They quickly hatched a plan. Acting in total silence, they lifted the motionless body, put it down on a sheet, and then dragged it outside their cell. The cellblock had three corridors forming a U-shape, and theirs was in the third. Each of them overlooked the same light shaft, into which prisoners threw cans, cigarette butts and other rubbish. So Ibrahim rolled the body out and then pushed it off the third floor, like a sack of potatoes being dropped onto a cart. Then they went back to their cell, taking care to not make any noise.
‘That must all have been caught on tape,’ Arthur said, devastated. He cared nothing about the man they’d just tossed out like garbage. The only thing he cared about right then was his freedom.
‘I doubt it,’ Ibrahim said, calming him. ‘That was one of the Armenian’s henchmen, so the boss probably bribed the nightshift guard, who must have flipped the switch to let our cell be unlocked. He wasn’t from our block, so the guard will be waiting for him to come out before he turns the cameras back on.’
‘But what will happen when they discover the body?’
Ibrahim shrugged. He was annoyed by Arthur’s naiveté, his thin skin, too delicate to survive in the prison world on his own.
‘Nothing will happen. Nothing ever happens. They’ll fake an investigation for the sake of appearances, maybe find a scapegoat, but more than likely it will all just be forgotten about. Either way, by that time, you’ll be long gone and no one will be able to tie you to anything that went down — so relax.’ Ibrahim was at the sink washing the blood off his hands; then he bundled up the sheet he’d used to drag the body out and stuffed it down at the bottom of his mattress. Suddenly he was moving with surprising vigour. He seemed to know just what to do and how to do it.
‘You saved my life. When I get out of here I’m going to do everything in my power to return the favour.’
Ibrahim made a face, and his scar deepened.
‘Yes, I’m sure you will.’
By that morning everyone knew what had happened, absolutely everyone: from the guard who’d been bribed to open the cell, to the newest inmate, who’d been watching through the slats of a barred window when Ibrahim and Arthur dragged the corpse down the corridor and hurled it into the light shaft. They knew that that bear of a man had been one of the Armenian’s enforcers. But no one would say a word. There would be no whispering, no gossip. But there are always currents flowing beneath the surface. Currents that flow like the truth but are never stated, currents comprised solely of sidelong glances, half-gestures, unspoken understandings. The guards searched each cell top to bottom; Ibrahim was brought in for questioning, brought before the prison warden to make a statement; then came Arthur, and other prisoners. No one said a word. Everyone was playing dumb. And slowly, a superficial sense of normality returned to the cellblock, a tense waiting game in which inmates placed bets on Arthur and Ibrahim’s days, which were surely numbered. Only someone incredibly naive could actually believe that what had happened would have no consequences. And in jail there’s no such thing as naiveté.
On 3 February, a female civil servant led Arthur to the administrative block. The warden wanted to see him. Ordóñez was, at the time, one of the youngest prison wardens in all of Spain. He was seen as a man of few words, a hard worker with little fanfare, discreet and efficient, honest and just, but intransigent — a man with very clear ideas and the determination to bring them to fruition, regardless of whose feathers he might ruffle. In addition to all that, he was an exceedingly elegant man. When Arthur walked into his office, the warden was looking over some papers, leaning against a bookcase. He shot Arthur a quick glance — gauging, sharp — and extended a hand toward a chair as he motioned for the civil servant to take her leave.
‘Take a seat.’
Arthur remained standing for a minute, hands in his trouser pockets. He wondered what kind of relationship he might have had with Ordóñez outside those walls; they’d probably never have been friends, but there might have at least been some degree of mutual respect.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he repeated, this time less peremptorily.
Reluctantly, Arthur perched on the edge of the chair.
‘I suppose asking you about the inmate found dead in your cellblock again would be of no use.’
