by Pablo Poveda
I walked into the solitude of the desert, and without looking back, I dropped to my knees at the gates of that damn factory.
3
What happened next, I do not remember well. I felt like drowning, and the still image of that man got engraved with fire on my mind. I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon at a bar, getting drunk by myself until I managed to forget some of it. It was not going to be easy, nor did I know whom to call. I simply could not. I was on my own. I could not allow myself to involve my family nor any of the few friends left.
I had been a moron, a complete idiot, by taking that envelope even after I noticed we were being recorded. Alcohol helped me find a quick yet irrational solution. I had to go back and destroy any evidence before the police arrived. Even though the place was far from the city in the middle of nowhere, even if no one worked there anymore, it would only take one intruder poking about to discover the crime. I was overwhelmed by the situation, but something deep inside me told me everything was going to be all right— or of so I tried to convince myself.
As I ordered the second pint and some omelette at the countertop bar — as stereotypical of Spanish bars as the concessionary stores at theaters — I turned on the phone. I had lost calls from Ortiz and a message from Manuela, asking me how my day was going.
I loved that girl. I would have turned my life upside down for her a thousand times. She was a very mature and sympathetic girl, who still did not know what she wanted from life. Living in Madrid and working at a small publishing house, Manuela had been a reliable support during my college years. Bulging breasts, a sweet, soft face, and long legs where one could get lost, pondering the endless ways to touch them. But I did not notice her until she drunk-texted me out of the blue, laying her intentions on the table.
We had little in common, for she was interested in older men with a promising future. I did not fit in that category, and that gave us both some leeway and the perfect excuse not to commit. We used to go out together until one night we slept together drunk at a hostel near the beach. We hugged and made love until dawn, and then I drove her home. The second time was better, more intense, and uninhibited. Manuela liked to have sex with me, and I with her. We had fun. She was the gateway to all that I had no access to, not to mention interest, but that I liked to peek from time to time: publishers; the little world of writers in Madrid, Barcelona, and El Poblenou; editors; trendy kids in Malasaña; drugs; cucumber gin and tonics; Foucault’s books; Fellini’s films; and the charm of Jean-Pierre Léaud.
I lied about reading the newspaper despite writing in one of them. I was a journalist by profession, I got paid for it, but by no means did that imply that I liked what I did for a living. The lesson plans had depleted my mental energy during college, dispersed among the pages written by Kapuściński, Tom Wolfe, and Pedro J. Ramírez.
The fact that I was not knowledgeable in her world was what she liked about me, besides embedding her against the headboard and making her moan like a hyena. But our connection was not only based on sex but sweetness. Both of us knew that we would never be together; that we would be a page in each other’s lives, but never the final chapter. We were something temporary and dispensable like a second-hand product.
Some time later, I found out that she had a boyfriend. I was told that she was seeing an old Asturian with thick-framed glasses and graying hair then. That both of them lived in Madrid and uploaded photos of terraces and glasses of wine on their social media.
I was happy for her and wrote her back. With some luck, she might join me this afternoon after a couple of beers.
Manuela showed up one hour later at the bar. I did not get up from the stool to greet her but kissed her twice on the cheek.
“Oh, Manuela,” I told her while we talked about life, and a waiter served us an order of croquettes, “you and I would have been unstoppable.”
She laughed and introduced a ham croquette in her mouth.
“C’est la vie, Gabriel,” she said with a forced accent. It sounded so tacky that I turned a blind eye for that summer cleavage that she presented to my eyes. “People change.”
“I don’t,” I said, tipsy and with one eye squinted. “I don’t change, I just grow older.”
“I wish we all could say that,” she replied.
I grabbed her by the waist and went straight to her lips. Manuela turned her face and my kiss wrecked in her cheek.
“Gabriel,” she said, smiling. “Stop it!”
“Check Mate,” I said, leaning back and concealing my frustration with half a laugh. “I guess this is the end, isn’t it?”
“Don’t get melodramatic,” she said, blushing. “We’re friends.”
“We’ll always be,” I replied, giving my beer a drink. “We had a great time, you and I.”
“Too much of a good time,” she said. “I have to leave, Gabriel. Do you want a ride?”
My phone rang again.
It was Ortiz. I was in no condition to speak with him; I was slurring my words but took the call anyway.
“What is it?” I said while I gestured at Manuela to wait for me. She said goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, and told me to take care, whispering in my ear, and said that she would call me someday. On my other eardrum, Ortiz shouted, making my head spin.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked. “I hope you have a good excuse.”
“I can’t talk now, boss,” I said. “No excuse is good enough for you anyway.”
“Do as you wish,” he said. He sounded worried about something. “Stop by my office first thing in the morning. Someone’s come asking about you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t want you to spend a sleepless night. Good night,” he said and hung up.
