by Pablo Poveda
I thought fast. I thought of the living dead, an epidemic, a spreading virus.
I have seen way too many movies.
I took several pictures with my phone’s camera.
Like flies drawn by the blood around the scene, the interns from local newspapers piled up with their reflex cameras, iPhones, thick-framed glasses, and four-day beards.
I returned to the apartment, opened a can of beer, and sat in the sofa. I turned on the sound system and played a John Coltrane record.
My legs were trembling. I could not stop thinking about what I had just witnessed. I thought of calling Blanca. She was good at resolutions, but I could not, it was not ethical.
I finished the beer and got another one. The second entered my system much better, it brought in more gas, more energy.
My nervousness waned. I checked the Internet but found nothing. The time was running out. This is the story of the summer, I thought, and it is mine to report on.
The phone rang. I had a quick glance at the screen.
It was Rojo.
I grabbed a notepad and a pen.
The time to ask questions had come.
* * *
I arranged an appointment with Officer Rojo for the next day at a small coffee shop, the usual kind. The last time we had been to a bar together, a significant amount of alcohol ran through our veins — we had attended an afterparty — he took a taxi, and I was about to become a dead man.
This time he chose the place. I did not want people to see us together nor to interact with acquaintances. Rojo knew I enjoyed frequenting places that I had visited before. There was a halo of nostalgia and belonging to an idea that only existed in my reality.
I parked the Porsche behind a popular department store and walked at a light pace until I found the place he had designated. When I arrived, a waitress invited me in, and I ordered a coffee.
“Iced or hot?” she asked. From her appearance, she must have entered her thirties years ago. Her hair was dyed carrot-orange and tied in a braid. She walked with her blouse undone behind her apron that revealed the size of her voluminous breasts. I looked up from her chest when she repeated the question.
“No, plain coffee,” I ordered. “Plainly plain coffee.”
She either did not understand my pun, or she did not find it funny.
“As you wish,” she said, “but with this heat, you know exactly where the coffee is going to end up — ”
“Get me a beer after the coffee, then,” I replied with a smile.
“Okay!” she replied, turned around, and walked to the opposite corner, where an old man waited his turn to see the waitress up close and refill his glass of gin.
I looked up and paid attention to the television in the bar when the reporter on the news started talking.
“Can you turn it up?” I asked. The woman, holding a bottle of gin in one hand, operated the remote control with the other.
“This is getting out of hand,” the retiree commented, looking at the woman.
“I know,” she responded politely. “This youth... See, let me tell you something, this is because of their parents. I have a daughter and when she turns of age, she will learn what it is to make a living.”
I pictured the waitress’s daughter working at the same bar and showing just as much cleavage as her mother.
For paying attention to their interaction, I missed what they said on television. I looked at the images. They were talking about what happened the day before. I read the captions: the police claimed the events were but a simple reckoning.
“My ass!” I shouted. The other two looked at me — ”I mean the news report.”
The five-minute report gave way to a dandy in a dapper suit who warned the audience of the heat wave that was to come in the next few days. I lowered my eyes on my coffee when I felt a human presence next to me.
“Are you on duty?” he said in his hoarse voice. It was Rojo.
“If I’m going to work,” I replied, “I need to be awake. Where did you buy the costume?”
He sat at the countertop next to me. He was wearing casual attire, strange in him, way too sporty. The officer looked like a member of a motorcycle gang, dressed in an Iron Maiden T-shirt and jeans.
The woman approached as soon as she spotted the male presence of the policeman and instantly ignored the old man.
“Coffee and brandy, please,” he ordered.
“Coming!” she replied with a smile.
“I hope you don’t mind if we talk here,” he said while the woman prepped the espresso machine.
“The waitress didn’t smile at me!” I said indignantly. “Anyway. No, I don’t mind it at all, although if you intended to go under the radar, I think your choice of clothes was a misfire.”
“Whatever,” he answered. “My men saw you yesterday. Can’t you keep a low profile? It hasn’t been even one day — ”
“I went back home immediately,” I replied. “Does this have to do with what we heard in Dénia?”
“You didn’t hear anything, are we clear?” he said. “And well, we still don’t know yet. Do you know anything?”
“This looks pretty fucked up,” I said. The woman poured the coffee and opened a bottle of Magno and added a splash to the mix while were kept silent. She looked at us in the eye. I could tell that we were the worst at going incognito. “I don’t buy the reckoning thing.”
“We can’t spread panic.”
“What about the new guy?” I asked confused, “Who is he?”
“Martínez,” he answered. “He is good at spotting trends.”
“You know? I said. “Yesterday, with the accident. Everything was very strange. That bastard crashed, got out of the car, and still had juice left to stab someone. I was there, Rojo, I saw his face.”
“What’s your point, Gabriel?”
