by Manuel Rivas
‘You deserve a manor house, girl.’
‘That would need a lot of cleaning.’
‘With every convenience. A noble palace.’
‘Nonsense. All the men around here worship Our Lady of the Fist.’
‘It’s the memory of the famine, girl. The best enchantments are those that come free. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth . . .’
‘Right. So what do I have to do in this apartment?’
‘Keep your eyes wide open.’
He said this in a very serious tone. Not playing along any more. His voice had changed. He spoke like someone in authority entrusting a mission and expecting to be obeyed.
‘Brinco will give you the details.’
From where Leda kept a lookout could be seen the movements of the customs boats arriving and leaving. Next to the window was a small table with a telephone. Which started ringing.
The voice that said hello could only be one voice, and it was. Guadalupe’s. Even so, they went through the ritual.
‘Is that the home of Domingo?’ asked Guadalupe.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And how is he?’
‘He’s OK. But he’s resting at the moment. He worked all night.’
‘Then I’ll call again later.’
‘Thank you, madam. That’s very kind. I’ll expect your call.’
Leda hung up and leaned out of the half-open window. Had another look at the customs patrol boats. Fins remained where he was. Spying on the spy. Zooming in slowly. Taking time over the portrait. Waiting for a look of melancholy. There it was.
‘These are good,’ said Mara Doval back at the police station, after the photos had been developed. ‘You should devote yourself to this full time, become a paparazzo.’
26
CARBURO DIDN’T LIKE being rushed. But the boss was impatient today. Rubbing his hands. All he needed now was to start singing ‘Mira que eres linda’. Which was what he sang when things were going well. Carburo was familiar with the whole repertoire. The counterpoint came when he hummed ‘Tinta roja’, for example. Carburo had a fondness for this tango. For the way the Old Man sang it. ‘That carmine letter-box, that dive where the Eyetie was crying.’ People didn’t sing well when they were happy. Exactly the opposite. But today he was in a good mood. ‘See how pretty, how lovely you are.’ There was nothing he could do about it.
It was his job to start up the radio transceiver and do the talking. Mariscal might sing, but never in public. He never broadcast. He never touched a phone, let alone one of those machines that reached further than he could tell. They were parked in one of his favourite miradors, Cape Vento Soán, which they’d driven to along a secret track surrounded by protective ferns which closed again once they’d passed. At the crossroads, in another vehicle, Lelé kept watch.
Inside the car, Carburo handled the radio transceiver, which had been fitted and camouflaged in the dashboard.
‘Ready to go, boss.’
He proceeded to repeat what Mariscal told him word for word, using the International Code of Signals.
‘Here Lima Alfa Charlie Sierra India Romeo, calling Sierra India Romeo Alfa Uniform, do you read me? Over.’
‘Here Sierra India Romeo Alfa Uniform. We read you loud and clear! Over.’
‘Attention. You have to work using the same coordinates as Imos Indo. All clear? Over.’
‘OK. Understood. Same coordinates as Imos Indo. So we don’t have to wait for Mingos. Over.’
‘Correct, correct. That is correct. Mingos is not going. Mingos is resting. He worked all night. Good fishing! Over.’
‘OK, understood. We’ll be on our way then. Over and out.’
Mariscal bent down next to the window. ‘Tell them that this time the wind is fair, there’s no room in the sea for all that bass.’
Carburo glanced at the Old Man in surprise. He seemed to be waiting for a translation or confirmation. No one gave messages like that any more. Such nonsense was a thing of the past.
‘You’re right,’ said Mariscal. ‘Tell them to come via the shade. Over and out.’
Carburo repeated, ‘Come via the shade. Over and out.’
The bodyguard disconnected the transceiver, took down the antenna and closed the false compartment in the dashboard. He got out of the car and stretched like a cat. Rarely had he seen Mariscal so excited. Clearly the bundles were going to be full. There he was, next to the cliff’s edge, standing tall, craning his neck, that way he had of helping the binoculars. The speedboats travelled full throttle along two different routes. Rather than sailing on the surface of the sea, they seemed to be jumping from wave to wave. Outside the estuary they would converge in a single direction, towards the mother boat.
