Carcinus' Malediction

by Pablo Poveda

  I walked toward the newsroom, went upstairs, knocked on the door, and greeted Natalia with a grunt, who looked at me with embarrassment. The girl picked up the phone, adjusted her blouse, and I threw the door open.

  “Man, just what I needed,” Cañete said, his shirt was rumpled, and his hair ruffled. There was an animal smell like sweaty bodies, and sex, lots of sex. He pretended to focus on something on his computer screen. “What now?”

  “We have to talk,” I said.

  “Who do you think you are?” he addressed me firmly. “I am busy, get out of here, go.”

  I closed the door behind me and sat down in the chair.

  “Matías,” I said forcing his attention. No one called him by his first name. “There is something that you need to print.”

  “I see,” he replied. “I don’t think that is possible.”

  “You need me as much as I need you,” I explained.

  “No,” he answered. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone, in fact, I am fed up with you all coming to me and telling me the same thing — ”

  “Listen to me, cut your insolence for a minute,” I said. “Something is happening, people are going crazy, and I think that I have found a lead.”

  “Did the intern tell you anything?” he said nervously. “I am going to kill him. I told him. We had an agreement.

  “The kid doesn’t know anything,” I said. “However, I do. And you want to know too, right? We all here want to know.”

  He sniffed the stench of carrion like a hungry vulture. I sometimes doubted his intelligence but knew it was only a false impression. Matías fit the typical profile of an ignorant rich man who knew more than anyone else. Or so he thought. The duck who gets shot while trying to shoot at the hunters. A full-blown bastard. Maybe that is why he was so good at poker.

  He picked up the handset.

  “Don’t pass any calls through, will you?” he muttered and hung up. He was posing. “So, what is it? I don’t have all day.”

  “Someone is smuggling a very powerful drug that is revving the market,” I said, aware that I was walking in dangerous territory. “The police don’t know anything yet, but it is an operation that involves one or more drug lords. I hear they are from the East — Ukrainians, Georgians, or whatnot. The fact is that there is a crab that identifies the members of the operation. The whole story is about crabs. I know because I saw a news report about the crab, and I’ve seen it myself on the street.”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” he said incredulously. “There are images of crabs everywhere.”

  “These people get the crab tattooed on their ribs,” I said. “This goes beyond a mere symbol; it is a conspiracy.”

  Cañete loved conspiracies.

  “The commies... it must be the commies,” he said, alluding his way of understanding the world. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all. They are preparing a modern coup d’état, like the one in Atocha in 1981.”

  “Who knows” — I took out a flash drive — “Here is the article. Take a look at it, publish it under your name if you want, I don’t care. An editorial, two pages. You’ll have everyone talking about it tomorrow.”

  Cañete took the drive and looked at it like looking at a treasure.

  “You are not setting me up, are you?” He said skeptically.

  “If it goes well for you and gains traction,” I replied, “ as of the second editorial, I’ll charge a commission.”

  “I see,” he said again. “Let me think about it.”

  “As you wish,” I replied. He had taken the bait. “I’ll pay a visit to ‘the Información journal’ and find out what they know.”

  “Wait,” he interrupted when I pretended to get up. “Gabe, listen.”

  “What?”

  “You are one of the good ones,” he said. “This is a bombshell as big as Watergate.”

  “I had better leave.”

  “Hey — ”

  “What?”

  “The photos,” he said. “If you still need them, you know where to find them.”

  “Thanks,” I replied pretending gratitude.

  I got out of there and said goodbye to both of them before they locked themselves up to fornicate in the office. It was Sunday, there was not much to do, and I had just given Cañete an incendiary editorial that would set the city ablaze a few hours later.

  My job was done, and my sense of self-worth through the roof. I decided to take a walk to get some fresh air when something vibrated in my pocket.

  A text message. Rojo wanted to see me again.

  This time at the morgue.

