‘Don’t move. I’m going for help.’ As if her broken body could have moved an inch.
He went back to the car for his phone. No coverage. Think, Arthur, think. But he couldn’t keep his head straight, his thoughts were swirling, his brain screaming. It was all going on at once, a series of voices all clamouring to make themselves heard. He thought of the detour, the construction workers. There must be someone back there. They’d know what to do, be able to call an ambulance. He started the car and accelerated. The road was too narrow to turn around and he decided to drive forward until he found a place to turn and go back. People always think they’ll find a place from where they can turn back.
Fifty metres later the road widened. And Arthur stopped. What are you going to do? They’re dead, the eyes in the rearview mirror told him. You killed them. But it was an accident. Don’t throw your whole life away — not now of all times.
Many kilometres later, Arthur walked into a gas station cafeteria. The employee paid no attention when, agitated, Arthur asked to use the phone.
He didn’t call the police. It didn’t even occur to him. He dialled Diana’s number and told her everything, his voice wracked by sobs. No, no one had seen him. Yes, he was almost sure they were dead. No, his car didn’t have any marks on it.
Then it never happened, Diana had said coldly.
And his heart felt light. It never happened. Anything can be undone, you just have to expunge it. That was what he wanted to hear. What he needed to believe. She’d take care of everything. Diana always did. And she would that time, too.
20
The Armenian lay in bed for a few minutes, his mind blank. He liked that silent hour of the morning when the coming day still holds the promise of something new — new things that, in the end, would turn out to be the same old things, deep down he knew that, but when he opened his eyes and saw that red horizon, the whole world seemed like a mystery waiting to be unravelled. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the fleeting sense of calm, the purity of the silence, the sense of tranquillity. Marijuana fuddled his brain, and he sang the chorus of Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’, enunciating each syllable:
Nobody gonna take my head
I got speed inside my brain
He didn’t know why he had that song in his head when he opened his eyes, though he always awoke humming something. It had been like that for years.
On the floor lay a used condom, and an ashtray overflowing with butts sat in a pool of spilled beer. At the foot of the unmade bed were his pants, a fake passport from Bosnia and Herzegovina, and a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, and a few thousand euros stashed in a false bottom. He’d be history in a few hours. He was going to lose himself forever in the hazy borders of the former Yugoslavia, a Promised Land for men like him. It wasn’t so bad, not really. He’d been in and out of prisons and detention centres for as long as he could remember, and they were his natural habitat: the smell of disinfectant, the cell walls covered in thick layers of paint, the guards who treated prisoners terribly, the other prisoners’ fear disguised as bravado.
But he felt old and tired. Younger men were coming to prison, and they had new codes — no loyalty, no respect. They tried to dethrone him the first opportunity they got. He was no longer omnipotent and sooner or later he’d succumb. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen: anyone who’s been emperor has no desire to be ousted and end up petty king of a band of hoods. By making that jailbreak, stabbing a civil guard, he was putting an end to a legendary prison career. And his legend had to remain unblemished for all time — he wasn’t going back to prison in Spain, not ever.
‘This has got to end,’ said the woman lying beside him. She was smoking pot, too, and resting her hand on a belly less taut than he recalled. Nor did he recall the bouquet of wrinkles on her eyelids, or the tiny creases on her upper lip. Her eyes were the colour of autumn grass; she wasn’t pretty, but he still found her attractive. Her name was Azucena, and on her finger she wore a white gold band engraved with the Armenian’s real name, the one he never told anyone, the one those who knew it never dared pronounce in his presence.
‘It will all be over soon. In a few days some associates of mine who trade slaves and hookers will take me to Sarajevo. They owe me a few favours. And from there, who knows? Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan. There are lots of opportunities out there for guys like me. But first I have to get rid of the son of a bitch who killed our daughter.’
‘It doesn’t matter where you go, Eladio, or what you do. Rebeca isn’t coming back, and you’ll never stop running, never. You’ve wasted your whole life running and you’ll lose me that way, too. Running from your own life.’
