Silent Island

by Pablo Poveda

  She filled her glass again and took a long drink. Despite her slenderness, she was no lightweight.

  “It’s hard to believe, I know. Cornelius and I got married in an open relationship... I think you understand.”

  “No, I don’t,” I replied. “Explain yourself.”

  “Twenty years ago — before the Brotherhood, before we bought this house and any of this happened — Cornelius told me about partner exchanges, sex with other people. I wasn’t sure; I didn’t have much experience. He would always deny it, but he turned our meditations into hypnosis sessions.”

  “He changed your perception,” I deduced.

  “I asked him to change it,” she replied. “I let him convince me and believed that that would be positive for our relationship. Despite everything, I loved him more than ever. He manipulated me into experiencing guilt every time I had sex with a stranger, and that brought me back to him. He made me feel that I was in debt with him.”

  “So, he thought about turning it into a business.”

  “Yes,” she continued. “He promised not to hurt me because he would love only me. And so it was for a long time. We both had intercourse with the other members of the Silent Brotherhood. The orgies turned bigger every time, but he never thought of the consequences, nor what we were turning into — ”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You’d have to attend one of the sessions,” she said. “You have to see it with your own eyes, Gabriel.”

  Despite her words, she did not seem sad or weak, but quite the opposite. She approached me in a quick motion. I knew what she meant. She had become a sexual vampiress and was willing to suck me dry. She left the glass on the table and caressed my crotch that had risen like a flagpole. We kissed, and our hands caressed each other’s bodies. I touched her breasts and legs under her dress. She took out my penis and held on to it, licking it nonstop until she hurt me. I undressed her. She looked much more astonishing with her clothes off. I turned her around and began shagging her right there. We dropped the table to the floor, and I embedded her against the column.

  “Give it all to me, Gabriel,” she said, moaning. “Fuck me.”

  I obeyed, docile. Alcohol was a deterrent for my pleasure, so I was able to continue from behind, slapping her buttocks with my thighs. That woman had it all and was dying to get laid right there.

  We went up the stairs, naked. I took the bottle and carried it with me. Violeta stuck her head out the window while I groaned like a wild animal. The next hour was more of the same, and I fell on the bed next to her. Our sweaty bodies hugged. After the effort, my whole body was tense, and I felt exhausted. Somehow though, I also felt calm as a result of the relief produced by orgasm.

  “Rest,” Violeta whispered in my ear. “Amor vincit omnia”

  “Uh?” I said sleepily. My eyelids felt heavy from exhaustion. I looked at Violeta’s face; her hand caressed my hair. Her tone of voice was deep, almost as much as Clara’s on the phone.

  “Rest,” she whispered. “Relax. Sleep. Now”

  Everything went dark.

  * * *

  When I woke up, the sunshine came in through the open window. I experienced the pain of a hangover like the weight of a dead dog on my head. I felt too slow and overwhelmed by the colors around. I took a deep breath and sat up, dizzy and nauseated.

  The sun was high, it must have been noon, and there was no sign of Violeta. I was almost naked, had it not been because of a pair of briefs that I had borrowed. I walked to the bathroom and sensed a trail of women’s perfume. The house was vacant. Violeta may have gone out to buy breakfast.

  I was going downstairs when I ran into the chauffeur again.

  “Good morning,” he said, dressed in a white Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. “Mrs. Violeta has left, if it’s her you’re looking for.”

  “Where to?” I asked. “What do you mean she left?”

  “She left the island this morning,” he explained, “first thing in the morning.”

  “What am I to do now?”

  “I’ll take you back to the city.” He looked calm like an old wolf used to carrying others, wise and distrustful at the same time. “She left something for you.”

  He pulled a yellow envelope out of his shirt pocket.

  I took and opened it. Inside was a handwritten note by Violeta, apologizing for leaving.

  “There is nothing in here,” I said.

  “Look on the back,” he said and walked out to the street. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be around.”

  I turned the piece of paper over to the other side.