‘How I wish I could see the mamma!’ said Mariscal, scanning the horizon.
‘Sure, boss. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
The day we see the mamma, Carburo murmured to himself, we’ll be well and truly done for.
27
FROM THE YACHT Fins took time to focus on Leda. Almost all the windows were open. Hardly surprising, given how hot it was. He looked around. The way a spy does. Then sought out the presence of Salgueiro, the officer on board the customs patrol boat. There he was, waiting. Fins made the prearranged signal of lifting a green handkerchief to his face. Shortly after that, the patrol boat began to cast off.
When he picked up his camera again, he saw that Leda’s window was empty. Just as he’d expected. She didn’t take long to return with some binoculars. She focused on where the patrol boats were usually moored. He watched her do so.
Using the powerful zoom, he could see the expression on her face change. To one of surprise, stupor.
Leda made a phone call from her usual position.
On the carpet in the sitting room a child was playing with two dinosaurs, pitting them against each other in a mock battle. He was six years old. This was Santiago, Leda and Víctor’s son. He wore a corrective patch over one of his eyes.
‘The T-rex will smash you, silly velociraptor.’
Leda told him to lower his voice while quickly dialling a number. At the other end, in the hair salon, Guadalupe picked up.
‘Is Mr Lima there? It’s urgent.’
‘No, Mr Lima is out, but I can give him a message.’
‘This is Domingo’s wife. Tell him Domingo, Mingos, left for work. Left in a hurry. Is already refreshed. This is urgent.’
‘Understood.’
Guadalupe scribbled a note, balancing the receiver on her shoulder.
She covered the receiver and gestured to Mónica, ‘Quick! Take this to Mariscal. And give it to him personally.’
Leda made sure the customs boat had left the port. She lit a cigarette, sat down on the wretched imitation leather sofa, that nightmare of hers, getting stuck and not being able to get up. She tried to distract herself by watching her son play.
Fins decided to wait. Now he was the man in the empty window. Time became eternal when Leda was out of sight. This was an absence he couldn’t manage. For which there was no medicine. Except for something new in the surroundings. Like this. A red Rover. Brinco had one that was the same model. The car parked at an angle to the kerb, next to the docks. Yes, Leda had a visitor. Brinco always walked a couple of feet in front when Chelín was with him. They had two ways of walking that were very different. Brinco in a straight line, striding fast, sometimes jangling the car or house keys. Chelín trying to keep up, glancing from side to side, noticing the occasional detail. A shop window. Some graffiti. Which is why, in almost all the photos Fins took that day, Chelín is more visible. As if he was posing or something.
Leda heard a noise in the lock and started. There was a small hallway which led directly into the sitting room where she was and where she had her lookout position next to the window. Brinco always entered like this. He never rang. Never warned he was coming. He went up to her and gave her a hug.
The first thing Chelín noticed was the patch Santiago
was wearing over one eye. ‘Don’t tell me you turned out cross-eyed, Santi?’
Brinco heard the unusual question and turned towards his son. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Nothing happened to him. It’s to make him better. Doctor’s orders.’
Chelín burst out laughing. ‘Blimey, squinty!’
‘It’s called strabismus,’ said Leda. ‘He’s strabismic.’
Brinco bent down and observed the child’s free eye slowly. He then stood up and pointed at Chelín very seriously. ‘It’s not a squint! You heard his mother. It’s . . .’
‘Extremism,’ said Chelín ironically, managing to suppress his laughter.
‘Strabismus, you fool, strabismus!’
‘It’s nothing serious,’ continued Leda. ‘Fortunately the people at school realised. He has a lazy eye. One sees better than the other. You have to cover the good one so that the other does some work.’
‘That’s the way of the world, lad!’ declared Víctor solemnly. ‘The truth is the patch looks good on you.’
