same afternoon in the Union Café. Oeste, he explained, was being considered by the General Direction in Madrid. He’d been favourable, even enthusiastic, in his report. Everything was going well until the fishing line, so to speak, unexpectedly got caught and became knotted. Someone had noticed some poems which were described as perverse and the fact of being anonymous made them even more insidious. In confidence, it was a senior official. He couldn’t say the name, the judge would understand.
‘Yes, I understand. In my situation, as you well know, I also understand how uncomfortable one can feel in front of texts that are anonymous or written under a pseudonym.’
Yes, of course. They’d come to that later, said Dez. He had some news. But going back to the problem of Oeste, circumstances had something to do with it. The state of emergency declared for two years, the Grimau case, the international campaign. . It all had an impact and at such times controls were tightened. Each to his own. As for the poems, they may have been a little heated, he couldn’t say. He’d pulled some strings and been given a solution. The magazine could come out if those poems were omitted. But there was another demand he wished to discuss with the utmost discretion. The authorities wanted to know who’d written the poems. In short, he had to put together a confidential report. Their personal details and public conduct. The authorities had thought to go through the usual channels and seek information from the Brigade of Politico-Social Investigation, but he’d persuaded them that wasn’t necessary, at the head of the magazine were some highly respected individuals who were close to the regime and could be trusted, first among them his honour’s wife. This reference had sufficed, explained Dez. So he’d offered to look into the matter himself. Which is why he’d called and here they were. It was a question of avoiding any damages and making sure Oeste came out.
‘The most important thing for us all is that none of this has a knock-on effect.’