Water-Blue Eyes (8 page)

Although he hadn’t been back since he was a child, Leo Caldas vividly remembered the trees planted on Lapamán beach. He recalled the soft, whiter-than-usual sand, and the beached boats known as
dornas
. The combined smell of sea, paint and the wood of the small fishing boats had remained nestled in his memory. Since then, the region had been invaded by an implacable bad taste, and he shuddered to think what the passage of time may have done to the place; but being close by, he decided to run the risk, and suggested to his assistant that they take a break at the beach.

They dropped away from the cemetery, and took a road parallel to the waterfront, which wound its way through a forest of pines and eucalyptuses. Rafael was driving slowly, as Caldas didn’t quite remember where the turning was. They had barely covered two kilometres when a sign pointed the way. Caldas didn’t really trust it, but it was right. The narrow path ended almost on the sand, in a parking space for only a few cars.

Once they’d parked, the officers walked down a stone staircase until they felt the crunching of the sand beneath their feet. The beach was deserted, except for a young woman sunbathing with her two small children, and another one picking seaweed along the shore.

There were two or three stone houses at the bottom of the beach which Leo didn’t remember from his childhood, but they may have been there all along. No sign of the fishing boats, though.

They sat down beneath some trees, which were still
standing
by the sea as in Caldas’s memory. The inspector grabbed
a handful of sand and let it slip through his fingers. Just like before: white and fine.

‘Some beach, inspector. And almost all to ourselves. This is paradise,’ said Estévez looking around. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Well … There are more people in the summer, but it’s never an invasion.’

Used as he was to the Mediterranean, Estévez was amazed at the extension of beach that the low tide had uncovered. He took off his shoes and strolled over to the water’s edge.

The inspector remained lying on the sand, with his eyes half-closed, mentally going over the case he had in his hands. He thought that if nothing came of the conversation with the jazz musicians that night, the formaldehyde was the best lead. Clinical formaldehyde may be in common use, but Barrio had mentioned that no one but a specialist was likely to know what the effects of injecting it would be. That pointed in the direction of pathologists and the clinical
assistants
in their departments. At least, thought Caldas
optimistically
, it wasn’t a very popular profession. And although one couldn’t go around prying into everyone’s sexual preferences, homosexuals no longer hid in the closet. He had also the names of the hospitals that Freire had given him at Riofarma: the General Hospital, the Policlinic and the Zuriaga Foundation. Riofarma was an important provider even if it wasn’t the only one, and he had to start somewhere. There was also Reigosa’s car. Sooner or later it was bound to turn up.

The seaweed gatherer walked past the inspector. On her head she was balancing a full basket. Caldas stayed where he was, looking at the trees swaying over his head, with the breeze blowing on his face. To one side he could see the other woman playing with her two kids. He thought of Alba. He understood her desire to be a mother, but was hurt by the fact that she refused to acknowledge that having a child requires absolute conviction. You couldn’t do it on a whim.
Besides, they had to be in complete agreement about
decisions
affecting them both. He’d once read that children were the main cause of tension between couples. It was obviously true, even if those children were only hypothetical.

‘It’s cold,’ said Estévez, who’d come back from the shore with wet feet, ‘but what with the heat and all, I’d feel as good as new if I went in for a dip. You don’t mind if I go in my underpants, do you?’

‘Me?’ replied Caldas without looking up. ‘So long as we’re back in time for tonight’s concert.’

Estévez peeled off his clothes in a flash and ran off, raising clouds of sand wherever he trod.

When Caldas sat up to shake himself, he saw the one hundred and thirty kilos of his assistant running in his underpants across the wide beaches of Lapamén. And as he went into the water, splashing about like a galloping horse, Caldas remembered the poisonous weaverfish.

Presently Estévez left the water cursing, and balancing on one leg. He was holding his other foot with both his hands.

When Inspector Caldas came out of Eligio’s, it had gone half past nine in the evening. The sun had already set, but it was still light.

Eligio’s was an endangered species on account of its old smells of stone, wood and wisdom. But its best-kept secret was a small kitchen away from the visitor’s eyes, where they cooked the tastiest octopus in the city. Caldas had had dinner at the bar, chatting with Carlos, while a group of university professors had a debate at the next table.

He’d gone for a small dish of beef stewed on a low heat, with potatoes seasoned with olive oil and a mixture of
paprika
and cayenne pepper, and a good portion of scallop quiche, served just the way he liked it: the pastry thin and crispy, and the scallops simply cooked with browned onions. Carlos had opened a bottle of white for both of them before dinner. One conversation had led to another one.

Caldas walked down Príncipe Street, across Puerta del Sol, and under an arch that had once been one of the two gates into the old city. He pressed on along the cobblestones,
leaving
behind the university library and the bishop’s private residence on his right. He then took a little street in the direction of Santa María Church, and went into Gamboa Street. The Grial was at number five.