The Armenian felt like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to think about life. He didn’t want to respond to a woman as lonely as he was, to her fingers, trying to intertwine with his.
Azucena was a social worker. They’d met at the prison a year before Rebeca was born. She was the only person who’d ever shown him anything resembling love. She took the time and effort to teach him to read and write. And she’d given him a daughter, Rebeca, who he’d seen just once a year, on her birthday, because he didn’t like for his wife to bring her along on her visits — a jail was no place for a little girl destined to become a princess. He didn’t want her to grow up and remember a father behind bars. But he always carried a photo of her in his wallet and he’d show it off to everyone when he was in a good mood.
He swapped it out for a new one every once in a while, to keep up with the changes as his daughter grew. He’d read some childhood psychology books and he’d attempt to convince anyone who would listen that he was a good father, that he worried about her education. The Armenian had created his own little fiction, that of a normal family, one in which he drilled into his daughter the maxim he’d lived by: Never mess with anyone — but if anyone comes looking for you, you let them find you. He’d pave the way for her, keeping her out of harm’s way, protecting her and at the same time teaching her to bare her teeth and to bite when necessary. He dreamed of one day seeing her go to college — something he’d never done — and become a prestigious lawyer. He even considered the ironic possibility of her wearing a barrister’s robe and making it all the way to the highest rung, the Supreme Court. Why not? Self-deception is a way to survive disappointment. And for six years — as long as she’d lived — that fairytale had kept him strong and determined.
Azucena was doing up her bra, sitting on the bed. Her dishevelled hair covered her face, obscuring the bags under her eyes.
‘You should turn yourself in. I’ve still got friends in the penal service. They can help us.’
‘I’m not turning myself in, Azucena. You can get that idea right out of your head.’
‘So what do you plan to do after you kill the man? How many more will you have to bring down in order to stop hating yourself, stop hating the whole world?’
When there’s no hope left, you invent it. And if you can’t do that, then you live full of hatred, turning vengeance into a driving force that never rests, that keeps you awake nights. It becomes an objective that pushes you to keep going when there’s nothing else that can. For the Armenian, killing Arthur had become the sole purpose in his life.
‘Leave your sermon for the new inmates. It’s too late to do me any good. I’m already dead inside.’
Azucena gave him an exhausted look, one that foretold the inevitable.
‘I can’t do this anymore. I have to move on with my life. We buried her four years ago. But you won’t let her go. You cling to us to keep yourself from drowning, but you’re taking me down with you.’
The Armenian glanced at Azucena, indifferent. He’d lost her now, too. He didn’t care, though; he’d always been alone.
‘I’ll do what I have to do and then clear out. Forever. You’ll never hear from me again.’
When he realised the Armenian was just a few centimetres
behind him, Ibrahim didn’t bat an eyelid. Ever since Ordóñez had given them the tip-off, he knew it was just a matter of time until the man showed up. The Armenian had a giant of a man — maybe thirty years old — with him. An overgrown kid, really, with his head shaved except for one strip of dark curls down the middle that made him look like a fierce Mohican. The goon had huge eyes — bulging and watery, his pupils like black holes. He’d just done a line of coke and seemed never to blink, so it looked as if someone had sewn his upper eyelids to his thick bushy brows. His arms were tattooed — a full sleeve, not a centimetre of bare skin to be seen.
‘Can we speak peacefully for once?’ the Armenian asked.
Ibrahim looked the thug up and down and weighed his options. He’d have a hard time taking him down and there was little chance he’d be able to do it without getting hurt in the process. So he didn’t have a lot of options. Ibrahim slipped a hand into his pocket and the bruiser growled like a rabid dog. He pulled a few coins out and put them on the bar, where he’d been having a beer. Then he held up his hands in a sign of peace, and the Armenian yanked his dog’s chain to rein him in.
‘Let’s step outside.’
The thug positioned himself to the right of the Armenian, eyes sweeping back and forth between Ibrahim and the surroundings.