“Well, I saw the same look in that poor cuckold in Mallorca,” I explained. Rojo’s countenance got somber. “So, I don’t know what to make of it yet. When he showed up at the loft, I thought that he had a few lines on, or that he might be coming back from an afterparty. You know, night life in Palma. These people have dough — more than me at least — and you know already the kind of sprees that those people have. It is not so different.”
“Are you implying that the two events are related?” he asked. “Narcotics?”
“Well, shit, man! Why do you always have to be so proper?” I replied. I looked around making sure that no one would listen. “I think so. There must be something new in the streets that is turning them into real dicks.”
“Where are you getting this?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, I have two theories,” I began to explain, “but this is the first that comes to mind.”
“I have to ask the guys in Narcotics,” he said, leaning on the countertop. “I would have been informed, anyway.”
“Not necessarily,” I objected. “You know the waters. Politicians and whatnot.”
“We’ll get an autopsy and blood tests,” he said. “And I will consider your hypothesis when the results come in.”
“And what if they don’t? I asked confused, “What if they can’t find anything, but I happen to be right, then what? Are you going to wait for another to get killed? Why don’t you try questioning the Mallorcan?”
“I can’t do that,” he replied. “What do you want?”
“A story,” I responded. “Give me a story, something to tell in depth and some coverage, you know, in case I run into a big mess.”
“No. Everyone knows you. Another scandal and they will get me in probation.”
“You know too well there is no way you can get in there on your own,” I said, trying to persuade him. “And you know well that I am a vault. I won’t publish anything until everything is tied and settled. This can be a good punch to the establishment media.”
“Let me think about it,” he said, crumpling a napkin.
“As you wish,” I said, and there was silence. I ordered a bottl
e of beer. “What have you been doing all this time? I heard you gave up a promotion?”
“You don’t miss one, uh? I was working.”
“Did you find anything? About your wife, I mean.”
That seemed to make him uncomfortable.
“I have made little progress,” he murmured, looking at his cup. “Some connections. Not much, really. They are still operating in the area, but they keep evading me.”
I knew that it was difficult to have him talk about the subject, I could see it in his countenance — the pain of someone incapable of going on with their life. From words to facts, sometimes there are mountains that are impossible to climb; heights for which at least two lives are needed. Rojo was still determined to find his wife, regardless of how much she told him that she did not want to hear from him. That was love, one way or another, love for someone, for the truth, and self-worth.
“Haven’t you thought that your wife — ”
“No,” he said roundly. He got his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled photocopy. He undid the folds and handed it to me.
It was a newspaper clipping, from the same newspaper I had resigned. Twenty years before, La Manga, Cartagena. Two related headlines. A shooting on the beach. An abduction of women. A pagan ritual in the middle of a winter night that ended with the ceremonial sacrifice of a young woman. Back then, I still considered juice boxes a staple.
“The girl had a tattoo on her ribs,” he said as he pulled out a picture from his wallet, “it was homemade, just by the look of it.”
It was a black and white photo. The naked body of a young woman shot in the chest. On her ribs, the silhouette of a crab.
Then he pulled out a picture of his wife.
That was the first time I had seen it out of the picture frame in his office. She was fit-looking, short-haired, and wore sunglasses and a pink bikini. Behind her was an umbrella by the shore of a beach. I looked at her body, at her arms akimbo, and saw a little drawing on the skin. It was also a tattoo, but I could not tell its shape.
“This is your wife, isn’t it?” I asked.
“She had it made little after we met,” he explained. “I was such an idiot. I asked her why she had gotten it, and she simply said she had liked it. And I bought it! Just like that. I didn’t delve any further. People get crap tattooed on their bodies. How the fuck could I have known?”
“And the other girl?”
“The picture of the other girl... I found it this summer, snooping into what I shouldn’t. So, not a word about this.”
“Why a crab?” I asked.
He took out his cell phone and opened the pictures folder. In it were pictures of the young man in the accident. His face was sunken, disfigured from the car’s onslaught, and swollen like a piece of baked bread. The picture had been taken in the middle of the street.
“Just a second,” he said as he swiped through the pictures with his finger. The waitress looked at us from the corner while she talked to the old man. The place had started to get crowded. It was coffee time.
I gestured at her, pretending to scribble in the air. She approached us, and I handed her a five-euro bill before she could have a glance at the phone’s screen.
“This should cover it, babe,” I told her. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said complacently and walked to the cash register.
Rojo showed me the device.
On the screen was the young man, bruised, in the morgue. On his flank was an orange crab drawn on the skin.
* * *
I woke up mulling over a dream, a horrible nightmare. Confused, I walked to the bathroom, stuck my head in the sink, and turned on the tap. Everything was spinning, my blood pressure was low from the heat and my head was like I had done a line the night before. I had dreamed of orange crabs on the beach, among the rocks. They stood motionless, staring at me, and did not intend to attack me. It was bewildering. The temperature was rising as the meteorologist had predicted.
I could not get my mind off of the photograph that Rojo showed me at the bar.
