‘Three was the price I agreed, and it’ll be three or nothing,’ Epitafio snaps, removing and replacing his cap.
‘You’ve got far more than you know what to do with,’ Señor Hoyo says, stripping off his jacket and handing it to one of the men who are staring anxiously at the giant.
‘What do you care how many I’ve got?’
‘Two and a half crates apiece … that’s the new deal.’
‘Three, and a fence.’
‘Two and a half, plus the fence … You’ll not get three out of me.’
‘In that case, there’s no deal,’ Epitafio says and turns to Mausoleo. ‘Tell them to put them back in the house.’
‘Hold up there! Three … and two and a half for the other one.’
‘The way you’re going, it’ll be three and a half.’
‘You’re a stubborn bastard.’ Señor Hoyo reluctantly gives in and, turning to his men, says, ‘Tell them to bring the vans over … and tell Macizo to get ready.’
Epitafio turns back to Mausoleo and says, ‘Go tell them to board the trucks.’
When Señor Hoyo’s trucks have finally been loaded with those who sense that the next part of their journey will be not less ill-starred, no less cruel, no less long, and the crates have been unloaded in the courtyard of El Teronaque, where the rain of shadows has become a downpour, Epitafio puts on his cap, gives Señor Hoyo a satisfied smile, and bringing his fingers to his lips, gives the first whistle of the evening.
While his men and those who came with Señor Hoyo bustle in the centre of the courtyard and light the torches that Sepelio handed out a moment earlier, HewhosolovesEstela smiles at Señor Hoyo and breaks the awkward silence between them: ‘How much do you think you’ll lose tonight against my guy?’
Drawn by the glow and the smell of the torches — they blaze with an oil made from fermented oranges — the insects that swarm in the drowning hours of twilight invade the courtyard, their buzzing rising to become a roaring engine. ‘I’ve brought a lad today who’s more than a match for Sepelio,’ says Señor Hoyo, and before Epitafio can say anything, he walks towards the bellowing circle of men, adding: ‘You’ll see, he’ll whip the arse of that chickenshit coward!’
Fluttering in feverish circles amid the swarm of mosquitoes, the bats feed while Epitafio and Señor Hoyo continue towards the centre of the courtyard and the mounting clamour of the men clutching their rifles and their torches. ‘Who said I’m intending to put Sepelio into the ring today?’ HewhosolovesEstela says suddenly, and, lifting his arm, points to Mausoleo: ‘This lad here is going to fight your boy tonight!’
Seeing the supercilious expression on Señor Hoyo’s face crumple, Epitafio hurries towards the circle of flames, but the excitement hammering in his chest suddenly crumples too: Fucking hell … I told her I’d call her as soon as they left. Why the fuck did I ask for a fence? … You’re going to be furious that I didn’t call you, Epitafio thinks, then he turns and walks over to Mausoleo, while Señor Hoyo is heading over to Macizo.
Next to Mausoleo, who is staring down at the broken-necked corpse and the bloody length of timber, Epitafio imagines Estela’s fury, and, grabbing the giant with both hands, he growls: ‘You’re about to fight a real bastard, and you’d better be quick … You’d better hope you weren’t lying … that you really know how to use those fists of yours.’ All around, in the mounting excitement, the men clutching their torches and their weapons continue to roar.
‘Beat the shit out of him … and make it fast. I’ve got better things to be doing … Are you listening to me?’ Epitafio says, putting a hand under the giant’s chin and lifting his face so that he no longer has to look at the broken creature whose face is split from nose to eyebrow. ‘You’re going to fuck this guy up and fast!’ HewhosolovesEstela mutters, his eyes boring into Mausoleo, then he turns to Señor Hoyo and the boy next to him in the circle of flames: Why didn’t I let you talk while I was running back to the house? All I had to do was pretend to listen.
That way it would all be over now, and I wouldn’t have to call you! Epitafio grumbles in the circle formed by his men and those brought by Señor Hoyo. You could have told me what’s going on and I could have left them to get on with things! Epitafio thinks to himself as he growls at Mausoleo: ‘As soon as Sepelio gets here with the weapons, grab the pipe … I want you to win with a single blow.
