Silent Island

by Pablo Poveda

  “What kind of bait.”

  “An article, on the newspaper. We’ll have it published.”

  “Ortiz won’t allow it. It’s been a while since — ”

  “He will,” Rojo said and kept silent for a few seconds. Then he looked up. “He’s involved too.”

  * * *

  Mastication, a repetitive, automatic, and unconscious process. Mastication. We would go insane if we counted the cycles of mastication every day. Masticate, think, breathe, walk. Sitting at the terrace of a McDonald’s, all by myself, only accompanied by a menu, I observed the sunset, the esplanade, the boats docked at the port, ice cream vendors, and the soothing swing of the palm trees.

  I reflected that our behavior was not that different from that of other living organisms. We were predictable. Norms, ethics, morals, personal beliefs had a shared origin — a circle of core pillars.

  Between every bite of my hamburger, on a napkin, I began to scribble the effects and ramifications of chance. My mission was to write an article, a news article, to serve as a decoy to lure the subject to us. I knew that writing was beyond Rojo’s skill set.

  Despite having everything he needed to proceed, for some reason, he wanted to dig deeper into the burrow. He needed to know who was behind all that — and in a way — execute a personal vendetta against his wife’s abductor. I could vouch for the pain and resentment his words revealed every time he brought up the subject. It must be excruciating to lose someone that way, seeing your beloved ones sip through your fingers.

  The torment of lying in bed with the mother of your son, the love of your life, the dearest creature, who one morning — unbeknownst to you — starts to see you as a stranger, a solitary bypasser, with whom — instead of sharing a seat at the bus — she shares the bed every night. The days go by in endless succession, like an impassible locomotive that will not stop at the station because someone else is their destination. The pain doubles, the dagger stabs you in the flanks, and you bleed. In silence, you bleed to tears because everything is all right. Everything is all right, she says.

  It must have been hard for him and his son to witness, holding hands, how the woman, who illuminated both their existence, agonized day by day until her essence vanished from existence. Maybe Rojo was right, and not everyone who decides to join the game was a victim; for many, it might be nothing more than an excuse to pursue illusory freedom and, in the end, change owners.

  However, as I pondered my contemplations, I realized that I shared a connection with Rojo. Calling Blanca on her phone was futile. She had turned it off forever. I wondered where she was and thought of that bastard. It was more than physical attraction. Power, wealth, and his disciples’ devotion constituted Cornelius’s appeal. Did that suffice? Did that suffice to conquer Blanca? I had thought she was different, that she was of a different kind, but apparently, I was wrong again.

  I had a free afternoon. By sheer chance, I was no longer a suspect of any crime. My neck was safe again, not so much my journalistic career. Was that the end of the story? I could drop the ball and disappear as many others before me. But that was not me. At this point, I could not falter. I was very close to solving what had happened, writing the story of the year, maybe win an award, and — why not? — kickstart my literary career. If I only waited a little longer, if I worked next to Rojo, if I got the necessary material to illustrate my article, I would have everything I needed to return to the newsroom victoriously.

  For several minutes, I engrossed in my reveries of glory, a fantasy in which — after Ortiz’s dismissal — I was appointed editor-in-chief. The story was my story with all its consequences. It was me who had taken the phone call and was to write the story until the end.

  A pigeon alighted on the handrail next to my table, and I tossed a French fry at her. The bird nibbled at the snack and flew away. A familiar trail of perfume brought me back to my senses.

  I looked around, but there were too many people. I jumped from my chair; my drink fell to the floor. Some diners looked at me in bewilderment.

  Impossible. I knew that scent.

  I left the restaurant and ran to the avenue’s median, full of cars going in both directions that reminded the traffic of a much larger city. The street clock read 86° F. I turned around and around, trying to spot a face, but saw no one.

  My phone rang.

  I pulled it out.

  It was a private number.

  “Hello?” — I took the phone to my ear in a nervous motion — “Who is this?”

  “You’ve gone too far,” said a woman’s voice. It seemed distorted like the person on the other side of the line was using a voice changer.

  “Clara? Is that you?” My voice trembled. I felt a shiver run down my spine; she was watching me. “Or... should I say Sasha?”

  “Why didn’t you listen to me?” she asked.

  I kept looking around, trying to spot her among the crowd.

  “I did what you asked me,” I replied. “It was you who betrayed me.”

  “If you only had listened to me.” she said.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The girl,” she answered. The voice sounded more human-like but was still unrecognizable. “The girl is in danger. Go to her apartment.”

  “What? Now?”

  The call was cut off. For one moment, I felt so small and insignificant, surrounded by all those people. Should I trust the caller? I was not sure that had been Clara, not at least who I knew as Clara.

  “Rojo?” I said when he took my call. “I’m going to Blanca’s.”

  “Now?” he interjected. “You’d better get some rest.”

  “I just got an anonymous call. I think it might’ve been Clara, the voice was distorted. They said Blanca is in danger.”

  “Where are you?” he inquired. “Don’t move.”

  Minutes later, officer Rojo showed up on a BMW motorbike painted with the corps schematics.

  “That was fast,” I said, grabbing the helmet.

