Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel (21 page)

Ramoneda felt proud of having been able to break the inspector’s will with his silence. The day he saw him cry and plead with him to reveal where they’d hidden his daughter, he felt like the most powerful being on Earth, and he knew that the inspector was a coward, a desperate common father. The pain transformed into an enduring victory.

From that moment on, Ramoneda discovered something new inside himself. A being that others didn’t know how to appreciate, like his wife and that nurse who fucked her in his bed, while they thought he wasn’t listening to them moan with pleasure. The man he was before couldn’t have tolerated that humiliation, but the new Ramoneda knew how to wait for his moment, gathering his reasons, day after day, each time that damn nurse ejaculated onto his face, laughing as he shouted, “This is from your wife,” Ramoneda didn’t bat an eyelash; he let the semen run down his apparently sleeping face. He waited for his moment, and when it arrived, he discovered with pleasure that he had been born for that: killing without niceties, without any fuss.

Killing Pura and the nurse was not an act of revenge. Venting his anger on them before taking their lives was not an act of pent-up rage. It was the confirmation that his hands didn’t shake, that their screams of agony didn’t throw him off, that their begging didn’t make him go soft. He discovered with glee that killing wasn’t a problem for him. What was most important to him was the act of looking into the eyes of his victim before closing them forever. He had known others who bragged of being real professionals, but he laughed at those killers who shot from a distance, without the executioner’s gaze meeting his victim’s. He wasn’t one of those; he liked to give his victims a chance to look up and make out the face of the devil before finishing them off.

He got up and went over to the chair where his clothes were hanging. The butt of his pistol emerged from beneath his suit jacket. He dressed calmly, gathered his things into a small travel bag, and fit his gun into the back of his pants. Before leaving he ran a bored gaze over the room that landed on the cellulite on the prostitute’s ass.

He felt light. That mood, almost mystical, was what allowed him to enjoy what he was doing. Under the new silk shirt he had bought, his heart beat strongly. He was no longer a mere informant or an apprentice. Now he was a real professional, and he charged what he was worth. He could go into a tailor’s shop and have a suit made to order, eat in a nice restaurant, and pay for all night long with an expensive whore. What more did he need? The leather shoes did pinch his toes, which were unused to being enclosed, and the matching gloves weren’t comfortable … But when he stopped for a second in front of a display window, he saw a winner reflected back at him.

He sighed maliciously before continuing along his way. His upcoming meeting with María gave him a strange restlessness. Almost joy.

He stopped in front of a homeless person begging on the sidewalk. His face had been bitten by rats, and his hands were wrapped in rags.

“A few hours ago, I was like you. So don’t give up hope; your luck could change.” He leaned over the bum’s can. He stole the few coins that were in it, put them in his pocket, and headed off, wishing him a merry Christmas.

*   *   *

The church was packed. As in medieval cathedrals, the floor of coffee-colored marble was carpeted with the tombstones of prominent men. There was an altarpiece where cherubs held up an open Bible written in gold.

The priest, with his perfectly ironed suit, was stroking the linen cloth that covered the altar with the back of his hand. Tall candelabra stood watch over the gold chalice. Dozens of fresh roses decorated the still-empty nativity scene. Their sickly sweet scent mixed with the candle wax and the dampness of the old cloth of the priest’s chasuble.

A few benches away, María looked at her father out of the corner of her eye. Gabriel held his hat in his restless hands, uncomfortable in his tie and suit jacket.

The church organ began to play a funereal melody. There was a noisy rustling of clothes when everyone turned toward one of the side doors to the vestry in which an old military man and a woman appeared, carrying the figure of the baby Jesus.

“Look, here comes the baby. The most beautiful part of Christmas.”

María found it surprising that her father still thought about Christmas Eve with such romantic, eternal innocence. She was tempted to ask him why they were there, at Midnight Mass, what they had to do with those people who filled the church. But she held back her curiosity. Her father seemed truly moved, and his expression was one of devotion.

