But inside the church, the space was clean, bright and tastefully furnished. The prayer kneelers were covered in packets of imported cigarettes, foreign-made soap, hundreds of bottles of oil and tubs of powdered milk, as well as a stockpile of contraband whisky. Lengths of Genoese velvet and bundles of gold leaf were heaped up on the daises. Along the aisles, utopian landscapes were depicted on blue brocade like old Gobelin tapestries. There were armchairs and cabinets covered in silky fabrics and encrusted with onyx, untouched by the passage of time. Ambassadors’ swords, soutanes and long cassocks with damask buttons were stacked on camphor-wood shelves. A society woman’s barely worn jewellery sparkled in a jumbled heap at the bottom of a chest of drawers, jostling for space with china wise men and doves. It was like a vanished country in which wealth, in moderation and in excess, was cloaked in simplicity.
The apse was curtained off behind a semicircle of purple drapes, through which shafts of light shone in. There, a group of men and women sat at a table around a tabernacle filled not with the Host, but hundreds of keys on strings.
A man standing by the table in an elegant ivory liqui-liqui suit buttoned up to the neck began to touch the keys one by one, jangling them between his fingers. Each one had been labelled with an address and put onto a ring. The man in the liqui-liqui looked concerned.
‘Anything from the Mole?’ he asked all of a sudden.
‘The lady of the house is in Valencia on Wednesday and Thursday,’ a woman replied. ‘The husband is heading out of town on Tuesday.’
‘Until when?’
‘Still waiting for his lover to confirm. Back in time for the weekend, probably.’
‘And the architect?’
‘Not this week,’ said a man further away. ‘The architect hasn’t bought anything in a month.’
‘No news on the hotel?’
‘The Chinese man is moving rooms every two days,’ another woman explained. ‘He’s so jittery he must be scared to look in the mirror.’
‘How much are we talking?’
‘More than we thought.’
‘Let’s not lose our Chinese friend, please. This calls for tact, discretion, qualities without which we’d still be swiping watches in supermarkets and selling stolen tyres. We need to look the part … we’re not rich enough to be badly dressed.’
He took a gilded silver key from the bunch, closed the tabernacle and turned to face the group like a true man of the world.
‘Tonight the cabinet-maker is going to an important event in Los Teques. It’s far enough away for us to take our time. Let me say it again: these are works of art we’re dealing with. They must be handled with care and delicacy. It’s for you to choose between prison and your morals. Make your own minds up … I’ve made my choice – and here I am. So, if you please, a little savoir-faire.’
Rutilio Alberto Guerra, known as Guerra, uttered this last phrase with an unexpected French flourish. On his orders, two women were put on the Chinese case and the Mole was assigned to the architect’s apartment.
He stood tall. At first glance, he looked more like an artist than a bandit. He was a thoughtful burglar with a polite approach to theft and an unparalleled sense of remorse and drama. A bankrupt, a counterfeiter and a clown, he had been a pharmacist, a taxidermist, a welder and a furrier. He had made a name for himself as a young man by picking up dusty paintings, dubious books and worthless clocks from junk shops, inventing fascinating back stories for his acquisitions and then selling them on at vast profit.
‘I am, after all, a simple man of the people,’ he explained.
Everyone knew he came from a distant place, his homeland an unending succession of hastily left towns. He was a gifted orator, who chose his words carefully to fit the occasion, and never planned a crime without the use of rhetoric.
He slept on the altar, his head resting on the tabernacle of keys, with rugs hanging overhead. He liked to place a taffeta beauty spot beside his nose like a French marquis and walk around with his hands behind his back, surveying all his stolen marvels. He was often accompanied by a stunning mulatta famed for her beauty, who browsed the rooms of the church with fountain pen in hand, making an inventory of the bric-a-brac. It was all meticulously arranged, categorised and then slowly disposed of bit by bit in order to avoid attracting attention. Some items were eventually sold back to the very people from whom they had been stolen.