Arthur glanced at the ceiling; it had been recently painted and the office still smelled of fresh paint. He glanced around the room, the metal bookshelves, the files in various coloured folders, the phone on the desk nestled between a portrait of the king and a photo of the warden posing with two little girls so fair they looked albino. Just a regular guy, Arthur thought. ‘A guy with twin daughters, a guy who eats orange candy,’ he said to himself, noting the ashtray full of wrappers.
‘I’m so broken up about it I can’t sleep, if that’s what you mean.’
The warden’s neck flexed involuntarily. He didn’t like sarcastic types. He didn’t like Arthur.
‘Don’t be an ass. You’re not in the block now, there’s no need to be cocky.’
‘I know nothing about it, I already told you that, and I told the investigators that. I know absolutely nothing about the death of that thug, all I know is that he was one of the Armenian’s. Why are you so concerned about that sack of shit? He was one serious motherfucker — the man raped little girls, shoved glass up their vaginas. The world’s a better place without pigs like him on the loose.’
‘I’m concerned because someone threw that “sack of shit” down my light shaft. I, better than anyone, know the records of all the inmates, so I don’t need you to remind me of what he did, much less lecture me about it. It just so happens that, whether I like it or not, that man was under my custody, he was my responsibility. I’m not willing to let this facility turn into the Wild West, with every man taking justice into his own hands. I know what happened — I know it, I just don’t have proof, so I have to accept things as they are. But don’t for a minute think I’m a fool, Arthur.’ The man clearly didn’t have a clue about certain forms of subtlety. ‘Throughout your incarceration we’ve tried to protect you as much as possible, especially from the Armenian — but there’s no such thing as absolute safety, and I have another thousand inmates to worry about, so, frankly, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. One less headache for me.’
‘See the back of me?’
‘Your pardon just came through from the ministry. You’ve got friends in high places, Arthur.’ Ordóñez loosened his tie — blue silk that matched his spotless shirt perfectly. Without asking if Arthur minded, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the edge of his desk, pulling over a crystal ashtray with a few butts in it. He slowly exhaled a dense cloud of smoke, not taking his eyes off him. Arthur realised that Ordóñez was tired of men like him, and that he was making the effort to be polite regardless, which was truly laudable.
‘I don’t think I need to warn you about the Armenian. You’d be dreaming if you thought that when you walk out that gate, you’ll be out of that man’s reach. Quite the contrary, you’re more exposed on the outside than you are in here: the man’s got very long arms. Take your precautions, get a private bodyguard or something — and watch your back.’
‘I appreciate your concern. I’ll keep it in mind.’
The warden nodded, unconvinced, and then glanced down at his watch like a busy executive.
‘Very well. Sign these forms and then you can head to the locker for your personal effects. You’ll spend the night in the access block and tomorrow they’ll transfer you to the Castilla courts. And one more thing — slip up again, no matter how small, and you’re right back here.’
Arthur signed the papers and made for the door. He had the feeling the warden was watching his movements, and turned suddenly to face him.
‘You think I’m an arsehole, too, don’t you? You think if it weren’t for my money I’d be rotting in here for what I did. Right?’
Ordóñez examined Arthur curiousl
y. He smiled faintly, as though it were a funny question. Funny in a sad kind of way.
The same woman accompanied Arthur back to the prison’s communal area. Walking by the open gate of one cell, he caught sight of the Armenian, side-on, leaning over his windowsill. Sensing that he was being observed, the man turned his head, slowly. His eyes met Arthur’s coldly.
The Armenian smiled. Yes, he already knew. Of course he’d heard about the pardon already. But he didn’t seem bothered by it.
‘See you around,’ he said.
4
‘She wants you to do a portrait of the man who killed her son?’
Eduardo nodded, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the cup of coffee Olga had offered him. She was sitting on the marble countertop, legs crossed, jiggling one bare foot. Her hair was messy, curtaining her eyes in a series of corkscrew curls. A blue silk nightgown had slipped off her right shoulder, and he could see the gentle slope of her breasts, although Olga seemed unconcerned by this detail. She was smoking, and exhaling the smoke toward a sink piled high with dirty dishes from the night before.
