Electrico W (13 page)

Ruiz Custódia, if that’s who he was, didn’t seem to have noticed anything, or even to be surprised. He took the dead flowers from the grave, dusted it off a bit, and laid a branch of mimosa on it in silence. He scrunched up the paper it had been wrapped in and thrust this into his jacket pocket.

I watched the man. He stood there motionless. His lips were moving, but his hands weren’t joined, and I thought he can’t have been praying, but talking, to his wife, really talking.

Yes, it must have been Ruiz Custódia. To make sure, I hid and called out his name. He turned around, looked for whoever had called him. But that didn’t prove anything: that woman over there also turned to look at me.

He stayed by his wife’s grave a long time, still talking under his breath. It wasn’t all that absurd, after all, at least no more so than going to a cemetery at all, no more ridiculous than laying flowers to honor a few bones.

In the early years, my father also used to go to the cemetery on a Sunday, almost once a month. He would stare at the headstone, reading our mother’s name over and over, even repeating it to himself, as if afraid of forgetting it, or of forgetting his pain: Anne Balmer.

The cemetery was miles from anywhere, lost in the northern suburbs of Paris, and I used to take him in my old Saab, when my brother asked me to do it on the pretext that he didn’t have time. I would go all the way to the
graveside with my father, my eyes lowered, remorseful for my absence on my mother’s last day, but also in disgust for this old man mumbling a dead woman’s name.

We went there twenty or thirty times and then one morning, because my father’s muttering was louder than usual and people were watching us in embarrassment, I whispered, “There’s no point coming here, Dad. It just hurts you.”

He turned to me, almost spitting in my face: “But that’s exactly why I come here, to be hurt. What did you think, that it was for her? She doesn’t give a damn now, Annette doesn’t, she doesn’t give a damn, and you, you think I’ve gone crazy, don’t you, that’s it, my own son thinks I’m crazy!”

He took me by the lapels of my jacket and started shaking me, harder and harder, as if he wanted to fight. Then he let go abruptly, I could tell his legs couldn’t hold him and he collapsed on the path without even trying to clutch hold of me. There he was on the ground, crying, making little whimpering sounds like a mouse. I didn’t recognize him and felt ashamed and frightened, witnessing this old man’s madness. Shame, fear. I remember those two feelings, that had been reduced to one. I wanted to help him stand up, brush him down like a child, his pants had slick yellowish mud on them, but he pushed me away.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone, I tell you.”

He stood up, wiped his eyes, brushed off his pants and jacket, and started limping quickly toward the gate.

I followed just behind him. He opened the gate, walked past the Saab, and crossed the street, almost tripping. I was still behind him, watching the street, afraid he might throw himself under the next car.

We walked on until we came to a bistro, a sort of small-town cafe and store, and my father went in. There was a bar, a newspaper stand, and four or five tables, all deserted. At the back, in another room overlooking a grim courtyard, was a large French billiards table with green baize. My father went up to the bar, ordered a draft lager from a man in a gray overall, and went to sit in a corner of the games room. I asked for a coffee.

“Are you together?” the man asked.

I said that he was my father … but the man shook his head as if that wasn’t an answer.

On the baize, the three balls were set out in their prescribed positions, and my father took a cue down from the wall. He drained his beer without pausing for breath and started to play, alone. I drank my coffee in silence, leaning against the wall, watching the balls gliding, my mind blank.

The black ball hit the cushion and missed the white. My father handed me the cue, took down another, and went to the bar to ask for two more beers. One for me. We played, without exchanging a word. My father kept score
and ordered the beers; occasionally he sighed, especially when his shot was particularly inept. We must have played for an hour, or a little less. My ears were buzzing, from all those beers on an empty stomach. Toward midday, the cafe started to fill up with regulars, people who worked locally.

My father put down his cue.

“Come, let’s eat.”

The dish of the day was a too salty portion of salt pork with lentils. He gulped it down in no time, wiped the sauce from his plate with bread, and, when I was only halfway through my meal, put some money on the table.

“Hurry up and finish, Vincent. This place is dismal.”

We went back to the Saab. My father reached out his hand. I didn’t understand what he meant, I thought he wanted to leave, that this was a wave goodbye. My heart constricted, for a moment I thought in terror: I’ll never see him again.

But he was waggling his hand as if wanting something.

“The keys. The keys to your car. Give them here. I’m driving.”

He stayed at the wheel all the way to his house, driving too fast and not saying a word. On the corner of the street he cut the engine and climbed out, not in any rush. I was about to start the car up again when he crouched by the door, looked at me for a moment, and just said, “It’s fine like this. Don’t worry about me. See you soon.”

He smelled of beer. I watched him walk away and open his door. At the last moment he turned around, waved, and, I think, winked.

A few weeks later Paul asked him whether he wanted anyone to put flowers on the grave, and was even going to add “for All Saints’ Day,” but my father waved his hand back and forth vigorously. Over the next five years we never went back to the cemetery with him. Except to bury him, two months ago now, beside our mother.

In the distance, Custódia had put his hat back on his head and walked away.

He trudged heavily. As he passed the bin for flowers, he threw in the crumpled paper, then put his hands in his pockets and hunched over as if he were cold. When he left the cemetery he climbed into an old truck with chipping paintwork. It was still possible to make out the words
ETS CUSTÓDIA—PRAGAL
. 2800.

