by Rosa Montero
Bruna peered in through the narrow store window, adorned by a sketch on paper of a nude man whose skin was entirely covered with strange signs. The small store, a dark room with a wooden bench and some cushions on the floor, looked empty. The rep pushed against the door. It was unlocked, so she went in. She was immediately enveloped by a smell of oranges and an amber half-light. It was a pleasant spot. The bench, seen close up, looked old and was beautifully carved. Another piece of wooden furniture occupied the wall to the right. At the back, a curtain of clear beads stirred with a murmur like running water as the tattooist came through from the back room. Bruna made an effort to determine the sex of the diminutive, compact figure that seemed as wide as it was tall, and which had as hard a body as a ball of synthetic rubber. The person had very dark, shoulder-length hair and was wearing a long, tight, purplish unisex shirt over stretch pants, but seemed to have breasts...so the tattooist was probably a woman. The woman approached Bruna and, since she barely came up to the rep’s navel, scrutinized her from below. She had the roundest face the android had ever seen, a fleshy, copper-colored face, strong, and in a certain sense handsome. For some strange reason, her intense curiosity wasn’t offensive, and Bruna allowed herself to be examined without saying a word. When she had finished, the woman scowled and said: “It’s splitting you.”
Good grief, what a deep voice. So was it a male tattooist?
“What’s splitting me?”
The man, if he was a man, pointed at Bruna’s tattoo with a chubby finger.
“That line. How can you want to feel well if you’re split in two? And the two pieces aren’t even equal. And then it’s done with a laser gun. Yuck!”
The gesture of revulsion was so spontaneous that Bruna started to laugh. Then she recalled that essentialists tattooed with a sharp reed and vegetable ink using methods that were a thousand years old. Apparently an extremely painful procedure.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you. I don’t know if I’ll be able to discover your shape. That line you have makes a lot of noise.” The tattooist spoke softly, and again, the feminine side predominated.
“It doesn’t matter. I...I didn’t come in search of my spiritual tattoo.”
“Not spirit. It’s not a question of spirits. It’s your vital breath that has to be found.”
“Fine, whatever it’s called. My name is Bruna Husky and I’m a private detective.”
The male or female tattooist nodded.
“My name is Natvel and I’m a Tohunga. I’m the one who searches out designs. The one who traps them. And who reproduces them.”
The slightly emphatic statement sounded like a poem or a prayer, and the rep felt a little uncomfortable. She’d never much liked religions.
“Natvel, I’m investigating a murder, and the victim had a tattoo. It was a word and it was written in a very particular script. Lots of ink, very cramped, the letters almost overlapping. As if they formed a jigsaw puzzle and fit into one another perfectly.”
“What was the word?”
Bruna hesitated for a moment.
“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry. But I thought you just might know what sort of writing I’m talking about.”
Natvel scratched her thick lower lip thoughtfully.
“Was the calligraphy beautiful?”
“It was...suffocating.”
The tattooist nodded and, with a matronly swing of the hips, walked toward the wooden piece of furniture, opened a deep drawer, and took out a handful of papers.
“Sit down,” she ordered Bruna, pointing to the bench.
They sat down at either end of the piece of furniture and the essentialist deposited the papers on top of it, in the space between them. They were a pile of drawings done by hand in pencil or a red iron oxide crayon. Ancient tattoo designs, without a shadow of a doubt. Natvel leafed speedily through the sheets, as if looking for something, and eventually took one out and showed it to the rep. An eagle of sorts—a beautiful creature with open, geometrical wings—was holding a word between its claws as if it were a serpent that the bird was killing. The word was partially obscured by the eagle’s talons, but the end of it was still clearly legible: athan. And it was written in the same script as the one used to write revenge on the bodies of the victims.
“That’s it. Identical.”
Natvel scrunched up her big, round moon-face with a look of concern.
“It’s the Labaric writing of power. Filthy, wicked signs. This tattoo belongs to a boy called Jonathan. He was a slave on the Kingdom of Labari. Like all the other slaves, his name had been tattooed with the script of power to subjugate and humiliate him. But he had something within him. A special force. Thanks to that, he managed to escape from the Floating World and reach Earth. I could see that inner strength, and it was like an eagle. I tattooed it on him, devouring his slave name, and Jonathan recovered.”
A Labaric script! That was a real surprise. Bruna had been on Labari once, following a lead in an old case. She had to disguise herself as a human in order to gain entry and she had very bad memories of that cruel world of fanatics.
“Well, well. Thanks a lot, Natvel, you’ve been a great help. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Fighting against the shadows is good for you,” said the little tattooist solemnly.
It really was impossible to figure out her gender. And it wasn’t a case of Natvel being an androgynous, indefinite being, but rather that she seemed to offer successive, ever-changing images. One minute it was clear she was a woman and the next, there was no question that he was a man. Bruna wondered if Natvel might actually be a mutant; if that fluidity of sexual identity could have been caused by the atomic disorder of teleportation.
“Thank you very much, but you are...”