‘That’s what she said.’
‘That’s nuts, don’t you think?’ Olga asked, smiling skeptically, though much less caustic at that hour — sans lipstick or any other make-up — than she would be a few hours later.
Eduardo set his cup down on the counter.
‘Doesn’t seem that way to me,’ he replied, staring now at the back of the chair, from which a bit of stuffing was trying to escape.
Olga gave a low whistle of admiration.
‘When you die, make sure to donate your brain to science. It must be as complex as Tagger’s.’
‘Very funny.’ Eduardo felt uneasy. He always did around Olga.
‘I’m being serious. It’s perverse.’
Eduardo took Olga’s reproach stoically, despite the fact that it was coming from a thirty-something with dyed hair — today’s highlights were auburn — and waxed eyebrows. What was the point of waxing your eyebrows if you were just going to pencil them back in afterward? he wondered. Suddenly he felt like he’d been foolish to tell her he’d accepted Gloria’s assignment. In theory she should have been thrilled; after all she was going to earn a hefty commission. But rather than celebrate, she had moved down to the floor, where she sat half-dressed, smoking and staring at him like he was either insane or an idiot, and debating whether to be pissed off or make fun of him.
‘It doesn’t seem that hare-brained to me.’
Olga tugged between her knees at her nightgown, which was short enough to reveal her shapely legs.
‘Well then explain it to me, because I sure don’t get it. If someone had killed my son, the last thing I’d want to have is a portrait of the killer. Kill the guy, maybe, rip him to shreds, or erase him from my memory entirely, but I certainly wouldn’t want his face permanently on hand.’
Eduardo let his gaze drift down to the worn, grey floor tiles. Olga’s bright red stilettos, cast off in a corner, seemed out of place with the filth crusted into the grout.
‘You don’t have kids, so you can’t lose them. That’s why you don’t understand.’
Olga smiled nastily, the snarl on her face discredited by teary eyes.
‘You don’t have to be a dick. I’m fully aware of the fact that I don’t have kids and never can. Besides, I’m your agent and I’m planning to earn a bundle on this — I got you the job, so it’s not like I’m questioning your actions, just trying to understand them.’
‘This isn’t just any old portrait, that wouldn’t do the trick. What Gloria’s looking for is for me to give that man a soul, to map out his personal geography so she can overcome her son’s death.’
‘Tell her to get a self-help book, do some yoga or something, for God’s sake …’
‘She needs to understand everything about him, no holds barred — don’t you get that? And in order to paint him, I’ll have to get to know him, get close to him in a way Gloria never could.’
Olga remained pensive. She understood enough about painting to pick up on the tricks Eduardo employed in order to sell optical illusions — not what his clients actually saw with their own eyes, but what they wanted to see. Eduardo helped them believe whatever they wanted to believe. If a plain-faced daughter was looked upon with a mother’s love, he could achieve that same effect with no clear alterations to the model’s appearance; by adding a glimmer to the beloved’s dull eyes, he made her seem rapt, instilling physical beauty in an unattractive subject, elevating the play of shadows to an art form and thus always delivering the desired results. The portrait Gloria wanted, however, was entirely different. She was asking Eduardo to lock a man inside a cell made of brushstrokes, a man who would surely struggle to rebel against the painter and jump out of the canvas.
She looked away. She had a feeling Eduardo was judging her with his eyes, mocking her feigned indifference. She wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words to do it. After thinking it over for a minute, Olga faltered, like someone who’s decided to jump into a river without knowing whether they’ll be able to swim their way out, leaving their fate to chance.
‘You like her, don’t you? Gloria,’ she murmured, as though asking herself the question, then she leaned onto her knee and struggled to stand.
Eduardo blushed, visibly uncomfortable.
‘That’s not any of your business.’
