by David Hewson
FOURTEEN
‘Show business,’ said Manolo Figuera with obvious distaste. ‘This isn’t bullfighting.’
The three visitors sat in the front room of the little house, the curtains drawn, coloured light flickering on a small Japanese TV that sat on top of a video recorder.
‘El Guapo. The “pretty boy”. Not a nickname that flatters, you think?’
Maria looked at the figure on the screen. He was between twenty-five and thirty years old, blond-haired, tall, muscular and handsome in the way that male models or minor film stars are handsome. He smiled constantly, he played to the crowd, encouraged and rewarded their attention. He exuded superficial warmth, waved spontaneously to the audience, tossed an ear once, something the cops with her watched intently. Yet there was an artificiality to the man. When the camera focused on his face, grinning, triumphant, after some pass perilously close to the bull, he seemed, to her, almost to be mocking the ritual, the crowd, himself even. His eyes, grey, two-dimensional, reflected nothing at all. The old man was right. This was show business. Or perhaps, it occurred to her, something else altogether.
‘Now,’ said Figuera, punching the remote control. ‘Let me show you what El Guapo has brought to the bullring. This is what makes the crowds love him so.’
The picture flickered and broke up as it scurried across the screen: pale dun earth, flashes of gold and red and shiny brown hide. He punched the remote control again, the screen froze momentarily, then began to move.
It was towards the end. He was hatless, his luxuriant golden hair waved in the light breeze and the motion of the fight. The banderilleros danced around the edges of the ring, watchful, waiting for any sudden danger that required their presence. The picadors were at the periphery of the screen seated on blindfolded horses, thick padding under their stomachs, their vocal cords removed so that no whinnying of terror disturbed the spectacle. El Guapo was centre stage with the bull, radiant in a gold-and-silver suit of lights cut tight to the body. Sweat gleamed on his face. He danced and feigned with the crimson cape, held by the muleta staff hiding the sword, swirling the bull around him as if it were some monstrous puppet. The creature looked exhausted, but furious too. Snot and saliva dripped from its nose and mouth. Darts, beribboned, pierced its shoulders. Blood from the wounds they made and the picadors’ lances formed a dark red stain across its back. It lunged and stamped and snorted around the ring, unsure of anything except its fury.
‘Watch now,’ said Figuera. He hung on every move, the old ritual stirring up the memories. ‘Carefully. You must understand. This is the point at which any conventional matador would kill the animal. He’s already taken it too far for most. The beast is tired. There’s nothing left there.’
El Guapo danced the animal around the ring three more times and they could see how it lumbered, almost stumbling onto its knees in exhaustion at one point.
‘I would have killed it two minutes ago,’ said Figuera flatly. ‘It was a good animal. It deserved that.’
The figure in the suit of lights carried out one more pass, closer than ever, then walked away, turned to the crowd and waved. He smiled, a film-star smile, perfect teeth, hands raised above his head in acclamation. The camera moved to the crowd. They were jubilant. Men, women, girls, they screamed, went crazy. A group of young women, in short dresses, flowers in their dark, long hair, shook their heads frantically, close to frenzy, close to tears. Maria felt utterly detached from them, as if they were creatures from another planet. The sexual charge that so clearly consumed them was quite lost on her. The man, the event, seemed so artificial, so wrong.
Mateo tossed aside the muleta and the sword concealed inside it and walked slowly, unprotected, towards the bull. It stood, stock still, baffled, in front of him, saliva dripping to the ground. He was speaking, addressing it. They could not hear, but they could sense the dark mockery in his words and the thought came suddenly to Maria: You who are about to die salute me.
El Guapo fell to his knees, no more than three feet in front of the bull. The tips of its horns burned brightly in the baking sun. He shuffled forward through the golden dust. The animal stared down at him, senseless. When he was no more than a foot from its face, he reached up. The camera zoomed in. The bull’s hot breath, now short, deep, punctured by gasps of weariness, blew against his face, making the thick golden locks move gently away from his scalp. He reached out and, for a moment, it looked as if he were going to kiss the animal. Mateo pulled back his hands, shuffled forward another six inches, reached up and touched the horns.