There was an admiring murmur. The woman who carried the baby Jesus wore perfect mourning attire, a sober black dress. Her footsteps echoed on the marble slabs like a requiem. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and the stark whiteness of her skin transformed her into a walking shroud. She progressed toward the altar solemnly. She looked like a serene middle-aged Madonna.

Behind her on the main aisle came the ridiculously haughty old military man, with his dress uniform, his tense jaw, and his erect head. He looked from side to side of the aisle with his fierce yellowish eyes like a cautious dog, ready to leap and bite. In spite of his showy attire, he couldn’t hide his decrepitude. You almost felt sorry for him. The sheath of his saber dragged along the floor. The metal clanking against the marble stones where his glorious putrid ancestors slept was like his beseeching call for them to come rescue him.

When it was time to take communion, those in attendance stood up to make a line in front of the priest, who lifted the host in his hands. He himself dipped it in the chalice wine and placed it on the tongues of the communicants.

María didn’t get up. She had not grown up in a religious household, at least not religious in the traditional sense. There was a certain religiousness, sure. In her father’s library there was a biography of Saint Francis of Assisi that she took an interest in as a girl, especially for its engravings of animals and the lovely passage that began, “Brother wolf…” But nothing more. God didn’t really have any place in their lives, nor did all that Christian symbolism of the bread and wine transmuting into the body and blood of Christ.

Nonetheless, to María’s surprise, her father leaned on his cane and stood up laboriously.

“I want to take communion.”

They had almost reached the nativity scene. Beside it, the priest held out the small, almost transparent, host.

“The body and blood of Christ…”

“Amen.”

With María’s help, Gabriel kissed the tip of the baby Jesus’s plaster foot. The figure was ugly, waxen, and fat. Someone had combed its hair and dressed it in an elegant white nightshirt embroidered in blue. In its crossed hands someone had placed a thornless rose.

When she returned to her seat, María’s gaze stopped beside one of the columns in the back. Leaning somewhat defiantly against the basin of holy water was a man who gave her a smile with an ironic tinge that she found frightening. She recognized in him the homeless person she’d passed on the street a few weeks back who had followed her and Greta through the streets of the Raval. Although now he was dressed in an expensively cut suit. Those weeks earlier she’d told herself she was being paranoid. But now she was sure that it was him again, and that he was looking right at her.

Exiting the church’s suffocating atmosphere, people breathed in relief at being freed from that climate of sadness exacerbated by the long, monotonous sermon. Gradually the churchgoers scattered into small groups that chatted to relieve the emotional tension of the previous minutes, when toward the end of the ceremony, the old military man—María knew he was a retired lieutenant of the civil guard—had gone up to the pulpit to remember those in the force who had been killed that year in fierce terrorist attacks, speaking of them in simple words filled with righteousness.

Some people came over to ask after Gabriel’s health with self-censored, sycophantic, stupid smiles. María silently received the clichés they felt compelled to say, both immersed in that farce and outside of it.

Then she saw that man again. To one side, he observed her cynically. Then he headed casually off toward one of the galleries of the nearby cloister, pretending to be interested in the lovely collection of classical sculptures along the way.

María left her father with some neighbors and went after the stranger.

The man slowed his pace, until finally stopping completely when he was sure that María was following him. Far from prying eyes, he showed his true face. His mouth grew rigid, almost arthritic, and the depth of his pupils became cloudy, like the bottom of a recently stepped-in puddle.

María approached him cautiously.

“Do I know you?”

The man turned toward her and scrutinized her intensely. He narrowed his gaze, observing the patio where the worshippers were chatting. He opened up a pack and put a cigarette in his mouth.

“You don’t have much of a memory, lawyer lady. I’m Ramoneda.”

María unconsciously stepped back with her mouth agape. She barely remembered him. She had only seen him a couple of times in the hospital, when he was in a coma and had his face completely disfigured. But as she looked carefully at the man, it wasn’t hard to find the scars left by those wounds, now hidden beneath a thick reddish beard.

“Don’t get scared. I’m not going to do anything to you,” he said, as he stepped with his boot on the cigarette he’d been smoking.

