Her voice is raised. No, please: you are not prepared for another angry outburst.
"I thought they were your friends."
"Even friends lose their patience."
"Didn't you have enough to get you through to the weekend?"
"You think a few pesos last an eternity. I'm tired, Miguel. We can't go on like this."
You know what she is referring to. Lulled by the pleasure of her skin, you said more than you should have. You told her that your relationship with Ruth had run its course and that only a lukewarm friendship remained of your love. You insinuated that if everything continued to go well between Carla and you, it wouldn't be hard to ask Ruth for a divorce. Oh, the things you said, the easy promises. Did you really think that there could be a future for the two of you? Was it one more of your indulgent self-deceptions? You picture yourself in a rented apartment, sitting in front of a computer reading the latest issue of Cryptology while Carla, sprawled on the bed, injects herself with a sharp, dirty needle, shouting at you to come help her hold the syringe steady. You feel a mixture of compassion and care for her, but not love. And admit it, you really don't enjoy the sex very much. After all that caged animal frenzy, you are left feeling empty.
"I'm not suggesting anything," she says, and you know that she is lying. "It's just that for a while now I've thought about moving to Santa Cruz. I stayed because you wanted me to stay. Now I see it's all been for nothing."
Her chest smells of one of those perfumes she is fond of, the kind that dulls your senses. Venomous plants or rotting flowers that triumph by demolishing their rival. Ruth is subtler with her perfumes, her selection of jasmine and soft almonds more refined. The sad thing is that you seem to have lost the art of understanding subtleties a long time ago. In the aseptic world of the Black Chamber, in the loneliness of the archives, you missed the smell of Carla and not Ruth.
"I don't know if it's the right time to talk about this."
"Then when? I'm warning you, if we don't make a decision, then this will be the last time we see each other."
There is a threatening tone to her voice. Only you could find yourself in a situation where a drug-addict prostitute feels she has the right to give you an ultimatum. Albert was wrong: you got here because your thoughts were incapable of thinking what they should have thought. There is no logic that imposes order on the world behind the associative paths that your thoughts take. And if there is meaning brave enough to be able to articulate the chaos of events—to cipher the uncipherable, if there is such a word—only a superior being could be at the center of that kind of conspiracy.
Carla strokes your cheeks, and you find yourself about to cry as you haven't cried since you were a child, when the world was young and your feelings were too. When had it become so hard to express yourself? Where had you acquired that shell that allowed you to escape your environment and its ambiguities? Over time you had become someone you never Could have imagined when you were fifteen, when your dad would lock himself in his room with a bottle of whiskey and you would hear the muffled shouts that he never would have uttered in front of his children, the sobbing when he discovered that all those hours of work per week were not enough to support a family, and you mumbled to yourself that you wouldn't be like that, you wouldn't hide from yourself or from anyone.
You kiss Carla. There is, for a few moments, tenderness in the contact between your lips. As often happens, though, her tongue ruins everything as it thrusts into your mouth.
You close your eyes. You are exhausted, absolutely exhausted.
When you open your eyes, you are surprised by the light of day coming in through the windows. It is early morning; you fell asleep. Your bladder is about to burst. Carla stretches by your side.
"Good morning, sleepyhead. We owe a ton for this room, but I couldn't bring myself to wake you up."
"I want to go to church," you say out of nowhere, with a conviction that surprises you. Carla looks at you, confused. You head to the bathroom.
"Seriously," you continue. "I need to be alone for a few hours, but I promise I'll come back for you."
"Don't say it if you don't mean it," she says, sitting up on the bed, looking at you with bloodshot eyes.
Your mind has plotted your course as you slept next to Carla. You don't know whether you have a future with her, but you know that you don't have a future with Ruth. You will go to the chamber and hand your resignation to Ramírez-Graham. You will go to church to confess your sins, even knowing that you do not want any sort of atonement. You will go home and ask Ruth for a divorce. You will pack your bags and rent an apartment. You will take Carla to live with you. You will see if you can rebuild your life, bloodstained hands and all.