It was an electric moment. The sound of the crowd died completely. With absolute symmetry he touched the base of each, felt the thick bole as it grew outwards and joined the skull. Then, slowly, he ran a single finger along each side, with the tenderness of a sexual caress. The animal stood motionless, transfixed, panting for breath, its eyes dark and focused, pupils contracted to two tiny, dark points. At the summit of each horn, he paused, brought the tips of two fingers and thumb together, felt the point, inspected it, clinically. The camera zoomed in on this moment: the finger, testing the spike, recoiling, theatrically, as the matador appreciated the sharpness of the deadly barb.
The producer inserted a picture within the picture. In a small window, the girls they had seen earlier, with their pretty dresses and tanned, attractive faces, now moaned in ecstasy, long hair dancing in the air as their heads moved from side to side, eyes closed, mouths agape. One seemed to be touching herself through her dress: the camera abruptly raced elsewhere.
El Guapo removed his hands, put them by his sides and stared into the bull’s face for what seemed like a long minute. It was meant to be a look of reverence. Still on his knees, he shuffled around, 180 degrees, until his back was to the animal, still just a pace away and showing signs of restlessness. The beast began to stamp its feet. Its breathing had become more regular, but it stood unmoving, as if charmed into quietude by the ritual to which it had been subjected.
The camera angle shifted so that it showed the bullfighter face on. He stayed on his knees, waving to the crowd, seemingly oblivious of the creature behind him. On the little TV set its horns and its massive head towered above the small, golden figure in front. They almost appeared to be one: a man-bull, life and death intertwined. Then El Guapo rose to his feet and the audience, which had held its breath for the entire episode, roared in acclaim, standing en masse, applauding, waving, shouting. Flowers fell from the terraces, handkerchiefs, hats, mantillas joined them. All parts of the arena, ‘sol’ and ‘sombra’, were in uproar. And still the bull stood impassive.
El Guapo picked up the muleta and the crimson cape, picked up the sword, hid it underneath the cloth, strode over to the bull and, in a single, swift movement, leaned over its massive horns and thrust fast and deep and hard between the shoulder blades, driving, seeking, finding its beating heart. The creature seemed to shiver, pulled back, as if awoken from a dream by some sudden, terrifying shock. The crowd screamed again. Then the animal collapsed, slowly, down on to its right side, one leg bent at the knee. Blood ran from its muzzle, a convulsion gripped the length of its frame.
It fell like a dead weight to the ground, its life pouring out in a bright-red flood that mingled with the yellow sand of the ring. Unseen, the crowd began to roar, the cheers rattling the tiny, tinny loudspeaker on the TV.
‘Show business,’ repeated Figuera. With a look of distaste he snapped the remote control. The picture disappeared with a flash. Outside the light was starting to fade and the constant chatter of the swifts had gone. On the little table the bottle was empty. He stared at it. ‘That is all it has come to.’
‘Have you met him?’ Menéndez asked.
‘Briefly. He won’t remember. History doesn’t interest a man like that.’
‘Do you know his background? He’s from the city. That I know. He’s an orphan.’
Figuera laughed. ‘An orphan? This is a new word for it. I must remember. An orphan.’
Menéndez stay
ed silent. He could feel Figuera grasping around at something, wondering whether to let it go.
‘A bastard. I mean this literally, you understand. He is a bastard, not an orphan.’
‘You know of his father.’
‘Family secrets. First Doña Cristina, then El Guapo. How they interest you.’
‘I know of no family secrets concerning Doña Cristina.’
Figuera switched off the TV and the video. ‘No. It is as well. But I will give you a family secret of El Guapo, and I will tell you why. Look up your records. His father is dead now, but, some time in the fifties, I cannot remember when exactly, he was a “big man” in our fine city. Until someone checked the books and wondered where the money was going. Antonio Alvarez. Yes. Write down the name, note it well. He’s dead now, dead a good ten years, I think. Unmourned.’
‘Who was the mother?’ asked Maria.
