The congressman lit the cigar, taking long drags as he turned it over in the lighter’s flame. He held the smoke in his mouth for a second and then released it with obvious pleasure. He didn’t want to give Lorenzo the feeling that he was worried. And yet he was. Very much so. As the twenty-third approached, the preparations accelerated, but at the same time a certain strangeness and lack of organization reigned among the conspirators. He could barely keep them on script. Armada was among the most unruly. He demanded written authorization from someone in the royal household, something that was absurd no matter how you looked at it, and which Publio interpreted as an attempt by Armada to jump ship. Others, like Tejero, compromised the plans with their verbal incontinence. Unofficially, everyone knew or sensed that the lieutenant colonel was up to something. José Luis Cortina was a whole other story. The head of CESID didn’t like it at all that one of his men had shown up mutilated and dead in an alley at the port. That very morning he had called Publio to harshly complain about Recasens’s death. To Publio’s relief, Cortina was upset about having found out from the newspapers, and not about the fact itself.
But what was keeping Publio up nights was the César Alcalá affair. That damn cop had been after him for years, and he was the only one who could link him to the coup if it failed. That wouldn’t matter if the coup d’état was successful. He would be able to get rid of everyone in his way easily then. Swat them aside like pesky flies, as he did in the good old days, when he and Guillermo did what they wanted to throughout Badajoz province. But experience had taught him to be cautious, and he had to take measures in case it all ended in failure. First he had to have that dossier that the cop had hidden somewhere. He didn’t know what was in it, or where it was, or even if it really existed … but just the suspicion was enough to keep him on his toes. He had trusted that Marta’s kidnapping would be enough to keep the inspector quiet, until someone inside the prison got rid of the problem for him.
Perhaps, he told himself, he’d gotten too soft. The years had made him relaxed and cocky. He had waited for Lorenzo to persuade María to get the information out of Alcalá. But it hadn’t worked. Ramoneda hadn’t kept his word either, since César was still alive … And there was still the matter of Marta, a whim too dangerous that had been maintained for too long at the risk of ruining him. All of that had to end. He had to get some distance and destroy all the bridges that linked him to those people. And he was going to do it quickly and diligently, before it was too late.
“What do you have to tell me about your ex-wife? You promised that she’d get the information that César Alcalá is hiding, but it hasn’t happened. What’s more, I think that now she is investigating the death of Isabel Mola. Someone in the Bar Association told me she was snooping around in the file. Time has ended up proving Ramoneda right. We’ve got to take strict measures with María, like we did with Recasens.”
Lorenzo knew that Publio was right. María was a problem, and she wasn’t going to stop with just threats. He had trusted that Ramoneda’s presence would intimidate her and make her more flexible, forcing her to depend on him. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Maybe he should resign himself to her death as something inevitable and necessary, as he had done with Recasens, but he couldn’t manage to accept it. Why did he insist on protecting her? She was no different than the other women he knew, she wasn’t special; it had all been a fiction invented by him. And it was no use kidding himself about the possibility of getting her to fall in love with him, or turning her into a puppet he could play with. Nevertheless, he tried to change Publio’s mind.
“I’m not sure that killing Recasens was a good idea. It’s put the police on alert. If María dies now, the problems will multiply. She is still a well-known lawyer, and Marchán, the inspector investigating Recasens’s death, has already linked her to the crime.”
Publio had expected a range of reactions: surprise, understanding, a certain uneasiness, but not that revolting and slimy act of compassion concealed by the excuse of it not being the right moment.
“What really bothers me, Lorenzo, is that you try to manipulate me and you think I’m stupid … You should get rid of her. And you should do it personally. Getting her into this was your idea. So you are the one who should solve the problem.”
Lorenzo swallowed hard. Killing María … He had never killed anyone. He couldn’t do it. Publio didn’t bat an eyelash. He stared with his bitter eyes at the tip of the cigar, shook his hand, and let the ash drop.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do it? You don’t have to go find her. Give me the address, and I’ll take care of everything. You can go back to the safety of your home, and no one will bother you. But I can assure you that Ramoneda will take his time with her. He is obsessed with that woman. And I will consider your act a betrayal. If you can’t do this, what use are you to me?”
Fear does its work faster in those who hesitate. And Lorenzo didn’t even know why he had just damned himself in front of Publio. He knew it in that moment, beneath Publio’s weary smile that expelled thick cigar smoke through his teeth. He had just sealed his fate, stupidly, senselessly, for a woman he didn’t love and who didn’t love him.
He thought fleetingly of his wife lying in the bed with her lip split and his young son crying at the foot of the bed. The fist he had hit her with burned, and he felt shame for being ridiculous, cowardly, an imbecile. He used to be a nobody, a brilliant law student who had ended up hitting women and wiping powerful men’s asses. He was finished; even if that crazy coup succeeded, even if he shot María and beat the information about Publio out of César Alcalá, the congressman wouldn’t trust him again. No matter what he did, he had just signed his death sentence. And he knew it.
“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Publio, with the same tone of voice as someone asking if he was thinking of going fishing that weekend. Lorenzo ran his tongue over his dry lip. He shook his head with abnegation and adopted a self-conciously servile position.