When he walked, a sense of great destiny seemed to follow in his wake. He appeared convinced his simple presence in history was sufficient to give writers of history books the inspiration for their finest pages. After a short time in the desert, he had come to the conclusion that humanity could only rebuild itself in enclosed spaces, safely holed up on islands or swarming together in colonies like ants. That was how he had come to choose the barrio of San Pablo del Limón, and specifically the old church, as the base for his band of men and women to build their vision of utopia.
Here, banditry was spoken of with respect, like an art or a highly skilled profession. Guerra had surrounded himself with a brotherhood of seasoned burglars who resembled alchemists, all of them nostalgic for the days of decorum and fair play. The proceeds of the booty were collected in a kitty and shared out equally. Most of the thieves followed the Gospel, others improvised prayers to the Virgin Mary, the saints and the occupants of the cemetery. There were no poet-villain Lacenaires, Villons or Caravaggios among them. These were simply men who had come from nowhere, carrying out a cruel job with passion and dedication.
The burglaries they committed were carefully targeted. Nothing was left to chance: they knew where to break in and how to escape. Guerra insisted on the proper upkeep of their vehicles and would not tolerate poor timekeeping. Yesterday the church had welcomed parishioners, rung its bells for Mass and held services. Today it was occupied by humans surviving alone amid the myrtles without Mass or offices, who had relieved men of their fortunes and God of His house.
Don Octavio’s role in the brotherhood was to do the cleaning. He moved furniture, washed floors, redecorated the church interiors and restored cornicing, thus repaying the favours that wealth takes from servitude.
He played no part in the burglaries. He stayed behind in the barrio while the rest made for bourgeois houses built for winter, fitted with chimneys that were never lit. As a result he spent most of his time alone in rooms lined with books stolen from libraries or collectors, row upon row as far as the eye could see. He waited hours for the car to return, sitting on a ruby-studded chair that had been wrapped up ready to be sold on, surrounded by biographies of famous men – though famed for what, he didn’t know. It was he who had asked not to take part in the burglaries. He preferred to wait, preferred this prison. When he heard the tyres crunching on the gravel outside the church, he would go and help bring in the booty without asking questions. The task was carved out on the wood inside him. He had a broad back, mottled knees, a spine like a flagpole. Despite the heavy burden of loneliness he did not bend beneath the weight of his duty: he carried it uncomplainingly, and so released the others from it.
Guerra had planned the cabinet-maker’s burglary with chivalrous concern, like a highwayman in trimmed shirt-cuffs. He sought to pepper his speech with ethics.
‘You see, this taste for punctuality and thoroughness, for things to be neatly folded and unfolded, is precisely what led me into this extraordinary profession. Do you see me carrying weapons? Can you imagine me committing a murder? Let’s leave that to the also-rans, the small-timers. The way I go about burgling a house is like a writer sitting down to compose a poem. It is meticulously arranged in a breath of inspiration, treading a fine line between a necessary wrong and a necessary word.’
He never wore any colour except white, to ensure he shone in any light. A meditative silence descended as he approached the centre of the altar, deep in thought.
‘I’ll take El Negro and Carita Feliz with me,’ he said. ‘Octavio will wait for us here – we’ll have heavy items to unload when we
return.’
‘What items?’ asked El Negro.
‘We’re burgling a cabinet-maker. He has a house full of wooden furniture.’
‘Why steal wood when you can steal diamonds?’
‘Anyone know a place where you can steal diamonds?’ Guerra asked no one in particular. ‘May I remind you that Christ was crucified on a wooden cross? That the Library of Alexandria was built of wood? Your mother lay on a plank of wood to give birth to you. Show a little respect.’
At that point, the lone voice of El Negro piped up again, a weedy, bitter little voice.
‘May as well burgle a forest,’ he said. ‘I suggest we put it to a universal vote.’
‘What for?’
‘We hold a vote and see if the majority agrees with your idea, or not.’
‘It’s not my idea. It’s our burglary.’
‘Let’s leave that to democracy to judge.’