Figuera shook his head. ‘You think I hold a registry of births and deaths in my head? No. I apologize. I get tired, I get bad-tempered. I cannot remember. I said that he was Alvarez’s bastard, but he was not alone. This man was – let me put it politely for you, lady – prolific. From an early age. Ask around the city, search your records, El Guapo has many half-brothers and half-sisters, though I doubt he would recognize them in the street.’
Menéndez finished scribbling. ‘I am grateful. But I must ask myself: Why are you telling us this, Don Manolo?’
The old man smiled at him. It was a look of respect.
‘You’re a clever detective, Lieutenant. You listen. It’s rare these days. Why? Because Antonio Alvarez was a different kind of bastard. He was, for example, secretary to your brotherhood. That is a matter of record. He was a Franco-lover too. He didn’t just stand up for the Generalissimo because he wanted to better himself, because it was the safe thing to do. He believed. And that is far worse.’
‘I will look these things up.’
‘Good. You do that. Records are all very well. There is one thing you will not find there, however.’
Menéndez could feel the strain inside the old man as he spoke.
‘I did not tell you this. You understand?’
The lieutenant nodded.
‘In La Soledad, Alvarez was there.’
‘When the killings occurred?’
‘Yes,’ said Figuera.
‘And you think he took part?’
Figuera stood up and started to clear away the glasses.
‘I think I am tired. And I think I have told you enough. Also, I believe your sergeant wishes to speak with you.’
Torrillo was at the door. Menéndez had never noticed the man move. Now he stood there, blocking the fading sunlight, silent, concerned.
‘It was the car phone, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘I heard it while you were talking.’
Menéndez read his face, dark, pale and troubled, in an instant.
‘I thank you for your time, Don Manolo, and hope we may speak again before long.’
The old man said nothing when they left.
FIFTEEN
The triangular little square with the three iron crosses was full of people, some in costume, some in casual dress, everyone subdued, silent, under the clear, starry sky. Menéndez, Torrillo and Maria pushed their way through the mass of shoulders. Close to the entrance, herded together, stood a group of reporters, from the newspapers and the TV stations. As they entered, it was to blinding flashes of light and shouted questions. Menéndez ignored them all, Torrillo and Maria hurried behind him.
They walked past two uniformed policemen guarding the door and entered the ground-floor hall they had left only hours before. From upstairs came the sound of low, male voices. Menéndez started up the steps and they followed him.
The office seemed to be soaking in blood. It lay on the floor, in sticky, dark-red puddles, it was dashed against the walls. The smell of death, sweetly noisome, hung on the air. Five policemen were inspecting the room; Maria recognized none of them. A man in a white nylon jacket was examining the body. At first glance it resembled a carcass from a meat market.
Menéndez bent eagerly over the corpse, while Torrillo began to talk to the cops who had arrived earlier. She felt torn between the two, wondered what they would like her to do. Then she realized that, to them, she was now invisible. The matter was moving on to a different level. Her work, her original mission, seemed increasingly irrelevant. She wondered why Menéndez had tolerated her so far, whether he would continue to do so, what would happen if she ceased to be useful. When the answer came, almost automatically, she walked over and joined Menéndez and the pathologist as they looked at the mortal remains of Miguel Castañeda.
The pathologist wore white, opaque surgical gloves, now covered in blood, and crouched over the body as if he were tending it. As he worked, he poked and prodded, examining folds of torn flesh, a variety of entry wounds, looking inside the dead man’s mouth, lifting each arm to judge the degree of rigor mortis, testing the tightness of a ring on the dead man’s right hand. Menéndez and Maria watched in silence. Finally, the man stopped, stood up, then turned to them. He had a thin, slightly neurotic, sallow face, with a pencil moustache that looked as if it had taken a lifetime to grow. He smiled. There were brown tobacco stains on his teeth.
She didn’t want to look at the body too closely. So instead she stared at the desk, then quickly glanced away. A single human ear lay there on an old-fashioned pad of blotting paper.
‘Lieutenant?’ the pathologist said.
‘Dr Castares.’
‘You get the short version now. The long one tomorrow.’
