by Pablo Poveda
“What nurse?” he asked.
“The girl who told you we were waiting for you here,” I said. “Average height, not very skinny, young, and with a very big smile.”
“I’m sorry,” he answered startled. “I don’t know all the personnel on this floor, but we can ask the receptionist. She called me.”
“We need to check the room,” Rojo urged.
A cannonball started the alarms in my brain. I never forget a voice and knew that girl’s. We had been set up, an unfortunate blow. They had followed us.
“They sedated us, Rojo,” I said.
“You think so?” he asked sarcastically. “I thought it must’ve been the coffee.”
I decided not to mention that I recognized that voice. Rojo would have gotten angrier. It was the inexperienced girl from the ceremony, the one who was going to give in to the sexual desires of the Silent Brotherhood. I was positive it was her. Despite not having seen her face, I would never forget that voice, so soft and sweet, and whose innocence was about to get sacrificed to the lustful wishes of those monsters. It could not be anyone else.
My dream had been a disjointed recollection of memories mixed with the effects of the drug we had been administered. Rojo must have gone through the same.
The doctor called one of the nurses who denied knowing the girl we described. We ran to Blanca’s room, expecting the worst-case scenario — that she had been abducted. I was sure that I would find locks of hair lying on the floor of the room, as I had seen in my dream.
Rojo slammed the door open and we entered. Blanca was in bed, motionless, her hair was shiny and fell on her shoulders.
“What is going on, Officer?” the doctor asked in a berating tone. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Neither did Rojo nor I understand what had happened. The only certainty was that we had been sedated.
“You should be stricter as to who enters the facilities,” Rojo rebuked. “We were drugged by an intruder posing as an employee.”
“Limit yourself to doing your job, Officer — ”
“Rojo”
“I won’t permit that you be around disturbing the patients who recover on this floor,” sentenced the Doctor, emboldened.
“That girl, Blanca Desastres” — Rojo raised his voice, asserting his authority — “is under my protection, and I’ll be here as long as it’s needed.”
“That’s fine with me, sir, but at this hospital, we all follow the rules, and that includes you,” he sentenced. “Don’t make me restrain your stay.”
Rojo looked at me. That man was not willing to let Rojo intimidate him without facing the consequences.
“All right,” he said, pulling a business card with his phone number printed. “Please, call me if the patient wakes up. She cannot speak to anyone, nor receive visitors. She is under police surveillance.”
“As you wish — ”
“Call me if there is any development in her condition,” Rojo added. “She’s a dangerous and aggressive subject.”
“Sure, don’t worry,” he assured him, putting the card away in his coat without looking at it. “I’ll keep you informed.”
We walked away from the ward and entered the elevator. We were alone.
“Blanca is not aggressive,” I said. “Why did you say that?”
“Troublesome patients are not welcome,” he explained. “They’ll try to get rid of her as soon as they can.”
“Do you think he’ll call?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Could he be one of them?”
“Who knows?” he responded. “I may be becoming paranoid.”
“You know?” I said embarrassedly. “I doubt there was anybody there.”
“Do you think I made it up?” he asked upset.
“No,” I replied. “We were tired, just that... A bad dream.”
“Why did we fall asleep at the same time?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? Blanca is there and that is the only thing that matters.”
“You may be right,” he mumbled. “This business is driving me nuts.”
“We need a drink,” I said when the elevator reached the ground floor. “That’s it.”
What we really needed was to get laid, sleep with a woman. We needed to go on a spree, have a night with no restrictions, alcohol, and get laid to forget everything. But I still did not trust Rojo enough to suggest such a thing.
“Is there anything open at this hour?” he said while looking at his watch. It was 3 am.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “There are places in this city that don’t even close.”
And so, it was.
14
We returned to our old neighborhood, next to the bullring and the humid breeze that came from the sea. At every bus stop, there were sleepy drunk youngsters, waiting for the night bus to take them home. Ecstasy and shouting conformed the din of a night that had barely started. Like two cowboys in the west, we set foot on the hostile territory, choosing the saloon that would give us shelter.
We found an Irish pub with Hogs and Indians parked at the entrance. A skinhead who drank beer on the sidewalk looked at us. We walked down the street and found people sitting on the floor with their backs against the parked cars. Couples were kissing, strangers groping each other, and perhaps, a little magic powder here and there to spice up the night. I could sense the officer get tense. He could not disengage his role as a guardian of law and order.
“For once, turn a blind eye,” I told him. “You won’t save the world tonight.”
His duty was deeply ingrained in his being. What the hell was I doing wandering the streets of vice and downfall with such a square? I had nothing against the security Corps of the State, but I was not sympathetic toward them either. Policemen were so stereotyped that it was difficult to free oneself from biases and boundaries. One could never know when a cop would spoil the fun, and Rojo’s attitude did little else than putting that case to rest. Even though he tried his hardest to appear relaxed, his body language remained the same — walking upright, on the brink of goose-stepping, while he stiffly kept his hands in his pockets.