I thought that would be enough of a lead, and didn’t try to talk to him. Sure enough, in the Pragal telephone book, I found “Estabelecimento Ruiz Custódia. Cabinetmaker.”

THAT EVENING I
found Antonio leaning on the bar at the hotel, drinking a whiskey. He was talking to the barman, passing the time of day. My eye came to rest on the back of his neck, and I looked at it for a long time.

So, Irene, this was all he turned out to be, this lover of yours. This short little guy, stooped even, drinking with no sense of style, his hair thinning on the back of his head, this guy who didn’t even know how to wear a jacket.

As if sensing me behind him, Antonio turned around. He smiled and I returned the smile. He seemed to be waiting for a question, a sign of complicity, but I just sat next to him. I ordered a whiskey too, and then gauged his reaction as I said, “I went for a walk. All the way to the cemetery on the other side of the bridge.”

“Took notes as usual?”

He swallowed some of his drink and I thought I detected a hint of mockery in his voice, as if I attached more importance to my notes than they deserved.

“As usual, yes …,” I smiled.

Nothing ever drives me to write, I’m not heckled by tides of words. There is so much vanity in it that I write only to feel worthy of my own respect.

And the characters always prevail in the end, the way dreams prevail over life, fantasy over love. Even your face, Irene, is disappearing behind the face of the woman who bears your name here. From one page to the next, I’m drying you out, withering you, and sooner or later you’ll be swallowed up by the Irene in this novel, who’s so much more alive than you.

“You should go and take some photos there, Antonio.”

“In the cemetery? Okay, in a couple of days. Because Irene’s coming tomorrow. You’re not forgetting, are you? And the Pinheiro trial starts too.”

I nodded.

I wonder whether the time has now come to talk about Pinheiro. It may be a digression here, but this story’s so odd, anyway. Two years ago, over a period of four months, Lisbon saw a wave of unexplained murders. Thirteen victims of all ages and from every walk of life. A retired old woman, an unemployed laborer, a family practitioner, a fishmonger, a bank employee, a schoolboy … There was a link between the murders but the police chose to hide it from the press so no one knew a serial killer was operating in the city: the killer used the same weapon every time, a .30 caliber pistol. And he fired two or three shots every time, not with relentless ferocity, just to be sure the life had been taken.

The investigation was so short of clues that it would have dragged on for a long time were it not for a tailor working late one night who, shortly after hearing two shots ringing around the courtyard of his building, saw a stranger come out of the porch. The tailor rushed outside. The man was walking slowly, not turning around. He wasn’t running away. Even so, spurred only by intuition, the tailor caught up with him and held him by the sleeve. Ricardo Pinheiro froze on the sidewalk. He didn’t seem surprised. He had “faraway eyes,” according to the witness’s statement.

He was an insignificant man. He was wearing a gray Prince of Wales checked suit, fraying along the sleeve and the collar, and a gray flannel hat with a black ribbon. Something heavy distended one of his pockets, and the tailor was frightened. He started yelling for help, still keeping a hold of Pinheiro. Pinheiro tried listlessly to free himself, less to escape than as a reflex.

The 7.65mm Parabellum Luger was in his pocket, its barrel still burning hot, and four bullets were left in the cylinder, one of them ready to be fired. He didn’t try to use it against the tailor. Meanwhile the grocer’s wife on the third floor lay in a pool of blood, the bullet had shattered her skull.

When the police arrived, Pinheiro was lying unconscious on the sidewalk. The crowd must have punched and kicked him until he collapsed, although the tailor said that he fell with the first blow.

He was taken to the hospital, where the doctors made a bizarre discovery: under his clothes, next to his skin, Ricardo Pinheiro was wearing a fine coat of bronze chain mail.

For a week Pinheiro remained in a state of unconsciousness close to coma. Then, as soon as he was questioned by the police, he admitted to all the murders, without providing any explanation. He even admitted to those committed while he had been visiting his sister near Porto. It was the police who found witnesses to exonerate him.
He didn’t betray his accomplices. He didn’t explain the bronze chain mail or ask to wear it in prison, contradicting every diagnosis made by psychiatrists.

The press was expecting a great deal from the trial, perhaps too much. I thought Pinheiro would say nothing, would let a succession of experts take the stand, attending his own trial without a word, more of a Bartleby than a Jack the Ripper. Keeping a record of his silence suited me very well.

T
he following morning we woke early and worked for nearly two hours on the material gathered in the port: described the rusting metal and oily water, captured the sounds of the docks with percussive verbs and supposedly grating adjectives.

Then Antonio looked at his watch and stretched.

“Okay, I need to get to the airport. Her plane lands at 11:50. Are you coming with me? Irene’ll be pleased to see you. I’m sure she will.”

My head swam and I opted to invent a lunch date.

“Lena’s reserved a table at a restaurant. In the Alfama district. If I go with you I won’t be back in time.”

“Call her, arrange to meet later …”

“I already tried to earlier. She’d left the house for the day. No, really, it won’t work.”

“We could meet up later. For coffee maybe?”

From his insistent expression, I gathered he didn’t want to be left alone with Irene, he was weakened by his disloyalty the day before, he was vulnerable. I decided to adopt another tactic.