You give Carla some money to pay for her boarding house.
"I'll pay for the room on my way out," you say. "Then I'll see you here tonight at around six, seven o'clock."
You kiss her on the cheek and leave the room.
Chapter 40
FLAVIA GETS OUT OF BED with sour morning breath; lines from the pillow mark her cheeks. She slept deeply for a couple of hours and had a strange dream in which she was incarnated as a digital being, logged on to Playground, and asked for asylum at an embassy—she did not want to go back to Río Fugitivo. They granted it to her, and she felt an enormous sense of relief.
She stumbles into the bathroom and looks in the mirror. It is as if a thousand veins have burst in her eyes and black circles ring them. She brushes her teeth.
As she rests her hands on the basin, out of nowhere reality comes flooding back, and all her efforts to appear strong disappear. Whom was she trying to fool?
She can't believe that Rafael is no longer here, that he is no more. He can't come back as another avatar, like when someone dies in Playground. His whole life had led up to that lackluster moment. So easy, to end a life that slips by, unconscious of itself, through the coordinates of space and time.
Flavia does not want to cry, not even a few hesitant tears. She wants someone to pay for what happened to Rafael. She is determined to return to the attack. Her work in regard to Kandinsky is not over: she has thought of a new way to get to him.
Clancy is sleeping in the kitchen. Rosa is moving quietly around the house. Outside, sparrows singing, the continuous hum of a lawn mower, a neighbor parking his car in his garage. The clouds have hidden the sun; it will rain soon. The campesinos will be happy: the drought that ruined their crops last year is over. If it has rained this much in November, what will it be like in January and February? She repeats what her dad used to say when she was little: enero poco, febrero loco, enero loco, febrero poco.
She pours herself a glass of orange juice, so acidic that it feels like it is cutting her tongue. A row of ants emerges from a hole near the fridge and attacks the sugar bowl. Flavia watches, lets them do what they will.
Her parents aren't home yet. Dad had left a message on the machine. He was at the Black Chamber; there were street protests, and he was going to wait until the situation calmed down. Flavia sits in front of the computer. Clancy has followed her and lies at her feet. She decides to put her plan into action. It won't be easy, but it's better than nothing.
In Playground, she logs on to the chatrooms most frequented by hackers. She discards Wolfram and creates Pestalozzi, a hacker from San Agustín who says he can't stand students from San Ignacio. She spends a few hours spreading his message of hate. Someone, she thinks, will take the bait.
By afternoon she has created Dream Weaver, a hacker from San Ignacio who argues with Pestalozzi and hurls insults at the Resistance. Flavia has to keep their conversation going, typing on two keyboards at once. It is no easy feat, but it isn't the first time she has done this. By the time evening falls, a few others have joined the conversation, but all left quickly. The subject does not seem to ignite the necessary intensity of emotions for a heated discussion.
She is about to take a break—her efforts have made her hands ache—when someone joins the chat, attack
ing Dream Weaver and defending Pestalozzi. He calls himself NSA2002. While keeping up a three-way conversation, Flavia tries to trace NSA's steps on one of her computers. Where did he log on to the Internet?
The answer surprises her: NSA2002 accessed the Net through a computer at the Black Chamber. It is possible that NSA2002 is telnetting from another computer and using the Black Chamber to confuse any possible pursuers. Still, it seems like too much of a coincidence that the computer being used is located there. And anyhow, what sense is there in telnetting for an innocuous chat about loving or hating San Ignacio?
The truth seems irrefutable to Flavia: NSA2002 is Kandinsky, the legendary hero of the Resistance, the man behind Rafael's death. Kandinsky works at the Black Chamber.
Chapter 41
RUTH WALKS BEHIND the police officer. They go up a set of cement stairs so steep that she has to make an effort not to lose her balance. The hallways smell of urine. On one of the landings, a little shadow crosses swiftly between Ruth's feet; she imagines it must be a mouse.
