Carcinus' Malediction

by Pablo Poveda

  I checked my limbs, I was in pain, but I did not seem to have gotten anything broken. A man in short sleeves and aviator glasses approached me.

  “Are you alright?” he asked. “Couldn’t you have called the fire brigade?”

  Snoops multiplied like an infection on the street and the balconies. I had drawn their attention and expected me to explain why all of that. I car honked its horn, scaring the herd

  “Come! Get up!” the man repeated. “Hurry — ”

  The horn, again, made its way through the crowd. It was green Mercedes SLK, rugged and elongated. I grabbed the hand of that man who offered his help, got up, and looked at the vehicle again. The car honked again, inviting me up. It was her. She had come for me — my heroine — and rescued me.

  I limped to the window.

  “Get in!” Blanca ordered me.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Put your seat belt on,” she replied.

  She engaged the first gear, stepped on the gas, and we pulled off while the wheels squeaked and left a trail of black rubber smoke behind.

  8

  There are things in life that you can never get used to. Those things can be physical pain, psychological pain, the loss of a beloved one, a breakup, a bad review, a job layoff. Regardless of the events, we learn to cope with the cause but that does not necessarily mean that we get used to it. Speeding and loss of control is another sensation that stimulates some and punishes others. In my case, I would never get used to feeling the thin line between life and death grazing the bristled hairs of my arm when the turbocharged accelerator reached its peak. I understand that those who had tried it wanted to repeat it. No substance nor pleasure lives up to it. Capable of skipping physical and moral laws, capable of putting all we have left — life — at stake, so much so that randomness could signify a devastating ending.

  With Blanca behind the steering wheel, vertigo running down my tail bone, the fluttering like a whirlwind through my spine was uncontrollable — it was like having a bird inside my gut. She, on the other hand, drove fearlessly, getting past the vehicles that got in our way. She stopped at the traffic lights, burning the brake pads, making impossible turns, and leaving the uneasy drivers trying to reach us in the heart of the city center. I tried to keep my head busy by looking at the beach, the umbrellas, and the calmness of the sea.

  My heart bounced inside of me like a rubber ball.

  As we left town, I took my nails out of the leather upholstery of that German car and sighed.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, laughing.

  “Now I understand how you got there so fast,” I said at the time I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.

  “Don’t smoke,” she said. “This is my father’s car.”

  I put the cigarette away in the package.

  “He called you, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “You were lucky,” she said. “I happened to be vacationing in San Juan.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Where are we going?” Blanca asked.

  “Take the service road to the east,” I instructed her. “Chances are she will try to avoid checkpoints and surveillance cameras.”

  “As you wish,” she said, taking the road that bordered the town. “How will we know it’s her?”

  “For... my car,” I replied.

  Blanca did not laugh this time, because of the stupidity my answer revealed. She looked at me again and let her guard down.

  “Don’t worry Gabriel. We’ll find her.”

  Blanca stepped on the gas. We drove up an uphill slope and crossed streets full of apartment buildings and gated communities with communal pools. They all looked the same and at a similar distance from the beach. Urbanization had destroyed that part of the mountain. There were poorly traced streets on distant slopes. The last time I recall going there, there was none of that. For one moment, I wondered if all of it was worth the destruction.

  We headed to the coast and continued on a two-way street. We left a street full of restaurants, rice specialized joints, and small gourmet cafés behind. The street gave way to an old asphalt detour that ran parallel to a rocky shoreline. On the other side was a carved hill to allow the road and a lighthouse that watched us from above. To the right, above the horizon of a chopped blue sea, Tabarca stood out, solitary, in sight of all. For a moment, we both looked in the same direction, recalling the misfortune that led us to that moment.

  We made a good couple, an unwavering team. So opposite that we complemented each other. However, that game of being me, her, and us, did not work. Relationships are measured like a song. Blanca sought a pop melody in me. On my side, I looked forward to finding the bebop beat of her heart among so much conformism, to the rhythm that Thelonious Monk beat the piano.

  For some broken couples, Paris would always be there.

  For us, that was Tabarca.

  I left my bubbling ramblings when a blinding flash made my face turn. I looked at the street again. It was Miranda, with her hair in the wind, driving my red Porsche toward the horizon.

  “There she is!” I told Blanca. “Don’t go so fast, it is better if she doesn’t know we are after her.”

  Blanca frowned.

  We followed the car at a steady speed as we drove down a road plagued with potholes and sharp turns that discharged tourists and umbrellas at the cocktail bars on both sides of the beach. The landscape was beautiful, arid, and toasted by the sun — sand dunes, palm trees, weed growing in the asphalt, and a hot Mediterranean sun that sprinkled the waves of the ocean with glitter.

  On the radio, an instrumental surf group played the soundtrack to our chase.

  “I think I’ll stay here forever,” I said, sticking my hand out the window. “I know I will.”

