by Manuel Rivas
At the end of the dyke, where there was a small lighthouse, stood two men. He could recognise them from a distance. One was unmistakable, with his hat and steel-tipped cane, moving in and out of the circles of light. When he was in a circle, Fins could see the white of his gloves and the tips of his shoes. It looked as if he was about to start tap-dancing. This was Mariscal. His eternal bodyguard, Carburo the giant, stood with his arms crossed, surveying everything, moving his head in time to the lighthouse beacon.
Brinco came marching down the new dyke. He was wearing a black leather jacket that turned into patent leather whenever it passed under one of the lamps. Behind him, in similar clothes, but with more zips and metal reinforcements, came Chelín, his lackey.
On several shallow-water boats preparations were under way to go out fishing. The sailors were laying out the tackle.
‘Hey, Brinco!’ shouted one of the younger sailors.
Víctor Rumbo carried on his way, but not without depositing a confidential greeting: ‘Everything OK?’
‘Doing what we can, Brinco.’ And then, to his companion, ‘See? That was Brinco.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I am! We played football together. Look. The other’s Chelín. Tito Balboa. A very fine goalie!’
‘Wasn’t he an addict?’
‘That guy always walked on the edge. For better and for worse.’
In his hiding place, however much the sea amplified their voices, Fins couldn’t make out their conversation. But he could hear the admiring salutations Víctor Rumbo received.
‘See you, Brinco!’
‘See you, champ!’
‘You sent for me?’
Mariscal responded with a cough, a kind of affirmative growl. Then cleared his throat. ‘It’s about time you were a little less formal, Víctor.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Brinco as if he hadn’t heard.
The Old Man gazed at the waters, which appeared calm but grumbled discontentedly against the dyke. ‘All the best stuff comes from the sea! All of it.’
‘Without the need for a single shovelful of manure!’
‘Have I told you that before?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘That’s the trouble with us ancients. We’re in the habit of repeating ourselves.’
Mariscal scratched his throat again. Stared at Víctor, adopting a more intimate tone of voice. ‘You’re the best pilot, Brinco!’
‘So they tell me . . .’
‘No, you are!’
Mariscal gestured to Carburo, who pulled a torch out of his pocket, switched it on and pointed it at the sea, creating Morse-like signals. They soon heard the sound of a motorboat that must have been waiting in the wings. Not a normal kind of boat. The roar of its horsepower overwhelmed the night.
‘Well, the best pilot deserves a bonus, an incentive!’
No such vessel had ever been seen in Noitía before. A speedboat of this length, its power increased by multiple engines on the stern. Inverno steered it towards the dyke.
‘How’s that barge then, Inverno?’
The subaltern was wildly enthusiastic.
‘It’s not a speedboat, boss. It’s a frigate! A flagship! We could cross the Atlantic in this!’
‘It has enough horsepower to travel around the world,’ boasted Mariscal. And then to Brinco, ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m checking out the horsepower.’
‘The flagship’s yours!’ said Mariscal. ‘And there’s no need to worry about the paperwork.’ He was overseeing delivery. ‘The boat’s in your mother’s name.’
This was what he liked to refer to as an ‘emotional coup’.
‘We’ll have to call it Sira then,’ replied Brinco, clearly waging an inner war to find the right tone of voice.
‘Why not? The name fits!’
The Old Man set off walking, with Carburo behind. Taking care not to step on his shadow. Measuring his distance. Suddenly Mariscal stopped, turned towards the dock and pointed at the boat with his cane. ‘Better name it Sira I.’
And then, ‘Well, aren’t you going to try it out?’
The last thing Fins saw was Brinco and Chelín boarding the powerful machine. Brinco taking hold of the steering wheel. And, after turning around, a swarm of bubbles rising and climbing in the night.
23
THERE WAS NO moon, nor was it expected. A formation of solid storm clouds, brand name the Azores, gave depth to the night’s darkness. On the surface of the sea, squeezed between two stones, a vein of graphite clarity. The high-speed customs patrol boat was hidden behind one of the crane boats for gathering mussels, which in turn was moored to a platform under repair. They were waiting for him. For Brinco. The fastest pilot. The estuary ace. A hero to smugglers.
The gurgle of his entrails may have rumbled out across the sea. The customs officer caught him clenching his teeth in an attempt to quell his gut’s rebellion. He realised the other man felt unwell, but didn’t say anything.
‘What, you seasick?’
It was the navigator who asked, with what seemed like inevitable scorn.
‘Do I look like the deceased?’ said Fins.
‘No, just dead for now.’
‘When we’re on the move, I’ll be OK,’ he said, feeling like a conspicuous bundle. Then he added with bravura, in an effort to encourage himself, ‘The faster the better!’
‘Well, now’s the time to wait,’ remarked the officer. ‘Take a deep breath. It’s all in the mind.’
Fins didn’t have time to explain that he’d been born on a boat, so to speak, during a maritime procession. Something like that. His body’s discomfort was a sort of trick or revenge.
The information was first class. Could cure any amount of seasickness.