The rep hesitated, choosing her next words carefully so as not to betray her uncertainty as to the tattooist’s gender.
“You are an authority on the subject, and the work of an expert deserves recompense. And on top of that, if you charge me, I’ll be able to ask you for your help again if I need it.”
Natvel raised a chubby finger in the air and said, “Stop.”
And Bruna stopped talking.
Then the tattooist climbed up on the bench and put her hands on the rep’s temples. Bruna started, but didn’t move away. They were gentle, hot hands—padded, universal, maternal hands. Natvel dropped her head between her outstretched hands and remained in that position for a good while, concentrating, with her eyes closed. Rigid and uncomfortable, Bruna asked herself if she should be feeling something special—a certain energy flowing from those hands, an inner tremor, the hint of a trance; in short, one of those esoteric sensations that enthusiasts of this sort of ritual were always talking about. But she just felt ridiculous. After a while, Natvel released the android and straightened up.
“I know who you are; I know what you are like. I have seen you.”
“Oh, yes,” mumbled the rep.
“I’ve seen your essential form.”
Bruna stood up.
“Well, I’d rather not know what it is. Thanks again for your help, Natvel. Tell me what I owe you.”
“I’ve already told you—nothing. We’re even. But come back when you want to know yourself better.”
The detective nodded her head in agreement and left the store somewhat hurriedly. Once outside she heaved a sigh of relief: too many healers; too many therapists for one afternoon; too many people who seemed to know what she needed or what she was. At that moment, she decided to abandon going to the psych-guide, give up drink, abandon her messy life, give up her rage, abandon her anguish, give up being a rep. She let out a short, bitter burst of laughter that sounded like a sneeze. At least Natvel had been useful. Labaric script.
Screams drew Bruna out of her self-absorption. A short distance away, at the entrance to the Health Arcade, a small disturbance was unfolding. The detective walked toward it to see what was happening. Two big, strong, disagreeable young human males
—one white and the other black, with heads shaved in stripes in the manner typical of supremacist thugs—were pushing and shoving a billboard-lady, toying with her and her humiliation.
“Shut up, once and for all, parrot! We’re sick of your advertisements!”
“I can’t switch it off,” whimpered their victim.
“I can’t switch it off, I can’t switch it off...Can’t you say anything else, you smelly old bag? You revolting old woman, you beggar, you...Shove yourself in a hole, then, so I can’t hear you!”
The billboard-lady was the Texaco-Repsol woman who sometimes stopped off in Oli’s bar, but even before Bruna recognized her, she’d been galvanized into action by a flood of hormones, was already tense and vibrating from her head to her toes, was already prepared for the confrontation and invested with that wonderful, clear, and preordained calmness, that burning coldness that possessed her in tense situations. In two strong strides she had placed herself between the two louts so that the slumped body of the woman landed in her arms as one of the thugs was tossing her to the other.
“Game over,” Bruna said quietly.
And delicately, she lifted up the trembling victim, moved her away a few yards and sat her on the ground next to the wall. “Clean energy for everyone, renewable power for a happy future,” chirped the screen on the woman’s chest. Bruna turned around to confront the aggressors, who hadn’t managed to react to the speed of the detective’s movements.
“Well, well. This is becoming more amusing by the minute. A rep! Which test tube are you missing from, lab monster?” hissed the black man, his features twisted in anger.
The two characters were rocking nervously on their feet, their arms rigid and out from their bodies. It was the typical animal dance, the primordial attack-and-defense ballet. Bruna, on the other hand, remained quiet and seemingly relaxed.
“Why are you interfering, monster? Hey! Who told you that a genetic monster has permission to speak to us?” the dark-skinned man, who seemed to be in charge, continued to spit out.
“Jardo, hold on...I have a feeling she’s a combat rep,” whispered the other one.
“As far as I’m concerned, she might as well be a whore on hormones,” said the leader defiantly.
And, taking an electric stun gun out of his pocket, he threw himself at Bruna ready to fry her. He was quick, but not quick enough. Moreover, the android thought calmly as she jumped to one side and disarmed the lout by hitting his arm with the edge of her hand, he’d lost critical milliseconds amusing himself with taking out the Taser just when he should have been concentrating fully on his attack. It had been a really foolish decision, she determined as she was turning around, kicking her leg out behind her and hammering her heel into the thug’s genitals. He collapsed in a heap, gasping for air. The other character, as Bruna had predicted, had already taken off.
The detective went up to the Texaco-Repsol woman, who was curled up against the wall, shivering.
“Calm down. It’s all over.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much...I...I know you,” stammered the billboard-lady.
“Yes. We know each other. From Oli’s bar.”
Bruna helped her to her feet. They were surrounded by a small circle of bystanders, all humans. And some of them seemed to be looking at her with fear. At her. For crying out loud, they should have been grateful to her. The person they should have been scared of was that shit of a lout who was still cringing and sniveling on the ground, but no, the one who was intimidating them was the rep, the one who was different, the lab monster.
“The show’s over,” she grunted.
