All Is Silence

by Manuel Rivas

  ‘So where’s the money, Chelín?’

  ‘There’s nothing left, Brinco. They played that trick with the aeroplane. Went and stole it. I thought it was them when it was someone else.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Chelín?’

  ‘You have to help me, Brinco. They’re after me. They’re going to kill me!’

  Víctor tore back the sleeve on his left arm. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! For the love of God! Hadn’t you given this up, you prick?’

  ‘Don’t leave me, Brinco, don’t leave me . . .’

  The lights in a few windows had gone on. The first sign of complaints.

  ‘No, I won’t leave you. It’s not your fault. Let’s get out of here. Come on!’

  Inverno pushed back the levers in the junction box to turn on the floodlights. The football pitch lit up. Chumbo took a throw-in. Víctor Rumbo was leading Chelín by the shoulder. Not violently, but holding on to him. They walked towards the nearest area. It was cold on that large open pitch and Cora waited behind, trying to warm herself up with her own embrace. The boss called to her, however. ‘Come on, you.’ And she obeyed, moving like a tightrope walker, her heels sinking into the grass.

  ‘Don’t fuck me, Brinco. What the hell are we doing here?’

  ‘What do you think? We’re going to play!’

  He pushed Chelín into the goalmouth. As he was talking, he placed the ball on the penalty spot.

  ‘We won a lot of matches together, remember? You were a fucking great goalie. OK, a good one. A guy I could trust. Isn’t that right?’

  In the middle of the goalmouth, Chelín looked disorientated, shipwrecked. But the position he was in helped him. He remembered the keeper he’d been. Stood tall. A little bit.

  Brinco gave himself a run-up to take the penalty. But then suddenly turned to Cora.

  ‘Why don’t you take it?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  Cora took off her shoes.

  ‘Oh, come on, Brinco! Don’t let her take it.’

  ‘Go on, girl.’

  Cora ran barefoot and kicked the ball with all her might. Chelín tried to save it. A dive to one side, at the limit of his strength, which left him lying on the ground, moaning softly.

  The others left. He saw them from where he was lying. With their backs to him. Cora’s shoes, which she held in her hand. The only thing similar to a farewell.

  He tried to get up, but his body preferred to remain on that bald patch of earth. His eyes were taken in by the leathery, indifferent line of grass, the goalkeeper’s nightmare.

  ‘I always brought you good luck. What do you think?’

  Carburo cut a strange, solitary figure that night in the Ultramar. In a white apron, static as papier mâché, his arms crossed, an angry expression, rooted in front of the television. The map of isobars. There was a knock at the door. He used to like haranguing the weatherman. What had happened to the weatherman? Perhaps he was a fugitive and this was him at the door, seeking shelter.

  There was another rap at the glass door. The beating of a tambourine. Carburo moved the curtain and saw it was Brinco. With merry company. Just what he needed. He opened up silently. He wasn’t the kind to pretend he was pleased to see you.

  ‘Evening, Captain Carburo! We’ve come to ride out the storm!’

  ‘What storm?’

  Brinco laughed. Carburo’s permanent bad mood always struck him as funny. Having climbed the stairs, on the landing he embraced Cora around the waist from behind. They walked like this, swaying slightly, covered and uncovered by the curtains the wind puffed out.

  ‘How well you ride the wind!’

  When he saw the door of the suite, Brinco’s expression changed suddenly. Became tense. Hardened. Looked back.

  ‘Fucking wind! Why don’t they ever shut the blasted windows?’

  ‘What you looking at?’

  ‘The sea!’ Cora seemed moved, like someone who’s found an image she’s always dreamed of.

  ‘The sea? Aren’t you sick of looking at the sea?’ Brinco went over to the window. ‘Besides, you can hardly see it.’

  She knew he was half drunk. She’d started to know him well. The other half filled sometimes with electrified passion, others with a sickly blackness. When he spat out his words, she didn’t flinch.

  ‘Yes, you can. It’s on fire.’

  ‘On fire, eh? That’s good, girl. Stay where you are.’

