The Blind Man of Seville

by Robert Wilson

  She is tired and wants to sleep. I rest my head on her belly and hear the cells doubling within. I have too much energy and get up to work. I think it is an auspicious day so I take up paint and make my first mark on the canvas. It is a start. I become nervous and decide to take a walk through the Medina up towards the Kasbah to stand on the fortifications and look out over the night sea to contemplate my future. I am stopped in the Petit Soco by people who want to congratulate me and buy me a drink. They are insistent. C. is among them. I haven’t seen him for months. I let him buy me a whisky. We talk and joke for a while and I take my leave. C. catches up with me on my way to the Kasbah. He takes my arm and asks why I have been ignoring him, why have I been sending his boys away? He tells me I have frozen up again, that marriage is for lawyers and doctors, that bourgeois living is the enemy of the artist. I remind him who P. is. We have been walking at a leisurely pace and he is now steering me towards a house. He tells me it is a bar and he would like to buy me one last drink. We take a seat in a courtyard and a drink is served. There is a walkway around this courtyard, like a cloister. Without my noticing, candles are lit in this walkway and suddenly young men are loitering there. C. is prattling about the subversion of sensuality, the anarchy of depravity. I don’t listen but look at the muscular delineation of the boys’ thighs as they walk beneath the uncertain light. I am stirred up. C. hands me a cigarette. There is hashish in it which slips into my blood like cream. My lips caress the cigarette. The night folds around me. More boys float past. C. leaves with one of them. They take me by the arms and lead me away. They undress me. They knead me. They massage my resistance away. I collapse to their touch.

  I come round with my lips to a boy’s back. I dress quickly. I find the courtyard. There is no sign of C. I walk back home. I strip in the bathroom and scrub at my genitals until they are raw. I stand naked at the end of the marital bed and look down on my sleeping wife. What sort of a man am I?

  She stirs under my gaze and her head comes up off the pillow. ‘My husband,’ she says and smiles. She rubs the bed next to her. I lie down. What sort of a man am I?

  25

  Saturday, 21st April 2001, Falcón’s House, Calle Bailén, Seville

  What was the ingredient in sleeping pills that suppressed dreams? Was it the same one that dried the mouth and lined the brain with towelling? Falcón lay in the dark, pressing his fingers to his stiff face like a boxer inspecting last night’s damage. And what about these black holes in the memory? The thought brought back Alicia’s words to him last night.

  ‘A neurosis is like a black hole in space. It is bizarre and inexplicable. How can something as catastrophic as the collapse of a star happen? How can something that has happened to a human being be so painful that we refuse to remember it, that we collapse that part of the brain?’ she said. ‘There’s more to this analogy, because the collapsed star has such a powerful gravitational pull that it constantly sucks more matter into its negative world. So the neurosis draws all the positive things in your life towards it, consumes them and makes them anti-positive. You’ve described to me some important relationships in your life, with your first serious girlfriend, Isabel Alamo, and your ex-wife, Inés. They were both strong relationships, with passion on both sides, but they could not withstand the gravitational pull of the black hole within you.’

  ‘With Inés it was just sex. I know that now,’ he’d said.

  ‘Do you?’ said Alicia. ‘You don’t think that possibly it was you who wanted to maintain it at that level? Sex is manageable. Love is complex.’

  ‘I know it was sex. That’s why I’m suffering from this illogical jealousy.’

  ‘Sex normally burns itself out.’

  ‘And that’s what happened,’ he said. ‘The sex burnt itself out and there was nothing left.’

  ‘Except that you’re still fascinated by her. You still want her. There’s a part of you that hasn’t broken with her … which is one of the reasons why you can’t talk to the judge about her.’

  The cyclical thinking wore him down. He was too tired for it. He got out of bed. The hard thump of his father’s journal hitting the floor brought back last night’s reading. The pity and the disgust he felt for him. He was stunned by his father’s weakness, this pathetic facet to his personality completely unknown to Javier. How strong his mother had been, how passionate to believe in his father and how feebly she’d been repaid by his ambivalence and restless sexuality. He was fragile, this genius, and another person with an instinct for worthlessness.

  He dressed in his running clothes and went downstairs. The phone blinked at him. He played back the single message left for him, thinking: nobody calls me, I have a hundred messages at work and none at home. Paco’s voice intruded, telling him that the torero Pedrito de Portugal had twisted his knee in training and that there was now a vacant slot for Monday afternoon on the same day that he was supplying the bulls. He was sure they’d give Pepe a chance.

  Falcón ran down to the river and along its dark edge to the Torre del Oro. A runner nodded to him as he ran by and another gave him a half-salute. He’d become a regular since he’d finished with the mad, stationary cycling. These strange channels were opening up. He hadn’t mentioned his ludicrous tears over the film of Ramón and Carmen to Alicia. Where had that sentimentality come from? There was no room for it in his work. The thought stopped him. He was completely out of breath. He’d been unconsciously sprinting to get away from his irritating thoughts. Had that been the reason he’d gone into police work? Did it suit his need for the dispassionate observation of life’s terrible crises? Was that an insight? He ran back home, picked up an ABC and found Salgado’s funeral notice.