‘Yes, it is. You were very good when painting was the most important thing in your life, and you got even better when you met Elena. But this woman you’re inventing, Gloria — whatever it is you’re trying to do, it’s not real. Elena’s dead, and no optical illusion is going to bring her back.’
Eduardo glowered, furious.
‘So you want to psychoanalyse me, too? Fine, you can come to my next appointment with Dr Martina on Thursday and expound all of your theories.’
Olga waved her hands in front of her as though to erase what she’d said.
‘Calm down, would you? I just think there’s something insincere about that woman; there’s something fishy, too many coincidences. First you run into her at the park, then a few days later she shows up at my gallery …’ Ever since she’d seen Gloria A. Tagger walk into the gallery, Olga had had a vague presentiment hanging over her, the sting of long-forgotten danger. Objectively, there was no reason for the knot in her throat, the heaviness in the pit of her stomach, but something — something strong — told her not to let her guard down.
She felt uncomfortable, or maybe silly, like she regretted having brought up certain subjects with Eduardo.
‘Does she know you lost Elena and Tania in an accident?’
‘Yes, she does, and I assume that’s why she wants me to be the one to paint the portrait. I’ve been through the same thing, so she’s hoping I can help her make it through a dark tunnel.’
‘And can you? Have you yourself even made it out of the dark tunnel?’
‘I really don’t feel like talking about this anymore,’ Eduardo said.
‘Well you’ve got to talk to someone about it. It’s been fourteen years since they died. You spent the last thirteen locked up, and I don’t just mean physically. You’ve been trapped, reliving the accident. You think you’re over it? Shit, Eduardo, you’re not even close, and now you tell me you’re going to be some kind of beacon of hope for that woman. It’s absurd.’
Eduardo fished around in his trouser pockets and he came out with a wrinkled cigarette. He smoothed and lit it, attempting to calm down, and then anxiously glanced around as though searching for something. Olga followed his eyes and realised what it was.
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Eduardo.’
‘Life is short,’ he replied.
‘If you say so.’
She had glasses somewhere, but wasn’t sure where. Eventually she unearthed a grimy tumbler. She rinsed it in the sink and poure
d Eduardo a vodka — no ice, no lemon. He downed it in one, spilling a few drops on the floor, hands trembling. Suddenly he got that shifty look that made others avoid him.
Olga was now standing by the window. She looked distressed. Fourteen years on, she still felt like she owed Eduardo something. She worried about him, brought him clean clothes — often leaving a couple of hundreds on his table on the way out — and once in awhile even agreed to drink with him in run-down, sordid dives that stank of old smoke, just to keep him company. In exchange for all that, she expected just a modicum of consideration, of appreciation. And he categorically refused to give it to her.
‘I’m worried about you, Eduardo.’
Eduardo had poured himself another shot. This one he sipped, feeling less desperate. Shielding himself behind the scratched rim of the glass, he eyed Olga. He still wondered who she really was, why she’d suddenly appeared in his life. Without the commissions she got him, Eduardo would have ended up as a night watchman in an underground parking lot, reading bad novels, eating pre-packaged pastries, drinking vending-machine coffee and smoking his life away. She’d also been the only one who showed any concern for him when he was locked up in the prison’s psych ward in Huesca. She had come see him on visiting day, each of them spending the twenty-minute communication period in silence, sitting facing each other, separated by a thick, dirty glass panel inevitably smudged with the fingerprints and breath marks of those who couldn’t touch the person on the other side. They’d found nothing to say, barely daring to glance at one another. That same ritual was repeated month in and month out, same day, same time, neither one expecting anything from the other, neither asking anything of the other. From time to time she sent him cigarettes, magazines, art books, new clothes. And then, one fine day, she’d just stopped coming, and slowly her packages stopped arriving, too. She didn’t tell him why and he didn’t ask. He simply let it happen. But when he got out, thirteen years later, Olga was there, waiting for him in the parking lot. And still Eduardo didn’t ask why.
The Heart Tastes Bitter Page 7