‘Sepelio … Where the fuck is Sepelio?’ roars Epitafio, stepping away from the giant and thinking, If you’d told me what was wrong, we wouldn’t need to have a conversation … It’s all you ever talk about, and I need to talk to you about La Cañada. ‘Is he bringing the weapons or not?’ Señor Hoyo interrupts Epitafio’s train of thought and, grabbing him by the shoulder, issues a challenge, ‘Or do you want them to fight bare-knuckle today?’
Before Epitafio has time to answer Señor Hoyo, Sepelio appears, slipping the phone he has used to call Father Nicho into his pocket, and steps into the circle of light and drops the implements that will give form to rage. The sound made by the implements as they clatter to the ground electrifies the men, calms Señor Hoyo’s worries, excites Epitafio’s impatience and buries itself in the guts of Macizo and Mausoleo.
The shouting rises to a frenzied roar as Macizo and Mausoleo stand alone in the centre of the circle: then, Sepelio takes his torch and, raising it skywards, gives the order to start. ‘Lay into him!’ shouts Señor Hoyo, while Epitafio yells to Mausoleo: ‘The pipe … Grab the pipe!’ Macizo rushes towards the pile of weapons on the ground and grabs a machete. Mausoleo does not move a muscle.
‘The fucking pipe!’ Epitafio bellows, but his words fuse with the chorus of raucous voices and do not reach Mausoleo, whom Macizo is now circling, wary and attentive. Just then, from the sky there comes the cry of a huge bird that cleaves the dark vault of heaven like a shadow and flies off without anyone looking up at the sky: ‘Don’t just fucking stand there … Grab the pipe!’
Having weighed up his opponent and his hesitation — why the fuck is he just standing there? … Why doesn’t he pick up a weapon? — Macizo lunges at Mausoleo, brandishing his machete. But at the last moment, the giant who had been standing, imperturbable, as though his mind is a blank, dodges the blade and with the smallest of movements, trips Macizo and sends him sprawling; Macizo crawls two metres, grabs his machete and jumps to his feet.
‘For fuck’s sake, grab something … anything!’ shouts Epitafio, whose mind is also a blank as he feverishly watches his rival get to his feet and, more nervous than ever, sees that the giant is planted there, like a tree. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Around Mausoleo and Macizo, the circle of men has degenerated into pure noise and sheer slack-jawed fury: one after another, all those present have lost their minds.
Having hesitated for a fleeting moment, Macizo raises his weapon and lunges again at Mausoleo, who, this time, drops to a crouch, grabs his opponent’s legs, lifts him a metre and a half into the air and hurls him on to the rough tezontle. Before Macizo has time to work out what has happened, Mausoleo lifts the machete, raises it in offering to the darkness, and then brings it down on the neck and shoulder of the young man who came with Señor Hoyo.
A howl erupts from the men, who refuse to relinquish their weapons or their torches as the body of Macizo is split like a log falling to the axe. Señor Hoyo stamps the ground, while Epitafio races over to the giant, raising his hands: ‘That’s the way … That’s what I like to see … But you gave me a scare there at the start … Hijo de fucking puta!’ he says, as he thinks about Estela: I want to call you to talk about the checkpoint and about El Chorrito.
Leaping over the body, which now seems like two bodies, each with only one arm, only one leg, Epitafio turns to the giant, who is once more still as a statue and says: ‘You gave me a hell of a fright, but you did good!’ All the while thinking: I need to talk to that fucking moron and find out why they moved the checkpoints … an
d if they moved them, why he didn’t fucking call to warn me.
Raising the left arm of the giant, who seems to be in a completely different place, Epitafio is about to announce: And the winner is Mausoleo! but the giant anticipates his words and, re-emerging from the place where he seemed to have disappeared, he announces: ‘Es … Este … Esteban … That was my name before … That is who I am … So the winner … the winner is Esteban.’ As though sucked up by a huge vacuum, the cries of the men and the beasts of night are suddenly silenced.
‘Esteban … That was always my name,’ mutters Mausoleo, his eyes boring into those of Epitafio, who bursts out laughing, since he knows no other way to put an end to this moment: ‘What the fuck are you talking about? … That faggot couldn’t have handled himself like Mausoleo did … That’s why your name is Mausoleo … I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ Epitafio’s words are the only sound to be heard in the courtyard of El Teronaque.