  5

  I got out of the cab and went straight to the hospital until I reached the reception to ask about Rojo. The moment I pronounced his last name, a security guard escorted me to the elevator and pressed the button that led us to the underground floor. The doors remained closed for ten seconds and opened in purgatory. The last blows of life. The aseptic, the insubstantial, where nothing matters anymore. I crossed the entrance — white tiles that covered a passage toward an airtight room.

  Clad in uniform, Rojo was talking on his cell phone. He hung up when he heard my footsteps.

  “I saw you on television the other day,” I said.

  “Come in, you have to see this.”

  “The smell made my legs tremble. I did not know what I would find on the other side of the door. I felt a connection with him, his voice, his gaze. Something was wrong, but it could always get worse. A few months before, we were floating in bathtubs full of animal blood.

  The fluorescent lights flickered. A girl with shoulder-length dark brown hair, a white coat, tight jeans, and fashionable black sneakers, was taking notes in a pad. A blow to my nose made me retch. The stench of a carcass in process of decomposition. Time is unforgiving. It was a man lying on the flatbed, his face was disfigured, and his ribs open. He was swollen and stuffed like a Christmas turkey because of the blood coagulated in its vessels.

  I walked over to a corner, and my stomach discharged its content on the tiles. I threw up twice. The girl chuckled. The man’s legs were swollen, his face blue, and his chest rigid like a marble slab. A doctor supervised the room. Rojo pointed to the abdomen. The victim had an orange crab tattooed in the fashion for coincidences that was beginning to become a motive.

  The doctor grabbed the scalpel.

  “We’d better go outside,” the girl said.

  “Who is this?” I whispered at Rojo.

  Once outside, the young girl introduced herself.

  “I am Miranda.”

  “Coroner García,” said Rojo. “She is helping with the investigation.”

  “But she’s so young.” I uttered.

  “Is there a problem with that?” Rojo inquired.

  “None,” I replied. “It’s my pleasure.”

  Coroner Miranda García was a five-foot-nine woman with thin legs and tanned skin because of the beach sun. A beautiful, bright girl with oak-colored hair sunburned at the ends. Despite my insolence, she endured like a true professional and gave me a smile.

  “Officer Rojo has told me that you are a journalist from the heart.”

  Cretin.

  I watched her lips pronouncing the last word, fully covered in mesmerizing rosy carmine.

  “What have you found out in the last days?” Rojo inquired.

  “Nothing new,” I replied. “I have some pictures that I would like you to see.”

  He made an awkward grimace. “Photos I got from the archive, related to the crimes we discussed.”

  “What crimes?” asked the girl.

  I raised my frown. Rojo’s mood faltered.

  “It’s all right,” he replied. “We don’t need to hide information from Miss García.”

  “I am not so sure,” I replied. I did not know what Rojo was playing, but I had no intention whatsoever of opening up before that stranger. “Apparently, we have a motive. There are crabs everywhere, not only on people. There is also a drug from the East that
is circulating. It appears to be a very aggressive hallucinogen.”

  The girl did not look surprised.

  “However, the fact that the crustacean is circulating does not seem like a mere coincidence.”

  “It may be a way of rebelling against the establishment,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked with curiosity.

  “A form of counter-culture.”

  “I highly doubt it,” said Rojo. “This is more than a simple convention of unemployed bums.”

  “I’d like to show you some photos,” I said at the doorway from where I could still sense the stench of the room. “Perhaps at a more relaxing place.”

  We left the morgue and went to the cafeteria on the first floor, amid visitors, patients who snuck in and out to smoke, and family members. The hospital canteen resembled a neighborhood bar despite lacking an alcohol license. We ordered three coffees and took a table at the back. People watched us, perhaps because of Rojo’s uniform, or maybe because of Miranda’s presence.

  I took out the phone and showed them the pictures on the display.

  “This is what I have found,” I explained. “It seems that the crabs have been among us for some time already.”

