Needle in a Haystack (6 page)

Out on the landing, Amancio stands in front of the door in his best suit, his burglar outfit as he calls it, with a big smile, ringing Biterman’s bell, not noticing he’s being spied on by the neighbour through the peephole.

Biterman grabs the newspaper off the table and, unfastening his trousers, goes and settles himself on the toilet. He has serious constipation problems, so this is a sacred moment. Horacio leaves the room, shutting the office door behind him, then goes to the front door and opens it. Amancio surveys the apartment. It’s one of those dark, poky little places with paper-thin walls,
everything made to the bare minimum. You couldn’t swing a cat in there. The furniture, the few decorations, the curtains, everything looks cheap and worn out, but the place smells of money.

Amancio. Come on in. How’s it going man? Surviving. Your brother? He’s on a call right now, then he’ll see you. The other person rang so it could take a while. Did you go to see the ranch? Yes. And what did you think? The house is good but a bit rundown. With twenty bucks worth of painting and twenty on repairs it would be as good as new. That may well be, but you try getting twenty bucks out of my brother. The man’s careful with his money. Any coin that falls into his hands never sees the light of day again. Why is it called La Rencorosa? It’s a family story. My mother inherited the land from a spinster aunt but mum didn’t like it, never went. The old man took charge and ended up having an affair with some girl out there. She was some
chinita
from the village but with a breathtaking body. A bit of a womanizer, was he? And my granddad, and my great granddad, and my brother and me. It’s in the blood. Anyway, the story is he got her pregnant so he moved her into the ranch house, which was then called El Vergel: The Orchard
.
So one dark day gossip got back to my mum. She grabbed a shotgun, jumped in the car and headed for the country. She confronted the
chinita
and, in a fit of pique, gave her such a kicking that the miscarriage spat out. Then she threw her out onto the street. And what did your old man do? Nothing. Never even mentioned it. The only thing he ever said on the subject, until the day he died, was when my mum changed the name and he asked her why she’d called it La Rencorosa. She said: so that you know the next time you do this to me, you’ll be the one getting a kicking. Dad kept his gob shut and that was the end of that… Hey, is your brother going to take much longer? I shouldn’t think so. Hot-tempered family you’ve got. We don’t
beat about the bush. Did I tell you about the time a farmhand insulted me and I gave him a good whipping?

Elías appears smiling. It went well.

The pale hours before dawn. Execution hour. For several nights, Giribaldi has neglected his duties as task force commander. He has been granted a few days leave on account of the baby. The Major is asleep in bed with his arms folded, fists clenched. He doesn’t hear the siren that crosses the city. The brightness of a new day starts to poke its way through the cracks in the blind. From the street come the sounds of motors, barked orders, rushed steps, troop movements. Maisabé lies awake at her husband’s side. Her gaze is fixed on the ceiling, her eyes sore through lack of blinking. She hasn’t slept all night.

Maisabé holds the pillow over the sleeping child’s face and raises her head to the ceiling. She dreads the baby’s convulsions, imagining what they’ll feel like; she pictures blood pouring forth, though she only wants to stop it flowing on the inside. The moment of truth arrives and she presses down on the pillow with all her weight, but the baby wriggles to the side and she ends up bashing him with her knuckles. He wakes up startled with a wail. As if by magic, Giri appears in the room and, not understanding what’s going on, takes hold of Maisabé by the shoulders and leads her away. She turns around on her way out and the baby, who has stopped crying, looks at Maisabé once more. It is a serious look, of the sort only the very young can have. Amen.