Guerra, more than anyone, represented the vanity of the old republics. He came from a time when people were forbidden from meddling in affairs of State, and had held on to the principles of that earlier age.
‘Democracies aren’t always right,’ he reminded El Negro.
El Negro jeered.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘If you don’t allow democracy to work, then you’ll always be wrong.’
Guerra took this as an attack not only on his politics but his place at the heart of the group. Since most of the burglars did nothing but stare back wordlessly, he announced they would vote with a show of hands.
A murmur went round the table as though hustings were taking place, and El Negro raised his voice in objection. He said it was written in the constitution that any vote must be carried out by secret ballot. Finding himself faced with little choice in the matter, Guerra glanced at his watch and asked Octavio to improvise a ballot box from an ossuary.
They proceeded to vote around the altar in silence. For the first time, Don Octavio exercised his electoral right. A little deliberative assembly gathered after the count. El Negro looked up and said in the most neutral of voices, ‘Someone cast a blank vote.’
All eyes turned to Octavio, whose hands were stuffed inside his pockets to hide the scar on his palm.
‘That was me,’ said Guerra. ‘Kings don’t vote.’
Then, like a priest speaking from the pulpit, El Negro took the voting slips in his hand and declared beneath the arches of the nave, ‘The motion is passed. Now we have a legitimate mandate to steal.’
VII
There was nobody at the cabinet-maker’s house, yet every room was inhabited.
On the decorative screens that lined the walls, lions were pulling chariots, stags fighting off packs of wolves and soldiers blowing trumpets. There were carvings on every beam and masks hanging from every joist. Butterflies with dusty wings fluttered under glass cloches and in the hallway stood a wooden sarcophagus engraved with reapers sidling up to dairy maids. The shelves held maps of savannahs and portrait miniatures, and all of Genesis was depicted on a rustic rug. The empty house seemed to have a population of thousands.
Guerra climbed a floating staircase to the mezzanine. On the first floor was a collection of antique books and several walnut dressing tables. Through the shadows he made out the shape of an elegant corniced wardrobe which almost filled an arched recess in the wall. Its doors were fastened with a crémone bolt, and a picture of a giant crossing a river was carved into the veneer.
They began searching for the key, looking for false bottoms in the furniture, taking up rugs, peering behind verdure tapestries, but in vain. They considered taking off the door panels, but they were screwed in too tightly. Someone suggested forcing the lock, but Guerra forbade anyone to touch it.
‘You can see it’s original!’ he chided.
He sat down on the bed, removed his balaclava and held his head in his hands. Powerless before the locked cupboard, he decided on a different course of action. He picked up the telephone and, in a flash of inspiration, dialled a number.
Fifty kilometres away in the town of Los Teques, the cabinetmaker was doing up his flies in the toilets at a society ball when he was called to reception. He was surprised to find the phone call was from his own number.
‘Good evening, Señor,’ said Guerra in his most professional voice. ‘I’m at your house, sitting on your bed admiring the marquetry wardrobe that adorns your bedroom. I consider myself something of an amateur collector and I immediately recognised your eye for geometric design. Allow me to congratulate you on possessing such a piece, Señor. I’m very familiar with your work; I’ve read most of your articles. You cannot imagine how highly I respect your efforts to preserve an almost forgotten craft. I spent my childhood making marquetry out of wallpaper, scraping the glue off, cutting bits out. Of course, it was only cheap furniture … not up to your standards. Nevertheless, it gave me a taste for decoration. And I always knew there were men like you who were quietly working away at keeping this sadly neglected art alive. It’s an honour for me to find myself in your home, Señor. Let me tell you: you’re a poet.’
Flustered, the cabinet-maker threatened to call the police. But he was so deeply moved by Guerra’s words, he decided against it. It was as if his work had never before been truly seen; as if, after years of secret toil, the result of his labours had finally been unveiled to himself and others, and the cabinet-maker heard himself whisper with great sincerity, ‘Much obliged, Señor.’
With no hesitation, Guerra went on.
‘I’ll steal only a few more minutes of your time. Could you possibly enlighten me as to the variety of wood you’ve used. Is it purple heart or rosewood?’
