Silent Island

by Pablo Poveda

  “You’re a strange man, Conrad. I’m afraid those were my last two.”

  “I see,” he replied. “Did you kill the girl?”

  “No. I told you I’m innocent. How do you know it was a girl?”

  “You look like you would rather kill a girl than a man,” he said. “That is an objective truth.”

  “All truths are objective, aren’t they?”

  “No” — he lay back on the concrete surface — “A truth is a truth. The only difference is that an objective truth is true for two people.”

  “You’re starting to get under my skin,” I said, “and by your own standard, you should know that’s an objective truth.”

  “Go to sleep,” he responded, disregarding my comment, taking off his glasses, and putting them at the foot of the cement bed. “I’ll strangle you with my own hands if you try anything.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’re a good man, Gabriel,” he sentenced. “Good night.”

  I lay down on the stone mattress and rested my head on it. It was just like sleeping on the floor, and finding support was impossible. The night was chilling, and the icy breeze blew in through the small window high in the wall. Exhausted, and without even realizing it, I fell asleep. I had dense and restful sleep, forgetting everything around me.

  Immersed in a dense nebula, I woke up confused by the auroras and reveries still imprinted in my retinas. A metallic sound stunned me like the sound of an alarm clock. The door lock was being opened. I opened my eyes, looked at the other corner of the room but saw no one. Conrad was not there, he had left. I wondered if I had dreamed him, but I did not know how to respond.

  “Gabriel Caballero,” said a male voice. It was a warden. He opened the door.

  “What is it?” I asked, confused.

  “Grab your things. You have been bailed out.”

  I got up and walked out of there.

  I thought it had been my parents who paid to get me out of that den. I felt so embarrassed that they had been notified that I dared not walk down that corridor. I walked, thinking of a justification to give my parents when I came out to the top floor of the police station. It was not my family awaiting me, but a woman. Her hair was dark, long, and she had a very sensual shape, especially for being in her forties. Or so I thought. She wore crimson lipstick and a black summer dress through which one could guess the size of her breasts and the length of her tanned legs. When I walked out of the staircase, she approached me. A draft of fresh air impregnated with her scent reanimated my senses.

  “Hello, Gabriel,” she spoke in a soft and calm voice. “My name is Violeta.”

  She exuded a lustful and wild femininity. I felt like I had won the jackpot.

  “My pleasure,” I said, aware of my tattered appearance. “Who are you?”

  “We’ll have time to talk after a shower. You can trust me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “It’s up to you,” she answered, a little annoyed. “You have two options.”

  I sighed and was silent for a moment before continuing:

  “Well, I can always come back here”

  “You must come with me,” she said.

  “Sure. I guess there must be a good explanation — ”

  “Let’s say there is,” she continued. “Now let’s get going.”

  We walked out of the police station. The cadence of her walk, her heels beating the floor, and the thin thong that outlined her buttocks, visible through the fabric, drew the men’s attention to her.

  A Mercedes awaited us at the entrance. It was night time; the only visible lights came from the harbor and the casino. I had the feeling that I had been locked away for several weeks. Everything was so confusing that the best I could do was to enjoy the view polluted by the red lights of cars, the shadows of the boats, the humidity on my skin, and the smell of the ocean, which was quite an improvement over the smell of dried urine.

  “Do you like to sail?” the strange woman sitting next to me asked.

  I looked at the dock and the vastness of the Mediterranean. For a moment, I thought that could not end well. I just wanted to be in my bed, wake up, and convince myself that this experience had been but a dream. My thoughts faded and I was back in the car.

  That woman was up to something, and I could read it between the lines.

  I wished for either a drink or a fuck.

  “Are you kidding me?” I answered. “I love water.”

  And without further ado, the car pulled off toward the harbor.

  11

  The chauffeur drove southward, leaving the city behind. Inside the car, the radio soothed the ambiance. It was a late-night jazz radio show on a national radio station. I looked at the other seat and saw Violeta in the shade, her gaze straight ahead and relaxed. She did not seem very talkative, and I did not want to force her to have a conversation. Driving under the starry sky, we left the prostitutes offering their services next to the road behind. San Gabriel and Santa Barbara castle were visible in the distance, above the mountains. We drove down the federal road until we reached a detour. I recalled the moment when this ordeal started. How could I forget it? That morning, I was taking the very same road toward an unknown destination that turned out to be a sausage factory. Unlike that morning, though, the car took the left lane and drove under a sign that read Santa Pola, and Coltrane’s musical notes that accompanied me that fateful day vanished along with the ghosts of the night. Gosh, I thought. A shudder ran down my spine. I had lost it all — direction, my job, the will to get up — but they had not finished with me.

  Summarizing, I was there because of a series of coincidences, one after the other. I was the result of a poorly executed carom. The car seat I occupied smelled of new upholstery, but I was not sure it should be my ass warming it, but someone else’s. What would have happened if that hot morning, days before, another person had taken the call? What would have happened if Hidalgo’s fat friend had dropped to his death in solitary? Unanswered questions all of them. The mind is a malign artifact that sabotages us by asking questions whose only purpose is to instill fear in us. Questions have no purpose if they are not backed by an answer. And I did not have them. As any good reporter, it was me who asked the questions. People insist on asking the wrong questions, theorizing, and coming up with alternative scenarios to avoid the perils of reality.