‘It’s the simple pleasures you really miss when they’re gone, don’t you think? I’d forgotten what it’s like to stroll through the centre of Madrid.’
‘How did you escape prison?’
The Armenian lifted his shirt and showed him a nasty knife wound, about where his liver was. It had only just begun to heal and the stitches hadn’t scarred over yet. That had been a close call.
‘If you hurt yourself, the bastards pay attention. They can’t let you bleed to death; it’s against the law. So the deeper the wound, the more attention they pay. Did you know that, in the Middle Ages, self-laceration was seen by the mystics as a way to attract God’s attention? Bleeding is good, it purifies. So I started a fight, purposely let them get me, and they had to move me to the hospital. Humala and his colleagues did the rest, they owed me a few favours.’ He smiled, pointing to the goon.
‘So what do you want?’ Ibrahim cut to the chase.
‘I want to start over. You know? Look, it’s not like anyone ever actually decides to be a bastard — a soulless motherfucker. Things just happen and you end up getting swept up.’
The Armenian paused for a moment, scrutinising Ibrahim with two huge eyes that seemed to take up his entire face, as though waiting for him to do or say something. But Ibrahim didn’t know what to do or say.
‘Sometimes I talk a lot. It’s weird because I don’t usually have anything to say, but I don’t like silence, you know?’
For once Ibrahim could agree, though he’d never felt comfortable talking that much.
‘Why don’t you just say what you’ve come to say and stop beating around the bush?’
The Armenian pointed at him and gave a complicit smile. He had gaps between his teeth, which were small and brown and pointy, like the teeth of a saw.
‘I heard your boss hired a real badass, a pro who’s asking a lot of questions about his daughter. They say the guy’s fast, no bullshit. I’m touched by his interest. But that’s not going to keep me from ripping the bastard to shreds. He killed my daughter. He can put an entire army in my way, as far as I’m concerned. But Arthur is a dead man. Nothing and nobody is going to stop me. I wanted you to know.’
Ibrahim looked up calmly, unflustered. He noticed his adversary’s wrinkles. Like everyone else, that old fighter, too, had started to wither and was trying to pretend time had not taken its toll. He thought of the photos Ordóñez had shown them, the ones with Ian and Rebeca.
‘Why are you telling me this? Your daughter’s death was an accident. Arthur was drunk, he didn’t know what he was doing. And believe me, if there’s one thing he regrets about that day, it’s her death.’
‘I don’t care,’ the Armenian said, cutting him off. ‘I couldn’t care less if he was drunk or sober. I’m not one of those crazies who goes around wreaking havoc for no reason. I think things through.’ He pointed a finger at his temple, as though his hand were a gun about to blow his brains out. ‘I know who I am and I know what I’m doing, even if it’s not right. It’s just the way things are. But you …’
‘What about me?’
‘I like you, Ibrahim. In fact, I admire you. We’ve been in and out of jails together for years, and I’ve never seen you lose your way. Everyone fears you, and what’s more, they respect you. I do too. I know your history; I’ve heard the stories they tell about when you were with the fundamentalists. You’re a man with scruples, in spite of it all.’ The Armenian made as if to touch the jagged scar that crossed Ibrahim’s face, but the man’s look stopped him just in time. ‘That’s why I don’t understand what you’re doing protecting Arthur.’
‘I don’t know what you think you know, but what you’re talking about is ancient history. And either way, it’s none of your business.’
The Armenian thought he had a knack for seeing what others were hiding. People could be manipulated; he gave them what they needed and in exchange took what he wanted. So-called honourable people used men like him to satisfy their depraved urges. They were always seeking a little danger to liven up their boring, petty lives. All those spoiled señoritas he saw shopping their lives away in the boutiques on Calle Serrano, with their giant cars and their filthy rich, fat, old and balding husbands. They were always wanting it up the arse, or needing a line of coke, or a private fight put on for their own personal viewing pleasure, or needing to gamble, or to have an orgy. Depravity was acceptable to them as long as it was a game — a little bit of pain, a few drops of blood, some dirty talk whispered into an ear. But if he actually showed them what an animal he was deep down, they’d shit themselves. Ibrahim wasn’t like them, though; and nor was he like him. It disconcerted the Armenian not to be able to figure out who Ibrahim was, what his weaknesses were, how to get to him. How come Ibrahim had never felt afraid of him, the way others did?