  She stayed. On the bed. Gazing through the window at a sea that could be seen and not seen. Víctor went into the bathroom and switched on the light, the door half open. He looked at himself in the mirror. This sweat. This unfamiliar sweat. He rinsed his face with cold water. And again. Looked at his wet face. Raised his fist to break the face that was now in the mirror. But in the end moved his fist aside and banged the wall. Had difficulty breathing, as after a long fight. His forehead pressed against the mirror. The freshness.

  Cora came over to the door. Didn’t push or look. Just whispered, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Every night I smash a mirror with my fist. It’s a custom of mine . . .’

  He glanced at her, and, used as she was to the tones of his voice, this time she couldn’t say whether she was the witness or object of his hostility. Unsettled, she went back to the bed, to her side next to the window, and slowly began to undress.

  Brinco came out of the bathroom and went to his side of the bed, in the half-shadows. He lay down in his clothes, face up.

  Everything registered a mute silence. In a move that was in fact defensive, Cora went over to him, naked, not touching him, but curling up into a ball.

  ‘The sea brought you as well, didn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘The key!’

  ‘He’s got it,’ said Carburo meekly. With this woman he only knew how to obey.

  ‘The other key!’

  All the wind piled up for years on the landing, like grass pressed inside a silo, was exploding. The nightmare was bursting inside her eyes and she flung open the door.

  Brinco and Cora lay on the bed, both naked. Hearing the door creak meant sticking his hand under the pillow, in search of his weapon.

  But he soon saw it was Leda.

  Leda carrying something in her hand. One of those leather-bound bibles with a zip. Leda opened the bible and shook free the dollar bills that floated down on top of the bare bodies.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I’m buying her. She’s mine. She’s free!’ shouted Leda.

  She grabbed Cora’s arm and forced her to stand up. In the middle of all this uproar, Cora glanced at the sea, the ashen paste, the oily fringe of foam. As for the rest, scraps of evanescent mist.

  Leda grabbed her shoulders. Shook her about. Talked to her violently of freedom. Freedom which for Cora had a double meaning. Was always used as a threat. She’d crossed borders, as a mule, with condoms stuffed full of money inside her vagina or her digestive tract. On the verge of exploding. Why not try to buy off this policeman? The way he looked at her was very like this woman shaking her. You don’t know whether what they want is to set you free or hold on tighter. It was better not to try. The border policeman was in on the loop. Luckily she caught the gesture he made, the axial connection with the guy waiting at the checkpoint.

  ‘You’re free, understand? I don’t want to see you round here ever again! Take that money and leave.’

  Leda released the girl and from the doorway shouted at Víctor, who was getting dressed in an appearance of calm. Patience. The storm would soon pass.

  ‘As for you, you bastard, go to the football pitch.’

  She’d disappeared down the landing, swallowed up by eternal waves of curtain, when he finally registered what she’d said.

  ‘What’s that, Leda? Wait!’

  There were ambulances and police cars parked at the main entrance to the football pitch, so
he turned at the crossroads in A de Meus, took the left fork along the coast as far as the mirador in Corveiro.

  From there he could see the pitch. What under his presidency had been renamed the stadium the day they inaugurated the covered stand with its directors’ box. From afar, it looked like a table-football table whose players had detached themselves from the metal bars and taken on a life of their own. In fact he didn’t want to see. He grabbed the binoculars not to get closer, but to have something between his eyes and the other.

  Chelín was hanging from the crossbar.

  42

  THEY STOPPED TO have lunch at África’s place. A small bar and shop on the corner between the coastal road and the track leading to the refrigerated warehouse. As soon as they entered the bar, even before she served the coffee, África signalled to Brinco to approach the counter. ‘Some clients of yours arrived early. A jeep went up the track.’

  ‘The same two as always?’ asked Brinco ironically.

  ‘No. They weren’t guards, nor were they from around here.’

  Brinco was grateful for the information. And knew how to pay for it. Inverno was driving the Land Rover and they were accompanied by Chumbo sitting in the back. When they reached the bend overlooking Cons, before they could see the warehouse built on reclaimed marshland, Brinco ordered Inverno to stop. Told Chumbo to get out.