There he was. Judging by the impressive engine, it could only be him. The kind of boat that was displayed in San Telmo and would suddenly disappear, moments before an inspection. Though recently they’d changed their habits. Started hiding the most valuable speedboats in sheds or warehouses in the most surprising places, sometimes a long way inland, at distances that could be measured in nocturnal miles, on secondary roads. This journey towards secrecy was part of the biggest change ever in the history of smuggling.
From mussel-raft blond to flour.
From tobacco to cocaine.
No, there weren’t any billboards advertising this historical change. And there were few superiors ready or willing to hear, let alone believe, his endless storytelling. Fins Malpica was a bloody nuisance, a prick, a lunatic. He should be assigned to investigating UFOs.
The boat turned. Seemed to be moving away with a mocking curtain of foam. But it came back. The ticking-over of the engine, by contrast, was like a whisper in the night. They docked next to platform B-52, exactly the one Fins had indicated. The customs officer and two agents stared with a mixture of admiration and disbelief at this pale young police inspector clinging to his camera as to a child, dressed like an apprentice on his first outing.
‘Great, golden information, inspector. My congratulations.’
A surprising informer. A nugget dropped by chance. An angry person’s betrayal of trust. These were the sources the officer turned over in his mind. Fins should have revealed the true story behind platform B-52. The hours upon hours of poring over registers. Analysing operations for buying and selling rafts. Grouping suspicious cases in a ‘grey area’. Unravelling the front man and real owner. Use, output, repairs to the structure. A whole series of dead hours and occasional living ones. And there it was, B-52. Real owner, Leda Hortas.
Somebody leaps from the speedboat on to the platform’s wooden arbour. Inverno, thinks Fins, because of the way he moves. He opens a trapdoor in one of the platform’s large floats. These used to be old drums, hulls or boilers. Now they’re made of plastic or metal and look like submersibles. On one of them is Inverno or whoever it is. He climbs into the float with a torch.
‘Full speed ahead! Let’s go get ’em!’ exclaims the
customs officer.
This gives rise to shouts of alarm.
The smuggler emerges with a bundle. Skips across the wooden structure. Throws the sack to one of those on board and jumps after it.
A megaphone on the patrol boat orders them to stop. The agents point their weapons. They’re in such an advantageous position the pilot will have no problem cutting them off. What they don’t expect is such a rash manoeuvre. The speedboat’s sudden acceleration, the violent lifting of the nose so that it’s almost vertical, almost capsizing, the obvious suicidal wish, impervious to persuasion, to pass straight through the patrol boat.
‘The guy’s crazy!’
‘That bastard’s going to kill himself and us!’
The use of their weapons would only make matters worse. The officer orders an immediate about-turn. The speedboat glances past. Just enough time for Fins to aim his camera. And shoot the flash. A trembling, violent exchange of looks.
It was Brinco, yes, steering the Sira III.
24
HE USED TO take her there himself. To Bellissima. The hair salon. The name had been his idea. He would take her to work every day. And go and fetch her. He hadn’t changed, God damn it, those loudmouths always holding forth. Swiss accounts. Tax havens. Then the rumours got published in the press: money has no homeland. Well, that’s right. Statu quo. The point is Guadalupe, his wife, didn’t want him to take her any more. She drove herself. Though the car was one he’d bought. A present. A safe vehicle. Listen, girl, you spend half your time with your head in the clouds. A 2002 turbo. A palindrome.
She was sitting down, her feet bare. Her assistant, Mónica, was giving her a pedicure. You could see the two of them got on well. It was still early in the morning, a day like any other, and there weren’t any customers. So they were using the time to make themselves look pretty. Quite right. A hairdresser needed to look like a superstar. Or so he thought. They were married. She’d abandoned the canning factory and he’d asked her one day, ‘Listen, Guadalupe, what do you want?’ She had answered, ‘I want to have a trade.’
‘Wouldn’t a business be better?’
‘A business might be better, but I want to have a trade.’
There were tangos playing on the cassette player. Guadalupe’s nails. ‘Tinta roja’ sung by Goyeneche the Pole. It should be fairly straightforward.
‘Go out for a while, would you, girl?’ he said to Mónica.
No, it wasn’t a lack of trust. But today he preferred to be alone with Guadalupe. He never forgot an anniversary.
‘“Red ink in yesterday’s grey . . .” How well you used to sing tangos! Remember? The factory foreman shouting, “Sing! All of you, sing!” So you wouldn’t put mussels in your mouths. “Sing! Sing!” How pathetic!’
He gave her a jewellery box.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it? Go on then . . .’
Guadalupe opened it. Inside was a diamond ring. She closed the box. A little smile. A painful smile. Something was something. A diamond, a tear, etc., etc.
‘Our silver wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years. Who’d have thought it?’
He looked at her feet again. Her feet always turned him on. Whenever he mentioned this, there were always idiots who laughed. Well, if they didn’t understand, he wasn’t going to explain. The two most erotic things in the world? The feet. First the left foot. And then the right.
‘You’ve wonderful feet. I’ve always been crazy about your feet.’
He was able to touch them. Pass his hand along the instep. Curve the curve. A stroke of bad luck. He didn’t know when it happened. When the wind kicked up. She realised he was seeing more than one woman. Or did she?