‘You’re right. You must have your reasons for protecting the son of a bitch. I hope they’re good enough because I’m going after him and anyone else who stands in my way, and I wouldn’t want that to include you. In fact, I was hoping to convince you to help me. That’s why we’re having this little talk. I want you to hand Arthur over to me. That’s the only reason my little tattooed friend here isn’t kicking the shit out of you right now.’ The kid fixed his watery eyes on Ibrahim. He looked like a shark about to attack. ‘I know Arthur’s wife is locked up in a residence outside Madrid. I’ve seen you visiting her. I don’t know why, but I suspect she matters more to you than she should.’
Ibrahim’s face clouded over. The Armenian could almost hear the man’s teeth click as he clenched his jaw.
‘If you go anywhere near Andrea I will break every bone in your body.’
‘Relax. I don’t want to hurt her. But I will if you force me to. You can’t protect her forever. Andrea — that’s her name, right? — only cares about finding her little girl, Aroha. And maybe the punk Arthur hired is good — I’ve heard some terrible things about him. But believe me, he’s not going to find her. If you want to find out about pretty girls who disappear, I got a few friends who could help you. An exchange of information. That’s all I’m asking. It’s either that … or this,’ and he pointed to Humala, the tattooed goon who was giving him an icy stare and canine smile. ‘Think it over, Ibrahim. The offer won’t last. I’m sort of in a hurry to get this over with and disappear.’
Ibrahim’s father had taught him that the tasawwuf is the invisible channel connecting man to God, the thing that explains his relationship to Creation. Just like the notes he played on his ney when he felt lost. It wasn’t anything he could put into words, but when he felt sad and confused he’d turned to his flute and use i
ts music to lead him back to the words of Mustafa al-Alawi. ‘Inside of every human is a piece of flesh that, if it is strong, means all is strong, and if it is corrupt, means all is corrupt. And that organ is the heart.’ His father said he had the heart of a Rabat warrior, and that was why he suffered, because he knew his true nature. He could hear the old man’s words now, along with the notes of a ney; he saw them move his withered body, almost made of air. ‘I pray for you,’ he used to say, his eyes searching for a path no one could find. ‘I pray for your heart both dark and light. For you to overcome your struggle; all men must find their way and not wander aimlessly through life.’
He thought now of his father’s grave, that little burial mound of stones atop a hill, where wildflowers were whipped by the hot winds of the sirocco. Under the leaden clouds that pulled the sky closer to earth. A timeless sky, an earth beyond the bounds of history. He missed that infinite tranquillity, missed something as simple as a blade of grass in the palm of his hand fluttering in the breeze like a drunken dragonfly.
Algeria was always inside him, wherever he went. An Algeria full of sorrow, and stained red: the first man he killed, shooting him in the back by the Monument to the Martyrs; the bomb that went off close to Rue Hadj Omar by the Ottoman palace that the French used as a town hall; the tourists shot outside the National Bardo Museum; beating up informers at the hippodrome while keeping one eye on the horses to see if his bets came in. And every time he killed or beat someone he felt his heart rot a little more, but he couldn’t rid himself of the hatred that was making it atrophy.
There were no words or thoughts to heal him. Every time he attacked a man or woman, he saw the grinning redheaded face of Luis Fernández, saw his mother being held down by thugs, felt his flesh being ripped apart by the sharp blade of the machete. And his thoughts clouded, and he turned into what was expected of a man like him — a killer, an assassin, a degenerate, a retrograde sectarian. His victims thought they knew him. They thought they knew the man who was killing them, and why.
The Heart Tastes Bitter Page 41