From outside it looked a bit like an English pub, with its strips of dark wood framing the small white façade. The door and window frames were as dark, and the windows had nice bevelled glass. At the entrance, a small slate gable jutted out over the pavement like a visor.

The Grial was comfortable inside, with a long bar to the
right and a dozen tables scattered over the remaining space. Nearly all were taken, mostly by groups of four or more people. Images of jazz grandees hung on the walls, and Cole Porter played through the loudspeakers.

Caldas approached the crowded bar. When his turn came, he asked for some wine, in order not to mix drinks. At the back he made out the low stage. The Irishman, sitting on a stool, was tuning his bass. Next to him was a black piano with a microphone poised at an angle to it.

As he looked around, Caldas spotted Iria Ledo at the bar, barely a couple of metres away. Even with make-up, she hadn’t managed to conceal her dark circles. Leo lit a cigarette and approached her.

‘Good evening.’

‘Inspector Caldas, we were not expecting you until after the concert.’

‘I though I might find good music here,’ replied Caldas, as if justifying himself.

‘There’s been better nights,’ said Iria Ledo.

‘Of course. I’m sorry for your loss.’

Caldas fell silent as she acknowledged his comment with a nod.

‘I guess it won’t be easy to go on stage without Reigosa.’

‘You can be sure of that, inspector.’

Iria took two glasses from the barman and changed the subject:

‘Do you like jazz?’

Caldas nodded.

‘I’ve never seen you round here before, though.’

‘I’m a creature of habit,’ the policeman excused himself. ‘And I usually listen to music at home. I’ve only been here once.’

‘You seem to have chosen the worst time for your second visit.’

Caldas knew this, but her words carried not so much a reproach as sincere sorrow.

‘I’m all too aware of that,’ he replied.

‘Well, we’ll talk later, inspector,’ she said. ‘We’re about to start.’

Iria Ledo turned round and walked away between the tables with a glass in each hand. Once on stage, she passed Arthur O’Neal one of them, took a sip from the other, put it on the floor, and sat at the piano.

The background music stopped, and the lights were dimmed until the Grial was almost in darkness. A spotlight picked out Iria, pale at her black piano. She brought her fingers down on the keyboard with her eyes closed. Leo soon identified the piece: ‘Embraceable you’, by Gershwin. Bass notes and a slow rhythm. It had to be played with feeling, but Iria had feeling to burn.

Once it was over, and the applause died down, Iria finished her drink and grabbed the microphone. She told the audience that Luis Reigosa wouldn’t be there that night, though Leo had the impression that most of the people at the bar already knew of his death. Then, in a sad voice, she explained that they would like to pay homage to him, apologised in advance for whatever blunders their emotions might hold in store, and introduced Arthur O’Neal on bass. The duo played
several
pieces Leo wasn’t quite able to recognise. Perhaps, he thought, they were playing them just the way they did when Reigosa was with them, and he didn’t recognise them because of the absence of the saxophone.

Later, a certain German Díaz came on stage with a local type of hurdy-gurdy called
zanfoña.
Caldas knew that some traditional Galician instruments were being introduced into jazz bands, but it was the first time he’d heard that kind of fusion and was pleasantly surprised. They played Charlie Parker’s ‘Laura’, with the
zanfoña
standing in for the
saxophone
. The
zanfoña
didn’t have the range of the sax and it wasn’t easy to replace wind with cords, but the old
instrument
sounded as if it were crying. Not for Laura, as Parker’s sax, but for Reigosa.

The show finished with a song that Iria dedicated
especially
to Luis Reigosa: ‘Angel Eyes’.

Caldas had not forgotten the water-blue colour of the dead man’s irises, and thought ‘Angel Eyes’ a perfect title for that tribute.

And when, from his place at the bar, the inspector heard Iria’s tearful voice singing, he knew there couldn’t be a better farewell gift.

After the performance, Iria Ledo and Arthur O’Neal sat down with Caldas at a table near the bar. They told him Reigosa was not only a good man, but also an excellent musician who lived for his saxophone. He spent his
afternoons
at the conservatory and his evenings here at the Grial.

They talked about generalities for a while until Caldas asked:

‘Do you know if Reigosa was gay?’

‘Of course,’ replied Iria, and Caldas knew he was blushing slightly. ‘We saw each other nearly every day. Luis never hid it. He wasn’t a militant homosexual either, but if anyone asked he had no problem answering he was gay. Did you see his eyes?’

‘His eyes?’ The inspector had been unable to forget them from the moment he’d first seen them.

‘Luis’s,’ clarified Iria, as if it were necessary. ‘His eyes were a magnet for both men and women, he couldn’t help it. Does it make any difference who he chose to sleep with?’

‘He was killed in his bed,’ explained Caldas.

‘Oh, they hadn’t told us.’

Arthur couldn’t get his head round the possible reasons.

‘Luis was a regular guy,’ he said in his thick accent. ‘He
never got into trouble with anyone, and no one had reason to do him any harm.’