Crabs, crabs. What was it all about?
I turned on the TV set. A group of strangers were talking about a reality show. I switched to another channel. A cooking show. Crabs. They were making bisque. I turned off the TV and opened the balcony window. Then I turned on the radio. It was tuned to Radio 3, and the host introduced a Michigan power jazz trio. I left it on and thought about that kid again, the crabs in my dream, and how they related to everything that was happening around Rojo’s wife.
Coltrane was playing the saxophone, but that day he could not transmit but sad feelings to me. I asked him to inspire me with his sweet notes, something that would enlighten me and give me strength to face the upcoming days. Many times, we settle for pleasure instead of facing the ordeals in life because it is easier than waiting for someone to convince us they have a solution.
I grabbed the laptop and turned it on. I looked at the time, it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon. I skipped breakfast and prepared a jar of coffee instead. The saxophone on the background helped me relax and clear my mind.
I had to start with evidence. I opened a new browser window and started with myself.
An article of dubious credibility read:
“The meaning of dreaming with crabs is that you might be conducting your life incorrectly, so be careful because this can lead to serious trouble.”
I closed the window. The coffee maker started ringing, I got up and poured the whole content in a mug. A good dose of caffeine would probably save the day.
I gave it some more thought. Researching about my dreams was of the uttermost irrelevance.
According to the officer, there had been a homicide where references to crabs had been found before his wife disappeared. It was a good starting point until we found out more about our accidented driver. I did several searches on the internet, but my instinct told me that I would not find the information I was looking for by typing something on the Network.
I jumped off the chair, changed my clothes, and went out to the street.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I was on the outside, contemplating a hot June afternoon through the glasses of my sunshades. I took a bus that felt invitingly like a refrigerator on the inside and got off near the old newspaper’s building. As I climbed the stairs, one of the interns recognized me. I passed him by without greeting him and walked into the newsroom like someone walking around their house.
Another intern raised her voice and tried to prevent me from entering.
“Hey!” she said when I was about to open the door to the archive. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I responded. Please open the door.”
“You cannot get in there,” she said. “Who are you?”
The intern with thick-framed glasses who had seen me moments before, came to the scene a few seconds later.
“Caballero,” he enunciated the word, caressing every syllable like someone who runs into a movie star.
“Bastida, my man,” I said.
“Bordonado,” he corrected me.
“Whatever,” I replied. “Who is in charge here now?”
The young girl, whose attire looked like taken out of a fashion magazine, jumped up and walked to me. Her mane was brown with highlights, and the two emeralds she had for eyes shone because of the clarity of June. With a sway of hips worthy of a beauty pageant, she cat-walked to me on her sneakers without making a noise.
“I am sorry,” she said. “But I am in charge of the newsroom today, and I am afraid you cannot come in.”
“There is no need for such formalities,” I said as charmingly as I could. She did not have a friendly face, but the freckles on both sides of the bridge of her nose were certainly lovely. “What is your name?”
“Natalia,” she answered, intimidated by my confidence. “Natalia Lafuente.”
“What a fuck up, Nat,” the intern in glasses muttered as he returned to his desk
.
“Oh, no she didn’t,” I exclaimed unexpectedly. “The only fuck-up here is you — you are not standing up for anything, not even your own position.”
The kid blushed.
“But — ” Bordonado hesitated, lowering his head.
“No buts, Bordonado!” I replied. “This girl is standing up to me for her responsibility. What a man you are, they should fire you. You are lucky that I resigned my position.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
The girl smiled.
“Now, Miss Lafuente,” I addressed the young woman, “if you’ll be so kind to open the door to the archive for me. It is of the utmost importance.”
“I am afraid I can’t do that,” she responded. “I still don’t know who you are.”
Suddenly, the stench of a gallon of cologne punched me in the nose. The squeak of a pair of rubber outsoles. A confident walk.
I turned my head.
Khaki chinos, a striped shirt, and beefroll loafers with tassels. Carrying the sports section under his arm, he resembled the owner more than the press officer of a headless newsroom. I recognized that impassive, challenging gaze.
Matías Antón Cañete.
We had gone to college together and exchanged words several times, greeting each other rarely. Son of a shoemaking businessman, he was considered the black sheep of the family for having chosen to play with words and letters instead of law.
Perhaps karma was collecting old debts. Half from Alicante, half from Elche, raised in Madrid, and a notable poker player, he was the antithesis of the journalistic student profile — well dressed, wealthy, and with an understanding of European history very different from what the books told. He belonged to that class of people who are born with a silver spoon, the work already done for them, and a maid who cleans the house and cooks the meals. A privileged group that throws away the sweat of their ancestors and turns the remains of a poorly managed inheritance to crumbs.
Matias knew that information was power, and power — most of the times — could be traded for money and vice versa.
Despite sharing the same fondness of being against all hemp-smoking hippies, there was something in his gaze that conveyed recklessness.