I paid the check and plodded to my apartment, looking at the street that spun around me like a carousel. I looked at the youngsters getting ready to go partying, felt the smell of girl’s cheap perfume and the stench of rotten fish coming out from Styrofoam boxes at the central market. I sensed the smell of urine in the corners, the smoke of marijuana coming down from the balconies, and the conversations of prostitutes at the doors of hostels. I noticed a group of skinheads at the entrance of an establishment, wearing tactical boots and buttoned up polos. The 24-hour cafés were open, but their blinds lowered. Drug addicts begged for money to buy food to satisfy their munchies. Gang members sold smuggled foreign beer next to a hamburger joint that expelled a strong odor of frying oil. That was a mix of cultures from immigrants, locals, and tourists, all together on the same street that slowly led me to the bullring. In the meantime, I walked invisible to them but as one of them. The stale air of that summer night was suffocating and damp.
When I arrived in my street, I saw the glow of the neighbors’ TV sets through their windows. The ten o’clock movie echoed at full volume in the inner courtyards.
I was planning on making an omelette when I got home but remembered that I was out of eggs.
* * *
The phone rang, and I opened my eyes with great effort. When I turned my head on the pillow, I felt a blow to the head. I was dehydrated.
I took a quick shower and darted toward the newsroom on an empty stomach.
Nausea, nausea. I had to do some mental juggling to persuade myself not to light my first cigarette of the day.
Nausea, nausea. Damn bus drivers, old ladies’ perfume, and water fountains — they were making me feel much worse.
“Look at your face!” said Ramiro, one of the editors. “The boss is waiting for you.”
I walked to Ortiz’s office, still wearing my sunglasses.
I knocked on the door twice and walked in.
Ortiz looked concerned.
That day I saw him balder than usual, as though the night before, during my absence, next to the night table, he had lost layers and layers of hair. I was starting to freak out.
“What a face you have,” he muttered. “You cannot come here like that.”
“Like what?” I as
ked jokingly. “It’s not like there is a sign out there.”
He was not amused.
“Sit down and don’t give me that crap,” he said, and I obeyed. “The police came asking for you.”
Damn.
I had totally forgotten.
An imaginary police officer kicked me in the stomach, making me bend over to the ground. That is how I felt. My strategy of getting drunk until I forgot had worked. I began to sweat both from nervousness and dehydration. The heat was unbearable, and I felt nausea coming up and down my throat.
“What did they want?” I said, grabbing the bottle Ortiz had on his desk.
“To speak with you,” he said, scowling at me. “Damn you, Gabriel, what the hell have you done this time?”
“Nothing! I swear,” I answered. “I don’t know what is happening.”
“Let’s see,” he said. He was pissed. “You either tell me, or you’ll have to tell them. It’s your call. I just want to help you.”
“I am in trouble, aren’t I?” I asked.
“Indeed you are.”
“Fuck!” I said, taking my hands to my face.
Ortiz’s private mobile phone vibrated.
He had a look at the screen and read an incoming text message.
He pulled out a bottle of cognac from the drawer’s desk and poured a sprinkle in his coffee. Then he had a long drink and wiped his mustache.
“Go and tell them the truth,” he said serene, suddenly changing his attitude. “If you are innocent, there is nothing to fear. Go tell them what they want to know. They can’t accuse you.”
“Just like that, ‘go and tell’em’?” I replied.
“Yes.”
“Am I fired?” I asked. The conversation seemed to have finished.
“No,” he replied. “I cannot fire you. I’m only your editor-in-chief. But if I were you, I’d start — ”
“See you later,” I interrupted him and got up.
* * *
If my emotional burden were a napalm storm, it would suffice to wipe out a nation. It was a full-blown weapon of mass destruction. Consistent with Ortiz’s words, I headed out to take some July morning sun and relax. I needed it. So, I went to one of my favorite cafés on the square, and with the sun in my face, I sat on a metal chair and ordered a beer and a ham and tomato sandwich. I was starving and some nourishment would get me some strength, and perhaps the optimism necessary to counteract pessimism a little longer.
As I contemplated a group of people swarming around an ice cream stand in front of me, I felt a broad shadow hover over me, depriving me of sunlight.
I squinted my eyes to see the origin. A corpulent man in a shirt, jeans, and aviator glasses was standing in front of me. His arms were akimbo, and he gave me a threatening smile.
“What are you doing?” I said with one eye squinting at him.
“Mr. Gabriel Caballero,” he said. His voice sounded like from beyond the grave. “Right?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me. Who are you?”
“I’m Inspector Rojo,” he introduced himself and pulled out a police badge, “from the Homicide Squad.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Your boss.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I would like to have a word with you,” the man said.
“I can’t right now,” I replied. “I’m busy, officer.”
“I see. Then let’s talk when you’re finished.”
“What is this about?” I asked in a naive voice.
“Enjoy your breakfast and don’t choke on it,” he said and left. I looked at him walk away and get in a police patrol where another agent awaited him. They pulled off and drove away, getting smaller and smaller as the distance that separated us grew longer.
I did not feel like eating anymore.
