That said, the films he liked best were Westerns. Followed by gangster movies. From time to time there would be an Italian film and he’d attend the projection with the bearing of a navigation officer on the bridge. He’d declare, ‘Too much truth for the cinema.’ An opinion he let slide into the cans when he was putting away the rolls of film, as if he had no one else to talk to. ‘That Magnani puts them all to shame.’ He definitely didn’t like films with swordsmen, an opinion he shared with his boss, Mariscal. Fins knew this, having heard a curse that was regularly used in the Ultramar: ‘I shit on the Three Musketeers and Cardinal Richelieu!’ Rumbo’s theory was that, in the age of firearms, it was backward to make films with steel. And, together with the audience, he celebrated the progress that saw Indians equipped with Winchester rifles. ‘That gives them a fighting chance.’ Though in the end they just died more and more quickly.
Today, as night fell after the afternoon’s session, the sound of shots being fired, Clint Eastwood’s horse on the move and the lazy flight of scraps of dried grass all descended into the dunes’ desert. Rumbo whistled the catchy tune to For a Few Dollars More and so set the rhythm for the methodical, simple transformation that turned the cinema into a dance hall. All the lights went on, emphasising the colours of the garlands. Brinco, Leda and Fins placed the chairs against the wall and swept the floor, though Belvís was the quickest, riding his noisy, invisible Montesa. On the stage they let down a velvety black curtain that covered the screen. The musicians entered without a sound. Sometimes you weren’t even sure they were there until they took out their instruments and began to warm up. Rumbo arranged a buffet at the other end of the hall, opposite the stage, in a dimly lit area. The band of musicians today included two guitarists. Today was special. Sira was going to sing. She hadn’t sung since the previous New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t that she was responsible for livening up the dance; she wasn’t even the main voice. But she’d always come out to sing two or three fados. And this was a starlit moment. As the schoolteacher Barbeito used to say, there were two nights after listening to Sira Portosalvo. The night that froze the sense of unease. And the night that gave it shelter.
Everybody was waiting. The eldest were sitting down on either side of the hall. In front of them, couples dancing. The youngest in the middle and at the back. While the musicians played merengues and cumbias, a group led by Brinco mucked about with Leda and Fins, pushing them so that they would dance together. The girl was wearing a printed summer dress and turning round and round. Fins felt annoyed. He had his arms crossed and defended himself with his elbows against the others, who jumped around at the end of ‘La piragua’. The moment Sergeant Montes and Vargas the guard came in, a few of the elders sitting down stopped talking and glanced in their direction. The guards surveyed the scene and headed for the bar, where Rumbo made sure they were well attended.
Then Sira came in. Wearing a black shawl and large silver hoop earrings inlaid with jet. She looked around, her head raised, then removed her shoes.
‘I would like to dedicate the first song of the night to the dance’s finest couple,’ she said. ‘The one from the Civil Guard!’
She’d done this before. No one was surprised. Sergeant Montes smiled with satisfaction. Hungered after the singer. And the fado began, ‘I had the keys of life, but didn’t open the doors where happiness lived’, at which point all the other details lost their meaning. Sira, Sira’s voice, captivated every nook and cranny, every glance. The door of the dance hall opened and in came Mariscal, who walked diagonally without taking in the stage. At the buffet, he gestured in greeting to the guards with his hat. Whispered something to Rumbo, who nodded and offered the guards a second drink. Imported whisky. Johnnie Walker. They were grateful and raised their glasses in a toast.
And while Sira sang ‘Chaves da vida’, Brinco left the dance hall. Followed by Leda and Fins.
Brinco ran towards the beach, abandoned the dance hall, in an attempt to escape his mother’s charming voice. He realised there were two hangers-on. Stopped and turned around with an angry expression. ‘What? Always sniffing around my bottom.’
‘We belong here as much as you!’ said Leda defiantly.
‘You really never stop talking. My mother’s right.’
Brinco knew how to wound with his tongue, but this time he realised that his last sentence was an arrow aimed at himself. He set off running. Leda’s voice chased after him, ‘Well, look who’s doing the talking, mummy’s boy!’
The whore who gave birth to her, he thought, how well she knew how to hit the spot. He came to the beached boat where two men were waiting, the veteran Carburo and younger Inverno. Garbled the message, tripping on his words because of all the running and the annoyance caused by the others, like carrying along a string of cans. ‘Rumbo says you can start unloading!’
‘Unloading what?’ asked Carburo. The boy needed training.
‘The tuna, of course!’
The other two approached, running.
‘And these two Martians?’ asked Inverno.
‘Oh, these two will work for free.’
The two men laughed. ‘Well, aren’t we the lucky ones?’
The group started walking with Carburo at the front. His large head, his body slightly bowed. A sculpted figure wounding the night. Leda heard what Brinco said to Inverno and reacted bravely. ‘Free, my arse.’
‘She’s a wild one,’ said Inverno. ‘That’s it, girl, make sure you protect your interests.’
In a whisper, to Brinco, ‘That girl, in a few years’ time, will be pure dynamite.’
From the end of the breakwater, a man signals in Morse with a torch. Another replies from a boat not far out at sea. It’s summer and the sea is calm. Shortly afterwards there is the sound of a nautical engine, and the silhouette of a fishing boat comes into view.
The fishing boat docks. Heavily laden, fore and aft, with large shapes covered in nets and other fishing tackle, such as buoys and creels. When the sailors remove the camouflage, cardboard boxes containing smuggled tobacco are revealed. Mussel-raft blond. More people have arrived, mostly men, but also some women, moving between the darkness of the nearby pine groves and the light of the moon, which illuminates the ramp of the old harbour.
A Mercedes turns up and out gets Mariscal. All the carriers take up position, quickly forming a well-spaced human line. Mariscal follows their movements from the promontory. He has a good panoramic view, but he also knows that he is visible. Raised in the night. The mouth that talks.
‘Everything all right, Gamboa?’
‘Everything OK, boss.’
‘Carburo, get these people moving!’
‘Everybody listen. At full speed. In order and in silence. There’s no need to worry. The guards are still at the dance.’
One of the women taking part in the procession starts singing a ballad, ‘Did you dance, Carolina? Yes, I danced! Tell me who you danced with! I danced with the colonel!’ and Mariscal smiles. Orders quiet. Claps his hands in the air.
‘Now let’s get to work. It’s not true that God gives time for nothing.’
The line begins transferring the packages in absolute silence, from the ramp to the old salting factory, a sombre stone building of a single storey. There are about twenty of them. They work with diligence and normality, except for the children, whose sweat shows they’re doing it for the first time. When it’s all over, Mariscal pays everybody in person. Listens to the murmured litany of appreciation. When it’s Brinco’s turn, he grabs him by the shoulders with satisfaction.