Carcinus' Malediction

by Pablo Poveda

  I got out of there, crossed the patio, and reached another dark room with closed doors. A staircase led to the first floor, and another to the basement. The doors lacked signalization that led to the restrooms. I started with the first door and listened to see if there was anyone inside. Moaning. I kept moving. Apparently, the party was more than just a friends’ get-together. I found an empty room with a bed — a perfectly ordinary room for all intends and purposes — until I discovered where the bathroom was. I did what I had to and rinsed my face with cold water when I heard a slight hum coming from the floor above me. It came from an electric device. It did not take me more than three seconds to figure out what it was — a rotary tattoo machine.

  I walked out of the bathroom and was looking for a light switch when I heard some voices coming from the first room. I got closer and stuck my ear over the door.

  A girl was panting.

  “I am about to cum,” a male voice shouted.

  “Yes!” she shouted. “Cum! Cum now!”

  Both of them screamed, squealed, and moaned, like two piglets being beaten.

  Inadvertently, I pushed the knob, which opened the door, and I stumbled several steps into the room and fell to the floor. All my weight came down, so did their intercourse. We froze for a moment.

  “Excuse me!” I inquired.

  I saw the girl’s torso, also tattooed. It did not take us long to recognize each other.

  “You!” she exclaimed surprised. It was Miranda. “How did you get here?”

  She turned to one side and covered herself with the sheet. The man, a balding but hairy round-bellied 40-year-old, looked at me from the headboard, completely naked. Swiftly, he turned over himself and grabbed a gun from the bedside table drawer.

  “Don’t shoot!” shouted the girl, but the man did not listen to her and pulled the trigger. I crawled to the foot of the bed.

  Miranda, paling and naked, shouted again next to the mattress.

  The shot went through the windowpane.

  I ran out of the room and dropped to the floor next to the door.

  Another shot.

  The bullet hit the door frame. The man did not say a word.

  Running with long strides like a greyhound, I crossed the patio with that man running after me; I left the dancing spectacle and its audience consuming wine and drugs behind and reached the main door. Suddenly and out of nowhere, a 6-foot-8 giant with a grim face punched me in the stomach. The blow, along with the speed of my run, made me twist on the ground, rolling like a human croquette. The girls in bikini laughed, without offering any kind of solace. I was in big trouble — everything looked blurry, and a powerful abdominal pain prevented me from breathing. When I tried to stand back up, I saw Miranda from afar, approaching quickly. In her hand, she carried the bottle of wine from which the group at the entrance had been drinking. She looked like a hopeless Rocky Balboa. The face of disappointment and fury. Death was knocking on the door with the scythe under her arm. The last images of a sequence that ended with a heavy blow to the head.

  * * *

  The tick tock of a clock was the first thing I heard. A cold, sharp blow woke me up. A night wave of ice water broke into my face. I opened my eyes choked and shuddering. I saw a blinding light. I was soaked, and my head hurt like in the worst of hangovers. They had bothered to tie me to a metal chair that immobilized me and adhered to my buttocks and wet clothes. I was in a dark room with a large circular lamp — probably purchased from an antique shop — hanging from the ceiling. The lamp also featured smaller elongated light bulbs and a stuffed white owl, whose gaze was fixed on me, holding to the edge of it. Before me, some mean-looking guys and several surveillance monitors that showed what the cameras were picking up. It did not take long for me to realize that the door must be behind me, and given the lack of windows, I deduced that I was in a basement.

  “He’s woken up,” a quiet voice said. Then someone slapped me from behind.

  Wham!

  “I’m awake!” I shouted.

  I heard laughter.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. G?” said another male voice, calm but deeper and with a foreign accent. The rumors were wrong. His accent was not native, nor French, nor Italian. That was a northern accent. Scandinavian, perhaps.

  “You have the wrong person,” I said and kept silent. I heard a pair of high heels walking toward me.

  “Is it him?” said one man.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I don’t know how he followed me.”

  “What a whore you are, Miranda!” I said to the wind. Unexpectedly, another bucket of cold water spilled on my head.

  Splash!