4
Even though life did not live up to my expectations, my indifference toward problems made everything more bearable in the short term. I have always prioritized the present. But some people took it too far. It was a matter of finding the right balance, like the tightrope walker who performs every night. Performing calls for a bit of practice, but the rest of the day, one spends it with the feet on the floor, stepping on shit and biting the dust. That was my approach to life.
I crossed the entrance of the police station, not far from the bar where I had just had breakfast. It was not the first time I was in one, but that was the first time where I was involved in some serious issues. I asked the person in front desk. It did not take long before the corpulent Officer Rojo appeared, walking down the corridor. He raised an arm and gestured at me hostilely, inviting me to come into his office. I walked a corridor and turned to the right.
The sight was no different from what I already knew — gypsy families, white people, skinheads, drunkards with wounded heads, pickpockets, and Romanian children running around. A man reporting the theft of his phone, another one confessing he slit his co-worker’s throat, and a queue of people going to file complaints. I walked farther in, listening to the clanking of barred doors, slammed desks, metal drawers running on their rails, and forced statements. People releasing frustration by hitting the wall. It smelled of humidity, sweat, and cigarette smoke mixed with the aroma of the fake coffee dispensed by the vending machine. The police station was a human kennel.
I walked into an ample office with desks and flat-screen computers. It was much cleaner and organized than our newsroom. It smelled of sweat, new upholstery, computer equipment, and cleaning products. The officer pointed to a chair, signaling me to sit down, and I had a glance at the look of the picture of the King resting on the windowsill next to the Spanish flag. Rojo was messy, or at least, that impression he gave me.
On the desk, there was a picture frame with a photograph in which a blonde woman with curly hair held a child. He was not in the picture, so she must be his wife, sister, or someone important to him.
First, he checked my personals and read my file. I was clean. I had never been in trouble before, except for that debt at one of the old Blockbusters.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” he said. “What was your relation with Mr. Rocamora?”
“There wasn’t one,” I replied. “None, whatsoever. Why did you call me? To waste my time?”
He took some notes. I was familiarized with that charade — pretending to jot down something to provoke uncertainty and second-guessing. I was not to let him intimidate me.
“We found Rocamora — ” he showed me some pictures with the fat man’s remains. “You are the direct connection.”
“I have nothing to do with this,” I defended myself. “He called me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “That was the first time I had seen that man.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“He must have told you something,” the policeman rebuked. “What was there in the envelope?”
“What envelope?” I asked gullibly.
“The yellow envelope he gave you — ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent.”
Rojo moved the mouse about on his computer, and after finding a file, he played a video. My face was on the screen, looking directly at the camera. Then I saw my image in the fat man’s office, taking the envelope and putting it in my pocket.
He stopped the video.
“Don’t take me for an idiot, will you?”
He seemed upset that I had lied to him.
“He gave me an envelope with money,” I confessed. “He told me that I had to write an article. I thought the envelope would contain pictures, but — ”
“Article?”
“I’m a journalist,” I said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Don’t get clever with me,” he said threateningly.
“He wanted to confess to a crime,” I continued. “I told him to go to the police, but he ignored me.”
“Then what happened?”
“You know already.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He jumped over the rail,” I explained. “I was taken by surprise. Especially because of his face. He didn’t seem regretful, not even scared. The rest is... mush.”
“Enough,” he said. As nervous as I was, I was unable to refrain from making idiotic jokes that ran through my mind to cover my insecurities. “Why did he call you?”
“That I don’t know,” I said, lying to him again. Once more, he jotted something in his notebook. “I’m telling you the truth. You have to believe me, officer.”
“I’ll do what I see pertinent,” said officer Rojo. “You are the main suspect of his murder. We don’t think it was suicide.”
“Why would I kill that man?” I asked offended.
“You tell me.”
“You have the wrong person,” I said. “I am a journalist. I write to tell the truth, not to amuse myself with the misfortunes of others.”
“You write about murder,” he said.
“But I don’t make my own news,” I rebuked.
“Did you do it for money?”
“Are you kidding me? You can take the money if you want. He gave me the money of his own accord. You’re wrong about me, agent.”
“I see,” he said calmly. That bastard seemed to be amused by that.
“I am not the man you’re looking for,” I replied. “The police is making a mistake.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Caballero,” he replied, waving his hands. “You haven’t been accused of anything. If you’re innocent, we’ll leave you alone. However, if we find out that you were responsible for his death, I will personally make sure you pay your debt with justice.”
“My lawyer should be present,” I said. “Why are you not following the protocol?”
“Get your life in order,” the policeman said. “This is serious, not a cheap novel.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes, we are done here,” he said. “You know the way out.”
“Very kind,” I replied, getting my ass off the chair, both offended and terrified at the same time. The policeman was serious, and I could not help picturing myself behind bars, sharing a cell with a tattooed giant, and being sodomized during breaks. I was a journalist, not a thug. I was not ready to go to prison.