Read Online All Is Silence by Manuel Rivas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Manuel Rivas
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taking part in the procession starts singing a ballad, ‘Did you dance, Carolina? Yes, I danced! Tell me who you danced with! I danced with the colonel!’ and Mariscal smiles. Orders quiet. Claps his hands in the air.
‘Now let’s get to work. It’s not true that God gives time for nothing.’
The line begins transferring the packages in absolute silence, from the ramp to the old salting factory, a sombre stone building of a single storey. There are about twenty of them. They work with diligence and normality, except for the children, whose sweat shows they’re doing it for the first time. When it’s all over, Mariscal pays everybody in person. Listens to the murmured litany of appreciation. When it’s Brinco’s turn, he grabs him by the shoulders with satisfaction.
‘This time you’ve earned yourself a Catholic Monarchs!’
Then he whispers in his ear so that only Brinco can hear. Does so with a paternal smile. ‘Don’t bring volunteers without telling me first, got it?’
‘But they stick to me!’
‘I know, they’re just stray dogs.’
‘Boss, the guards are coming!’
‘Not to worry, Inverno. They come when they have to.’
Sergeant Montes emerges from the pine groves. Vargas quickly takes up position behind him.
‘Nobody move!’ shouts Montes. ‘What’s going on here?’
Nobody says a word. Mariscal waits. He knows how to let the gears of time engage.
‘Forgive me, sergeant,’ he says finally. ‘Would you mind if we spoke alone for a moment?’
Once they’re at a certain distance, Mariscal casually drops something on the ground. ‘Sergeant, I do believe you dropped two notes. Two green ones,
sensu stricto
.’
The sergeant glances at the ground. Yes, there are two thousand-peseta notes.
‘Excuse me, sir.
Sensu stricto
, I do believe I dropped at least ten.’
And Mariscal proceeds to free the other notes, as if he’s already made the calculation.
13
BACK FROM UNLOADING the tobacco, Fins placed his thousand-peseta note on top of the oilskin tablecloth. His mother, Amparo, put down her knitting in surprise. His father was listening to the radio closely, making an ear trumpet with the palm of his hand. Cassius Clay, newly named Muhammad Ali, had just been stripped of his world heavyweight title due to his refusal to be inducted into the military during the Vietnam War. Lucho Malpica turned down the volume and jumped to his feet. ‘What’s this money?’
‘Mr Rumbo gave it to me for cleaning the vats.’
‘He never pays that much for cleaning vats.’
‘Well, it was about time he paid more,’ said Fins uneasily.
Lucho Malpica waved the note in front of his son’s face. ‘Don’t ever lie to me!’
The boy remained silent, feeling uncomfortable, chewing over the words of before and afterwards.
‘The worst lie of all is silence.’
‘Mr Mariscal gave it to me,’ said the boy eventually. ‘I helped unload some tobacco.’
‘That’s more like it. More than I can earn fighting with the sea for a whole damn week!’
Now two of them were chewing over the past and present.
‘Have you any idea how that bastard got rich?’
‘Wasn’t it in Cuba, before the revolution?’
‘In Cuba?’
Lucho Malpica had always dodged the issue of Mariscal. He even avoided saying his name, would take a roundabout route in the conversation, like someone sidestepping a turd. But now the issue had been blown open. And the unstoppable destination was irony.
‘What did he do in Cuba? What was his job?’
‘Wasn’t he a boxing promoter, organising fights, with a cinema or something? I don’t know, Dad, that’s what I heard.’
‘Selling peanuts in a cone. In Cuba? That guy never set foot in America.’
Lucho Malpica realised it wasn’t going to be easy to tell the story of Mariscal. Even for him, who was of the same generation, there were large areas of shade. Mariscal vanished and came back. With a shadow that grew and grew, and made him more powerful.
‘After the war,
‘Now let’s get to work. It’s not true that God gives time for nothing.’
The line begins transferring the packages in absolute silence, from the ramp to the old salting factory, a sombre stone building of a single storey. There are about twenty of them. They work with diligence and normality, except for the children, whose sweat shows they’re doing it for the first time. When it’s all over, Mariscal pays everybody in person. Listens to the murmured litany of appreciation. When it’s Brinco’s turn, he grabs him by the shoulders with satisfaction.
‘This time you’ve earned yourself a Catholic Monarchs!’
Then he whispers in his ear so that only Brinco can hear. Does so with a paternal smile. ‘Don’t bring volunteers without telling me first, got it?’
‘But they stick to me!’
‘I know, they’re just stray dogs.’
‘Boss, the guards are coming!’
‘Not to worry, Inverno. They come when they have to.’
Sergeant Montes emerges from the pine groves. Vargas quickly takes up position behind him.
‘Nobody move!’ shouts Montes. ‘What’s going on here?’
Nobody says a word. Mariscal waits. He knows how to let the gears of time engage.
‘Forgive me, sergeant,’ he says finally. ‘Would you mind if we spoke alone for a moment?’
Once they’re at a certain distance, Mariscal casually drops something on the ground. ‘Sergeant, I do believe you dropped two notes. Two green ones,
sensu stricto
.’
The sergeant glances at the ground. Yes, there are two thousand-peseta notes.
‘Excuse me, sir.
Sensu stricto
, I do believe I dropped at least ten.’
And Mariscal proceeds to free the other notes, as if he’s already made the calculation.
13
BACK FROM UNLOADING the tobacco, Fins placed his thousand-peseta note on top of the oilskin tablecloth. His mother, Amparo, put down her knitting in surprise. His father was listening to the radio closely, making an ear trumpet with the palm of his hand. Cassius Clay, newly named Muhammad Ali, had just been stripped of his world heavyweight title due to his refusal to be inducted into the military during the Vietnam War. Lucho Malpica turned down the volume and jumped to his feet. ‘What’s this money?’
‘Mr Rumbo gave it to me for cleaning the vats.’
‘He never pays that much for cleaning vats.’
‘Well, it was about time he paid more,’ said Fins uneasily.
Lucho Malpica waved the note in front of his son’s face. ‘Don’t ever lie to me!’
The boy remained silent, feeling uncomfortable, chewing over the words of before and afterwards.
‘The worst lie of all is silence.’
‘Mr Mariscal gave it to me,’ said the boy eventually. ‘I helped unload some tobacco.’
‘That’s more like it. More than I can earn fighting with the sea for a whole damn week!’
Now two of them were chewing over the past and present.
‘Have you any idea how that bastard got rich?’
‘Wasn’t it in Cuba, before the revolution?’
‘In Cuba?’
Lucho Malpica had always dodged the issue of Mariscal. He even avoided saying his name, would take a roundabout route in the conversation, like someone sidestepping a turd. But now the issue had been blown open. And the unstoppable destination was irony.
‘What did he do in Cuba? What was his job?’
‘Wasn’t he a boxing promoter, organising fights, with a cinema or something? I don’t know, Dad, that’s what I heard.’
‘Selling peanuts in a cone. In Cuba? That guy never set foot in America.’
Lucho Malpica realised it wasn’t going to be easy to tell the story of Mariscal. Even for him, who was of the same generation, there were large areas of shade. Mariscal vanished and came back. With a shadow that grew and grew, and made him more powerful.
‘After the war,
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