Just then, the vast bird like a shadow that cleaved the heavens a moment earlier flies back across the sky and this time its cry not only captures the attention of those present, but trails in its wake the chorus of sounds that announces the realm of night and stirs those noises that have so far been silent. ‘Back to the trucks!’ Señor Hoyo barks, just as Sepelio, thinking it is what Epitafio expects of him, says: ‘Now on to what comes next!’
‘Who do you think you are to decide what happens here?’ Epitafio roars, forgetting Mausoleo and turning towards Sepelio as he thinks: Fucking El Chorrito … You should have phoned me … That way I wouldn’t have to call her and wouldn’t need to talk to you now … I could wait until she calmed down. It is as though he, HewhosolovesEstela, can sense that, high up in the sierra, ShewhoadoresEpitafio has allowed her rage to wax and intensify.
‘I am the one who says what happens!’ Epitafio mutters and, barely a metre from Sepelio, bellows: ‘Is that clear?’ ‘Crystal clear,’ Sepelio says, choking back his anger and, forcing a smile so ambiguous that no one notices it, thinks: It won’t be that way for long … It won’t be crystal clear for much longer. Epitafio’s face hardens as he thinks: While they’re loading the rest of them, I should call Estela.
I hope you answer … that you’re not blinded by rage! Epitafio thinks as Señor Hoyo steps forward to make good on his wager, and as Sepelio thinks to himself: We’ll see how long it is crystal clear. We’ll see who gets to be in command here very soon. This is the first time that Sepelio dares to think the words in the presence of Epitafio, who, having pocketed his winnings and said goodbye to Señor Hoyo, is giving orders to his men: ‘Load the miserable fuckers we’ve got left into the trailer.’
As the last man heads back towards the building, which still serves as a prison for the little girl with the oversized head and one half of the godless who have come from other lands, their eyes stitched shut by tears and their souls unstitched by fear, Epitafio mutters: ‘I’ll call you right now.’
Then this man who has always wanted to marry Estela, but was forced to marry the woman chosen for him by Father Nicho, scans the horizon, studying the cloudburst of shadows, the same shadows that the sons of the jungle are staring at as they prepare to leave, eager to bathe in the pool known only to the two of them, before heading for the village where their path leads them.
Watching as night takes possession of the earth, HewhosolovesEstela takes out his phone and, feeling his chest fill with the dark air of hours spent in contemplation, tries to think of anything that will not prevent him from dialling the number he knows by heart: It must be dark wherever you are, too. Then, as his fingers begin to tap Estela’s number, his thoughts betray him and his fingertips slip from the keypad: If it is dark and you haven’t reached El Cañada, I’ll only slow you down.
Besides, what difference does it make if I talk to El Chorrito now? … Better to let you get to El Cañada without wasting any more time, Epitafio thinks to himself, and, slipping his phone back into his pocket, whispers: ‘And it’s not as though we’ve got time on our hands here … We have to get moving, too … We need to load those miserable bastards and get the fuck out of here … We have to sell them off as soon as possible.’
Three or four metres from the entrance to the ramshackle building that was once a slaughterhouse, Epitafio joins Sepelio and Mausoleo, and, closing the distance between them with a wave, says to the former: ‘Go and get the trailer right now … and get your boys to fetch the ladder.’ This would all be much easier if we hadn’t given back the ramp, Sepelio thinks as he leaves the two men who are about to step inside the house that overlooks El Teronaque, and he mumbles to himself: ‘Stubborn fucking bastard.
‘Stubborn son of a bitch … You’ve always been that way,’ Sepelio mutters again as he takes out his phone, then, glancing around to make sure no one is watching and smiling to himself, he says: ‘Things are about to change. You’ll see … Someone else will get to give the orders here.’
Someone else will get to be the Fatherland, Sepelio promises himself and, his smile broadening into a loud laugh, he stares at his phone for a moment and dials a number that he, too, knows by heart. But the line is busy: Father Nicho is talking to the men who left the Madre Buena plateau some time ago.
III
‘We never said you could call,’ says the driver of the fake security van that left Lago Seco almost an hour since.
‘I’ll call whenever I like.’
‘We were absolutely clear when we talked to Sepelio … no calls after we set off.’
