All Is Silence (17 page)

The guard glanced at the third man, who had remained silent. He knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place him. He had the appearance of a shadow. Fins, however, knew who the guard was. One clue had led to another without him even trying. Most of the cars had been bought from the same dealer. They hadn’t even bothered to cover their tracks. The owner shared business interests with Mariscal. Though the latter wasn’t exactly crazy about cars. He still drove his 1966 Mercedes-Benz. Its tail fins formed part of the Wild West landscape.

‘Are you happy, does it run well?’

‘I can’t complain. The car runs well. If you increase your speed, the consumption goes up. But I’m not one to do that.’

‘At ease!’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘
AN INTERVIEW? WHAT
for, counsellor?
Cui prodest?
’

‘You do. You stand to gain. You’re a gentleman, you can’t go down in history as a cattle thief.’

Óscar Mendoza had already accepted on his behalf. An image campaign, he explained.
Cui prodest. Cui bono
, etc., etc. He had nothing to lose. On the contrary, everything to gain.

‘I already have a good image,’ countered Mariscal. ‘I’m known as a bit of a Casanova.’

The lawyer played along. ‘That’s right, but it could be bettered. Do you know what Churchill used to say? “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”’

‘Who said that?’

‘Churchill,’ repeated Mendoza. ‘Winston Churchill.’

‘I know who Churchill is, counsellor!’

Mariscal used this occasion to tell a story with mocking familiarity. ‘My father sold him wolfram at a good price. He sold it to the others as well. The Nazis wanted wolfram to make weapons and the Brits to stop them. On occasion, like other people, my father would sell the same material twice.’

‘A real neutral!’ exclaimed Mendoza.

That’s right. A neutral. Many border fortunes had been amassed as a result of this mineral needed for Hitler’s cannons.
Mutatis mutandis
. He rather liked the idea of an image campaign. He touched his neck with his hand, pinched the skin of his double chin. The last time he’d come face to face with a journalist had been to give him a warning. Right there, on the chin.

‘They say you’re the perfect example of a self-made man, Mr Brancana.’

‘Don’t beat about the bush. Call me Mariscal.’

He stared at the journalist in silence. Made out he was considering her statement when in fact he was thinking about her. She knew. There was an animal intelligence in her eyes. He noticed this because the first thing she did on entering the Ultramar’s back room was pay attention to the little owl. And when they sat down, on opening her notebook the first words she wrote, as he could see upside down, were ‘little owl’. The blinds were half lowered and filtered a staircase of light. Mariscal had lit a Havana cigar, the smoke of which rose in rings that lazily came back to ground. He soon saw that extended periods of silence made her nervous, and this discomfort on her part made him feel secure. The animal’s eyes were intelligent, but also meek. He liked this. He didn’t have time for high voltage.

‘What I mean,’ continued the journalist, ‘is that you got to where you are through your own efforts.’

‘
Sensu stricto
, miss.’

‘Lucía. Lucía Santiso.’

Good, Lucía, good. He felt at ease. He puffed out his chest and came out with one of his favourite quotations: ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

‘Do you also speak English?’

‘I speak lots of languages. I’m a troglodyte.’

He let out a guffaw. He had no problem laughing at himself. ‘The sea brings everything. Languages float as well. You just have to have a good ear. What do you think of John Wayne?’

The girl smiled. She’d end up being the one interviewed.

‘He’s from another time.
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
. I liked him in that.’

‘A man is a man,’ replied Mariscal transcendentally. ‘That doesn’t belong to another time, miss. That is intemporal. Cinema began with Westerns. And will go to hell, is already going to hell, when there are no more Westerns. It’s the decline of the classic genres. Write that down.’

‘I will do,’ she said agreeably. ‘We were saying you were a self-made man.’

‘Let’s just say I learned how to ride out the storm in my own dinghy. Without fear, but with common sense. You have to pray, yes, but never let go of the helm. What was it that sank the
Titanic
? A blasted lump of ice? No, it was the pace of greed, a loss of perspective. Man yearns to be God, but he’s just . . . a worm. That’s right, a drunken worm who thinks he’s in control of the hook.’

‘Mr Mariscal, people say . . .’