  I could not understand anything, and asking that mysterious man would not help solve my doubts. In it, Violeta asked me to stop Cornelius. When I read his name, the roots of my hatred toward that bastard grew deeper. I wanted to grab his skull like a football and split it in two like a ripe melon. I imagined us alone in the room. What was going on with me? I was not aggressive; however, his image was nailed in my temple, lurking in the shadows, a wolf in sheepskin. I was his biggest problem, and he would soon have to pay dearly for his actions. Who was he? Who was I? I wanted to gouge his eyes out by sinking my thumbs in his sockets, squeezing them until they popped. Then, I would cut his throat with a saw. He was an abuser, a physical and psychological abuser of women and people in general. He deserved to die, to be whipped in public like a villain, to burn at the stake. He was conning everyone, everyone but me, but I was going to give him a good beating, skewer him like a tomato before he laid hands on Blanca. Oh! Poor Blanca Desastres! I would never forgive myself. But she should not worry; I was her hero, her avenger.

  I opened a drawer in the dresser and pulled out a dagger. I put it in my belt. Just what I needed. Wait, how did I know it was there? Had I been to that place before? No, impossible. It must have been a déjà vu, a mental glitch. Those things happen and have no explanation, no meaning. I had read about them, they happened often. That led me to consider all my traumas. Had they been a déjà vu too? Maybe. They may have been but illusions that I never experienced in reality. They may have been convictions, and nothing more.

  I made coffee, wiped the sweat off of my forehead with a paper towel, and walked to the door. I found some bread that I seasoned with a tomato I found.

  “I’m ready,” I said, walking into the street. A few blond-haired tourists, including a small boy, looked at me. The town was very quiet. It was a July weekday without much traffic. I had better hurry. There was no time. Hordes of mindless tourists carrying umbrellas were about to come out from their shelters. That was the right time to leave that place.

  The mysterious man came out of nowhere, from around a corner where he might have been watching me or smoking a cigarette sneakily.

  “Follow me,” he said, slamming the door shut and locking it.

  We took a different route from the night before and walked down the street under the reckless summer sun that basked the island in scorching heat that semi-naked tourists enjoyed with their families. Seagulls flew over the island’s fishing boats, searching for sustenance while the children tossed breadcrumbs to lure the fish.

  We passed the village and went in direction of the lighthouse. We climbed up a hill. A metal fence corroded by rust lay on the ground. My whole body was dripping sweat. The man looked calm, walking between the weeds, always watching his step. I spotted a fig tree of colossal size in the middle of nowhere; it was also the fig tree with the most fruit I had seen in my entire life. It reminded me of my father and grandfather, the summer house, and the pain of prickled hands.

  “Are we almost there?” I asked, sweating like a pig.

  “It’s down there,” he said, pointing to a cemetery. What I saw down the hill did not make me feel hopeful about the future.

  “I didn’t recall it was this far,” I said.

  “It isn’t.”

  We crossed the gates to the cemetery. Seagulls and raves rested on the tombstones. The tranquility in the atmosphere eased my tr
oubled thoughts. Or perhaps, it was the souls who had found their eternal rest at that place. Or maybe, it was simply the heat. What did it matter! Under a small rocky gorge, I spotted the motorized boat. The descent seemed dangerous. He went down first, as though the rocks were grippy rubber through which one could walk safely and securely. I was next. I miscalculated one step and almost lost my balance. I turned around nimbly and set the foot on a closer rock.

  “Fuck!” I mumbled.

  “Are you alright?” the man shouted from below.

  “Yes, damn it!” I answered, annoyed. “I’m still kicking.”

  I went down the steep slope following his steps until I reached the rocks next to the boat. The man started the motor.

  “Get on,” he said. “We can make it just in time.”

  I looked at the sailboats on the other side of the island and the boats docking in the harbor.

  “Why didn’t we tie the boat at the dock?” I asked.