‘And anyway, this is only the second time I’ve called,’ says Father Nicho, slumping into the armchair in his office. ‘I just wanted to know whether you’ve got there yet.’
‘How could we have got there?’ says the driver of what looks like an armoured truck, taking a cigarette from the pack he has fished from his pocket. ‘Do you realise how far it is?’
‘I’m not assuming you’re in the sierra … I’m just asking whether you’re getting close,’ the priest says, getting to his feet and growling. ‘This isn’t some fucking game.’
‘Who the fuck said it was?’ says the driver, thumping the windscreen. ‘Phone us one more time and we’ll call the whole thing off.’
‘I didn’t realise you were in a position to make such decisions,’ Father Nicho taunts the driver, striding across the room and grabbing the branding iron he has just used down in the cellar.
‘I’m not one of your fucking lackeys … Call this number again and the whole thing is off,’ says the driver of the fake security van.
‘At least tell me where you are,’ the priest insists and, bringing the awl up to his nose, he adds, ‘If you tell me, I won’t phone again.’
‘Pig-headed bastard,’ grumbles the exasperated co-driver. ‘I’ll call when it’s done.’
‘How about you call me when you’re within sight of the mountains?’
‘The dumb fuck just doesn’t fucking get it,’ the co-driver mutters, holding the phone at arm’s length and glancing at the driver.
‘Or when you get to Tres Hermanos,’ Father Nicho goads him, and chuckles as he hangs up.
‘Jesus fuck … I’ve had it with this bullshit!’
Listening to the engaged tone that says that the person on the other end has hung up, the co-driver of the phony armour-plated vehicle turns to the driver, who, like him, is a police officer and says: ‘He’s going to be calling us every five fucking minutes.’ He says nothing for a moment and, thinking: Ignorant bastard hung up on me, he looks out at the ribbon of road that stretches away into the distance, dividing the earth in two.
‘I told Sepelio a million times … we don’t want to have to talk to that fucker … We only want to talk to you … Don’t try playing us off against that old bastard … just look what happened with Cementeria.’ The co-driver’s words — as crude as he is, and as rancorous — get no response, and the fake security truck rattles over a pothole and swerves acr
oss the road: darkness has fallen in this part of the Fatherland, too, and the driver is severely myopic.
Aside from the driver and the co-driver, the men in the back of the vehicle masquerading as a security truck — who are also police officers from Lago Seco — are tossed and jolted in their seats as they place their bets for the next game: the floor of the truck is strewn with cards, coins, banknotes, cigarettes, shot glasses, bottles, matchboxes, and with the anger and frustrations of these men.
Having hit the tarpaulin and bitten the inside of cheeks that are as plump inside as they are outside, the co-driver of this former garbage truck, this vehicle that for years served to keep Lago Seco tidy, rummages under his seat for the cigarette that fell from his fingers, thumps the driver and, spitting a thin thread of bloody saliva, grunts: ‘Hijo de puta … Fucking cigarette just burned a hole in my trousers.’
‘Shit — and I know how hard it is to find a pair your size,’ the driver snaps, resettling the thick glasses the jolt knocked from the bridge of his nose. Before the co-driver can say anything to the driver — though his superior officer back in Lago Seco, in these particular circumstances they are equals — the protests from the men in the back of the truck are punctuated by insults directed at the captain and his lieutenant, who are their superiors, albeit in a different sense.
‘They must have taken one hell of a bump!’ the co-driver laughs and, picking up the things that fell into the footwell — a couple of CDs, a figurine of Christ dressed as a soldier, several beer bottles, a tiny Christmas tree, an ice bucket, three lighters and a couple of dolls in football strips, he says: ‘If you see another pothole —’ ‘If I see another one, I’m heading straight for it!’ the driver snaps, interrupting the lieutenant and, with a chuckle, he adds: ‘I bet they’re shitting it in the back there.’
When the two men in the cab of the fake security truck realise that their underlings have stopped bitching, the driver rolls down the window, wafts at the air with his hand and, pretending he can smell something, says: ‘Are you sure you put out the fire in your trousers?’ Picking up a Smurf dressed as Saint Juan Diego, the lieutenant whips round and is about to defend himself when the driver says: ‘Seriously, though, where the fuck do you buy your trousers?’
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