‘But they did.’

‘We know. It was us that identified the body,’ said Iria, visibly upset. ‘His face showed he’d been in a lot of pain.’

Fortunately, they hadn’t seen the rest of the body.

‘So how come you identified the body?’

‘The alternative was to let his mother do it,’ replied the pianist. ‘The poor woman. At the funeral I almost thought she’d go with him.’

O’Neal grimaced as he remembered the scene.

‘Luis wanted to be cremated.’

‘He spoke of his death?’

‘We’re musicians, inspector. We spent many nights in this bar, the three of us – Art, Luis and me. There are times when you drink, talk and imagine things. Just for the sake of it, you know. A wedding, a journey, a funeral … stuff. Once Luis said he wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered on the sea with Bird … with Charlie Parker for soundtrack.’

Caldas nodded.

‘Why didn’t you carry out his wishes?’

‘Would you have told that to his mother? Luis is … was her only child. He’d upset her enough by moving to Vigo. He’d grown up without a father, you know.’

The inspector knew exactly what she meant. In the Galician rural world, it was neither strange nor frowned upon that a woman of a certain age should bring up children alone. An old woman without offspring was pretty much doomed to mendicity if she couldn’t work the land. So everyone
understood
that she may want to have a child who’d help her in the future. Even so, Reigosa had decided on other plans.

‘Was he in a relationship?’ asked Caldas, looking at the pale woman.

‘Luis? Not that I know of.’

A bit hesitant, Iria turned to the Irishman, who confirmed this.

‘Luis told us what he wanted us to know, and we didn’t ask him any questions beyond that. There may have been someone he saw more often than he saw others, but if there had been someone really special we would have known. Don’t you think, Art?’

Arthur nodded emphatically, and the light from the candle at the centre of the table played curiously on his reddish hair.

The woman went on:

‘We knew that sometimes, after a concert, he’d go to a pub in the Arenal, but I can’t remember its name. Art, do you know the one I mean?’

‘The Idílico?’

‘Yes, the Idílico, I’m pretty sure that’s it. You may find something there, inspector, but I can’t imagine Luis leading a double life. The one he had was quite enough.’

The Irishman, who in the course of the conversation had downed two enormous glasses of beer, excused himself and made for the toilet. Leo stayed with the woman, and got out another cigarette, which he lit from the flame of the candle.

‘One more thing – I was surprised to see where Reigosa lived. Is there so much money in music?’

‘So much, inspector? We all get by, more or less.’

‘But what he got here and a supply teacher’s salary at the conservatory doesn’t seem enough to be able to live in a duplex in Toralla.’

‘Luis wasn’t worried about savings, inspector. He was not planning on starting a family – far from it.’

Certainly, Caldas thought, as the woman said:

‘There’s your friend.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The big guy at the door. Wasn’t he with you at the funeral?’

Caldas saw Estévez limp towards the bar and lean on it.

‘Good memory,’ he said, nodding.

Before saying goodbye, he asked the pianist:

‘Did you see a very elegant man at the cemetery? A
white-haired
man.’

‘I did, and actually noticed the hair and the clothes. Very white hair, and a beautiful suit. Who was he?’

‘I don’t know.’ Caldas lamented again that he hadn’t seen his face. ‘I meant to talk to him, but he was no longer there when we left. Would you mind asking O’Neal if he ever saw that man with Reigosa?’

‘Of course, inspector.’

They stood up, and the light from a fluorescent tube tinged the pianist’s pale skin blue. They shook hands.

‘Many thanks, Iria, I’m sorry for disturbing you at time like this.’

She said he needed not apologise, and Caldas left her his card.

‘If you think of anything else please give me a call. Sometimes the smallest things …’

She held the card in her hand, without looking at it.

‘When was the other time?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The other time you came to the Grial, that concert you mentioned. What was the occasion, inspector?’

‘An American pianist … Bill Garner if I remember rightly. He was said to be Errol Garner’s son. Do you know him?’

‘Of course. Apollo.’

‘Apollo?’

‘That’s his nickname,’ the woman explained. ‘I don’t know who his father is. He sees himself as the new Thelonious Monk, but I don’t think he’s that good. For some things it’s not enough to be black. I think he lives in Lisbon, so he pops round once or twice a year. He must have a girl here.’

‘You don’t seem to like him.’

‘Apollo? I like him all right, but whenever he plays, my piano goes out of tune.’ For the first time that night, the woman smiled. ‘Please don’t tell anyone, inspector.’

After the small woman took her leave, Leo Caldas watched
her make her way through the crowd. He stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and made for the bar to join Estévez.

‘Better late than never.’

‘If we say after dinner, I come round after I have my dinner. Besides, I can barely walk, inspector. I had to lie down with my foot up from the moment I got home. My toes look like sausages thanks to that fucking piranha …’

‘Weaverfish.’

‘Weaverfish, that’s right, the little son of a bitch. I’ll never go into the sea again without a gun.’