Sergeant Montes slapped Brinco on the back. ‘He has himself a good sponsor, Rumbo. Who wouldn’t want him? You were born on your feet, lad.’
After that it was Rumbo who felt uncomfortable, taking refuge in the silence at the other end of the bar and making out he was busy. Later he returned, bringing Víctor a sandwich. ‘Here you go. It’s got omelette inside, don’t you know?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Made by your mother’s own fair hands.’
Vargas the guard had remained on the margins. He’d clearly been deep in thought ever since they started discussing cinema. ‘You know the one who drives me crazy…’
The sergeant didn’t let him finish. ‘Listen, Rumbo. If the baddy’s a good ’un, the film’s a good ’un. Now is that or isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Rumbo abruptly, with a fixed stare. He was keeping his thoughts to himself.
‘For example, I reckon I’d make a real good baddy,’ said Sergeant Montes. ‘Don’t you reckon, Rumbo?’
‘I reckon you would, sergeant. A real good baddy.’
The sergeant fell silent, chewing over Rumbo’s answer. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said finally, with an inquisitive look.
Vargas seemed blissfully unaware that he’d just been party to a short duel of words. He was still trying to finish his sentence. ‘As for Westerns, the one who drives me crazy is that woman… in Johnny Guitar… wearing trousers.’
This invocation changed everything. Rumbo grew enthusiastic, as if he could see the screen. ‘Vienna, Vienna… That’s it, Joan Crawford!’ he exclaimed, pointing to the guard. ‘Clever man. The force is going up in the world, sergeant!’
‘But let’s be serious,’ replied Sergeant Montes. ‘For a woman in arms, take Duel in the Sun. Can you name her, Rumbo?’
‘Jennifer Jones!’
Quique Rumbo, barman at the Ultramar, in charge of the dance hall and cinema Paris-Noitía, was a man of resources. He was seldom prone to exaggeration, but possessed a fine sense of spectacle. He lifted his arms in a liturgical gesture which he prolonged by drawing voluptuous curves in the air.
‘Pange, lingua, gloriosi Corporis mysterium!’
They heard the cough and footsteps of someone coming down the stairs from the Ultramar’s rooms. From the table where he was sitting with Fins, Brinco saw this person’s white shoes. Followed by Mariscal himself.
‘I thought I heard some kind of prayer. Was that you with the divine words, Rumbo?’
He took a while to respond. And did so uncomfortably, looking askance. ‘We were talking about cinema, boss.’
‘We were talking about females!’ clarified Sergeant Montes. ‘Jennifer Jones in Duel in the Sun.’
‘Now that’s a topic of conversation! Personally I would go for the glorious body of St Teresa, by which I mean Aurora Bautista.’
He let them chew over the unexpected billing in order to cap it off, ‘Though let’s not forget the bodies in Ben-Hur!’
The others laughed, but Vargas was confused. ‘Ben-Hur?’
The younger guard followed the movement of Mariscal’s arms as he demonstrated the to-and-fro motion of galley rowers.
‘Why don’t you ever take your gloves off?’ asked the guard abruptly.
Sergeant Montes feigned a cough and pretended to pay particular attention to what was going on outside the window. That simpleton Belvís was walking along the road, imitating the sound of a motorbike. Vroom vroom. Which was how he went about his errands. Mariscal ignored Vargas’ question and instead carried on rowing in a roundabout motion, till he clapped his hands together to signal the end.
‘Mutatis mutandis. There’s no one like John Wayne!’
Rumbo agreed, gestured OK and served him a glass of Johnnie Walker.
‘With him and a horse, you can make a film,’ Mariscal went on, blessing his statement with a swig. ‘You don’t even need a woman. What’s more, you don’t even need a horse. But a weapon, yes. You need a weapon, that’s for sure.’
In ceremonial style he clanked the ice cubes against his glass. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’
‘And keep on doing so for many years!’ said Montes, raising his glass.
Brinco stood up and walked towards the front door. This insipid exit drew the men’s attention. Rumbo immediately fired a warning shot. ‘Víctor, I don’t want to see you in the ruins of that school.’
‘Lame goes there. I saw him,’ replied Brinco, referring to the schoolteacher Barbeito.
‘He knows where to step.’
‘Your father’s right,’ said Mariscal solemnly. ‘That place is bewitched. Always has been!’
After this, everyone waited for him to add something. Mariscal realised at once that his statement had been a key and not a lock. Instead of bringing the matter to a close, he had just opened or reopened the mystery. He suddenly changed subject, with a mocking expression. He had that ability. One face concealed another. ‘Listen, boys. Talking of school, I want to teach you something useful.’
As he addressed the two boys, he winked at the guards. ‘Never forget this saying: when you’re working, you’re not earning any money.’
He chucked a coin, which landed at Brinco’s feet. The boy stared at it, with contempt to start with. He didn’t even bend down. The group of men carried on watching him. Fins as well, sitting next to him. Through the half-open door the wind danced inside the curtains, not pushing them very far. Finally Brinco bent down and picked up the coin.
Mariscal smiled, turned to the bar and rang the ice cubes in his glass, ‘Another spiritual, Rumbo, if you don’t mind!’
10
LEDA GRABBED THE door knocker. She liked this hand made of metal and green rust. It was cold and hot at the same time. Then she knocked insistently at the door of the Malpicas’ home. Three and one. Three and one. Fins went to answer the door. Nine Moons stared at him. Laughingly to begin with, then more seriously. She had a collection of different expressions. She pulled at him imperiously. ‘Come on, move!’
This time she picked a short cut through the old dunes, jumping from side to side to avoid the sea holly. They ran to the top of the primary dune, from where they contemplated the beach’s Dantesque spectacle. The sea had now vomited up mannequins, of the kind used in shop windows for displaying the latest fashions. Wooden corpses. Mostly disjointed. The waves nuzzled amputated bodies, loose extremities. Arms, bare feet, heads twisting and turning in the sand.
Nine Moons and Fins trudged their way through the field of casualties, unearthing and lifting up members they then returned to the ground.
They were searching for survivors. Leda finally came across an intact body. A black, female mannequin. She bent down and wiped the sand from its mouth and eyes. Its face had sculptural features and was attractive.
‘Pretty, hey?’ she said.
The dry sand resembled silver make-up. Fins gazed at this face that was both alive and dead, that seemed to be forming itself as its features emerged. But he didn’t say anything.
‘Give me a hand, will you?’ said Leda, standing up. ‘We’re going to take this one.’
‘Take it? Where?’
Leda didn’t answer, but grabbed the mannequin by its ankles. ‘Hold it by its shoulders. With tenderness, mind!’
‘With tenderness?’
‘Just hold it.’
Leda and Fins carried the mannequin along the coastal road, following the shoreline. The girl took the lead, holding the figure by its calves. Fins went behind, supporting the mannequin by its neck. Their laborious walk accompanied by the heaving sea.