  “That will teach you to be quiet,” the alleged Scandinavian said. “From now on, you will answer when asked. Understood? Otherwise, you’ll be punished. And I am afraid next won’t be water.”

  “Understood.”

  “What are you doing here, Mr. G?” the voice asked again. I looked in front of me. Two blond short-haired muscular men with folded arms, blazers, and sunglasses looked at me, expecting me to say something. “Answer, please.”

  “I told you, this is a mistake.”

  “That you committed,” he said in a monotonous voice, “it’s called break-in.”

  “Then call the police,” I replied.

  “It won’t be necessary,” he said. One of the men walked to me, and without saying a word, punched me in the stomach. The third time in less than a week. I felt like something had torn within, as though my guts had come loose. I spat on the floor.

  “Hopefully, this will help you cut down your insolence. I know who you are, Mr. G. You and your friend, that policeman. I believe the message didn’t come across clearly. You mustn’t rummage with your snouts in other people’s land. I warned you already — this is not a game.”

  “You killed the kid,” I said.

  “Make no mistake,” he answered. “The kid betrayed you in less than five minutes. It didn’t take much for him to talk.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I said upset. “That is no reason to kill him.”

  “Let’s see if you understand me,” he corrected. “We didn’t kill the boy.”

  “How did he get to the apartment then?”

  “You know” — he laughed. “Bad companions.”

  Everybody laughed.

  The voice got silent. I heard a breathing, the rest kept silent.

  “What do you know about the police’s wife?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I saw the video.”

  “Stay out of it,” he answered. “Those women are the devil’s daughters. Anything else before I kill you?”

  “Who are you? I have no doubt that you are a smuggler,” I said shaking my head. “You are neck-deep into it. Just another criminal organization playing you are a big cartel — four dimwits taking drugs, getting in trouble, drawing the attention of the media, generating chaos in a delicate social-political moment, and in the meantime — party. That’s all. The only thing that is left. It all comes down to making money. Ibiza will always be Ibiza; the coasts don’t shut down. Summer in Spain is different... Right, uh? The only thing I don’t get is the crabs — ”

  “I’ve had enough,” he said. “You talk too much. The Spanish, in general, speak too much. I am glad to know that you are oblivious to what is really happening. I admire your tenacity for following a lead that will take you nowhere, but your game is over.”

  “Where did you learn to talk like that?” I inquired. One of his thugs slapped me. “Shit — ”

  “Does pain excite you?”

  “People like you never get away with their wrongdoing,” I replied. I did not know how many more blows I could take. I was aware that I could still take one more, the last one before passing out. “That money is covered in blood.”

  “Uh-huh,” he uttered. “That’s it. The drug — that is all that you care about.”

  “I care about many things, you know?”

  “Mr. G,” he procee
ded, “before I kill you, let me show you the things the way they are intended. From a different perspective, understanding that the drug, whatever its shape is, is only a substance, toxic? stimulating? Maybe, and I must acknowledge that you are right. However, it is not the drug that kills, but people themselves.”

  “Don’t give me that drug lord speech — ”

  “It is a pity that human beings have fallen into a hedonistic, savage and uncontrolled state. I’m not surprised that such crazy things are happening — ”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

  I heard laughter around me, all in unison. I could not see them, they were in the dark, and I was under that spotlight in the middle of the room.

  “I doubt you’ll talk again after this visit.”

  They were going to drug me.

  “At least tell me what this is. I want to be prepared.”

  “Don’t bother. Refusing will only make it more complicated,” he replied. “It is a new product on the market, at least, in its initial versions. Russia is rotten with so many cheap substances, but they survive because they have no alternative for as long as methadone is still prohibited. However, the rest of Europe is different, my friend. It has not been easy, but this is the first chemical blend that combines a manipulated synthetic cannabinoid with effectual methamphetamine, all bound in a little magic pill. Magic? No. The awakening of consciousness, Mr. G, is not for anyone to enjoy.”

  “You deserve the Nobel in chemistry.”