We could not help drawing attention, and I guess that a uniform goes beyond than simple attire. It is something that becomes one with the skin. I did not foresee a pleasant night. I imagined us hours later — a drunken Gabriel leaning against the countertop of the bar, under the stern gaze of a sober and boring Terminator preaching me like a disappointed father.
We entered a 24-hour café next to the food market. What we found there was worth making footage of with a professional camera crew, directed by Kubrick himself, and uploading it to YouTube. The truth is that the image was so decadent and real that the Internet was no place for it. Decadent was the word to describe what happened inside. A tap dispensed foamy beer at the center of the metal bar. The squared plastic tables and chairs featured the logo of the coffee brand that sponsored them. An industrial coffee maker, the griddle, and an oven that unfroze bread smoked about. The menu was simple, and the guests had way more alternatives to quench their thirst than options to alleviate their hunger.
We ordered two boiled ham sandwiches with molten cheese, a bar staple that late in the night. The clientèle in and on itself was a sight to see. Employees, college students, tourists, drunkards, and junkies with munchies enjoyed the party together. That was the other side of the coin that one would not post on their social media after the party. That is how people really have a good time, not the pose pictures that infest their social media. I only wished there was some confetti because the image was worthy of a story by Hunter S. Thompson. Those were the images that no one would ever know about, for they would never see the light. They were the savage cry in the cave. Boys and girls in their late teens, their eyes red, drunk like pirates after pillage. They were well-dressed, surrounded by beer bottles, empty cups of coffee, kisses, cigarette butts, trying to squeeze the juice out of every minute that remained before the sun — or their
parents — rose and devoured them like vampires. An image that traditional families, anchored in other decades and longing for times long-gone, would never see, for they were too busy consuming what they fed them on the Television while dunking churros in hot chocolate. A traditional image that repeated itself at every home, in every city.
In the current times, visiting one of those places was but a reveal of the soul, an honest and pure act that, fortunately, would remain there, in the vague memory of youth, the toilet covered in vomit, and the highball glasses with lipstick. No one would apologize, after all, there was no law against taking pictures, but despite the drunkenness they carried, deep in their souls, they knew that it was no good. The memory would remain furtively like a hidden treasure. Like everything in life, that kind of establishment had an expiration date in their lives. Responsibilities would come in, and nights of spree would go. Drunkards would linger a little longer because junkies would have to leave for lack of dough or life.
Among the noises of people, plates shattering against the floor, the laughter of drunk girls, a junkie begging someone to buy him a juice, and the asphyxiating cloud of frying oil, Rojo paled like he had crossed the gates of hell.
“This is... strange,” he uttered. “How did we end up here?”
“Relax, will you?” I replied humorously. “This is real life. What did you expect this late at night? A bar like those at Tarantino movies?”
“All these people” — he pointed about — “overwhelm me.”
The waiter yelled at a stubborn diner who ended up kicking a table before leaving. Then he came up to us.
“Shitty people,” said the waiter. “What can I bring you to drink?”
“Whiskey and Cola.” I pointed to a bottle on the shelf.
“Vodka and Sprite,” Rojo ordered, “make it only a sprinkle of Sprite.”
The waiter looked at us skeptically. We were sober, awake, and looked worlds apart from the rest of the diners. The man headed to the shelf where all the bottles rested, pulled out two glasses with ice, and prepared the drinks before us.
“It’s ten euro.”
Rojo produced a bank note before I could even take out my wallet.
“For your service,” said Rojo with complicity.
“Thanks.” I raised the glass to toast with him. We clanked our glasses and sipped from our drinks. It was strong, so much so that it tasted like fuel. My taste buds were up to a rude awakening, and my esophagus vibrated. I felt the refreshing bubbling liquid fall into my gut. “I thought you’d have orange juice.”
“I spent some time in Helsinki,” he said. “This is all they had there; and it grew on me.”
His words surprised me. Officer Rojo was a traveled man. He told me about his experiences and life in Finland. He also mentioned that he enjoyed Led Zeppelin and classic rock from the 70s and 80s. I did not ask what he did in Finland, so far and cold. He would explain it himself. “You know? I am getting fed up with this case. There is always someone or something stepping on our toes. There is always something that brings everything down and makes me second-guess myself. I’m no rookie, you know? We’re missing something. “What do you know about Violeta?”
“She’s Cornelius’s wife,” I answered. “She bailed me out and tried to use me.”
“To what end?”
“Many, I guess,” I said and blushed. “It was her who told me about the ceremony, and the one who told me about the rituals. She also warned me about Cornelius and Blanca.”
“She’s an attractive woman,” he said. “Did you sleep with her?”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Yes. So, did you?”
“Alright, alright, I did.” I laughed, but Rojo did not find it amusing. “We had drunk; and I thought that a bit of fun would do no harm.”
“That was stupid on your side,” he sentenced.
“No more stupid than passing on the opportunity, have you seen her?”
“You think you’re so smart.” He took a sip of his drink. His skin was beginning to gain a bit of color. Drinking did him good — he looked more assertive, lively, and real. “That woman slept with you for a reason.”
“I do have my charm,” I replied. “Perhaps she simply wanted a fling.”