‘It looks great!’
‘Why don’t you take him for a walk?’ said Brinco to Chelín.
‘Sure thing. Come on, you. Let’s go give that lazy eye something to do.’
The inspector watched Chelín leave with Leda’s son. They were messing around. Fins thought he knew the boy well. He realised Chelín sometimes took on the role of general and court jester. They got in the car. He wondered whether to follow them or stay behind. Deep down, though, he already knew what he was going to do.
He looked up at the window and aimed his zoom.
Víctor and Leda were kissing.
Fins couldn’t stop photographing them. His eye and pulse had gone beyond any mission. The couple unconsciously obeyed the camera’s every wish. The way Leda turned towards the window. Brinco embraced her from behind. The way they made love on top of the harbour, bounding over the city’s hills.
He waited before returning to Noitía. He wanted to be alone in the police station, no questions or inquisitive looks when he came out of the darkroom. He certainly wasn’t expecting Mara Doval to still be there. That may have been one of the reasons he held back. But there she was, reading, like one of those students who wait for the lights to go out before leaving the library.
‘How was the session?’
‘OK. He turned up. He finally turned up.’
‘I want to see that couple!’
Before he went into the darkroom, Mara said she had some important news. The phone in Leda’s apartment only received and made calls to a single number. And that number belonged to a public establishment.
‘Which one?’
‘Bellissima, Bellissima!’ she laughed enigmatically.
Fins closed the door behind him. Turned on the red light.
He didn’t know quite where he was, where he’d come from, what he was doing with these carnal prints in his hands, which emitted the groans of a pair of lovers. But Mara Doval hadn’t moved. She looked annoyed. Professional.
‘Next time, inspector, close the door more slowly.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘I don’t want to see any more of your paparazzo photos. What I want you to see now are mine. You didn’t let me finish. Apart from Bellissima, Bellissima, I have some other news. If the inspector is interested.’
‘There were two twin cars. Two Alfa Romeos. Nuova Giuliettas. I noticed because I like them. That badge with the serpent and dragon’s head. Yes, you told me the other day, I like the same cars as mafia bosses. I also like Portuguese tiles. Which is why we were there, Berta and I. Berta the painter. Yes, she also likes cats, but I have one whereas she must have a dozen. Her studio’s full of cats, mostly stray ones. No, she doesn’t paint them. She takes inspiration from their eyes, or so she says. It’s wonderful watching how attentive they are while she paints. She only ever uses primary colours. Reds. Both Nuova Giuliettas were red. Hang on, wait a minute. Be patient. So we went to Caminha railway station to see the nineteenth-century murals. You should go and see them, really you should. That’s the only reason my shutter was open. I know they say that if you’re on a case, you should never close your shutter. But yesterday was my day off, and I didn’t want it open. My primary objective was to go and eat cod in Viana do Castelo. No, not à la Margarida da Praça, nor à la Gomes de Sá. In the end what I had, let’s see if I can remember, was “sliced cod with maize bread on a bed of baked potatoes and salted turnip tops”. Mnemosyne never forgets. And then we stopped in Afife, at Cabanas Convent, Homem de Mello’s place. Yes, the one who wrote “Povo que lavas no rio”. Isn’t that the best fado ever? “Chaves da vida”? No, I haven’t heard that one. How strange! Our next stop was Caminha station, the one with the tiles.
‘Which is where our story begins. So just be patient.
‘Berta was driving. I don’t know anything about that. I’m the co-pilot, the one with the maps, leaflets and so on. We were just about to enter the station, through the door, when I looked to my right. A red Nuova Giulietta with a Spanish number plate. Pretty, too. We went to see the tiles in the station. They’re amazing, as I told you. We took some photographs. Went to see a train that was arriving. No problems. We must have been there about an hour. We were just about to leave, coming through the door of the station, when suddenly the Shutter of my Imagination opened. I grabbed Berta. Said to her, “Wait, wait, the car park.” The Nuova Giulietta was on my right. With a group of four people standing beside it. But Mnemosyne knows that the Nuova Giulietta was on the other side, on her right when she came in. So it was. I peeked through the glass door and saw the other Giulietta. They had exactly the same number plate, both of them with a Spanish registration. So I said, “Berta, I’m going to take a portrait of you à la Andy Warhol. Fool around a little.” I love Polaroids. They make a lot of noise, but nothing you can’t disguise by pretending to be tourists. No heavy machinery, mind you. Not like others.’