"You're lucky," the officer says all of a sudden.
"Why? I haven't done anything wrong."
"Either everyone has done something wrong or no one has done anything wrong. And I think you've all done something wrong. But some are someone and the majority are no one."
"Are we playing some sort of guessing game?"
"Just shut up and follow me."
The police officer sneezes. Ruth follows him in silence. She repeats to herself, Eulalia Vázquez, Eulalia Vázquez. She has already forgotten the other woman's name. She can hear the rain drumming against the walls and on the roof. It will be good for her carnations in the garden.
The officer leads her into the office of the police chief, a fat, sweaty man around fifty years old. He is sitting behind a mahogany desk, talking on a silver Samsung. Behind him are the national coat of arms and a photo of President Montenegro; to his right, a poster of the River Boys soccer team and another of Jet Li. There are loose tiles on the floor, and flies are crawling on the windows and all over some folders lying on a low table.
"Good afternoon, good afternoon," he says, hanging up his Samsung and standing. "We have just been advised that we have among us the wife of a respectable government civil servant. How can this be?"
"That's what I'd like-"
"It's just an expression, no need to answer. We know what happened. A mistake."
"Quite a mistake, I'd say. I've been here for over a day."
"I'm sure you understand that we are in a state of emergency and have to take cautionary, or precautionary, measures rather than regret our inaction. Although sometimes we do end up regretting our actions. It's complicated. In any event, I'm sure you understand. And if you don't, well, we still have no way of undoing this. Undoing what we wanted to do, that is. Perhaps we have made a mistake by preventing a mistake. Right. We offer our apology and will make sure that you are freed immediately."
"I suppose I must thank you, Mr...."
"Felipe Cuevas, at your service."
"I would also like you to return what you confiscated from me."
"Ah, now that is another kettle of fish. Or rather, our kettle of fish. And exactly what we wanted to speak to you about. They tell us there has been a mistake—your manuscript was incinerated. I've been asked to extend our sincere apologies."
Ruth thought they would say something like that. There was no way the manuscript would be returned to her intact. It would be sent to the Black Chamber for analysis. There they would discover that it was a catalogue of all the political crimes that had been committed in the country thanks to the efficiency of the cryptanalysts at the Black Chamber.
She puts her hands together, raises her right index finger to her mouth, and bites on the nail until it breaks. Vázquez, Vázquez. What was her first name? She no longer remembers.
"Leaving without my manuscript," she says, practically shouting, "is the same as being made to stay. In fact, it would be better for me to stay locked up."
"You simply cannot stay. We need all the space we have. There have been many arrests—today has been absolute chaos. Worse than yesterday. Which was absolute chaos. Which makes today chaos squared. Or cubed. In any event, much worse than yesterday. And the word chaos doesn't even do justice to what has gone on out there."
Ruth remains quiet for a long while. She listens to the incessant pounding of the wind and rain on the windows.
"No," she says at last. "Nononononononono."
"That's what I thought. Captain, have her sign the papers and accompany her to the door."
Ruth's gaze scours the peeling walls, the cracked tiles on the floor, the cobwebbed ceiling. A fly lands on her hand; she lets it walk along her forearm. Then she turns and follows the captain. She mechanically does what the police tell her to do. She signs what she has to sign, walks down some narrow hallways, and arrives at the street. The captain hands her her purse and her cell phone, then turns back into the building without a word.
She walks barefoot, the breeze caressing her body. The sun has been obliterated by the lead-colored clouds; the rain has turned to drizzle.
The first thing she will do when she gets home is call the clinic and get her test results. Then she will wait for Miguel to come home. She needs to have a long talk with him. Or perhaps it will be short—perhaps there is no need for words.
Only then will she try to reach Judge Cardona. She doesn't know what she will say to him. Her steps gain confidence. Truthfully, she doesn't know what she will do when she gets home.