‘And the short version?’
‘He was killed some time ago. The afternoon, perhaps the morning. Multiple wounds, at least three instruments. Ears removed shortly after death. Only one is still here. Along with a weapon.’
He pointed to a dart, with a red ribbon, enclosed in an exhibit bag next to the body.
‘It was on the floor, not in him, but there’s blood on it and tissue too. My guess is . . . there is a wound to the eye, here.’ He pointed to Castañeda’s head. The eye socket was a mass of blood, coagulated fluid and purpling tissue. It did not look human. ‘Probably the dart caused the wound. He threw it straight at the man. It broke his spectacles – there are traces of glass in the wounds – and then punctured the eye. Not fatal in itself, though. What killed him was the blow to the throat. Cut through the windpipe. He couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds after that. Then . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m guessing, but it’s an informed guess. Then he removes the ears.’
Menéndez’s head was swimming. Six, seven hours? ‘There are many other wounds?’
‘Many,’ said Castares. ‘I will give you a full list after the postmortem, but at a guess I would say at least twenty. Probably inflicted shortly after death. Some may be darts again. Others look as if they came from some larger pointed object. Difficult to say what, though.’
‘You carried out the post-mortem on the Angel Brothers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did they look similar?’
Castares thought for a moment. ‘Don’t push me, Lieutenant. I’ll look at my records and tell you for sure. But, yes, I think they probably are similar.’
‘So you think the first blow was the dart, and it hit Castañeda in the eye.’
‘Yes.’
Menéndez turned round, looked at the door, the office, thought about the way it might have happened. ‘Which is not what the killer planned. He improvised. He is a “practical man”. He killed Castañeda with the sword and then carved the body to fit the ritual as best he could.’
‘It’s up to you the way you read the facts,’ said Castares. ‘All I can tell you is there’s no reason for these secondary wounds. None of them are life-threatening.’
One of the cops who was working through the office effects behind Castañeda’s desk picked up a book, put it down, then said, ‘This is meant to be El Matador, huh?’
Menéndez nodded. ‘It look
s like it.’
‘Well,’ said the cop, ‘there’s something funny. I was in the house of those queers and it was full of things that were worth something. Just waiting to be taken. Yet he didn’t steal a thing. Did he?’
‘Not that we know of,’ said Menéndez.
‘Normally I work burglary.’ He pointed to the grey filing cabinet at the end of the desk. ‘So I guess I look for these things. See here.’
He went to the filing cabinet, pulled out a handkerchief, then opened the top drawer.
‘Mostly this office stuff has the kind of lock on it you could pick with a paper clip. Beats me why they even bother. But this is different. It’s got these little padlocks.’
Menéndez went and looked at the cabinet.
‘Every one of them is popped open. Every one. So I looked inside.’
He pulled open the drawers, one by one, from the top. He kicked gently on the bottom drawer and drew it open with the toe of his shoe. Menéndez bent over, looked inside it. There were a few folders, without identification. He picked up the first.
‘They’re all empty,’ said the cop. ‘Except for this. Don’t worry about prints, Lieutenant. Our bullfighting friend didn’t leave any.’
He pointed to the file in the drawer. Menéndez retrieved it and looked inside. There was a single sheet of cream office paper, blank, except for the mark in the corner. It looked like a smudged red thumbprint.
‘Glove,’ said the officer. ‘Just a smeared glove print, I guess. But you see what I mean?’
Menéndez nodded. ‘He cleared out the drawer.’
‘No sign of what was in it. You look through the others and you see the usual stuff. Records of meetings. Accounts. Membership records.’
‘You’re sure they’re membership records?’
‘Absolutely. They’re still there.’ He pulled out the second drawer down. ‘This one, and the one below. All paper records, some of them going back years. And you see this too?’
He pulled up the little card on the front of the drawer. ‘These top three ones all have cards that say what they contain. This boy had a good filing system, neat, tidy habits. This bottom one. Nothing. There’s a card. It’s just blank. Our friend obviously knew what was in there, but he didn’t want to label it for anybody else.’
