The people near the entrance went quiet and turned to look at me.
“The journalist must have got it wrong,” I said to the old woman. “There have been so many false alarms.”
“I just heard that the snakes tried to attack the funeral home where they’re showing Dr. Ferracuti and his family’s remains,” she said.
“I don’t believe it,” I exclaimed.
I opened the bottle and took a drink right there in the store.
“It’s true,” the old woman insisted. “It happened about an hour ago. He had to escape with his snakes because the police who were guarding the place surprised him.”
The drink made me feel wonderful.
One of the people drinking said the President was going to give a public address at eight o’clock that night.
“They scared that fat bastard,” another drinker said gleefully, referring to the President.
They guffawed and toasted one other.
I came over to them.
The clean-shaven young guy who had said he hoped they’d kill the man with the snakes that afternoon came to join us, swaying, completely drunk.
“This goddamn bum has gotta be Jacinto Bustillo,” he mumbled, slapping me hard on the back.
Everyone cheered.
I started to perk up.
“If I were him, you’d have to be careful,” I warned jokingly. “Because the snakes would get you, even in your dreams.”
There was a burst of laughter, whistles and jeers.
The clean-shaven guy didn’t find it funny, but caught something in my look that made him go back to where he’d come from, telling me to take my stink somewhere else.
“Don’t listen to him, man,” said the guy who’d made fun of the President. “You have your drink in peace. You know what? I’ll buy you a beer. Niña Tila,” he shouted, raising his arm towards the old woman, “a beer for the gentleman, please. If you were the guy who’s screwing with those rich assholes and those piece-of-shit politicians, I’d carry you out of here on my shoulders.”
There were more cheers and whistles.
I took the beer.
Everyone was talking about the same thing: the chaos caused by the snakes in the Chevrolet.
The guy with the sunglasses yelled over from another group of drinkers that we should start a committee to “show solidarity with Jacinto Bustillo and his avenging snakes,” and that I, as head of all the bums in the city, should start an underground support network for Bustillo and his snakes.
We nearly pissed ourselves laughing.
But it was starting to get dark and I remembered that the ladies were all alone, waiting for me, especially Loli, who could get quite anxious.
I finished my beer, said thanks, told them I’d be back in a little while, and left. I limped over to the phone booth, my pocketknife with the bone-coloured handle rubbing against my thigh. I wondered whether it was worth it to call Rita Mena back to explain something to her that I wasn’t even clear about. She’d probably already contacted the police and Deputy Commissioner Handal had probably had her phone line tapped, just like on television, waiting for my call so he could sic his hounds on my ladies and my poor bones.
I sat down on the curb next to the telephone. A teenage girl with meaty calves had the receiver stuck to her ear, laughing. I took another sip from my bottle, lit a cigarette and listened to her conversation. A little fat guy with a kind face lined up behind the girl.
“I’m next,” I warned him so he wouldn’t cut in line.
The fat guy said yes, of course. Nothing short of courteous.
Now the girl was talking about a friend from school named Gerardo who’d died last night during the snake attack at the Esso station.
I shamelessly looked at the dark hair on her fleshy calves. She looked uncomfortable and turned her back to me. The fat guy smiled at her.
“Listen, I’ll call you later,” she said. “There’s a bunch of people waiting for the phone.”
She hung up and crossed the street.
I got up slowly. The fat guy moved back a bit to get away from my stink. I took out the clipping with the newspaper office’s phone number and dialled.
I asked to speak to Rita Mena.
The operator asked me who was calling, but there was a trembling in her voice that made me think she already knew, and was waiting to raise the alarm.
I said I was a friend, that it was personal.
She let her phone ring five times, as if she were waiting for them to be able to trace the call.
I turned to look at the fat guy and smiled.
“It’s me again,” I said.
But she didn’t let me continue. She started asking a million questions, trying to confuse me and stall for time, like a real cop. I put my hand in my pocket and stroked the bone-coloured handle of my pocketknife.
“I told you not to ask me any questions,” I said when she needed to take a breath. “I called you because I was surprised that your newspaper devoted so much space to the ladies’ work. This is the first time you’ve talked about me, and you haven’t even met me. But something tells me you aren’t being honest with me.”
I hung up, because I sensed my time was running out.
I said goodbye to the fat guy, who immediately grabbed the phone. I walked normally for about five metres and then started to run along the street parallel to the store, as fast as I could, as if I’d never had a limp, as if I’d never been Jacinto Bustillo.
I hadn’t yet reached the vacant lot when the whirring of the helicopter blades and wailing of the sirens began to shake the neighbourhood.
The shots were terrible, heavy, very powerful. I pictured the terrified look on the fat man’s face, destroyed by the impact without even knowing what was going on. I went into the vacant lot, crossed the fence, and ran to the yellow Chevrolet.
The din had already alerted the ladies.
“Quick!” I shouted. “Go out by the ravine!”
They hurried out. Loli turned around as if she were going to wait for me.
“Hurry!” I yelled in the midst of the deafening noise and the searchlights that danced wildly from the sky.
I ran after them and, before I made it to the ravine, a light nearly hit my back.
Everything happened in an instant — the shots, the flames, the explosions.
I slid through the hole in the chain-link fence and fell, tumbling down the ravine below. I landed in the filthy stream, completely dazed and worn out.
I had to get up right away, before another searchlight spotted me, before the tracer bullets combed the area.
The din from above was terrifying. The explosions lit up the sky so it looked like daytime.
I managed to sit up. I left in the direction of the stream, hidden on the shore, grabbing onto bushes, moving forward with great difficulty.
I couldn’t see the ladies anywhere. I didn’t even know if they’d fallen all the way down to the stream.
“Loli!” I screamed, but there was no answer.
I continued to wade through the ford until I found a path covered with enough vegetation for me to risk it.
The police were setting cars on fire indiscriminately. It was the only explanation for the thundering noise and the blaze. The helicopters were still in position, flying low and lighting up the scrapyard, the vacant lot, and the ravine.
I reached the edge of the slum. I passed through the outskirts, trying to avoid the people staring stupefied at the assault on the scrapyard. I took a dirt road that led to a busy street. I staggered around as if I were completely drunk to throw off the people worriedly going back to their homes, trying to get away from the kind of racket they hadn’t heard since the grim days of the war.
I stumbled along, talking to myself, gesturing at the night, babbling. I called out to Loli. My love, my beautiful girl, come with me. I called out to Beti and Carmela, my princesses who had loved me so. Don’t leave me, my darlings, what will I do without you, where have you gone? An hour later, exhausted, craving a drink, and weepy because I thought I’d never see them again, I spotted Niña’s Beatriz’s store. It was still open. I saw the spot where Don Jacinto’s yellow Chevrolet had been parked with the ladies inside. It made me think about coincidences, because three days ago at the same hour, I’d approached the beggar walking back to his car, and at this time just two days ago, thanks to my pocketknife with the bone-coloured handle, I had turned into the filthy old snake charmer.