  I asked the chauffeur to turn up the radio, and I laid my head against the headrest, trying to relax during the drive.

  The road was dark and silent. There was hardly any traffic, and only the headlights and red taillights were visible, moving through the night like sentries in that inferno of darkness. After a while driving, I realized that we had changed destination mid-travel. We got to Santa Pola, a traditional fishing village that had become a touristic resort since the 60s. Nothing was left of that epoch as a result of the mob rule of a vulgar and unpolished middle class. Those who lived there witnessed the boom of international tourism, budget travel agencies, and hotel chains that brought Frenchmen in sandals and bathing suits, shrimp-red Norwegians, early-morning-drunk Englishmen, and Central Europeans wearing socks and sandals. The town was certainly more colorful but, at the same time, less genuine. As we entered the streets near the ocean, humidity sneaked through our pores.

  The car got into a parking lot next to the Yacht Club. A promenade outlined the pedestrian area with a series of bars crowded with people drinking beer and eating fish tapas. I had a look at the diners, sitting on their chairs, waiting for a drink, or drinking beer at wooden tables. After spending a few hours in jail, I wanted them to drop me off there, let me drown in bubbly alcohol next to a plate of fried squid.

  The car stopped.

  “It’s here,” Violeta, who had finally deigned to open her mouth, said. “Let’s go.”

  The chauffeur opened the door for the woman, and I told him I could do it myself. The heat made me sweat, soaking my clothes. The t
apping of Violeta’s legs led us through the metal door of a motorized boat.

  “There?” I asked, but nobody answered. The man got on the boat first and offered to help the woman board. Gracefully, she climbed onto the deck. Then he offered to help me. He started the motor; I sensed the smell of fuel that impregnated the area, and we left the dock among the waves that broke against the jetty. Little by little, the dock was left behind, and we found ourselves farther in the sea, in the middle of the deepest darkness.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. I deemed it appropriate to start asking questions, but the noise of the motor and the headwind made communication difficult. “Who are you?”

  The woman stared at me, got closer, took her hand to my cheek, and kissed me on the lips. I reciprocated, and like the tide on which we navigated, our tongues entwined, creating a minuscule river of moisture from our mouths. She stepped back again. She smelled awfully good, despite the smell of the sea and gasoline. We looked at each other again. I felt a tingle that was neither love, hunger, lust, nor desire to get entangled with her in the sheets. She put her index on my lips, commanding me to be quiet, then she caressed my fingers. She had completely cajoled me. She stepped back again. I looked at her dress, the wind had pulled it up. She covered her legs and buttocks and sat back down. I did not ask again. In the darkness, I took a seat. The man wore a captain’s cap and did not seem to have noticed anything, or if he had, he probably did not care at all. So, I understood nothing was going on between them. She was the boss. She was the boss of me as well because so I wanted. I knew it the first time I saw her and understood it in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, but I did not mind. I was tired of going against the current, in the middle of the choppy sea, breaking with the establishment and feeling my strength abandon me. As I let her kisses settle in, I spotted a light on an island that appeared in the distance. It was Tabarca, an island that was once used by pirates and fishermen and had become a tourist destination.

  The harbor was unoccupied, and some lights illuminated the pier, but the man changed directions and took us to a rocky shore, covered in pebbles and dry seaweed. Then he killed the engine.

  We had arrived.

  * * *

  Upon abandoning the cove, we climbed a flight of stairs hewn on the rock and entered the streets of the town. Nocturnal cats slept at the door frames of the houses, that kept a Valencian sensibility with their typical façades and barred windows. It was dark, the street was unpaved, and the only sound was the waves breaking against the rocks. We walked following the path outlined by the few lampposts that led us to a square. That was beautiful. At the end of the street, the moon bathed the ocean in her light.

  “This way,” the woman said, interrupting the moment that I was savoring.

  We walked until we found a narrow street. I saw the old church, looked at the bell tower, and unwittingly asked God for protection.

  We opened the door to a house and walked in. A narrow corridor led to a bare but orderly hall that sported a staircase to the second floor. I assumed the bedrooms and bathroom would be upstairs. There in the hall was also the kitchen and an antique stone sink. On the table was a candle that the chauffeur lit up as we walked in, and two clean wine glasses and a bottle.

  “You will find towels and clean clothes upstairs,” said the woman like we were longtime acquaintances. “Make yourself at home, take a shower. You need it.”

  I obeyed and went upstairs. There was a bathroom, a bedroom, and a small room that functioned as a study. I wondered whose clothes those were, for they were a man’s my same height and frame, just a deeper pocket and more stylish. I did not mind putting those clothes on. I took a shower, slicked my hair back with a little gel I found in the sink, and put on a light blue cotton shirt and jeans. I rolled up the sleeves. Then I shaved my incipient beard with a straight razor and soap. It was evident that Violeta did not live by herself or that that was somebody else’s house, and she used it covertly. At times like that, it is better not to ask questions unless a sense of imminent peril prevails in the air.