  “Because no one knows we are here,” he said while I got on the raft. The sky was clear, blue like a pool, and the east wind blew on my face. Seagulls cawed somewhere around us, and I felt a fresh and reinvigorating breeze that helped me ease the hangover. In the distance, I could see Santa Pola, Alicante, and part of El Campello. We would not be returning to Santa Pola, not that day. The orders were clear, and he was to obey them verbatim. The picture of that bastard Cornelius came to my mind like a blow, like a stone to the forehead. Instinctively, I rested my hand on the dagger’s hilt in my belt. I caressed the leather sheath with my fingertips.

  “Everything is fine,” I told the man who looked at me in bewilderment. “I thought I’d forgotten something.”

  * * *

  When we returned to the city, I felt rejuvenated, strong, fresh, and energetic. I was glad to see the tall buildings and open offices. I rejoiced in recognizing old places, losing track of time, the desire to speak and get drunk with all those strangers. The mysterious man greeted me goodbye with a slight wave of his hand. He readjusted his cap and got lost on the boat. He never told me his name.

  So, there I was, strolling through Maisonnave, walking among the tanned faces of the girls who bought clothes at H&M and drank coffee at the outdoor tables, showing off the tattoos on their thighs while the cars honked on the street. I looked at the traffic, the blue sky, the beach, the beer, and thought of a bed and the warmth of a good companion. I was euphoric, high on life, and at the same time, forgetful. I took a walk around downtown and took a bus that drove me to my apartment. I came to the realization that the board had been filled with improvised tiles and squares, and the game had become much more interesting than at the beginning. Having been bailed out, I had 48 hours before officer Rojo found me playing Sherlock Holmes.

  With the information that Violeta had given me, I had a place where to start, and thus, uncover that mess. Everything seemed so simple in movies. In reality, proofs came at a very high price. And I wanted to prove Violeta’s testimony, whether it was true or not. That is the way I was as a journalist. News was like coins, for they always had two sides that comprised a partial truth and a partial lie. It came down to a matter of positioning, decision making. I had to expose Cornelius’s plot as a lodge of sexual exploitation. News on such topics quickly made echo in the consciousness of society. Television news shows generated drama. Mothers became indignant because of their daughters. And judges lined up to take the cases. Taking credit for apprehending the criminals, appearing on the newspapers as heroes, then retiring, starting a law firm, and living from the benefits was a good move.

  However, before any of that happened — before armed police entered Cornelius’s headquarters, and he appeared handcuffed on television, giving his statement — I would personally see that he took his overdose of reality and paid for what he had done. I wanted to hear him squeal from pain. The mere thought of him produced a despicable and horrible image in my mind — Cornelius sexually abusing all those girls and women that I had never seen before. How could my imagination take me to those inhospitable places that I had not experienced myself? Be it as it may, my heart raced, pounding on my chest like a child throwing a temper tantrum because he wants out of his house, a prisoner eager to get out of his cell, or a dog trying to escape the cellar.

  When I got to my apartment, the first thing I did was charge my telephone. It had been out of battery for days, so I imagined that I should have quite a few missed calls. Just turning it on, I found quite a few voice mails. The excitement made my hands shake. I put the headphone next to my ear and played the first one.

  A beep sounded. First message.

  “Hey! How come the little whore you call your friend is with Cornelius?” a female voice said. It was Clara. “You’re fucking it up. I hope your rot in prison.”

  Second beep.

  “Have you gotten out of jail yet?” another woman’s voice asked. It was Blanca. “Call me if you hear this. I’m sorry I can’t go see you.”

  Third beep.

  “Did you look in the box?” It was Clara again. “Why aren’t you in your apartment? Are you avoiding me?”

  Fourth beep.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” a male voice uttered angrily. It was Ortiz. “What the fuck are you doing? You had better have a good explanation.”

  Fifth beep.

  “Fuck, Gabriel,” Ortiz said again. “The police came to talk to me. What are we going to do about you?”

  Sixth beep. I went to the fridge, opened a can of beer, and took a drink.

  “Is this how you defend your friend’s memory?” a female voice said. It was Clara. “I don’t understand you.”

