Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel (38 page)

But all that, while important, was the least of Lorenzo’s worries at that moment. Something more urgent had his attention. He asked the chauffeur to turn off the radio. He needed to think, to gauge his options and anticipate events. He had also had an argument with his wife. In those moments of tension, the last thing he needed was a family fight. Although physically they were very different, sometimes his wife reminded him of María. She embodied the same visceral impulses, the same look of superiority in spite of everything, the same pride. Sometimes he even discovered in his wife’s expressions a look, a perplexed expression, a smile of María’s. Maybe that was why he lost his temper with her and ended up hitting her.

He looked at his knuckles. His hand hurt, and he felt bad for having hit his wife in the face that morning. She had ended up on the floor of the bathroom with a split lip. He knew that he’d gone too far, but the worst part was that his son had seen everything. He recriminated himself for not having the cold-bloodedness to close the door to the room, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He made a mental note that he should buy some candy on the way home, and maybe send a bouquet of flowers from the office to his wife with an apologetic note.

But he’d do that later. Now he had to focus on his meeting with the congressman. He didn’t like Publio calling him to his house so unexpectedly. That didn’t bode well at all. He leaned toward the closed window to see the vague coastline that grew larger, with the profile of the mountain of Montjuïc and the towers of Sant Adrià emerging in the distance. In the pocket of his jacket he felt the wrinkled press clipping that had announced the death of Recasens that morning. He wondered who that homicide detective named Marchán was. He was smart; he had delayed publication of the news of the murder by several days, and now he was announcing to the press that the Criminal Police would be in charge of the investigation. The best part was his not-very-diplomatic way of having slipped in the suspicion that it was not just a simple homicide: “Certain indications make us suspect that the death of Colonel Recasens could be connected with high political authorities and the state security organizations, which is why we are going to request the protection of the Supreme Court.” That would make it difficult to transfer the investigations to the CESID for a few more days, and even after he’d gotten around the obstacle of the Supreme Court, Lorenzo would have to take over the proceedings discreetly in order to not attract the attention of the press.

All this gave the inspector a margin of a few days to continue on the case, and at the same time it was his way of covering his back in the face of possible retaliations. Yes, that inspector was definitely rather clever. He should investigate him thoroughly and find out what interest he could have in the Recasens case. Maybe he was only looking for some press attention and a raise. In that case it would be easy to reach an agreement with him. But if he was looking for something else, it would be harder to get rid of him. Lorenzo imagined that that was what Publio wanted to talk about. He’d soon know. The car was making its way along the street where the congressman lived when in Barcelona.

*   *   *

Publio received him in a small office filled with leather-bound books on mahogany shelves. It smelled of cigar tobacco, and beside two large baroque style armchairs there was a box of Havanas and a device to trim the ends.

“I suppose you’ve read the newspaper this morning,” said the congressman as he took one of the Havanas and made it crunch between his fingers by his ear. “What do we know about this Marchán?”

Lorenzo examined Publio’s broken profile. In spite of the years he looked lively, but the pressure of those days was leaving a mark.

“Not much. He worked for a few years with César Alcalá. But he didn’t testify in his favor in the Ramoneda case. I don’t think he’s ever visited him in jail. Alcalá doesn’t consider him his friend, more like a traitor. He confirmed that for me himself when I went to see him in prison.” Lorenzo left out telling Publio that during his last visit he had noticed a quite worrisome change in attitude in the inspector. He had refused to tell him what he had talked to María about in the last few weeks, and he demanded more credible evidence that his daughter was still alive. The handwritten notes that Lorenzo brought him every fifteen days signed by Marta weren’t enough anymore, he’d said. It was something important enough to mention to Publio, but he didn’t. He could tell that the congressman was about to blow his top.

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 that 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.