The crowd meekly dissolved.
“Are you okay?” Bruna asked the billboard-lady.
“Yes...just a little...shaken.”
“Thank you, dear consumer! Between all of us, we’ve achieved happiness for families,” said the advertising screen.
“My name is RoyRoy.”
“And I’m Bruna Husky.”
The billboard-lady must have been a bit over sixty, but she looked withered and a lot older. And she showed no signs of plastic surgery, so she was undoubtedly very poor. Her face was still pallid and her mouth was trembling. She was the picture of helplessness.
“RoyRoy, what would you say to us going to Oli’s bar? To have a drink, calm down, and recover. At least we know that we’re both welcome there.”
They caught a cab to the bar because the woman was still too dazed to walk. When they entered the bar, fat Oli Oliar immediately detected a problem; she possessed an uncanny sixth sense for when empathy was needed.
“What’s happened, Husky? Come in, sit in that corner, where you’ll be left in peace...Over there with your friend Yiannis.”
The old archivist was indeed at the end of the counter and was delighted to see Bruna; he had heard nothing of her since the day before, when he had woken her up to tell her about Chi’s death. The rep filled him in on what had happened. Oli—who had served them two beers and a bowl of french fries and then, her body spilling over the countertop, had stayed to listen to the story—screwed up her bright, coffee-colored face and passed judgment.
“That damned thug. He should keep in mind that a century and a half ago, our people were the ones being lynched and persecuted. But the renegades are always the worst.”
“I’m starting to get worried about this supremacy business,” said Yiannis. “Lately, I’ve been coming across some terrible sentences in the archive.”
“Which I assume you’re correcting.”
“That’s what they pay me for.”
“Texaco-Repsol, always in the vanguard of social well-being!”
Bruna and Yiannis exchanged glances. It was difficult to maintain a normal conversation with the constant chatter of the advertisements interrupting all the time. RoyRoy noticed the look and got up from the stool, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s torture. I don’t want to go on being a nuisance. You’ve already done too much.”
“Nonsense. Sit down.”
“No, no, really. I wouldn’t feel comfortable if I stayed. Thanks, Bruna. Many, many thanks. I won’t forget it. I think I’ll go and have a sleep; I’ll take my nine hours now. I need to rest. Please, let me pick up the tab.”
“It’s on the house today,” growled Oli.
“Oh...well then, thanks again. It seems to me I have too much to thank all of you for today.” She gave a faint smile.
Yiannis and Bruna followed her with their eyes as she was leaving. A little bird boxed in between the screens.
“She has one of the saddest looks I’ve ever seen,” murmured the archivist.
It was true. She did. The rep yawned. She suddenly felt drained. She always did after she’d taken a candy. The neuropeptide and alcohol cocktail inevitably had a huge impact on the body. Moreover, she’d only had one beer all day, the one Oliar had just served her. And that was fine. She wanted to stay that way, and for that reason, the best thing would be to leave now.
“I think I’ll head for home, too, Yiannis. I’m ready to drop.”
She felt so tired that she took a cab again, although she worried she’d get used to this bad habit. She arrived in five minutes, paid, and got out. The street was full of people; it was Saturday and the night had just begun. But Bruna could only think of her bed, of drinking a glass of chocolate-flavored milk, and of sleep. She activated the entry to the lobby with her fingertip and was pushing open the door to go in when a strange impulse made her glance to her right. And there he was, about five yards from her, leaning up against the wall, shoulders slumped. The alien, the Omaá, the greenish bicho. There he was, waiting for her like an abandoned and eager dog, an enormous dog wearing a T-shirt that was too small. Bruna closed her eyes and took a breath. It’s not my problem, she said to herself. And went into the building without looking back at him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cata Caín’s door was still sealed with a police security beam, although Bruna assumed the police had simply f
orgotten to remove it. Nine days had passed since the rep’s death and the seals usually didn’t stay that long. The only thing that the beam’s continuing presence showed was Caín’s extreme loneliness: no one had wanted to enter the apartment after her death; no one had shown the slightest interest in her belongings; and there was probably nobody who would remember her. Not even the police, who should have removed the seal. A short and wretched life.
Bruna easily switched off the electronic beam with a small pair of tweezers and opened the door with a key decoder. The detective possessed a good collection of small, illicit tools that served to disarm alarms, wipe traces, and decipher codes—effective as long as it wasn’t a question of very sophisticated security systems. In this case the lock was the cheapest and most basic on the market, and it opened in a flash. She glanced up and down the corridor before going in. It was Sunday, 16:00, and the building was quiet. The detective, accompanied by one of the janitors, had already been in Caín’s apartment the same day she had gouged out her eye. On that occasion Bruna had only checked out the place superficially, looking for basic information about the victim. Now she wanted to carry out a much more thorough examination. She needed to know why her own death was programmed into Cata’s mem. She didn’t have a clear idea of what she was looking for, but she did know how to look. The detective was good at searches; it was as if for some reason, the evidence leaped out in front of her eyes of its own accord.