  ‘Go and check out the scenery.’

  Chumbo didn’t ask any questions. Just disappeared down a track between bushes, in the direction of the rocks.

  When he was driving, Brinco liked to go slowly so he could enjoy the sight of the wall with the company’s name and emblem. A swordfish and narwhal. Underneath were the intertwined initials ‘B&L Frozen Foods’. This time Inverno also drove slowly, but Brinco’s attention was centred on the yard in front of the warehouse, which was devoid of vehicles. They must have left, he thought. The old woman can’t have realised they’ve gone back.

  Víctor got out of the jeep and jangled the keys like a rattle. Suddenly he stopped playing around and stared at Inverno. ‘The dogs? Why aren’t the dogs barking?’

  They left them loose inside the warehouse. They’d always bark excitedly and whine behind the doors. They recognised the sound of the Land Rover’s engine from afar.

  He whistled. Called out to them: ‘Sil! Neil!’

  This was the involuntary signal. The doors opened and out walked two stocky men holding cocked pistols equipped with silencers. Inverno had held back. As a precaution. He’d also grabbed hold of his weapon. But from the right of the warehouse, from behind a fuel tank, came another guy, aiming a sawn-off shotgun.

  They were skilled and highly trained. An office job to get back the two-thirds that was owing.

  Brinco had miscalculated the payment period. He’d thought he had more time. But just as he was sending a message, the office had taken the initiative.

  They pushed them inside. The guy with the shotgun stayed downstairs in the warehouse, aiming at Inverno after tying him up. The two dogs, a German shepherd and a Dobermann, lay dead. Little blood for so much silence.

  The other two went upstairs with Brinco, one behind and the other in front. He dialled the number he was told to.

  ‘Hello? Milton here.’

  The person talking deliberately emphasised his name. He didn’t want the other man blurting out his real name. The one buzzing about inside Víctor Rumbo’s head.

  ‘Milton, this is no way to behave.’

  One of his assailants, standing behind him, suddenly began to strangle him with a kind of thin wire. He felt the wire penetrating his skin. Making a furrow. Feeling the pain, he instinctively tried to resist. He banged with his elbows, gasping for breath, but the assailant opposite him stuck the barrel of his gun against Brinco’s forehead. The other loosened the wire. And the one with the gun told him to pick up the receiver again.

  ‘Ah, music, sweet music. Compliments of the house. The best material for tuning. They’re doing their job. They’re professionals. You’re a professional. That’s how it’s done.’

  Brinco passed his free hand over his neck. The sensation that an invisible cord was still pressing into it. The digital stain of blood.

  ‘Listen, Milton. We had a problem with a partner. The guy who was supposed to make the payment was trustworthy. This has never happened before. He lost his head.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. That’s what they’ve been complaining about. They don’t want it happening again. We deal with serious people, not kids.’

  ‘He lost control of the situation. Hanged himself yesterday. You can check this out if you like.’

  ‘Don’t come to me with videos. It’s a very sad story. Don’t air it any more. Cover up the hole and leave it. You can do that now, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I can . . . He hanged himself, that’s all. I think it was my fault. I pushed him too far . . .’

  ‘The world is a valley of tears. Why walk about with a tombstone around your neck? I’m going to hang up. This is a public phone. Grow up a bit!’

  Brinco glanced at the wall clock.

  ‘You’re right, Milton. There’s no point drowning in a cup of water. I’ll give these gentlemen the treatment they deserve.’

  He hung up. Passed his hand over his neck again. Took a deep breath.

  ‘Good, let’s see to that debt, shall we, piano tuner? You killed the dogs now, didn’t you? Well, right underneath the doghouse is the bag with the money.’

  They left the office. The warehouse was empty. The automatic shutters started to rise. Neither henchman had time to ask what was going on. Chumbo, Inverno and half a dozen armed men overpowered them.

  ‘Where’s the other guy?’ asked Brinco.

  ‘In the fridge, taking some fresh air,’ said Inverno, pointing to one of the cold storage rooms.

