As I left the room, I was overcome with an intense feeling of danger. A strange wind was pushing me toward that room at the end of the corridor, the dead man’s room. Everyone seemed to have gone. I tapped nervously at the door and went in. The carpet was soaked in water and blood that had overflowed from the bathtub; I saw towels, tiles glowing red, a bathrobe with the hotel’s emblem. The bed still bore the imprint of a body. On the table were papers with notes for his talk, and some open books. I picked up one at random and it turned out to be Encounters with Amazingly Normal People, by Walter de la Salle. It was dedicated to José: “How absurd, me dedicating your book to you. With love, Walter.” There were penciled annotations. On page 267, for example: “The death of the fetus is an invention, a way of talking about the formation of life.” On page 347: “The addict is Millie, I changed her age from twenty-five to sixteen to make it more dramatic.” On page 560: “Complete passage from an astrological discussion between L. Ron Hubbard and Kaspar Hauser.” Maturana was the true author of the book. It was his magnum opus.
Among the other books on the table were works by St John of the Cross, with more scribbled notes in the margins (one said: “This is about the eye I saw”), the complete works of Feijóo, and The Life of Bartolomé de las Casas (another annotation at random: “He licked the Indians’ sores, why?”). I opened his briefcase and found a folder containing photographs; in one of them, two well-built young men were raising a crucifix in a garden, and on the side someone had written: “Sammy and Jairo in Oakland Road.” I shuffled through them quickly until I found one that had the word “Walter” on it: it showed a tall, well-built man, bare-chested, with powerful dorsal muscles and long hair gathered in a ponytail, just like José; in one hand, a crucifix covered in diamonds, and in the other, a microphone; tattoos depicting man’s quest for God. I thought of Marta writing in my room, a long way from the real story.
I stood there, looking at Walter’s photograph, because there was something in it that held me spellbound; after a while I noticed in the background, in the middle of a group of people standing behind him, a face that looked familiar, a woman, where had I seen her before? I was thinking about this when I heard a noise in the corridor and was immediately on the alert. Somebody had died in this room and sooner or later the police would have to come, so I rushed to the door, and looked out. A police officer was standing there with his back to me, talking on a cell phone, so I slipped out without making a noise.
Downstairs, in the lobby, there was a great deal of agitation. Some police officers were taking notes and the director of the ICBM was making a statement to a TV channel. I caught him saying: “. . suicide is a mysterious, multifaceted, and very profound choice, an act of supreme freedom whose reasons, of course, we do not know; for the ICBM this is a great loss, and I can announce right now that we will take care of everything, the transportation, the funeral, etc., wherever his nearest and dearest decide.”
I went to the dining room, wanting to be alone. In the rush to get out, I forgot to say that I still had the photograph of Walter and the book, Encounters, in my jacket. I sat down at one of the tables at the far end, ordered an omelet and a beer, and settled down to read, but as I took out the book a sheet of paper fell out, it was a message on headed hotel notepaper saying: José, we’ve found you. I was stunned, and read it several times. The words boomed in my head like an echo in a cave: We’ve fooouuund yooouuu, oouund yoouuu, yoouu!
The message bore the time, 19:38 that same day. Everything was clear now: Maturana had decided to kill himself after reading it, perhaps because of it, who was it who had found him? I gulped my food down and went back to my room. Marta was drinking a Coke and chatting on Facebook. Seeing me, she cried, did you forget my sandwich? I can’t concentrate, damn it, I have less than ten minutes left and I don’t even have a title, this is a disaster, I’m just telling a Spanish friend I met on Erasmus all about it. . Don’t write any more, I said, Maturana didn’t kill himself.
Marta looked at me incredulously, why do you say that? Look at this, I said, he received it today. Marta looked at the message with intensity and said, and what does this prove? It proves this is all very strange, don’t you think? At that moment the telephone rang and Marta said, it’s my newspaper, can you answer for me? tell them I’m doing an interview, and that I need more time. I lifted the receiver and gave the excuse, but they said, we’re getting the news on the wire, so it’s covered, just tell her to write us a good article for tomorrow. That solved everything. I showed her the book and the photograph and Marta said, good, let’s get to work, where do we start? I’ll help you on one condition, which is that you let me tell the story. I accepted and said: we have to start with the message, find out who sent it, the operator who gave it to Maturana may know.
We went down to the lobby, where, in spite of the fact that it was one in the morning, the agitation continued. We went to the offices where the switchboard operator worked, and found a young woman there. I asked her if she had been on duty at 19:38, and she said no, she had started at 21:00. Are you the only people who take messages for the guests? No, she said, another guest or a visitor can leave messages at reception, in which case it doesn’t go through the switchboard. Who distributes the messages to the rooms? One of the bellhops from the main lobby, she said. And is there a register of those messages? Yes, there’s a book with the destination and time of each one. I looked at her, pleased. Good, then you may be able to help me, was there any message at 19:38? The woman asked for my name and room number, then she took out a book and, making sure we did not sneak a look, turned the page. Can you confirm your room number? 1109, I said. She hesitated. There was a message at that time, but it wasn’t for you, you could ask my colleague tomorrow, were you expecting an urgent message? Yes, I said, very urgent, there may have been a mix-up over the room number, can’t you call your colleague? The woman was silent for a moment then said: I can’t call him, he’s working right now. If it’s very urgent you can find him at the Bamboo, near Rehavia. His name is Mordechai but everyone calls him Momo.
We thanked her and went out onto the street.
The Bamboo was a modern-looking bar, full of mirrors, indirect lighting, wooden recesses. We sat down at the counter to be close to the staff; it was really strange to see a place like this in the middle of a siege. Three young men were serving: one making cocktails, another taking them to the tables and bringing the orders, and the third taking the money. Put your intuition to work, I said to Marta, which one do you think is our man? She asked for a Herradura tequila, downed it in one, asked for a second tequila, and said: give me ten minutes, if I’m wrong you can ask me for anything you want. Anything I want? Yes, a blow job, money, whatever you want, just let me concentrate.
When the ten minutes were over, she said: that one over there. She pointed to a young man of about twenty-five, Caucasian in appearance, perhaps of Slav descent. She went to the other end of the counter to talk to him and came back after a while. I’m never wrong, she said, he’s Momo. How did you know? It’s something I’ve had since I was a child, I look at people for a while and suddenly I know who they are, as simple as that. I was amazed: I didn’t know you had powers, what else can you do? She gave a wicked laugh and said: many things, but you lost your bet. I ordered another double whiskey and said, did you tell him what we want? should I go and talk to him? Marta smiled smugly. He’ll come to us, but he’s already given me a lead: the message was left by a woman of about thirty-five in a long distance call, he doesn’t know where from, because he didn’t look at the caller ID. I wanted to know what her method was for obtaining so much information in such a short time and she said, the oldest and most traditional method of all, I asked him and he told me, and I’ll tell you something else, he’ll answer every question I ask him, I could smell his pheromones, he wants to fuck me and because of that he’ll tell the truth. I was stunned and said, can you always smell that smell? and she replied: always. It’s another of my powers.