  “Interesting,” said the girl and placed the telephone on the table in the policeman’s sight.

  Rojo remained silent. He drank the coffee in one sip and left the cup on the plate.

  “I don’t know, it is all very strange. I can’t get the image of the jumping man off of my head — ”

  “Who?” Rojo asked intrigued.

  “The sack of flesh and blood,” I answered. “The motherfucker barely missed me.”

  “Damn it, Caballero!” he exclaimed. “Were you at the crime scene?”

  “By chance,” I said. “If I hadn’t been with someone, I would have stayed around. Your colleagues ask way too many questions, and I needed the kid who came with me to help me. Cut me some slack!”

  “What happened?” Rojo asked. “What did you see?”

  “Same as everyone else,” I replied. “Who knows if he jumped or was pushed. That is your job.”

  “The subject was under the influence of narcotics,” he said. “He was British.”

  Rojo seemed worried, more affected than I could believe. The escapades we had spent together had sufficed for me to understand that man. He was getting overwhelmed. The drug thing, people dying around the corners, the chance to find his wife by following the tattoos, seemed too much for him to handle. A nonsense that bit me in the stomach, demanding I find out more. Between us, the girl, Miranda, watched the photograph, abstracted, silent, biting her lower lip. My intuition told me that she knew something.

  “What time are you off?” I asked her blatantly.

  “Are you serious?” she asked unpreparedly to my flirting.

  “I have never met a coroner,” I answered. I saw Rojo blushing at the other side of the table with the corner of my eye. I winked at her and went on. “Off the record, of course, you know what may happen later.”

  The girl let out a slight laugh that I could not quite interpret. She took a sip of her coffee, held the cup with both hands, and put it back on the plate.

  “I have to finish the autopsy report,” she said and rose from the table. “I’ll see you at nine o’clock at the ‘Challenge’ club.”

  The girl said goodbye and walked down the corridor. She entered the elevator and disappeared.

  “What are you doing?” Rojo asked. “I don’t want her to get involved. Remember how it ended up with that girl... Blanca?”

  “Don’t tell me about Blanca, will you?” I replied. “I still think of her. She left a mark.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “We had an affair and fell in love, or so I thought. She left it all for me,” I said. Now I was fidgeting with the cup of coffee. “She found a job in Madrid and, I still had not gotten over what happened in Tabarca. Then I was there, watching life pass by... and I began wondering about my own life. I was a coward, I deserve it. I let her go forever.”

  “Just like that? Full stop?”

  “Full stop,” I repeated. “I was such an idiot. You know, broken heart and a French farewell. I haven’t heard from her again.”

  “She looked like a good girl,” he replied. “Besides, beautiful.”

  “Beauty is an ephemeral thing, despite what magazines say,” I argued. “Even the prettiest of all women will turn ugly when she sinks in the marshes of boredom, routine, and triviality. What is visible is only a part of the whole, Rojo.”

  “Are you going to get this philosophical with Miss García?” he asked mockingly.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I replied, raising my index finger. “I am pretty sure this girl knows something. The first time we spoke about the tattoos, she got tense. The second time, she couldn’t hide her nervousness and bit her lip to conceal it. She is ahead of us. I have a good eye for those kinds of things. Hear me out. This girl knows more than you imagine, and tonight, I am going to make her sing.”

  Rojo looked at me skeptically, raising his brow and sipping the remains of his lukewarm coffee.

  “Don’t get her in trouble,” he said plainly. “Just that.”

  I nodded.

  There was a light silence.

  It was already late.