She got up and put on her sandals. ‘Do you need something?’
‘A few calls. Just a few calls.’
They weren’t so few. Mariscal passed her a ream of handwritten sheets, with numbers and messages. Those things that sounded so absurd to her. Which she read automatically.
‘If you want, we could have dinner somewhere tonight. Some shellfish. Some invertebrates!’
Guadalupe turned to look at him, that itching of the eyes, and took an age to say, ‘I don’t feel so well. But thanks for thinking of me.’
‘Listen, girl. Don’t be hard on me. I’ve only got three or four haircuts left. Maybe less. Do you think I should dye my grey hair? You women are lucky. One day you’re blonde, the next you’re dark. I like you more with black hair. Because of your skin. You always were a bit swarthy. But we men . . . If I turn up looking blond all of a sudden, I lose my authority. And I was blond, you know. More than blond. I was downright golden, like the setting of the sun. My hair on fire. Like that guy Oliveira introduced to me. Remember? The guy from the PIDE. Mr Arcada. The Legate. Dead Man’s Hand. Along came a gust of wind and disturbed his wig. The ugly ones are always the vainest. The worse the wood, the more it grows. So along came this wind and shifted his hairpiece, and there went his authority. Oh, I don’t know. He consumes everything, dirty money, weapons, drugs, and still he gives us that sermon about authority, sacred ground. Bloody hell! The twenty-fifth of April, if they’d left it to him, there wouldn’t have been a carnation revolution or any other kind. A few cannon blasts in the Terreiro do Paço, a few more in the Carmo, when Captain Salgueiro was there with his megaphone, and things would soon have gone back to normal. I said to him, “Velis nolis, Mr Arcada. People have to eat, to have shoes on their feet, not to get beaten, if they’re going to be happy, have money in their pockets. If people are fed and in possession of some cash, if they have liquidity, that’s good for business. That’s my philosophy, Mr Legate. I like knocking these leeches around. Half the country out working abroad and all day long holding forth about the motherland and empire. That’s slandering the communist enemy! Listen, everywhere goes up and down, but I know something about emigration. Half of Galicia is on the outside.”
‘Then I thought about it. Did a U-turn. This guy was a bastard, but he was our bastard. So there and then I came out with a laudation for Salazar and Franco, the two pillars of Western civilisation. Shame about their successors. Marcelo Caetano, a coward. The ones here, traitors. He said the PIDE hadn’t been so into torture as other political police forces, such as the Spanish force, to give an obvious example. “I was a Viriathus,” he declared. “Nineteen years of age and I left as a volunteer, like thousands of others, to give those reds a beating. I was an out-and-out Crusader. But what I saw, to tell you the truth, made me afraid. A colleague said to me, ‘This is dangerous land, Nuno.’ And he was right. God was nowhere to be seen. So, being practical, I replied, ‘What happened happened.’ But he stayed firm. What the PIDE did to detainees was cause them a certain ‘absence of comfort’. That was the term. Well, I was taken aback. Torment? No. Absence of comfort.” I liked that expression. I took note. Shame I wasn’t around to give it to Lame for his dictionary. “Look what I have here, Basilio. What do you make of this one? ‘Absence of comfort’.” “What does that mean?” “It means torture, Basilio, torture.”
‘Well, this enlightened bastard, Dead Man’s Hand, I have to admit it, was equally refined when it came down to business. Though we got off to a bad start. After the Portuguese revolution, the captains of April, carnations and all that, he escaped to Galicia and took up with another crowd. That was back in 1974, Franco was still alive and the idea was to provoke a squabble between Spain and Portugal. I know because I was one of the people involved. It was a line of business, or so I thought. Weapons were always an option, but things didn’t go well and they had to be sold on the cheap. Then, when Cinderello turned his attention to the new life, he ended up showing a talent for business. His experience, old contacts, stuff like that, was pretty useful. And the hairpiece fitted. He looked quite different, to tell the truth. I remember all of that. I’m worried about memory. Everybody complains about their memory. I’m worried I remember too much. I get caught up on names, recollections. And from time to time, that’s an absence of comfort.’
Ex abundantia cordis.
25
FINS STAYED CLOSE to her for days, stroking her face, without her realising. From a sports boat moored in the harbour he photographed the woman framed in the window. Several moments which struck him as special, in particular those when she appeared in the window with company, he also recorded on film with a Super 8 camera. But the thing he’d never forget – an unknown trembling, his optic nerve setting all the other senses on edge, immersing everything in a strange tense, remembered present – was when yet again he scoured the fronts of the buildings facing the docks and located the window. The woman in the window. Leda Hortas. He tried out the zoom. Focused, unfocused and focused again. A Nikon F with a 70-200 lens like a piercing prolongation. Rude, desirous, infallible. Yes, Leda was the lookout. A photo. The photo. Another. And another.
‘You’re going to have a change of air, Leda,’ the Old Man had said to her one day. ‘You’re off to the capital.’
‘Are you going to give me an apartment then?’ she replied slyly. She liked to joke with Mariscal. And he liked to play along. He was an expert in irony.