  And I did think so. For one moment, I felt like the luckiest man on the planet. I could not understand those people who preferred the cold to an exotic beach, a lot of relaxed people, men and women of prosperous beauty, an outstanding cuisine, and a privileged location on the planet. I was in love with that, or worse, I was in love with my own world view.

  “You know? I think so too,” Blanca said with a hint of sarcasm. “You are a captive animal, wild, but captive, nonetheless. This is your habitat.”

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

  “That I can’t picture you — ” she started saying but did not get to finish her phrase. When we got to a crossroads, Miranda turned to the left and drove up a dusty slope that accessed the peak of the mountain. The road led to Gran Alacant, one of those futuristic developments that, over time, had become a dorm city for people who worked in the capital and the surroundings. A place too far from the beach to consider living in there but deserted enough to hide. The place was inhabited by families, most of them of foreign origin, who invested in brick in the early first decade of the 21st century and who had later decided to move in there permanently. Russians, Norwegians, Germans, British, Swedes. Flags from various countries and unrecognizable license plates were visible all over the place. The streets that constituted the neuralgic center of the city were but a spectacle of blond boys and girls with light eyes, tan from overexposure to the sun and almost naked. We followed the car down one of the main streets, stopping at an Irish pub for cover when the car got lost at another intersection.

  “That was close,” I said. “We have to be more careful.”

  “What are we doing here?” Blanca asked. “What is in there?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find out,” I answered.

  The shortage of law enforcement officers was not a good sign. In case of trouble, we would have no one to rely on. The closest police patrol would need more than fifteen minutes to find us, due to the traffic on both tracks. A time-lapse that would be more than enough for any thug to get rid of us if they needed to.

  We followed the vehicle in the distance and saw it slow down on a dusty road that led nowhere and park at a fenced property, a large estate with a
two-story house that stood out from its surroundings.

  The girl got out of the car and pressed the automatic lock button with a naturalness that surprised me, as though she had done it for years. Her walking seemed affected like she was starting to suffer withdrawal syndrome. Who would have thought that such a young forensic, with such a promising and resolved future, would end up gnawed up by drugs?

  The sun bit our legs. Blanca turned off the car next to some other vehicles parked in a lot. I turned off the radio and took off my seat belt.

  “What now?” she asked. “Should we wait?”

  “I am going in,” I said. “I want to see the face of that son of a bitch.”

  “No,” she said at the time she locked me in the car. “You are not going anywhere, Gabriel. It’ll be better if we call the police.”

  Miranda rang the bell at the gate that surrounded the estate. She said something imperceptible to our ears. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. She exhaled. A big man with his head shaved on the sides, broad back, a black T-shirt, and arms the size of hams came out. He opened the door to the property for her and invited her in. He must be a thug or a bodyguard, but who had a bodyguard at their own home? From the car, we could not hear anything other than the silence of the afternoon, the calm of a summer day — without music playing on the background nor murmur of people talking — and the occasional flapping of seagulls overflying. Something was cooking on the inside of that place. Miranda had taken us to her hideout. Now we just had to find out who was behind all of this.

  “Open the door,” I told her. “I won’t do anything, I promise.”

  “No, Gabriel,” said Blanca with a trembling voice. “I am begging you.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, but she did not react. I tried to get closer, but I only managed to make things more awkward. I took my hand away.

  “Listen, Blanca,” I explained. “I won’t do anything, I swear. I just want to have a look. Then, we’ll be gone. I’m the last person who wants to get in trouble, okay?”

  Blanca looked at me resignedly.

  “Okay. But hurry,” she said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  I got out of the care and walked to the gate of the estate. I looked around but did not see anyone, just a surveillance camera that must have already filmed me. I pretended no to see it; I did not want to worry Blanca. I made an “OK” with my hand for her, and she gave me the same worried gaze. What a woman. Fear was the spark of adventure. I looked at my car, still warm. Miranda had left the passenger seat littered with trash and cosmetics.

  I peeked over the hedge that surrounded the house but did not manage to see nor hear anything. I deduced they all must be inside the building. Climbing over the fence was not an option. I would draw too much attention, the alarm might go off, and if I did not get caught by that mercenary, they must have guard dogs. Suddenly and unexpectedly, my bodyweight on the tiles activated the door. There was a quiet squeak, and the door opened ajar. I pushed inward.

  That dimwit had forgotten to lock it.

  Or maybe he did not.

  I could not believe I was in.

  * * *

  The gate opened to a gravel path. The estate was huge — a hedge that concealed the house from snoops, palm trees, a small shrine decorated with the permanent surveillance of the cameras that they did not bother concealing. Once inside, there was no other option than to keep going. I assumed those cameras had already alerted the dwellers of my presence.