  By the time he’d stripped for his shower the progress he’d made on the run had evaporated. His back crawled with nerves and a pit had opened up in his stomach that had a terrifying similarity to Alicia’s black hole. All his positive thoughts seemed to be drawn to it and that panicked him, the idea that everything, including his sanity, might collapse into it. He took an Orfidal.

  Falcón called his brother before he went out into the pasture to round up the bulls to bring down to Seville for Monday’s bullfight.

  ‘How’s your leg?’ asked Falcón.

  ‘The leg is good,’ said Paco. ‘Any news yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Look, another thing,’ said Paco. ‘There’s going to be eight of us now on Sunday.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve had my hands full,’ said Falcón. ‘You remember Ramón Salgado, Papá’s dealer? He was murdered yesterday morning. I’ve got that and two other killings, so I haven’t been …’

  ‘Somebody killed Ramón Salgado?’ said Paco.

  ‘That’s right. His funeral’s this afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t think why anybody would go to the bother.’

  ‘Well, somebody did.’

  ‘Anyway … there’s eight of us for Sunday.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘We’re coming to your house for Sunday lunch, we’re all staying the night, we’re going for lunch the following day down by the river and then the bullfight, followed by dinner out. We’ll come back here to the finca on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You’d better call Encarnación.’

  He hung up and called Encarnación, who said she’d prepare the rooms but wouldn’t be able to cook on Sunday, but she had a niece who would. She told him to leave some money out and she’d buy all the food later that morning. He went to the ATM on Calle Alfonso XII and took out 30,000 pesetas. The phone was ringing when he got back at nine. It was Pepe Leal saying he’d been given Pedrito de Portugal’s slot. Falcón offered him a bed, but he preferred to stay with his team in the Hotel Colón.

  ‘I’ll come over on Sunday night,’ he said. ‘We can have a talk. You can prepare me for Monday, steady my nerves.’

  Falcón told him about Paco’s fam
ous retinto bull and he sensed the boy’s excitement that everything was finally coming together for him.

  By 9.30 a.m. Falcón was calling Felipe, the forensic, to see if he’d come up with anything. No prints had been left in Salgado’s house. They were working through the blood samples now, but so far it all belonged to Salgado. Falcón called the Médico Forense wondering what had happened to the autopsy report. The Médico Forense hadn’t written his report because they were waiting for some blood-test results to come back from the lab.

  ‘When I got the victim up on the slab I noticed that he had three contusions around his right eye,’ he said. ‘All the other contusions were at the back and side of his head, these were the only three on the front. They were also different. They had not been made by something hard and sharp but by something blunt and comparatively soft, like a fist. The killer had punched him three times in the face and I wondered why he would do that. The way the marks lay on the face I could see that he’d hit him with his left hand, but I know the killer is right-handed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If you’re going to remove somebody’s eyelids who’s already secured to a chair you would stand behind them and tilt the head backwards. The initial incision with the scalpel on the victim’s left eye was made from left to right and the same with the right eye.’

  ‘So why do you think he hit him with his left hand?’

  ‘Because his right hand was occupied.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It was stuck in the victim’s mouth. He was biting him.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘After he chloroformed him to perform his operation he removed the socks from his mouth so that the victim wouldn’t choke while he was unconscious. As the victim came round he stuffed the socks back in, but he either wasn’t quick enough or there was a reflex action by the victim.’

  ‘But how do you know all this?’

  ‘I found blood that was not his own in his mouth and soaked into the socks. The victim is O+ and this blood is AB+. I’ve just given instructions for a DNA test to be done.’

  He hung up and his mobile started ringing. It was Felipe with confirmation that one of the blood spatters was AB+ blood. The position of the spatter mark was 1.20 metres from the front chair leg in the direction of the doorway. As he spoke, the fixed line started to ring. This time it was Consuelo Jiménez.

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘I called the Jefatura and they said you weren’t in yet.’

  ‘They don’t give out this number and you already have my mobile.’

  ‘I’ve had this number for years. Ramón gave it to me as a favour,’ she said. ‘Your father and I used to speak occasionally.’

  ‘Have you got something for me on Sr Carvajal?’

  ‘I read in the newspaper that Ramón Salgado has been murdered by the same killer as my husband. You didn’t tell me they cut off his eyelids.’

  ‘The newspapers are being sensationalist,’ he said and left it at that.

  ‘We were good friends, Ramón and I,’ she said.

  ‘But not such good friends that you could remember his name at the beginning of my investigation.’

  ‘I was very upset by the intrusiveness of the killer, I was just exercising some control over the intrusions of the investigator … that was all.’

  ‘Did it occur to you that the delay in making the connection might have cost Ramón his life?’ he said, pushing the limits of truth to the edge, to try to get some emotional purchase.