Mariscal pointed with his cigar at the journalist’s notebook. ‘Did you write down that bit about God and the worm?’

Lucía Santiso nodded uneasily. She knew the interview had been agreed between the editor-in-chief of the
Gazeta
and the lawyer Mendoza. There were a few ground rules. But Mariscal was growing far too much, his head, eyes, arms, everything, while she felt diminished.

‘Mr Mariscal, your name is often bandied about as that of future mayor and possibly even senator.’

Mariscal joked, making out he was on stage: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before I speak, I would like to say a few words . . .’ He didn’t carry on until the journalist had let out a convincing laugh.

‘Listen, Lucía . . . Can I call you that? Yes, good. I’m a dried fig by now, I’m not a danger to women,’ and as he said this, he winked at her. ‘Though dangerous women still get me going. Once a gallant, always a gallant. Don’t write that down.’

Lucía lifted her biro off the paper. She was beginning to have fun and to calm down in time to the boss’s baton.

‘Listen, Lucía, I’m not going to lie to you. Politicians eat shit. Did you write that down? Yes? Then don’t. That’s right, I am apolitical. Absolutely apolitical. Ab-so-lu-te-ly! But put this as well. I, Mariscal, am prepared to sacrifice myself for Noitía.’

He waited for his words to have an effect, but the journalist continued writing in her notebook.

‘To sacrifice myself and to fight for freedom!’

Mariscal accompanied this strong statement by banging his fist on the table.

This time Lucía Santiso did look up, forced to do so by the power of his rhetoric. She found herself face to face with a Mariscal transfigured. Looking serious, with flashing eyes.

‘Freedom! You may think I don’t go in for such a word . . .’

‘Why would I think that?’

‘Well, I do. I love freedom! Much more than those leeches who are always sucking on it. Freedom, yes, to create wealth. Freedom to earn a living with our own two hands. As we have always done!’

The cigar was forming low clouds, and for the first time Lucía Santiso decided to break a taboo. She looked down at Mariscal’s hands.

He understood. He never spoke about this matter, but thought he would make an exception for this girl who listened and wrote with such intelligent meekness.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why I wear gloves.’

The editor-in-chief had already briefed her on this and had been strangely emphatic. ‘He always wears white gloves. Don’t even think about asking him about the gloves. It would seem he burned his hands while trying to rescue some money from the engine of a tanker. The tanker caught fire. He was taking emigrants to France. It was a miracle they got out.’

Lucía lifted her biro in a gesture of confidence. ‘There’s a journalist at the
Gazeta
who’s allergic to touching door handles, phone receivers . . . And typewriter keys.’

‘That’s the one who’ll be in charge!’ said Mariscal, finally getting the journalist from the
Gazeta de Noitía
to laugh out loud.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t mention your clothing. Just say you dress like a gentleman.’

‘Then you’ll be telling the truth. But I want you to ask about the gloves. There are all sorts of rumours, idiotic comments. All of it nonsense.’

‘Why then? Why do you wear them?’

‘I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve never told anyone before. Because I swore to my dying mother I would never again touch a glass of alcohol. That’s a real scoop now, isn’t it?’

Lucía thought this might be a good moment to ask about something that interested her both professionally and personally.

‘How did you make your fortune, Mr Mariscal?’

‘With culture, basically.’

‘With culture?’

‘Yes, with culture! The cinema, the dance hall . . . I brought the classics. Juanito Valderrama, for example, singing “El emigrante”! Everybody cried. Now that’s how you show you’re a classic. Of course nobody remembers that any more. My motto was always the same as Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s:
Ars gratia artis
. We even set the benchmark for hamburgers, way before McDonald’s. Ours were better, of course. Nobody gave me anything, miss. But I’m going to let you in on a secret. I have always, always believed in Noitía. Noitía is an endless work in progress. It’s fashionable nowadays to preserve the environment. Yes, that’s fine. But what do we eat? The environment? . . . Did you include that bit about eating the environment?’

‘It’s a good metaphor.’

‘It’s not a metaphor!’ exclaimed Mariscal, trying to stifle his cough. ‘I already said I was apolitical. There are two kinds of politicians. Those who are off their heads. And those who walk about in water, asking for water. I’m not here to sing carols.’