  “Very clever,” he replied. “This justifies the power of the sovereign ignorance of the individual, imposed by no other than themselves. This justifies the consequences of acting like idiots. Listen to me, you know that Mayan shamans used salvia divinorum to be able to speak with the gods, don’t you? They knew of the limitations of this sensory plane! Well! It’s taken centuries to isolate the substance in a tablet, like in Alice’s tale — ”

  “And you are the rabbit — ”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to take credit for what doesn’t correspond to me, but what’s wrong with giving people that possibility? We sacrifice lives looking for possibilities of existence on another planet and we forget the oldest secret — the awakening of consciousness is present, you know it, you have seen it and experienced it in your own flesh — the problem would be solved as soon as it was legalized, but The Government of old Europe is not interested. Drugs are necessary to justify so abuse and restrictions.”

  The words of that individual of unknown face, clean accent, and refined syntax seemed to be no more than the pretentiousness of an eccentric.

  “What about the crabs?” I asked.

  “I thought your kind, journalists, were avid readers,” he said disappointed. His dialectical rhythm slowed down — “Tell me at least that you know the story of the Lernaean Hydra.”

  “No. I am tired of games,” I said.

  My head was starting to feel too heavy.

  “Well, it’s a shame.”

  I was starting to get sick of that cretin.

  I knew what that man was talking about, but I was pretending not to so I that he would tell me more and told me his very particular vision of the events. It was then, in a swing of consciousness — that by then was coming and going — that I realized that everything made sense — the tattoos, the women, the deaths: everything.

  I felt like an idiot. We had become accustomed to preserving, without further questions, the stereotypical and alienating image that movies conveyed about the unknown: the picture of those evil men who took care of their wives and put their lives at risk in New York neighborhoods during the first migrations — those who had been born out of nowhere, from the underground, to die at the highest point, the same who decided to change bespoke suits of the twenties for gold chains, baseball bats, shotguns and fists. Hollywood only referenced hip-hop and the Bible as manuals of life to skip when it was convenient, and cocaine as the muse of all action. Only the exacerbated self-esteem of a lunatic of the likes of Salvador Dalí could lead one to compare his eccentricity with classical mythology. And so, he told me his story, a story of the Lernaean Hydra anew, contemporary that put Hercules under a different light from the one we all knew. The same Hydra he was talking about was the one he had chosen to underestimate, a hideous multi-headed, serpentine water monster whom Hercules once killed in the swamp where reptile dwelled. The giant crab, which appeared on all the torsos of those tattooed men and women, represented one of the creatures that inhabited Lerna lagoon, next to the Hydra. During the fight in the lagoon, Hera, legitimate wife and sister of the god Zeus, sent a giant crustacean to attack the feet of Hercules and distract him in his mêlée, but it would be to no avail, for he ended up crushing it with his foot.

  Of course, I did not solve that riddle while I was tied on the chair, but later. At that moment, I understood nothing that cretin was saying. The headache was more intense, I started to feel a terrible cold because of my wet clothes.

  Dying and dizzy, the chances to get out of that room alive were slim. The room was dark, and I felt those three men’s presence — maybe four — before me, shrouded in the dark. I do not know how many were behind me, or whether Miranda was still there. I was sure I would get drugged in a matter of minutes. Then, only God knows what would happen, although I had already witnessed the devastating effects of that substance. In the best-case scenario, I would end up with my heart pumping out of my ribcage, a crab depicted on my chest, and with an allegation of having bitten off a stranger’s jugular filed against me. My legs were shaking, and my left eyelid twitched from nervousness. Suddenly, we all noticed something strange on one of the monitors. Something moved, someone had entered the house.

  “Well, well, well,” said the man. “I wasn’t aware you had brought company. You are a cautious man.”

  I paid attention to the screen. It was expected that Blanca had gotten tired of waiting for me in the car.

  “Leave her alone,” I screamed. “Do as you wish with me, but don’t touch the girl.”

  I heard fingers snap, and two of the men in the dark left the room.

  “She is very beautiful,” said the unfamiliar voice. “Is that your lover, Mr. G?”

  “I know her,” Miranda said, breaking the silence. “She can give us trouble.”