  “I always am,” he replied. “At almost everything.”

  We got on the bike. A set of police lights went off on the back of the vehicle. I held on to the passenger’s backrest; an electric shock ran down my spine and exploded in my rectum. The trip tickled me and gave me nausea and vertigo. I was overwhelmed by the bike’s thrust, the pressure against the asphalt, the flying sensation, and the awareness that at the slightest distraction, we would end up flying in the air like a squash ball heading toward the wall. Officer Rojo operated the controls on the handlebar. I felt a gush of air against the face, and we darted like a missile; I thought I would faint right there, behind the officer, who dodged the oncoming red lights of the cars that we passed while the nebula that separated the space from my thoughts dissipated.

  We turned into quantum particles traveling through space.

  We got to the apartment building, sprinted like hurdlers at a race, dodging obstacles, climbing steps in twos, and leaving fear and pain behind.

  The neighbors peeked out of their apartments in fear, motivated by our presence. Everything happened way too quickly. I rang the bell, but no one opened the door. There was music coming out of the apartment.

  “Blanca!” I shouted. “Open the door!”

  “Step aside!” Rojo ordered. He stepped back and kicked the doorknob, achieving nothing. I headed to the stairwell and grabbed a fire extinguisher. I walked a few steps back to gain momentum and smashed it against the doorknob to no avail.

  “Out, everybody!” the officer shouted. He pulled out his gun and shot against the lock; the blast was deafening. My ears began to ring while some women yelled. We pushed the door and entered. Therein, Charlie Parker played the sax. The computer was on, and the screen displayed a picture of me on an Internet article. Blanca had been doing some research on me. I looked for her with the eyes but did not want to witness whatever I found.

  There she was, lying on the sofa where I had slept those days. Her pale and motionless body lay on the c
ouch. Her hair, ruffled, covered most of her face, revealing only her lips. Blanca was sleeping either for a bit or perhaps, for eternity. She was wearing casual attire, nothing special, the way she always dressed. Had she found a reason to take that step? She might have been working, or not. Next to her lay an open bottle of Valium, and a handful of pills scattered on the floor. The police officer ran to her and grabbed her wrist.

  “Call an ambulance!”

  “Oh, no!” I uttered,” is she alive?”

  “Barely,” he replied. “Come on, wake up, come on.”

  I noticed the snoops, told them to leave, and shut the door. My legs trembled, my limbs were cold and shivery, and I felt like I could drop to the floor at any moment. What was happening to me? I felt responsible for what happened. I felt responsible for having left her alone with that bastard. Possibly, she had gained her senses and realized what she had gotten herself into. Damn it, I cursed myself and ran to the bathroom.

  I checked the sink, the cabinets, and drawers looking for more pills. I went back to the room and had a look at her desk. I opened the web browser and went over her search history. My name was in it, and I could not understand why. What was she looking for? Why me? I went through her notes and the folders on her desk. She had lied to me from the beginning. Blanca was not interested in the suicides nor Estrella’s murder.

  I delved in a thumb drive that she had plugged in her computer. Every folder had a number assigned. In one of them, I found pictures of me. I was younger and appeared next to Patricia. Those pictures dated back to when we were together. Stupid bitch! I thought aloud, and Rojo turned to me.

  My discovery depleted my remaining strength, and everything vanished like drawings on the sand during a storm. My head was spinning, and I needed to sit. The ambulance arrived shortly after and took Blanca. I was leaning against a chair but could not hear anything. I could not focus on whatever happened before my eyes. I had locked myself up in my own body like that movie where the protagonist undergoes decompression syndrome. Rojo said something that I did not want to hear.

  “Hey! he shouted. “Are you there?”

  He snapped his fingers before my eyes.

  “Yes,” I responded, pushing his hand away. “That startled me, damn.”

  “Are you coming or not?” he asked nervously. “We have to take her to a hospital.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later — ”

  “Are you sure?” He did not trust me. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea that I come along,” I replied. “Right now, I would like to see her dead.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Have a look at it yourself” — I pointed to the screen — “What is all that, Rojo?”

  The police officer looked through the pictures. He was flabbergasted. It was me; it had always been me. Pictures from different places, among friends, with Hidalgo, pictures from the surveillance camera at the sausage factory. Was there an objective? There might be one, but what was it?

  “Go back to the last picture,” I told Rojo. He stopped and pressed a key. In the picture, there was Blanca next to me.

  “I don’t like this one single bit,” he said. “What do you think? Whose drive is this?”

  “I don’t know. It was plugged in the computer.”

  “We’ll have to wait for her to wake up,” he sentenced.

  “What if we don’t?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to get a good lawyer.”

  * * *

  The hours passed, and the night became silent between the corridors of the General Hospital. The rubber soles of the nurses’ shoes brushing the floor marked the harmonious beats between silences. A receptionist guarded her stand post with two cups of coffee and a keyboard on the desk. It was a good place to die, I thought, surrounded by souls trapped between the walls; and spirits that struggle between life and death, torn between staying or leaving this world. The idea that there were people behind those doors clashing against death, some of whom tried to escape a coma and whose bodies had turned into sarcophagi, so close and yet so far, gave me the chills. I pictured them wandering about in the corridors, hiding from their relatives. They were free from the pain, free forever, but weakened and frightened, disoriented in a new plane of existence. I saw them sneak out through the stairs, walking through walls, and abandoning their beloved ones still burdened with flesh, blood, and bone, unaware that their relative had left ala française through the backdoor without bidding farewell. My own thought unnerved me, and I felt a shiver go down my spine. Rojo returned with a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’ll end up here if you continue drinking this shit.”