Chapter 42
RAMÍREZ-GRAHAM IS IN the kitchen of his apartment preparing a sandwich when his cell phone rings. It is Flavia, her voice anxious. She tells him that Kandinsky is operating from inside the Black Chamber.
One of my guys? Is that possible? Yes, indeed. The suspect could be Ramírez-Graham himself. Why not? At the NSA they had taught him that you should be suspicious even of yourself.
"Are you sure this isn't a mistake?"
"There's always the chance, but I guess you asked me for my help for a reason, right? If we hurry, there might be time to catch him. I'm going to try to keep him chatting. There's a chance he might be telnetting, but, well, there's no harm in trying."
"Again, are you sure? I don't want to call the police if it's a false alarm."
"It'll be a false alarm if we keep talking. And no, I'm not sure of anything. I did what you asked me to, now you take care of the rest. Anyhow, a false alarm wouldn't be the end of the world. Just hurry."
Ramírez-Graham hangs up and calls Inspector Moreiras. He asks him to cordon off the Black Chamber and not let anyone leave.
"It's been a difficult day, and I don't think it's over yet. Do you realize what you're asking me?"
"It's important. Just do what I say, please. I'll explain it all later."
Moreiras mutters something and hangs up. Ramírez-Graham finishes making his fried egg sandwich. He arrived back at his apartment just half an hour ago; the protests in the plaza had spread throughout the Enclave, and he had not been able to leave the chamber until the police had cleared the neighboring streets. He only hoped that everything was coming to an end. He no longer cared that a teenager had given him the key to solving the problem. All he wanted now was to catch Kandinsky and go back to Georgetown.
Outside, he inhales the fresh air after the rain. He realizes that he might soon be taking part in a scene from a movie that he probably saw: the criminal trapped on one floor of a building while the chief of police shouts orders on his walkie-talkie and climbs the stairs with determination—or maybe takes the elevator—to the floor where the final confrontation will take place. He is finally about to see Kandinsky's face, if that Flavia is right. Yeah, right.
He speaks with Moreiras and Flavia again from his car. Moreiras tells him that the Black Chamber has been cordoned off and that they will see him there soon.
"We've asked everyone to come down to the Vigenère Room. Only one person hasn't—he'
s locked up in one of the offices on the top floor."
The Central Committee offices are there ... Someone from his inner circle? Santana? Baez? Ivanovic? Could he have been duped that badly?
Flavia tells him that Kandinsky is still in the chatroom.
"Keep him there for fifteen more minutes," Ramírez-Graham asks!
"Something's bothering me, I don't know ... The problem wasn't easy, but the solution was. Too easy."
"Some of the worst criminals make the stupidest mistakes."
"Still, it's a bit of a letdown."
The streets around the Black Chamber are darker than usual, as if the owners of the houses and buildings in the area are avoiding unnecessary electricity expenses or as if a sudden blackout by GlobaLux has plunged them into a night that is exceptionally dark. A group of soldiers is climbing a lookout. Ramírez-Graham hears on the radio that the government has reached an agreement with the Coalition and has ordered that the city be demilitarized.
Even with all the darkness, no house or building nearby matches the Black Chamber's ability to blend perfectly into the night, as if a black hole were located at its very apex and swallowing it whole. Ramírez-Graham enters the building and is blinded by the vibrant lights inside. Moreiras and three police officers are waiting for him underneath the Black Chamber's emblem, the man bent over a desk and the condor holding a ribbon in its claws bearing a motto in Morse code.
"My men are taking statements from everyone, except whoever stayed up on the top floor."
"Anyone in particular missing?"
"Several people. Some had already gone home by the time you called, so we don't know who's upstairs. Shall we go up? You know each floor, the layout of the rooms. We won't use the elevator, it's too risky."
Moreiras is husky and has a double chin, but there is something sweet about his face, a beatific expression that does not suit his position. Or perhaps, Ramírez-Graham thinks, it's because he looks so innocent that he can make the decisions he has to make.
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