‘Right. So what happened?’
‘Two youngish-looking men got into one Giulietta and an older couple got into the other. And went their separate ways. One pair towards the border. The other in the direction of Viana de Castelo. What do you think then?’
‘A real fairy tale. Let me see those photos!’
Fins immediately recognised the two younger men. A magnificent couple who were clearly on the same wavelength. The estuary ace and his lawyer. Víctor Rumbo and, in glasses, Óscar Mendoza.
‘Who are the others? That strange-looking man . . . and the woman in mourning. That waxen face. They look as if they’ve just come out of Tenebrae, having sung the Miserere.’
‘What makes him look so strange? He’s just a well-dressed old man in a tie.’
‘I don’t know. That waxen face . . . There’s something strange about it.’
‘He’s wearing a wig,’ said Mara. ‘That’s what it is. It’s not so unusual to wear a wig.’
‘On him it looks like some kind of geographical feature.’
‘He’s called Dead Man’s Hand,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you want to know more?’
‘Yes.’ Fins nodded. She was right, as always. You had to be patient.
Nuno Arcada, Dead Man’s Hand, had worked for the PIDE, the dictator Salazar’s secret police. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill policeman. He’d been assigned abroad for several years, most of the time in France. He’d infiltrated several groups in exile and also belonged to various emigrants’ associations with trade-union or cultural concerns. This was how he obtained information, not only about them, but also about what was going on back in Portugal.
‘He hunted inside and out,’ said Mara Doval. ‘And inside he had his own, very special hand, which he used during interrogations. He’s said to have been an expert in electricity. Obviously he had some very good Spanish friends with similar interests and occupations. This collaboration enabled him to go into hiding in Galicia after the Carnation Revolution. And it opened up several lines of business for him afterwards.’
<
br /> ‘The cars! It was an exchange. Probably the one Dead Man’s Hand was driving is the one with the upholstery. Financial, of course.’
‘That money’s in heaven by now!’
‘I’m impressed, Miss Mnemosyne. Did you mention this to the Portuguese Judiciary Police?’
‘No.’
‘No? You know there are some good people . . .’
‘Yes. But it was one of Berta’s cats who recognised the old man in the photo and told me his story. A Portuguese journalist. Working for the Jornal de Notícias. He’s been studying the PIDE’s crimes for years. Anything else?’
‘Yes, talk to me about Bellissima, please!’
28
CHELÍN TOOK SANTIAGO to a deserted beach in Bebo, the typical sort of cove that knows how to stay hidden, but when it’s found, opens like a shell. The path meandered between old stone walls protecting impossible crops. They’d obviously been erected by some intelligent mind because they had strategic holes for the wind to escape through. Which made them a bit nosy. Cabbages peered through. Sometimes sent the odd, restless bird to have a look. A black redstart, for example.
A haven of peace. A good firing range.
At the end of the path, where it met the beach, was an abandoned rusty road sign. A triangle with a red border. Inside the triangle, a black cow on a white background.
‘The things the sea comes up with!’
Chelín lifted the sign and placed some stones around its base to keep it upright.
‘I’m going to teach you the second most important thing a man should know.’
He took out the pistol he wore hidden on his back, next to his waist, under his jacket.
‘Something else the sea came up with,’ remarked Chelín with an ironic smile.
His ease calmed the boy’s initial amazement. He stopped next to him. Both of them eyed the sign. The cow. The man bent down and placed his right knee on the sand. Then wrapped his arms around the boy, helping him to hold the weapon and take aim.