  * * *

  I had just enough time to go back home and change. I opened a bottle of beer and looked out the window at the cars that were parking after a hard day’s work. The facts piled up in my head and fell like dominoes. I considered myself a calm man, strong tempered, but with the character to withstand tempestuous times. At a young age, life had taught me that there was no use for anguish if there was laughter. From the balcony, I observed the beautiful view of Alicante illuminated by Santa Barbara castle, which guarded the city from the top of a mountain since immemorial times. One could say that it was but a piece of forgotten history. Like a constant reminder of the beauty of silence, the possibility of stopping time by easing the respiration, the awareness of existence, and the fact that our feet still touch the ground. In many cases, this suffices to understand the sense of life — that many people seek in stores but never find it — to be grateful for it; Miles Davis may have gone to another plane of existence, but there are plenty of his notes to play. I thought of the coroner, of her womanly mysteries, of what she would be willing to foolishly reveal. I reckoned that she must have barely passed her twenties. Getting there must have taken her at least ten years of postgraduate studies. I was sure that she must have followed the steps of a relative or family member who also was a physician. There was always one. Girls who pursued medicine, generally did so under family pressure, social status, and the prospect of a decent salary. Others for vocation. Some enjoyed the idea of helping others.

  The breeze at Postiguet beach, a touristic postcard view, was not enough to soothe the heat of a summer afternoon that crawled upon my body like a wet sponge. I put on a shirt with rolled sleeves and headed to the venue where we had set the meeting.

  It was Monday, but that did not matter. Not in the capital, the city of bonfires, fine rice, and the abominable intake of tourists from every corner of the globe. When I got to the door of the bar, I ran into a local mermaid of long loose hair, and those carmine red lips that had turned my guts. Miranda showed up, revealing a body of smooth skin, soft and tan, wrapped in a black summer dress, informal and comfortable, exposing her bra straps. One of those gowns that do not reach the knees and expose two chocolate bisquet rolls for legs. Miranda was the incarnation of desire in a youthful exterior and ruthless smile. For one moment, I thought of Blanca, who, despite being her antithesis, was not any less desirable. I took my hand out of my jean pocket and smiled at her from afar. I had to focus. The girl was secondary. She was hiding something, and I was going to discover it.

  “You are the kind who keeps girls waiting, aren’t you?” She said mischievously as she put an olive in her mouth. She did not seem upset. “You ar
e lucky I am in a good mood.”

  I looked at the watch. I bought her a beer and toasted.

  “Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess,” I said apologetically. “You know? You look like someone else out of the white coat.”

  “Where did you get out of?” she asked. “You are a quite a character, Gabriel.”

  Was that a compliment or an insult?

  “Authentic, let’s just say authentic,” I replied. There was a silence, interrupted by the clinking of the ice in the glasses when we got served. We exchanged glances, she smiled at me. I pulled my lips, forcing a kind gesture. The girl popped another olive into her mouth. “Are you from here?”

  “More or less,” she said. She was finally talking about her, “I am from Dénia, but I stayed after taking the specialty. Typical. It was either here or Valencia.”

  “Valencia is pretty, but there is something missing,” I replied. “Still, I don’t think I’ll ever find out.”

  The girl fidgeted nervous, hungry and thirsty. I looked at her hyperactive and rough movements.

  “I’ll order another beer, it is hot,” she said.

  “Like hell,” I responded. “Are you okay? We can go get something to eat if you prefer.”

  “No, it isn’t that,” she said and laughed. “You are a special kind, Gabriel.”

  And she was missing a screw too.

  “You too are very peculiar, Miranda,” I replied without much conviction. “Can I ask you a question? Off the record.”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  “What do you think of the photos?” I asked. Her countenance changed. “The ones I showed you this morning. This is very strange. Rojo has his theories, I have mine.”

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “First yours, which is why I asked you.”

  The girl took a deep breath. The ring she wore in her middle finger clanked against the beer bottle.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What I think, uh? I think it is a coincidence, they sometimes happen. Not everything has an explanation” — I raised my brow — “There are many crazy people out there, especially now with music festivals, drugs pour in and out. The issue is that, with politicians cutting on budgets for prevention programs and everything, we are seeing so many cases. They spend the day pushing to make some big announcement, insisting that we find something, but it isn’t more than some bodies and some tattoos. What can I say... man?”