  “One gets used to the taste in the end,” he answered. His words reminded me of Rocamora. “What’s on your mind?”

  “A lot.”

  “For one moment,” he continued, “I thought all my work had gone to the crapper.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said. “Listen, I think they’re trying to use you.”

  “Thanks for the information,” I said sarcastically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Don’t be such an idiot. Think. Why hadn’t they acted before?”

  The police officer was right.

  “It got out of hand,” I pondered. “There is no other explanation.”

  “Those are old pictures,” he explained. “Much older than Rocamora’s phone call.”

  “Said like that, it’s more entangled that I can fathom.”

  “Maybe” — he had a sip of his coffee — “Blanca and you are the next on the list, the difference is that you — ”

  “I haven’t done anything!” I interrupted him. The nurse hushed me. “I’ve told you already. By the way, what’s in the box?”

  The police sighed.

  “A film reel,” he said. “A movie.”

  “Is that it?” I asked. “What’s in it?”

  “It’s pretty disagreeable,” he responded. “Your friend Hidalgo was a degenerate.”

  “How can I know you’re telling the truth?” I asked, standing up and holding the coffee in my hand. “How do I know you’re not lying to me. That you are not one of them, another branch in the chart?”

  “I am a law enforcer,” he sentenced. “Cut the crap, will you?”

  “I do what I can.”

  The room got silent. A nurse walked in, breaking the silence.

  “I haven’t asked you, but” — Rojo got serious — “what did you do?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “With that girl,” he added, “what happened between you and Estrella?”

  The nurse walked to us, holding two plastic cups of water. It was an agreeable young girl with an amicable smile.

  “On the house,” she said.

  “Thanks,” we both uttered in unison.

  “If you don’t mind,” she continued, “we mustn’t disturb the patients in the ward. May I suggest that you go into the waiting room?”

  “She’s a person of interest,” said Rojo and produced his badge. “She can’t get out of my sight.”

  “It’s an order, I’m afraid,” the nurse responded. “If you wish, you can speak with my supervisor; I’m just a nurse.”

  The girl made a grimace, like she did not feel comfortable breaking the norms. Rojo did not object to speaking to her boss and agreed to wait for him in the waiting room. She escorted us to the waiting room, and we sat on green plastic chairs. She disappeared behind the door and we were surrounded by silence again.

  “Get yourself one of those,” Rojo said. “Pretty, young, sweet — ”

  “Just like you, uh?” I said jokingly.

  “You’re wrong,” he responded. “I’m not sweet at all.”

  We laughed. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  An urge to yawn invaded me. I felt relaxed, perhaps too much.

  “Sure,” I replied. “Estrella... right?”<
br />
  “Yes... that... girl...” Rojo replied. “That... girl... damn... I feel... so — ”

  I could not hear Rojo finish his phrase. My eyelids felt really heavy. My muscles unresponsive.

  “It’s... a long... story...” I uttered. “I... don’t —”

  I turned around with lots of effort. I looked at Rojo. He had fallen asleep. It did not bother me, I felt just like taking a nap too. It was not a bad idea.

  I folded my arms and leaned my head against the wall. When my eyelids shut, colorful spirals, white clouds, and sepia slides appeared in my mind. A collage of visual sensations mixed with a noise difficult to describe. It was a humming, a signal that I was about to fall asleep. I moved my fingers and tried to wake up, but it was too late. Unwillingly, I feel in a deep state of somnolence. Had I just not had a cup of coffee? It did not matter; I needed a reinvigorating nap. Both of us did. Napping would make the wait shorter. After seeing Rojo sleeping like a child, my brain presented me with a peaceful golden dream that transported me to another plane, unfolding from my own body.

  * * *

  I remembered a face — the nurse’s face. It appeared blurry and obscured. I blinked a few times, the corridor was illuminated in red, and I was sitting on the plastic chair. In my mind, I saw the nurse’s face, then Blanca’s with her head shaved. I blinked again; the colors changed. An instrumental melody played in my ears. Blanca’s hair lay on the floor.

  I blinked again and saw Officer Rojo next to a man in a white coat and glasses. His head was the size of a football and was balding on the top of the head. Everything got its normal color; moving was difficult.

  “Officer?” the called Rojo.

  He woke up.

  “Oh, shit,” he murmured. He turned to me. “You too?”

  I nodded with the head.

  “Not many people manage to fall asleep on these chairs,” said the man in glasses, trying to break the ice. Rojo ignored him and addressed me.

  “I fell asleep,” he said, startled like he had woken up from a bad dream.

  “Me too,” I replied. “It was her, wasn’t she?”

  “Where is the nurse?” Rojo asked the man. “The head nurse of the ward.”