  The absence of pictures made me suspicious. Not even paintings hung from the walls — a feminine and welcoming detail that warms up any room. After the shower, a sensation of exhaustion invaded my body. I was clean but fed up and irritable. For longer than two days, I had barely had any sleep; and for one week already, I had been undergoing constant stress from the chain of events. I was relieved to know at what point I was in the story because it meant I still had some sanity left. It was difficult to keep track of all the things that happened. After 48 hours under stress, everything becomes blur and gray, and the mind mixes reality an imagination. I sat on the bed to rest, and after a few minutes, I got up and opened the window. I looked for a cigarette in the drawers, but I found nothing but lingerie and expensive jewelry.

  I went down the stairs and found Violeta, who seemed to have retouched her makeup and looked livelier and more colorful. Seeing her from the top of the stairs, I got lost in the space between her breasts. That dress accented her torso and her hips. What a woman she was, and how well her age suited her. Besides, summer did her well as her tan showed. Her crimson lips, more intense than on the way here, came to me.

  “I thought you might have fallen asleep,” she said at the time her mouth displayed a perfect line of pearly teeth. Her companion had disappeared. He may have been outside. What did it matter! The truth of the matter was that we had been granted a moment of intimacy. I nodded briefly and the woman took out a tray with canapés, aged cheese, salt-cured tuna, and toast.

  Everything seemed laboriously calculated. My presence was not the product of chance; neither was hers. Before pouring the wine, I had a look at a shelf next to a fishing rod whose purpose was mere decoration. I saw a bottle of Jack Daniels and pointed at it with the finger. More than an alcoholic, I was a recurring drinker. The difference was that I never got anxious about the lack of alcohol and was aware of my weaknesses. Wine could numb me, whereas it would take more than a few shots of whiskey to reach that state. A drinker always knows what they want. I had to be alert, the time to ask questions had come.

  “Let’s better drink from that bottle,” I asked her. “I’m a creature of habit.”

  Although surprised, she did not object and went to get ice. I uncapped the bottle, and she returned with an ice bucket. I placed a couple of ice cubes in a pair of old-fashioned glasses, poured a squirt of liquor in each, and we toasted. We looked at each other intently, as though we were gaze-dueling.

  “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a sofa. She sat next to me with her legs crossed. “I know you have many questions. I would too.”

  “Save the speech, will you?” I interjected. “What is happening?”

  She had another drink.

  “Gabriel, you are a smart kid,” she replied. “I don’t know how you ended up in all this. But the only thing that matters now is the present, and we must do something.”

  “First of all,” I said,” I haven’t done anything.”

  “Let’s just say that we can help... each other.”

  “Help each other?”

  “You want to save that girl” — she paused for a second — “Blanca, that’s her name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Is she in danger?”

  “She is. And you can still prevent her from ending up like the other one.”

  “You mean Estrella?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Violeta said. “What does her name matter?”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, starting to get mad.

  “Because I am” — she paused for a drink — “Cornelius’s wife.”

  “Did he do it?” I asked. “Son of a bitch — ”

  “I’m not completely sure,” she continued. Her voice faltered. “All I know is that he slept with her... Well, not just her... with all of them — ”

  “Hold on” — my stomach burned like a blazing forest in the summer — “You have to notify the police. You must let the police know,
and the press. I’ll write an article myself — ”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t do it. For starters, nobody will believe me.”

  “But you are in the inner circle,” I replied. “You can prove it.”

  “I can’t prove anything,” she replied discouraged. “Nobody has proof.”

  “The police have a box. It was in Hidalgo’s apartment. That girl, Clara. She gave it to me.”

  Violeta’s gaze illuminated all of a sudden like I had flipped a switch in her head.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I didn’t have a chance to look inside. How do you know Clara?”

  “She’s lucky to still be alive,” Violeta answered and poured more whiskey.

  “How come the police don’t know anything?”

  “Listen, Gabriel,” she said in a firm voice. The edge of her glass was stained with lipstick. She seemed affected by alcohol. “The Silent Brotherhood is a sect, an organization whose adepts have lost their will and personality, and Cornelius is their guide. It’s his life project and is above everything and everyone, including him. They will obey him no matter what. That’s the way it’s always been. He thought he could control it all, even me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “There isn’t much to say. In such a small city, it’s easy to make contacts and forge alliances. Cornelius has a moving personality and masters the art of hypnosis and mind control techniques. Therapy sessions are nothing more than a quick brainwash to turn the adepts into sex slaves. There are hardly any men, and the few who make it in are high profile people. They choose the girls to sleep with while they are in a trance.”

  “You mean they force them,” I interjected. “People in a trance can’t be forced to do anything they don’t want to do in wakefulness — ”

  “Those girls don’t need to be hypnotized,” she corrected me. “Some do it to climb the social ladder while others live in a completely distorted reality.”

  “Where do you fit in all this?” I placed the glass on the table. She raised her gaze. “Why did you marry him?”