His eyes were wide open. Seemed to be gazing at the trickle of blood. Brinco lay dead in the ocean. After the initial blaze this was a meek fire, trying to gnaw at the noble wood. Where it grew was over in the darkness, where the pupils’ desks had been stacked up. From there the flames aimed for the roof. The smoke disorientated the bats, which flew into the walls and from time to time collided with the mannequin and the skeleton. Had they been able to see, Brinco’s eyes would have met Leda’s. She was a little further south. Near Cape Verde. From there, down towards the Antarctic, a part of the map had been disjointed. Leda lifted the plank, using an iron bar, and revealed a leather suitcase lying on the seabed. Full of wads of notes, except for a gap in the middle with pharmaceutical tools. An Astra Llama pistol. Chelín’s pendulum.
With Carburo for company, Mariscal approached the outside of the school, where people were assembling.
‘Shall we put out the fire, Mariscal?’ asked a voice.
He swung around in a rage. Glared at them all. The shadow of the flames reflected on their faces. Glinting in their eyes as they climbed the back of night. An ancient mirror whose mercury was pouring out. A hypnotic silence whose only sound was the scoffing of flames. He thought they all owed him something. Would do whatever he commanded. But he was overcome by an unusual feeling, something he’d never experienced before. The fear of his own kind.
‘What are you asking me for?’
The other person didn’t know what to say. Felt confused by the Old Man’s reaction. The anger in his voice. Especially when the Old Man added, ‘Who am I, after all?’
He scrutinised every face. Conducted an inspection. They glanced at each other enquiringly. Things to do with the Old Man. Everybody remained quiet. The only sound the flames gnawing at the cracks, the umbilical resistance of ivy and stone.
Leda emerged from the school barefoot, her feet, arms and face blackened. At a gesture from Mariscal, Carburo went over to her and took the suitcase. Someone finally paid attention to Fins, who was leaning against the wall, badly wounded, squeezing his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. Leda glanced at him as she passed. Just for a moment. The length of an absence.
‘Is there anybody else left inside?’ Mariscal asked her.
‘No.’
Mariscal cleared a way through the barrier of people. Seemed to have difficulty walking, leaning on his cane, but only to start with. As Leda approached, he passed his hand over her blackened cheek, with the care of a portrait artist, and then put his arms around her.
‘Come on, girl, let’s go.’
Carburo followed behind, with the suitcase. Mariscal glanced over at the veteran porter.
‘What have we here?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ replied Leda. ‘Things of mine. Memories mostly.’
And Mariscal murmured:
‘Memories, eh? Then it must be heavy.’