  ‘He said he was going to meet you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We’ve spoken every day since Raúl was murdered,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you check the phone records?’

  ‘I haven’t read that report yet.’

  ‘Ramón was a very sensitive man and conscientious with it.’

  ‘When did he tell you we were going to meet?’

  ‘It was supposed to be yesterday for lunch.’

  ‘Did he say what he was going to discuss with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound as if it was going to implicate you, does it?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘Did he tell you about our little deal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He would give me information that would point me in the direction of Raúl’s enemies and in return I would allow him into my father’s studio for a day,’ said Falcón. ‘Do you know why he would want to do that? I mean, spend a day in my father’s studio. He said it was for no commercial reason.’

  ‘He was devoted to your father,’ she said. ‘Ramón’s whole life and success were due to your father’s genius.’

  ‘So what was it? Did he want to commune with my father’s spirit?’

  ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, Don Javier.’

  ‘How well did you know Ramón … how long?’

  ‘Nearly twenty years.’

  ‘Did you know that he’d been married?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you know that his wife died in childbirth?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you know that in his …’ Falcón stopped himself; futility suddenly got the better of him. His suit was heavy on his shoulders.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Ramón Salgado,’ said Falcón. ‘He’s been in and around my life for as long as I can remember. I was even featured in the killer’s film La Familia Salgado. But now I realize that I didn’t know the first thing about him, apart from the uninteresting surface of his existence.’

  ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was married,’ she said. ‘We talked about everything.’

  ‘Maybe not quite everything,’ said Falcón.

  ‘Well, for instance, he told me that he’d killed a man.’

  ‘Ramón Salgado murdered somebody?’ said Falcón.

  ‘He said it was an accident … a terrible accident, but he had killed somebody and it weighed heavily on his mind.’

  ‘Why would he tell you a thing like that?’

  ‘Because I had just told him everything about myself. I was drunk and depressed after my second abortion and the end of my relationship with the son of the duke. I told him about the other abortion and how I’d earned the money and … you know, it became a very personal conversation.’

  ‘These are big secrets to share.’

  ‘We were two lonely and disappointed people and we opened up to each other in a café on the Gran Vía, over brandy.’

  ‘Did he say when he had killed this man?’

  ‘In the early sixties in Tangier. He pushed somebody in a drunken argument. The guy fell over and hit his head in the wrong place and died. Everything was covered up. He paid some money and left the country.’

  ‘You don’t think he was lying?’

  ‘Why should he admit to something as terrible as that?’

  ‘Apart from making you feel better about yourself? Well, it gives Ramón a certain mystique … something that was totally lacking in his personality.’

  ‘All I can say was that you didn’t hear him say those words. You didn’t see what it cost him.’

  ‘All right,’ said Falcón. ‘It’s true. That was forty years ago …’

  ‘You went back that far when you were investigating Raúl’s murder,’ she said. ‘You said it was background. Here’s some more background.’

  ‘The problem now is that my superiors and I need some foreground,’ said Falcón. ‘I can’t even show that your husband and Ramón were in Tangier together. Not even that tenuous link exists.’

  ‘Raúl introduced Ramón to your father. He gave him a letter of introduction to take with him to Tangier.’

  ‘What happened between Raúl and my father?’ asked Falcón, momentarily fascinated by the digression. ‘As far as I know once they arrived in Seville they never saw each other.’

  ‘I don’t know. He never spoke about it. I asked and he ignored me.’

  ‘All right,�
�� said Falcón, getting back on track. ‘Tell me about the present-day relationship between Ramón and your husband.’

  ‘What relationship was that?’

  ‘Ramón introduced you to Raúl, didn’t he?’

  ‘Twelve years ago is present day to you,’ she said. ‘When does history start?’

  ‘What about Expo ‘92? The names I gave you were linked by …’

  ‘That’s only nine years ago. You’re becoming more modern, Inspector Jefe.’

  ‘If you were abused as a child, how long do you think that would stay with you?’

  A silence, so deep and prolonged that Falcón had to ask if she was still there.

  ‘What names are linked and what do they have to do with abusing children?’ she said, angry now.

  ‘That is part of a police inquiry and will have to remain confidential,’ he said. ‘But you know one name … Eduardo Carvajal.’

  ‘If you are saying that either my husband or Ramón had anything to do with a paedophile ring you will have me and my lawyers to answer to.’

  ‘Keep reading the newspapers,’ he said, and she slammed the phone down on him.

  In seconds his mobile was ringing. He still hadn’t moved from the phone since he’d come back from the ATM. The whole world was converging on him.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Comisario Lobo.

  ‘I haven’t been able to get out of the house,’ said Falcón. ‘I’ve been taking one call after another.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lobo. ‘I’ll be in one of those cafés inside the Plaza de Armas at the end nearest the Avenida del Cristo de la Expiración. Fifteen minutes.’

  Lobo had never met him outside the office before, and what a place to meet. This could only mean that whatever was up for discussion was too sensitive for the all-hearing concrete walls of the Jefatura.