Lascano wonders if she will still be there when he gets home. He hopes and fears so and finds himself hesitating in front of the door, looking for his keys that have come off their key ring and have ended up in the depths of his pocket, where the fluff balls accumulate. He slowly puts the key in the lock and opens the door with the care of an unfaithful husband coming home late,
so as not to wake her
, he tells himself, although really he’s afraid that he’s the one who’s dreaming:

The house is dark and silent. Lascano feels relieved but hurt. He’s sure she’s gone, never to return, that everything will go back to the way it was before, with him all alone, waiting for visits from Marisa’s ghost to excite and pain him once again. But then the light comes on and there she is, Eva-Marisa, sitting on the sofa, just as he left her, only now she’s wearing his clothes, which are about five sizes too big. She takes his breath away and he lights a cigarette in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his fear and joy. Eva peers at him, like a mouse in a laboratory studies its cage, and is herself surprised by being so pleased to see him, although Lascano doesn’t notice this, so busy is he acting casual.

Perro pauses for a moment. He thinks he’s going mad. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Marisa or Eva. It’s like being trapped in a dream, with no control over his words or actions.

Lascano goes into his room and shuts the door behind him, without knowing quite why. There’s something automatic about his movements. He goes over to his bedside table and rummages around in the drawer. He finds what he’s looking for, goes over to the wardrobe, puts a key in the lock and tries to make it turn. The mechanism is stiff from disuse, and it takes a bit of effort before he hears a
clack
, which seems a sinister sound, like a judgement. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what’s to come. He pulls the doors to the wardrobe wide open. The smell of Marisa, concentrated by the months locked away, rushes upon him like an express train. Lascano holds on tight to the doors so as not to fall to the floor. There in front of him, completely intact, is her whole wardrobe, just as she left it the day she died. He had never before dared open this floodgate. He had never had the courage to face his wife’s second skin. He had always looked at this impenetrable place with apprehension, with reverential fear, and now he fights the feeling of having desecrated her tomb. But at the same time, guided by some dark force, he is unable to stop himself. As if having exited his own body, he sees himself on the bed, smoking, and Marisa in front of the mirror, in her underwear, not knowing what to
put on, as always, and looking to him, her man, for the necessary approval.

With a beaming smile, Lascano enjoys the spectacle of his wife getting dressed, all the while looking forward to the moment at the end of the night when he will get to undress her.

Lascano, pale as an undertaker, comes out of his room carrying the red dress and gives it to Eva, who murmurs her approval and holds it up to her body. She gracefully spins round and goes into the bathroom. Perro throws himself on the sofa. She soon appears with the dress on. It fits her perfectly.

His whole body screams at him to jump up and tear the dress off, part indignation at this act of usurping, mainly the desperate desire to see her in the full, to taste her, love her, feel her and, more than anything, fuck her. Terror of his own self seizes him: he is not in control of his actions and suddenly the room becomes a trap and he doesn’t know what he’s capable of. He realizes he has to get out of there immediately, that he cannot remain alone with this woman for another instant, and he stands up abruptly.

Eva picks up on the tension in the air. Everything happened so quickly she didn’t even ask herself why this guy had a dress in his room. He’s waiting for her by the open door. She puts her shoes on as fast as she can and heads out. As Lascano closes the door, the bird
in its cage tweets at him, it is piercing and, this time, incomprehensible.

He walks three paces ahead of Eva.
Is he giving me the chance to escape?
The night starts to get cool and she shivers. Lascano notices and, with all the chivalry of a musketeer from the movies, takes off his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She snuggles inside the coat, which smells of him and the Particulares 30 cigarettes he chain-smokes, and she looks at him. He’s not very tall, what might be described as normal stature in a country of shorties, but he has broad shoulders. He’s yet to develop the pot belly typical of men of his age, nor does he have hairs growing in his ears or nose. He’s thinning a little on top, but not too much, and his only grey hairs are the few around his temples, hardly noticeable. He looks quite athletic, which contrasts with the lethargy of his movements. If he were a little more dynamic, he could pass for being ten to fifteen years younger. She stops examining him when their eyes meet, which they do only fleetingly, because he looks away immediately and seems to blush. Although a tough guy clearly lurks behind his cool exterior, she would swear he was scared of her.