  On the screen, several men approached Blanca. Helpless, I feared they would hurt her. The first man tried to grab her arm, but Blanca responded with a punch to the diaphragm and threw him to the ground. Surprised by Blanca’s fierceness, the second man pulled a taser from his belt. I watched Blanca and recited all the prayers I knew, wishing for that guy to trip or miss the shot, so that she would not receive it. His hand rose to shoot at her, but the girl hit him in the wrist with a karate kick. The taser flew a few meters, they both looked at it, but Blanca was not confident enough to jump after the weapon. That momentary hesitation became a crass mistake. Looking for something to defend himself, the thug retrieved the weapon from the floor and walked determinedly to her. First the leg, then the thorax. A few seconds later, she fell to the ground. Then he kicked her to make sure she was unconscious. The man looked at the surveillance cameras, spat on the gravel, and raised his thumb. I heard a loud laughter behind me. Then I saw him pull out a phone and dial. The call rang in the room.

  “Bring her here,” said the mysterious man.

  “Leave her alone!” I shouted, stirring in my chair. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

  “Call the artist, it is time to mark them,” he commanded. “Lock them in a room and leave a loaded gun at their reach, you know — as usual. Follow the protocol. And as for you, Gabriel, you’ll be news tomorrow, isn’t that what you were looking for?”

  “I don’t believe this is the kind of movie where the villain wins — ”

  “I am afraid this is not a movie.”

  A minute later, the man was back, carrying Blanca in his arms. He dropped her on a chair next to me. I saw her bruised face; I would not ever forgive myself.
She was still unconscious. They tied her to the chair with a red rope.

  “Take her first, I want to finish him first,” the leader ordered. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  The two men carried her — chair included — into a room in the darkness of the underground floor.

  “Fifteen minutes for what?” I asked, agitated.

  “Come on, Mr. G,” he replied in a humorous tone. “My men need a little fun.”

  “You are a son of a bitch, whatever your name is,” I protested indignantly. There was no point in showing my helplessness. “What do you expect to get out of this? What do you want in return?”

  The man laughed.

  “Wow, how quickly we got past formalities,” he said. “That you turn over your friend, Officer Francisco Vicente Rojo.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “I don’t need to do business with you,” he replied. “He’ll come to me.”

  That was the first time I had heard the officer’s full name. Perhaps, my biggest surprise was that the rigid policeman had a middle name.

  “Don’t tell me that he’s never told you about me.”

  Time was running out. I knew that Rojo was reserved, but I had the feeling that he had been keeping a lot from me during all that time. A little calmer, I looked for a way to get out of that room unscathed, but there was no chance to make it without getting drugged. Rendition? Never. A man whose shirt was open to the chest stepped forward, opened a bottle of water, and filled a crystal glass that looked like out of a magician hat. Then, on a small glass table, he placed it next to a pink pill.

  “Goodbye, Mr. G,” said the Scandinavian. “Your presence has been quite a nuisance.”

  Something moved outside that room. There was a knock, an unexpected flapping, like large birds, breaking the pictures hanging on the walls. My captors ran outside in search of that noise. I tried to turn my chair but ended up flipping it.

  “No!” I shouted. The backrest cushioned my fall, but I suffered another blow to the head that reminded me why I was there. Seconds later, gunshots were heard, doors opening and closing. I opened my eyes, my head was wounded, and I felt a thread of blood running down my forehead. I noticed the shoes in front of me and looked up — khaki jeans, a white shirt under a dark blazer, and white-snow hair. It was a man with perfect accent and ironed clothes; he was of medium height and narrow back, had a broad face, bushy eyebrows, and sunken eyes. He was white complected — typical of northern people — and had a protruding chin. His grimace was that of a policeman who had served for many years and reflected the emotional scars result of witnessing countless misfortunes. There was pain in his face, desire for revenge, and a mark that divided his left eyebrow into two. It was him I had been speaking with all this time. Distracted by the shots, he turned around and realized my position. He knew that leaving me alive would represent a problem for him. With a disappointed gesture, he tilted his head to one side, pulled a gun out of his jacket, and cocked it.