The journalist decided to broach a sensitive subject in the gentlest tone possible.

‘Which party will you stand for, Mr Mariscal?’

‘I’ll tell you. The one that’s going to win!’

She understood his jokes. Mariscal accompanied the journalist’s smile with a pleasurable exhalation of smoke. He felt jolly.

‘Listen, the only party I’ll stand for is Noitía. I like our way of life. Our religion, family, constant partying . . . If that bothers somebody, well, that’s their problem.’

‘But in Noitía strange things are happening. Do you approve of smuggling, Mr Mariscal? They say drug trafficking is spreading its nets here.’

Mariscal paused, never once taking his eyes off the journalist. There was an absolute silence in the Ultramar at that time, interrupted only by the fleeting sound of suppliers. The bakery van. The beer lorry. And so on. But now the Mental Department of Bothersome Sounds was reached by the voice of this journalist criticising the ever-increasing power of drug traffickers in Noitía. Another Muhammad Ali. With a butterfly’s wings and a bee’s sting.
Biff!

‘Nets? Did you know that you’ll have a better catch if a hunchbacked woman goes on board and pisses on your nets? Yes, yes. That’s a fact and the rest is myth. Write that down. That is information. Listen, Miss Santiso, I don’t go around complaining, asking, “What kind of shitty town is this?” Are we in the back of beyond? Well, no.
Velis nolis
. I like this place just as it is. I even like the flies here. You can tell we’re prospering because we have a magnificent police station! And supposing, just supposing, there were smugglers in Noitía. Smugglers are honourable people. Those in Noitía anyway! Who are they hurting? The Inland Revenue? Listen, miss, if there weren’t umbrellas, there wouldn’t be banks.’

‘I’m not sure I see the connection.’

‘In the summer, banks lend umbrellas. When it rains, they ask for them back. Then there are people who make fantastic umbrellas for themselves. And the banks show interest. The Inland Revenue shows interest. In their own way everybody shows interest. Do you get me?’

‘You haven’t said anything about drug trafficking.’

‘Did you write down that bit about umbrellas? Good. Listen, if I become mayor one day, I’ll put an end to drugs. And drug addicts. I’ll send them all to cut stone in quarries! There’s a lot of talk about organised crime. Organised crime here, organised crime there. Your newspaper recently talked about organised crime in Noitía. What I’m saying is there are barefoot dogs everywhere. If crime is organised, then the state has to be better organised. And that’s something we all have to contribute to.
Ipso facto
.’

Víctor Rumbo showed his face through the swing doors.

Mariscal glanced at him and gestured to him to wait. Then he gazed at Lucía’s notebook, her calligraphic scrawl. He was about to make some comment about her fingers and nail varnish, something to do with crustaceans, but his tongue got caught in the only gap in his teeth. He looked at his watch.

‘Did you write that down? About organised crime?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s a good thesis.’

‘Well, now I want you to record the most important bit.’

A change overcame the whole of Mariscal. His expression. His voice. He gave weight to this organic transformation by rising to his feet.

‘Of course if the first part isn’t true, then the rest isn’t either. The ancients used to say:
Modus tollendo tollens
. The way that denies by denying. I always rely on the ancients. They never make a mistake. There are no mafias in Noitía, miss. That’s a myth. There may be the odd bit of smuggling. As always. As everywhere. But that’s all.’

He said this out loud so that Brinco could hear. See how he was controlling the situation. Keeping a tight rein on the conversation.

Full stop.

Finis certaminis
.

‘That’s the first interview I’ve given,’ said Mariscal afterwards. He seemed satisfied with the experience. He became less formal with the journalist. ‘I hope it’s not your last . . . Include a bit of criticism, why not? The best way to sink somebody in the shit is by praising them to the skies!’

He turned towards the swing doors. Brinco gazed at them obliquely.

‘Come in, son!’

Víctor Rumbo entered like someone clearing his way through a current of air.

‘You’re . . . aren’t you . . . ?’

‘I’m nobody,’ Brinco interrupted her.

Lucía felt the violence contained in his voice. Took shelter behind Mariscal’s presence.

‘Would you permit me a photograph, sir? I don’t know where that photographer’s got to. He hasn’t arrived yet.’