Read Online The Silent and the Damned by Robert Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Wilson
Tags: thriller
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Vega in a white shirt and dark trousers, hands in pockets, standing on his well-clipped lawn. The camera was looking over his shoulder at his profile. His jaw was tight. Falcón waited for the shot to tell him something. Then he saw what it was.
'He's barefoot.'
'That was 14th January this year.'
'What was he doing?'
'That's not the point… remember,' she said. 'I'm not a snoop. Look at these. They're taken down by the river. I go there a lot. I can sit with a big zoom lens on a tripod and people will stop on Calle Bétis and the bridges. I pick up a lot of contemplative looks. People go to the river for a reason… don't they?'
The three shots she gave him were close-ups of head and shoulders. In the first Rafael Vega was wincing, in the second he was gritting his teeth, eyes screwed up, and in the third his mouth had cracked open.
'He's in pain,' said Falcón.
'He was crying,' said Maddy. 'There's saliva at the corners of his mouth.'
He gave her back the photos. They were intrusive and he didn't like them. He returned her book to the shelf.
'And you didn't think any of this was worth mentioning before?'
'This is my work,' she said. 'This is how I express myself. I wouldn't have shown you them if Marty hadn't pushed me.'
'Even though it could have a bearing on what happened in the Vegas' house last night?'
'I answered your questions – the last time we spoke, how the Vegas got along, whether he was having an affair. I just didn't relate any of that to these shots because the point is that we should never know about them. They were not taken for the purposes of investigating causes.'
'Why were they taken?'
'These are shots of people suffering in intensely private moments, but out in the open. They have chosen not to hide in their homes but to walk it out of themselves in the presence of other human beings.'
Falcón remembered the hours he'd spent walking the streets of Seville in the past fifteen months. The contemplation of the fundamentals of his existence were too unsettling for the confines even of his sprawling house on Calle Bailen. He'd walked it all out of himself, stared it all into the sloe-black waters of the Guadalquivir, shaken it all off into the empty sugar sachets and cigarette ends on the floors of anonymous bars. It was true. He had not sat at home with his horrors piling up in his mind. There was solace in the wordless company of strangers.
Maddy was standing close to him. He was aware of her smell, the body under its thin sheath of silk, the exquisite pressure, the flimsiness of the barrier. She hovered, expectant, confident of her ability. Her white throat trembled as she swallowed.
'We should go back downstairs,' said Falcón.
'There was something else I wanted to show you,' she said, and led him across the corridor to another bedroom, which had a bare tiled floor and more of her photographs on the walls.
His attention was grabbed by a colour shot of a blue pool with a white necklace of tiles in a green lawn with a purple flame of bougainvillea in one corner and a white cushioned lounger in the other. A woman sat on the lounger in a black bathing costume under a red hat.
'That's Consuelo Jiménez,' he said.
'I didn't know you knew her,' said Maddy.
He went to the window. Across the road Consuelo's garden was visible.
'I had to get up on the roof for the angle,' she said.
To his left he could see the Vegas' entrance and driveway through the trees.
'Do you know what time Sr Vega came back home last night?'
'No, but it was rarely before midnight.'
'You wanted to show me something?' he said, turning back in to the room.
On the back wall behind the door, framed in black, was a print 75 cm by 50 cm of a man staring down from a bridge, under which it was clear his whole life was flowing. The features of the man did not compute at first. There was too much going on in the face. It was a shock for him to discover that he was looking at himself – a Javier Falcón he'd never seen
'He's barefoot.'
'That was 14th January this year.'
'What was he doing?'
'That's not the point… remember,' she said. 'I'm not a snoop. Look at these. They're taken down by the river. I go there a lot. I can sit with a big zoom lens on a tripod and people will stop on Calle Bétis and the bridges. I pick up a lot of contemplative looks. People go to the river for a reason… don't they?'
The three shots she gave him were close-ups of head and shoulders. In the first Rafael Vega was wincing, in the second he was gritting his teeth, eyes screwed up, and in the third his mouth had cracked open.
'He's in pain,' said Falcón.
'He was crying,' said Maddy. 'There's saliva at the corners of his mouth.'
He gave her back the photos. They were intrusive and he didn't like them. He returned her book to the shelf.
'And you didn't think any of this was worth mentioning before?'
'This is my work,' she said. 'This is how I express myself. I wouldn't have shown you them if Marty hadn't pushed me.'
'Even though it could have a bearing on what happened in the Vegas' house last night?'
'I answered your questions – the last time we spoke, how the Vegas got along, whether he was having an affair. I just didn't relate any of that to these shots because the point is that we should never know about them. They were not taken for the purposes of investigating causes.'
'Why were they taken?'
'These are shots of people suffering in intensely private moments, but out in the open. They have chosen not to hide in their homes but to walk it out of themselves in the presence of other human beings.'
Falcón remembered the hours he'd spent walking the streets of Seville in the past fifteen months. The contemplation of the fundamentals of his existence were too unsettling for the confines even of his sprawling house on Calle Bailen. He'd walked it all out of himself, stared it all into the sloe-black waters of the Guadalquivir, shaken it all off into the empty sugar sachets and cigarette ends on the floors of anonymous bars. It was true. He had not sat at home with his horrors piling up in his mind. There was solace in the wordless company of strangers.
Maddy was standing close to him. He was aware of her smell, the body under its thin sheath of silk, the exquisite pressure, the flimsiness of the barrier. She hovered, expectant, confident of her ability. Her white throat trembled as she swallowed.
'We should go back downstairs,' said Falcón.
'There was something else I wanted to show you,' she said, and led him across the corridor to another bedroom, which had a bare tiled floor and more of her photographs on the walls.
His attention was grabbed by a colour shot of a blue pool with a white necklace of tiles in a green lawn with a purple flame of bougainvillea in one corner and a white cushioned lounger in the other. A woman sat on the lounger in a black bathing costume under a red hat.
'That's Consuelo Jiménez,' he said.
'I didn't know you knew her,' said Maddy.
He went to the window. Across the road Consuelo's garden was visible.
'I had to get up on the roof for the angle,' she said.
To his left he could see the Vegas' entrance and driveway through the trees.
'Do you know what time Sr Vega came back home last night?'
'No, but it was rarely before midnight.'
'You wanted to show me something?' he said, turning back in to the room.
On the back wall behind the door, framed in black, was a print 75 cm by 50 cm of a man staring down from a bridge, under which it was clear his whole life was flowing. The features of the man did not compute at first. There was too much going on in the face. It was a shock for him to discover that he was looking at himself – a Javier Falcón he'd never seen
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