  I walked to the back of the yard and found a swimming pool behind the house. It was pond-shaped and decorated with blue tiles and glass. The building had been designed in a colonial-style — wooden framed windows, arches that supported the ceilings, and stone walls. In silence, I walked around the corner. I followed the sound of electronic jazz coming from inside the house, which also played on the garden’s speakers. It was then when I sensed some movement. There was something in the swimming pool — a girl of outstanding beauty peeked her head out of the water. She walked out of the pool and grabbed a towel next to a deck chair. Her legs were long and slender and wore a black bikini that wrapped her torso perfectly. A crab covered the right flank of that beautiful body. As she dried her hair, she addressed me:

  “Hi,” she said in a sultry voice. “You are late, they are already in — ”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  The girl smiled at me.

  “Your face doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “What is your name?”

  “G,” I answered.

  That was all I could think of.

  I looked at her discretely. I noticed her tattoo was outlined in blue.

  The girl came to me, flinging the towel back on the chair.

  “My name is Linda,” she said, and I reached out to her. She looked sympathetic. “You know? You don’t fit the type of men who do this.”

  I ignored what she was talking about, but I did not like the way she said it.

  “I’ll take it as a compliment,” I said and smiled. “I had better go, I don’t want to be late.”

  “As you wish,” she said in a sensual tone. “It was a pleasure, G.”

  The girl followed me with the eyes, and I kept walking to the other side of the house. When I got to the main door, I saw other bikini-clad girls, drinking wine and sunbathing on white deck chairs. It was a party; I had no doubt about it. However, I wondered whether those girls were guests or their presence there was of a different nature. A waiter made cocktails next to a makeshift bar attached to one of the windows of the house. He was the only man there. I approached the waiter pretending naturalness.

  “What are you having?” the waiter asked, dressed in a shirt, and bow tie.

  “Vermouth,” I asked. “In a chilled old-fashioned glass with ice and one olive.”

  The waiter looked at me, feeling out of place.

  “They are pretty, aren’t they?” the kid said. “It all comes down to money, in this life. Nothing else. Even though they want to convince us otherwise — ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These women know they can have anything they want,” he said resignedly. “Why settle for a man with a normal life? If you ask life for something, and it is granted to you, you end up asking for more. That happens. They ignore their beauty isn’t perennial, and the magic of their spells will eventually take a toll on — ”

  “Cut the crap, Aristotle, I’m thirsty,” I said trying to deviate the conversation. Even if the kid — who must have barely reached his twenties — was right, I could tell that that conversation would surely set off the alarms.

  I did not know what those men she referred to looked like, but I knew that they would not be friendly.

  “Here you are,” he said apathetically. I grabbed the glass and drank when somebody approached me from behind.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  I turned around. It was her again, the blonde from the pool.

  If I was so out of place there, my presence must have captivated her.

  “Give the lady another,” I ordered the waiter.

  “Very kind of you,” the girl replied, giving me a very bright smile, “but I am fine. Let’s better go inside.”

  I accepted her invitation and escorted her under the astonishment of the other women who watched me with some heartbreak.

  We walked through an iron door. It must have been around five in the afternoon, but darkness reigned in there as if night were eternal. The entrance was covert, fresh, and guarded from the exterior. The atmosphere was seasoned with a light welcoming bebop rhythm. At the end of a long corridor, there was the exit to a spacious and bright patio with a fountain in the center. I wondered why the girls were not allowed to enter the house freely. The rules had been set and it was no time for discussion. I looked around and saw a collection of vinyl records framed. Covers of pop albums and their respective records. The owner of the house loved music, specifically 1970s rock. The girl walked several steps in front of me, wigging her buttoc
ks. When we reached the corner, under the light of three halogen lamps, some men were snorting some powder on a glass table. Other two girls did the same. I had not seen them in my life, but they seemed to be having fun. A girl with short dark hair wiggled her summer dress, took out a bottle of wine from an ice bucket, and uncorked it. Three hands emerged from the gloom, holding glasses. Smiling but absent looking, she filled the glasses and had a drink from the bottle herself. Everybody laughed. One of the men who was snorting the powder started playing an invisible saxophone. A girl in a three-piece swimsuit and dark hair up to her shoulders began to wiggle her hips. That was a real party. The blonde took two empty glasses from the table, filled them with wine and gave one to me.

  “It is cold. This is very good wine,” she said and toasted. “It would be a shame to die without trying it first, wouldn’t it?”

  I noticed a hint of sarcasm in her words and felt further out of place at that party.

  The short-haired girl went into a hypnotic, out-of-control trance. The men laughed, clapped, drank, and snorted on the legs of other women who walked by. The girl with short hair kept dancing. A crystal glass fell to the floor. Her bare feet trampled it. A trail of blood began to spread on the floor as she moved, which did not seem to worry nor hurt her. The music beat accelerated. Her body spun, like an unstoppable ball of fire that illuminated the room. Then she tore her dress, ripping it off with her hands, ending up naked. On her flank, another crab, freshly tattooed, still protected by cling film.

  “Where is the bathroom?” I asked Linda. She was distracted by the show.

  “It is across the patio,” she said and turned her face to continue watching the spectacle.