  Brinco rummaged in his assailant’s pocket. Found what he was looking for. Tautened the piano string.

  ‘You know? I just felt a strange pleasure, something I’d never felt before.’

  Milton decided to place the call reserved for extreme circumstances.

  If happiness is to travel from cold to hot, he’d gone in the opposite direction. From a hot sweat, the atmosphere of a large hotel’s kitchen and the euphoria of someone who has the power of intimidation and uses it, to the cold sweat of someone whose internal affairs have been badly disturbed. As a boy he’d lived in Moravia, in a settlement raised on a mountain of rubbish. He’d grown on top of the discarded waste of Medellín’s rich quarters. There the floor of his home gave off a sticky smell through the cracks, the methane that emanates from decomposition. The senses learn. They reject the base smell in order to perceive the rest. But the day comes when the methane sweeps away all the laboriously constructed scents. And the settlement burns. Moravia burns.

  Which is why he always took quick decisions, a ‘Do it!’ whenever he got a whiff of methane. As now. There was a telephone in the kitchen, which he’d been watching for hours. He decided to take every precaution. He removed his head chef’s uniform, put on a holster and jacket. Loaded the magazine in his automatic.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Pay attention to the phone. Don’t go to sleep on me.’

  He made the call from a public booth in a small square next to the Hotel Coruña Road. He had no idea who Palindrome was, but he knew it would work. Palindrome answered. Yes, sir. Milton here. From Madrid, that’s right. It was an emergency. He’d lost track of some men he’d sent to Galicia. They were his best archangels, though he didn’t say this. They’d gone to collect a debt. An office job. They were supposed to call. In a maximum of twelve hours. But he hadn’t heard from them for a day and a half. The debtor? Brinco’s group. In Noitía.

  There was a silence. He couldn’t tell what the silence smelled of because his head was overwhelmed by methane.

  ‘Understood. Thank you for the information. First of all, calm. And no noise.’

  In the hotel lobby, a receptionist gestured with his hand, c
ame out from behind the counter and rushed over to him. ‘Boss. We got a call in reception. A strange call. They said they’ve left the piano at the door to the warehouse.’

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘That’s what they said. Nothing else. A piano for Milton.’

  That’s right. Everything so clean. The stink of methane.

  ‘Warn the kitchen! Tell everybody to go to the entrance to the warehouse. With their weapons!’

  The warehouse was reached down an alleyway that opened out into a patio at the back of the hotel. Milton’s men took up position there and at the entrance to the alley. The only thing in the way, right in the middle of the patio, was a large crate. Water poured out from between the boards. Two metres long and half a metre wide, more or less. Everything required by a man packed in ice who’d come to deliver a piano string.

  Inverno communicated with Chumbo by means of a walkie-talkie. He occupied the shade next to the sea gate of Romance Manor. Sentinel for Leda and Santiago. By the shore, the water around his waist, the boy was swimming, or pretending to swim, with some goggles. Each dive was followed by a series of shouts and gestures aimed at attracting his mother’s attention.

  Leda watched him. Returned his attention. She was alone, sitting on a towel on the beach, wearing a printed T-shirt that seemed to attract all the breeze.

  On a boat anchored next to some rocks that acted as a natural embankment, dressed in sea clothes, pretending to be a fisherman seeing to his nets, was Chumbo, holding a Winchester kept out of sight on deck.

  There were two more people, hidden, but taking part in this unfolding drama. Fins and Mara on a dune, behind the marram’s herbal screen. The rumours of a settling of scores in Brinco’s circle had brought them here, to this oblique position as the capo’s bodyguards. But the capo was nowhere to be seen.

  Mara whispered ironically to Fins, ‘Everybody watching the lady of the shipwrecks.’

  And the lady of the shipwrecks watching everything. She was blinded for a moment by the sun glinting on the water. She set about reconstructing everything. First of all, the child. His greeting calmed her. She’d been like this for days. An activated inner sense that kept her on the alert. Permanently ill at ease. Checking out every single place, trying to turn any sound into a murmur, a source of information.