‘Purple heart.’
‘I believe I spot some Boulle-style tortoiseshell on there too. Now tell me, are those parts inlaid in the veneer?’
‘No. They’re stuck on with an animal glue.’
‘You have no idea of the extent to which our lines of work overlap. I have a fear of coming unstuck myself.’
The cabinet-maker fell silent. He found himself facing a large mirror. He was pale.
Guerra continued.
‘The reason for my call is to ask you to kindly tell me where I might locate the key.’
‘The wardrobe belongs to me,’ replied the cabinet-maker, choking back tears.
‘But I have the upper hand.’
‘Have you forced the lock?’
‘Not yet. I’ve only got an axe with me. How much force do you think the wood can withstand?’
The cabinet-maker began to worry.
‘Just as I thought,’ Guerra went on. ‘That’s settled, then. If you’re going to keep the key from me, I’ll keep my light touch from you.’
‘Take my bookcase, then,’ the cabinet-maker offered in an attempt to bargain with him.
‘I thought you were an intelligent man.’
‘Take my amphoras. They’re worth a fortune.’
‘Your amphoras are so old I’d rather steal the dust they’re covered in.’
All at once it seemed to Guerra as if the whole country was listening, and he added, ‘Señor, the people will take back their dignity with an axe, since it was with an axe that it was taken from them.’
‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Let’s keep this courteous, shall we?’
‘The truth …’ the cabinet-maker admitted. ‘The truth is that I’ve got the key with me.’
This confession allowed Guerra one of the finest moments of his career, a moment destined to live long in the memory. This was no longer a matter of one man’s pig-headedness, but that of a whole race of burglars who refused to give in to the lies of oligarchs. He chose his words carefully as if standing before a court and, with that tendency to excess that could lead either to calamity or greatness, calmly explained, ‘Señor cabinet-maker, an amateur burglar would believe you. A shrewd burglar would not. And a burglar like me would invite you to fuck off. I’m generous enough to call and keep you informed on the progr
ess of your burglary, and this is how you choose to repay me.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘Oh, you didn’t offend me.’
‘I mean it, Señor.’
‘As do I. This has gone on long enough.’
‘I’m begging you.’
‘It’s time to unbury the hatchet.’
The cabinet-maker was so rattled he ended up telling Guerra where the key was hidden, on condition that he take good care of the wardrobe. Guerra had the good grace not to thank him. After exchanging a few niceties, they ended the call with the usual polite formulas.
‘You see,’ Guerra told the others, unable to conceal his pride. ‘Stealing isn’t enough. It takes talent, too.’
Inside the wardrobe they found a five-stringed guitar, two hourglasses and a large object shrouded in a white sheet. Guerra’s hand shook as he lifted the cloth.
He pulled it gently away and before his eyes there stood, shining and immortal, drenched in history, the statue of the Nazarene of St Paul with its gold-embroidered purple robe, crown of thorns and scent of bygone processions, its face torn open by the bullet the old Creole had shot at it fifty years earlier.
VIII
‘Follow the grassy tracks up the hill, keep to the right when you come to the petrol pump and bear left as soon as you see a broken traffic light. Go past the baseball pitch, keeping the little mango forest on your right. Take the very first diagonal turning onto a road with no name. It’s not the first building, or the second, but the one at the end, hidden behind the four tallest palm trees on the road.’
Don Octavio followed these instructions with mathematical precision. Venezuela came to greet him on the doorstep, smiling out of the corner of her mouth and flirtatiously bringing her hand to her chest as if to hide herself from view.
During his time at her home, his writing improved. It no longer faltered, but was clear and regular. He happily rewrote any passage containing mistakes. From time to time his ungainly fingers crushed the lead of the pencil and Venezuela would laugh at his clumsiness. Using a table knife, he would roughly cut the pencil back into shape, bending over it as if sharpening a spear on a grindstone. She never interrupted him. She treated his excesses like a creature to be nourished.
Octavio's Journey Page 3