During Artigas’s speech, Rojo had recovered his sense of time and, above all, the awareness of what was being said to him and why. Absurdly, he remembered it was Sunday the 16th and that the following day the pet dog he had as a child, an enormous Saint Bernard, would have been thirty-seven. Instantly his mind returned to the room: Vázquez and Artigas were going to kill him. His old partner, and his old partner’s new partner were going to kill him because he hadn’t talked. If he had talked they would have killed him anyway, but have felt more gratified. Fuck their curiosity then. While his goon was taking a piss, Artigas was apologizing, and he was a motherfucking sonofabitch and a true professional. It was understandable that they wanted revenge, Rojo reflected, but it was absurd to try to humiliate him as well by turning him into an informer. They had tied him to a chair in the living room, they had broken his wrists on the same table where two days earlier he had made love with Beatriz, they had blindfolded and unblindfolded him several times, they had kicked his knees and his shins, they had burned his ear lobes with a lighter and they had asked him the same question a thousand times. A thousand times Rojo had said nothing, not out of bravery: he was simply aware that it made no difference if he confessed. He was familiar with his old partner’s methods, and so had decided to give himself the satisfaction of messing up their business. He too was a professional. A far better one than Vázquez, needless to say. Perhaps not much better than Artigas, although certainly more resolute. Artigas liked to take his time over everything.
Rojo heard the door go behind him. Vázquez was in front of him again. He was staring at him with a mocking expression.
“Damn it, Artigas, it seems the patient has improved! What did you do to him?”
“He fucked me up the ass,” Rojo replied.
Artigas celebrated Rojo’s wisecrack with a guffaw. Vázquez made a face like he hadn’t quite understood and thought someone had called him a queer.
“I’m going to slice your balls off, you piece of shit!” he bawled at Rojo.
“Vázquez,” Artigas declared abruptly. “Enough, Vázquez. Thank you.”
Vázquez stared straight at Artigas, who held his gaze until Vázquez lowered his eyes. Then he shrugged and, tucking his stained tie into his trousers, said:
“Well, he’s your friend, not mine.”
And he started to leave. Before he reached the door between the living room and the hallway, he added:
“At least I don’t kill my friends.”
Unflappable, Artigas corrected him:
“You’ve never had any friends, Vázquez.”
Rojo heard a door slam behind him. When he looked back at Artigas, he noticed he was no longer grinning at him. Artigas was silent now and was staring into his eyes. A trickle of blood escaped from between Rojo’s lips when he admitted:
“It hurts, Artigas. It hurts all over.”
But he wasn’t exactly complaining. Artigas understood.
“I can imagine,” said Artigas. “Don’t worry. You’ve held out long enough.”
“A lot longer than you would have,” said Rojo.
Artigas, pensive, replied:
“Probably.”
Then he plunged his hand into his jacket and Rojo concentrated on the glare from the lamps, on clenching his jaw and waiting for the shot. Yet the way Artigas’s arm moved seemed odd, and, feeling his neck crack, he attempted to turn his head: Artigas was offering him a cigarette.
“Thanks,” Rojo said opening his fleshy lips.
Artigas lit Rojo’s cigarette and then another for himself. In the midst of a comforting silence, Rojo slowly carried out the simple act of breathing in smoke. Apart from the pain in his ribs, beyond it, Rojo felt as though water from a spring had returned to the dried-up riverbed of his chest, as though something had softened the channels flowing into his lungs and now everything was air, air at last. The second puff made breathing in and out feel almost normal again. By the time he was about halfway through the cigarette, a sleepy well-being had pervaded his muscles. He imagined he and Beatriz were lying in bed smoking, that they had just made love and were taking a rest before making love again. His hands tied behind his back, Rojo sucked on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of one corner of his mouth and, partially, through his blocked nose. The lamps ringed the thick blue cloud. Artigas was watching him carefully as he was about to finish his cigarette.
“Delicious, Artigas. Is it the same as usual?”
“The same as usual, Rojo,” said Artigas.
“How odd,” he said, “the tobacco tastes different.”
He figured he had two long puffs left and possibly a third short one. He decided to take the first two quickly and wait a few seconds. Then he filled his lungs, unhurriedly, exhaled all the air and drew deeply one last time on the cigarette, noting the taste of the burning strands and the burnt paper. Then he parted his lips and let the filter drop onto his trousers. A pleasantly familiar sourness had formed on the back of his tongue. With his good eye he glanced at Artigas, who was no longer smoking.
“Do you want another one?” Artigas asked.
“No, thanks,” he replied. “One is enough.”
Rojo saw that Artigas was grinning. He detected no trace of resentment in his voice when he heard him murmur:
“You’re one of a kind, Rojo, one of a kind.”
Then Artigas slipped his hand into his jacket and did his job.
THE INNOCENCE TEST
THE INNOCENCE TEST
YES. I like it that the police question me. We all need someone to confirm to us that we truly are good citizens. That we are innocent. That we have nothing to hide.
I drive fearlessly. I feel calmed by the obedience of the steering wheel, the compliance of the pedals, the order of the gears. Ah, highways.
Suddenly, two police officers signal to me to stop my car. This isn’t an easy manoeuvre, because I have just come out of a left-hand bend and was already beginning to accelerate. Trying not to be abrupt or alarm the other drivers and showing off, modesty aside, my skill at the wheel, I cross into the right-hand lane and pull over gently. The two motorcycles do the same, tilting as they brake. Both policemen have on white and blue-checked helmets. Both are wearing boots they stomp across the road in. Both are appropriately armed. One is burly and stands erect. The other is lanky and stooped.
“Papers,” says the burly officer.
“Of course, at once,” I reply.
I perform the reasonable duty of identifying myself. I hand over my documents, insurance, driving licence.
“Aha,” the lanky officer declares perusing them.
“Yes…?” I respond, expectantly.
“Aha!” confirms the burly one, emphatically.
“What…?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Is everything in order, officers?”
“We already told you, sir: everything’s okay.”
“So, there’s nothing wrong with my documents.”
“Wrong? What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s only a manner of speaking, officer. I see, or rather you see, that I can be on my way.”
The police officers look at each other, apparently with a certain suspicion.
“You will resume your journey when we say so,” the burly one replies.