“You are right. I caused this problem. And I’ll solve it. I’ll take care of María.” He struggled to seem convincing. He wanted to be forgiven for his moment of hesitation. Publio seemed satisfied.
“We are all nervous these days, Lorenzo. But it’s important that we stick together … Good, you take care of it. When it’s done, let me know.”
Lorenzo nodded, saying good-bye hastily. Publio watched him head toward his car. In that moment Ramoneda came into the office. He’d been listening from the next room.
“You don’t really believe that he’s going to kill María. That man is weak.”
Publio stood by the window that overlooked the street as Lorenzo’s Ford Granada headed off. It enraged him to not be in control of the situation. Still, the only thing that he could do was wait for events to unfold.
“Follow him discreetly, but don’t do anything until I tell you to … as far as Alcalá … when will it be done?”
Ramoneda smiled. He was satisfied with himself. In the end, he told himself, things would be done his way. That was the greatest job in the world. Publio paid him to do what he did best. Kill.
“Two nights from now, when the guards change shifts.”
Publio nodded. It was all already decided. For better or for worse, no one could stop the events of the next few hours. There was still the matter of Marta Alcalá … Closing that chapter was not going to be easy. But there was no other way.
* * *
Barely two hours later, Lorenzo’s thoughts were wandering; he was asking himself how it was possible that suddenly his entire life had gotten so complicated. The wall he leaned his head on was Venetian style. The shiny paint accentuated his figure, giving him the air of a regal bust. The light from the port entered through the drawn curtains of the large windows and reflected on the immaculate white cloths that covered the tables. Each one was adorned with small fresh flower bouquets in cut-crystal vases. In other circumstances it would have been a nice place for a romantic date. Lorenzo smiled sadly at tha
t thought, so far removed from the reality of the moment. He shook his head. His smile was soon erased by an expression of concealed repulsion. In front of him, separated by a small, uncomfortable table that could barely hold two cups of coffee and an ashtray, María was smoking with exasperating slowness, contemplating the sunset over the masts of the sailboats.
She looked pretty. She wore a black skirt that showed her long shapely legs. She leaned both knees to one side, with the right high-heeled shoe slightly lifted above the left like a society lady, a position that was too artificial and demure to be comfortable. Beneath her jacket, which matched her skirt, peeked the collar of a white silk shirt, with the top buttons undone. A slight damp shine drew attention to her neckline, which swayed with her tense, contained breathing. Even in those circumstances, Lorenzo found her lovely and desirable. It was strange, he said to himself, how you ended up getting used to beauty. And yet it was impossible to own it. Pretending you could was pure vanity. He wanted to approach her, touch her, but he suspected that she would rebuff him. He forced himself to look at her, waiting for her to at least tilt her head a bit and deign to speak to him, but he only sensed contempt and incredulity.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
María closed her eyes for a second. Her face showed more fury than suffering; her heavy-lidded eyes were like slits through which was distilled a concentrated malice.
“What do expect me to say?” she said with a voice laden with scorn. “That you’re despicable? You already know that.”
Lorenzo felt himself blushing, and that irritated him. He couldn’t stand that perpetual feeling of weakness when he was with María. For once he put aside his characteristic talent for hypocrisy and halfheartedly admitted that he worked for Publio. Point by point he confirmed what Alcalá had told her: that he was using her to get information out of the inspector and then give it to the congressman.
“Yes, I work for Publio. We all work for him, whether we want to or not. César does too, and so do you, although you don’t believe it. We are puppets that he moves as he wishes.” There was no pride or shame in his attitude. Just resignation. As if everything were inevitable.
He tried to explain himself, but his reasons weren’t very convincing. It was the reaction of a guilty man. He felt judged by María’s unappealable silence; she hadn’t been moved in the least by his sudden attack of sincerity. The realm in which Lorenzo moved, with its intrigues, its betrayals, its strategies, and its lies, was completely foreign to her.
She had never shared his world. When they were married and he arrived home exhausted after a long day of work, he expected her to understand that he needed tranquillity and pampering, not to be pulled into absurd arguments about little domestic problems. He expected her to be indulgent, to admire what he did, and to turn his world into her own. Yet María made it clear from the beginning that she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her career or her personality, which was in many aspects more outstanding than Lorenzo’s. It was that vanity, that arrogance in challenging him, that always made him lose his temper, the impossibility of breaking her to his will. Not even by beating her.
The minutes passed laboriously. The scent of the sea, the flowers in the vases, and the smoke from María’s cigarette braided an asphyxiating rope between them. The sound of the silverware used by the other diners grew until it was unbearable. Lorenzo would have rather that she yelled at him, that she insulted him. Anything but that confused silence. He was about to say something when María turned her head slowly. She looked at him the way one looks at a cockroach on the wall.
“Why did you bring me into all this?”
It was a disconcerting question, but logical in a way. It would be easy to say that it had all been a coincidence. But coincidences don’t exist.
“Why?” repeated Lorenzo out loud, as if he didn’t understand the question or the answer seemed too obvious for him to bother replying. He lifted his head beyond the terrace where they were sitting.