“Listen, Gabriel,” he said while approaching my face. I smelled his breath, bitter because of the alcohol. “That woman’s sleeping with you served a purpose. She programmed you for something, I knew it when I saw you there.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked offended. The idea of being manipulated like a rag doll made me uncomfortable. I’m not a fucking microwave oven. I am a thinking being.
“Where did you go after she bailed you out?” he asked. The sandwiches had gotten cold. We ordered two more drinks. The bar gradually emptied, leaving the two of us alone. The noise ceased, and the rats returned to their dens. “I have to know where you were.”
“We boarded a small boat,” I replied, “and went to Tabarca. A man took us there. He must’ve been her chauffeur or butler. I don’t know. He did whatever she ordered him.”
“Do you remember the house?”
“More or less,” I replied. “I don’t think it was hers. There were men’s clothes; it was like a summerhouse. It was a bit strange. Although, I did notice something. She was counting on my visit. Like she knew that I would be there, and that I would accept. Honestly, I acknowledge that I let my self get carried away.”
“Then what happened?”
“Do you want to know the details?” I said.
“After the sex,” he nuanced.
“We fell asleep.” Then I corrected myself, “I fell asleep, actually. She lulled me with caresses. My head was clouded, and I had a humming in my ears. I did not understand what she was saying, nor did I pay much attention, but she whispered something. That night I had weird dreams because of the alcohol. I went a little overboard.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing,” I said, shrugging. “By the time I woke up, she had left already. The man took me to the dock and disappeared too. I never heard from her again.”
“Do you remember the boat, the house, or anything?”
“No,” I said. It was true. I had a vague recollection of the details. “I know it sounds absurd, but I can’t recall.”
“Did she mention that she’s a psychotherapist?” Rojo asked.
“No,” I said, surprised, and took a long sip of my drink. “She never mentioned it.”
The police officer took out his wallet and searched in one of the compartments. He produced a laminated color photograph. The picture looked old, and he gave it to me. I took a look at it. The picture showed a group of women on a mountain, holding each other by the waist. Everybody looked disheveled, smiley, and adventurous. The picture must have been taken on the peak of a mountain or hill. A beautiful place during a sunny day given their attire. I looked closely until I recognized a face. The woman on the left. It was her, the woman in the picture frame in Rojo’s office, the officer’s wife.
“Is this a picture of hers?” I asked. “Your wife’s?”
“Yes, it is.” He wiped his forehead with a napkin and took a drink from his glass. “Take a closer look.”
I perused the picture but could not see anything out of the ordinary.
Rojo put a piece of napkin on the picture, covering the head of the blond woman who held his wife by the waist. A slender woman with an agreeable and seductive smile. Once I saw her without her hair, I found a familiar detail. Then I paid attention to the proportions of her arms and legs. I knew that silhouette though she looked paler in the picture. It was Violeta.
“This can’t be true,” I said, raising my gaze. “Is this her?”
“Yes,” he answered in pain. “I didn’t notice it until I had a second draft of the organization’s chart.”
“When was this photograph taken?” I asked. “What’s her relationship with your wife?”
“These are the women who disappeared,” he e
xplained. “Violeta is one of them. If we can reach her, we might be able to find out the whereabouts of my wife.”
“What about the crimes?” I asked. I understood why Rojo was taking that case so personally. “I hope you have one of your theories.”
“After seeing this, I think that I’ve come to a conclusion,” he said and asked the waiter for a pen. The man, intrigued by our presence, took a pen out of his shirt pocket, and gave it to the officer. “Are you ready?”
Just when I thought the loose ends multiplied, Rojo showed me a hypothesis that completely turned my understanding of the case upside down. Without getting into detail about the pictures that we had found on Blanca’s computer, the police officer, who had turned into my drinking companion, told me passages of his life about which I was curious.
After his wife’s disappearance, he entered a psychotic state. He thought he saw her in places he often visited, mixing other women for her. The treatment took him years until he finally understood that the women he saw around him were only a projection of his mind, that his wife would never come back, and he had to turn the page.
Several years later, the case was reopened when the body of one of the girls was found. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall in their place when, in one of the pockets of the girl, they found a receipt from R-kioski[1]. His trip to Helsinki had been motivated by his wife. Rojo traveled to the Finnish capital following a lead, hoping to find someone related to his wife’s disappearance. His investigation led him to a cold city next to the ocean and a beliefs-switching seminar.
There he met Violeta, a young Spanish therapist of Norwegian ascend living in Madrid, who did voluntary work to broaden her areas of expertise and help her patients. Or so she said. None of them was aware of their connection through Rojo’s wife. They shared many cups of coffee, sitting with other people, and she left when the seminar was finished. Rojo returned disappointed and burdened with the malaise of knowing that he had wasted his time. One fall morning, he found her photograph among his wife’s belongings. He tried to contact her through the Internet, but his attempts were fruitless. There was no trace of that woman on the web. Two years later, Rojo thought he had seen her in the middle of the street while conducting a routine operation. I thought it must be a hallucination. Then, Violeta was still blond, and her skin remained pale as in the picture.