  Seventh beep.

  “I’m warning you,” she said again, “Cornelius is dangerous. You have to save that girl.”

  Eighth beep.

  “Where the fuck are you?” Clara shouted, enraged. “I saw them at a restaurant. Cornelius has zeroed his eye on his new conquest.”

  Ninth beep.

  “Mr. Caballero,” a male voice said, “this is Officer Rojo. Please get back to me asap.”

  Last message.

  “Darling, are you all right?” the voice of a woman enunciated. It was my mother. “I heard on the news that — ”

  I hung up.

  I had had enough.

  I chugged down my beer. I grabbed another one and opened it.

  The gas swelling my belly made breathing uncomfortable. I wanted to get drunk but did not have enough alcohol, nor was it the best time.

  I went to my room and put on a black polo and an old pair of jeans. I was sick of wearing borrowed clothes, impregnated with the scent of that bastard.

  Among the wrinkled clothes, I found a cigarette and lit it. I took a long drag from it. Boy, did I need that. I moved the desk, clearing the white wall. I took my only poster left — one with the cover of Blue Train and flipped it around. I hung it on the wall with a pin and drew a line. I needed a mind map to orient myself in the situation, organize facts, names, and connections. Connect the dots, that is what it was about, right?

  But I did not know where to start. In my profession, I was never paid nor trained to solve puzzles or crimes. Ortiz never even thanked me for playing Sherlock Holmes or writing sad stories like Stieg Larsson. And yet, there I was, trying to save my neck from the guillotine, trying to square the circle.

  During the next two hours, I only left the room to empty my bladder and go down to the store to pick up more cold beer

  Exhausted, I started to have a vague idea as to what was happening and what had happened. Why had Hidalgo not told me? It had suddenly dawned on me that Clara was the connection between the two men. Even when she let do his death, it was not her who killed him. Cornelius and Clara had had an affair that went beyond the sickly sexual practices in the Silent Brotherhood. Spiteful, Cornelius — a jealous and fickle man — tried to erase her from the map, and what better scheme than using his mind tricks to convince someone to do it for him? Rocamora, a bankrupt businessman, divorced, an
d heir to a family sausage business that his own poor management had tanked, was the perfect pawn. Addicted to cocaine, and other hard drugs, he sought his cleansing and redemption in the Brotherhood. And so, he did. As a good initiate, he kept everything around him a secret; he quit the white powder in exchange for help. Cornelius had found the perfect man for the job, a docile and helpful henchman who was eager for his approval. Cornelius brainwashed his slave and offered him women. In return, he was willing to sacrifice his life so that his master could claim Clara’s as his rightful possession. Cornelius needed an alibi, a puppet, someone to throw under the bus and into the stake A blood pact would seal the contract. Miracles existed, but they did not come in cheap. Cornelius offered him to save the factory in exchange of one little action — to end Clara’s life. They would kill two birds with one stone. Hidalgo would become the main suspect of Clara’s death, and Cornelius and Rocamora would have as much champagne and as many women as they wanted to celebrate it. Like in the old times! Violeta would remain in the limbo, immersed in eternal silence, a combination of shame and guilt that led her to come to me in secret. Whereas, in Rocamora’s case, it was his clumsiness that led him to me. The poor fool erred by killing Estrella instead, Hidalgo would find out, and one July morning, the phone in my office would ring.

  Bingo.

  End of story.

  I had done it. I had solved the riddle.

  I put out the cigarette by inserting it through the opening of a beer can. I looked at the poster full of color lines, disjointed phrases, and squiggles. Now I had to put it all in writing, translate the facts into a text document, and publish it.

  Or maybe not. I collapsed.

  I could not publish that.

  I organized the facts.

  I felt exhausted.

  I grabbed a chair and hurled it against the wall. Nobody would believe my story.

  The silver dagger lay on the night table.

  What an idiot I been by forgetting about my personal problems.

  I got up, took the weapon, and left the apartment.