The afternoon was bursting with red and gray colors. In the distance he saw the sailboats. They were like restless horses that pitched, tied to each other. Memories of his childhood came into his mind. He had been raised close by there, in the Barceloneta, and he had always secretly dreamed of having one of those pleasure boats, whose decks he would wash on his knees during the months they were moored there, to earn a few pesetas. There was a time when he believed that he too deserved to be one of those rich boat owners who sailed to Ibiza, Cannes, or Corsica in the company of exuberant women and a sun that always shined on them. That was the key to everything. He recognized it for the first time without hesitation. Money, power, rubbing elbows with the big fish. That, and nothing more, had been his only objective in life. And that end had justified all the means.
But suddenly, none of that made any sense. People were dying and killing around him, betraying and lying to each other, but nobody was coming out the winner. No one. Not even Congressman Publio. He had seen the fear in his eyes a few hours earlier, the uncertainty over whether things would turn out badly … Even if his coup succeeded, would he be able to rest? No. Publio was an old man who didn’t have many years left in which to enjoy his victory, and he would squander his last forces fighting against enemies who didn’t even exist yet. That was what life was like for men who had decided at all costs to cling to something as slippery as power.
“What were you expecting from me, Lorenzo? Punishment, revenge? What?”
“You were there at the right moment. My resentment toward you did the rest. It was the moment to punish you, and at the same time pay your father back for the months he made me spend in jail. I saw a way to show you that you’re no better than me, and that your father isn’t either, with his whole overprotective father act. He wanted to protect you from me, and yet he’s the one you should be protecting yourself from.”
“What does my father have to do with all of this?”
Lorenzo looked at her with an enigmatic smile. For the first time, María didn’t know how to decipher what was behind it.
“I know you’ve been checking the file on Isabel Mola’s death. But I suppose you didn’t realize that the summary was missing some important parts.” He put his briefcase on top of his knees and extracted several documents. When the Isabel Mola file fell into his hands just when he needed a reason to force César Alcalá to talk, he had considered it a gift from the gods of vengeance. The appearance of the last name Bengoechea in the death of Isabel was going to allow Lorenzo to link María’s and César’s fates according to his whim, beginning a game of dangerous coincidences. He had kept that part of the summary secret as a future guarantee, a card that he planned to use at his convenience. But everything had gone wrong. And now that nothing mattered, he discovered with a cynical smile that he too had been used in that story.
Lorenzo explained to María all he knew about Isabel Mola’s murder. And he did it with a brutality devoid of sentiment. He stuck to the facts, the way María liked.
There it was, all written out: the bills Gabriel charged Publio, his true identification papers as an intelligence agent, his years as an infiltrated agent in Russia, his reports on Isabel’s meeting with the other conspirators in the attempt on her husband’s life between 1940 and 1941, including Gabriel himself, who had pretended to be their leader. The plan to assassinate Guillermo Mola and later thwart it, and thus dismantle, arrest, and kill all those implicated, including Isabel herself. And there it was, a letter written in Gabriel’s own hand in which he told how he executed Isabel in an abandoned quarry in Badajoz, following Publio’s orders. In that very letter he told of a soldier who had happened to be a witness to Gabriel’s and the woman’s presence in the quarry. Gabriel recommended neutralizing him because of the risk that he might say something.
“That soldier was Recasens. Pedro Recasens. My boss at the CESID and the man who hired you to get information from Alcalá. I didn’t know until much later that it was Recasens who had falsely named César’s f
ather as the killer. I wasn’t the one who got you into this, although I naively thought I was. It was Recasens’s idea. He believed that the common past you and César shared would make you trust each other. The only thing I did was transmit the information to Publio and enlist you into our service. But really it was that old jerk who was using us all … That is the whole truth, María.”
They were both silent, immersed in their own contradictions and their own egotism. Lorenzo dared to touch the pale skin of María’s arm. She moved away and shivered, as if all of a sudden she was very cold.
“This is a lie, you are lying…,” she said, her gaze far away, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Everything is remnants of untold truths, lies that sound true, the past, dusty memories … And yet you know it too, María. Inside you know it. I remember your suspicions those years, your father’s strange behavior. How come he never talked about the past? Why did he keep a locked room behind the woodpile? And when you took on the Alcalá case? Do your remember the arguments, his opposition to your accepting the case? You never really wanted to ask yourself who your father was. The cloud of doubts was enough for you to take refuge in. You chose to leave home, become a lawyer, forget San Lorenzo … Now, you have no choice but to face up to it.”
María buried her fingers in her hair. She felt perplexed, shocked, and broken into a thousand pieces.
“I need to get out of here; I can’t breathe,” she said, getting up.
Lorenzo didn’t try to stop her. For the first time he felt close to María, but at the same time far away and above her, like a privileged spectator watching a building, one that always seemed to rest on firm foundations, crumble. He felt the fatalism of prisoners condemned to die who, once they’d accepted their fate, are filled with a deep calm.
“You have to stop seeing César Alcalá and disappear forever, before February 23,” he said, gathering the papers he had just shown María. It wasn’t advice. It was practically an order.
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