María nervously stroked her hair. Ramoneda realized that she was looking toward the stone patio of the church. Gabriel was sitting beside some flowerbeds with his hands in his pockets and a lost expression.

“Well, it’s been a long time, Ramoneda.”

Ramoneda scornfully looked her up and down.

“You don’t seem happy to see me. I don’t blame you. I imagine that you’ve heard about what I did to my wife and the guy who was screwing her.”

María felt like those words, spat out with disgust, almost anger, were biting into her. She headed toward the entrance of the church without looking back. Her body trembled with a bad premonition. She waved vaguely and ran off quickly.

She had almost reached her father when Ramoneda grabbed her from behind, holding her by the shoulder. Feeling the weight of that hand, María thought her heart was going to explode.

“I only wanted to have a little chat with you, María.”

María didn’t turn around immediately. She pretended not to hear her name. But he repeated it with even more aggressive force, as if attacking her from behind. Finally, she turned, exasperated.

“What do you want from me?”

Ramoneda focused on a distant point. He seemed to be thinking about something extremely serious.

“They told me that you’re separated from your husband. And that now you live in
sin
with a very beautiful girl … Greta, I think she’s called, is that right? It’s a romantic picture, watching her on the beach by your house in Sant Feliu. She’s good at fishing. But at this time of year, the beach is a deserted place. If she should have an accident, nobody would realize until it was too late.” Ramoneda’s gaze warped. He was now looking at Gabriel. “Same thing with your father. In that little town and with no nurse to take care of him. They could rob him or who knows what. It’d really be a shame. Luckily, you’re an intelligent woman, and you know how to protect your loved ones.”

María couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“What is this? Are you threatening me?”

Ramoneda smiled maliciously. Really it was only his eyes. His mouth barely tensed.

“I’m just warning you. I know that they are looking for me for the disappearance of Marta Alcalá, the inspector’s daughter. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Alcalá at the time: I know nothing. They paid me to deliver some information. I did. I got paid. The end. Tell your ex-husband and old Recasens to stop baiting me like a dog. You know what happens when a dog is cornered: he turns and bites whoever’s in his reach. And if you want some advice: forget about the inspector and everything to do with him. I’d hate for something to happen to you or someone you care about … Merry Christmas, María.”

He buttoned his coat, turned, and walked away with slow, powerful steps.

13

Barcelona, December 27, 1980

María entered the restaurant. The waitresses were already putting out the tablecloths. It was early, and there were no customers yet. Piped-in piano music could be heard.

A waiter came over. He was solicitous, sugary, and too handsome. A mature playboy, confident of the power of his graying beard and well-cut, undyed hair. His style was artificial, and his cologne turned María’s stomach.

“Are you dining alone?” The waiter’s gaze ran openly to María’s breasts.

“No, I’d like a table for two,” she answered, buttoning the top button on her shirt.

The waiter blushed. He cleared his throat and escorted her to a table in the back. He handed her a menu. It was an expensive menu on thick, rough paper. Lorenzo wanted to impress her.

She ordered a bottle of white wine while she waited. When the waiter headed off, she opened her purse and swallowed down two naproxen pills. Her headaches, increasingly virulent and sudden, had become relentless. She told herself, without much conviction, that she should go to the doctor.

“After the holidays,” she said out loud, as if trying to convince herself. She lit a cigarette and poured herself a glass of wine, while she went over the events of the last few days.

She was afraid. She still hadn’t told anyone, except Lorenzo, about her encounter with Ramoneda. She didn’t want to worry Greta. Things weren’t going well between them, and the last thing she needed was to cause any more problems in their relationship. But she was barely able to sleep. She smoked nonstop, nervous and unable to concentrate on anything except the image of Ramoneda, his cold smile, and his murderous gaze. How had he found her? That didn’t matter; the fact was that he had. Now he knew where she lived, and she constantly felt the presence of his eyes spying on her every movement, and Greta’s, and her father’s. The pressure was going to make her head explode.