split by a diagonal line dividing light from shade.
‘
È vero o non è vero, Tonino?
’
‘It’s true, boss. And no mistake.’
18
FINS HAD HIS eyes closed. When you close your eyes, beware of what might open. He took a deep breath, let it go slowly, like a mouth of wind. He heard a snort that attracted his attention. Aroused him from his absence. A herd of horses was grazing on the eastern slope of the mirador, where the morning sun lazily disentangled the strips of mist. The stallion’s gaze, pricked ears, defensive teeth, warning neigh, reminded him he was a nuisance. A stranger, a poacher, in his own land.
On top of the mountain named Curota, part of the Barbanza range, were large rocks with a wish to be altars. The highest one was reached by a flight of steps carved out of the stone. Fins climbed them.
Before his eyes stretched the broadest maritime view in the whole of Galicia. He looked south, had the impression he could make out the earth’s curve. It was the best place to see the estuary, which appeared as a vast stage. A marine womb set in earth. Across each other’s wake moved very different kinds of seafaring vessels. Crane boats headed in the direction of palafittic floating structures, the large estates that were the mussel platforms.
Fins glanced now to his right. There, in the west, was the open, the Atlantic Ocean. An infinite, restless monotony of hoarse mercury in the process of meltdown shielded the enigma. Each ripple or blade of light seemed to release the bud of a seabird. Their screeches grew louder, as when they had good or bad news to tell. A burgeoning shoal, a storm. The sky appeared clear, but it wasn’t an enthusiastic clarity.
Behind the line of the horizon, no one knows how the dead water will awake.
The sound of an engine came up the road. Fins hid behind the rocks.
The person driving didn’t hesitate. He turned, followed the other tracks, parked the Mercedes-Benz with whitewall tyres in the large expanse of the first mirador.
The Old Man had got up early. Been forced to take a roundabout route. Follow the line of the estuary. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill appointment. He never made a phone call in person. He used carrier pigeons, people he could trust. So this wasn’t an ordinary assignation. The fish he’d been sold wasn’t rotten. Fins climbed down through the gorse, sought out a good position. Felt the camera inside his jacket, stroked the Nikon F as he’d seen a hunter stroke his ferret when he was a child. Mariscal stood with his back to him. There was no mistaking the white linen suit, the panama hat and steel-tipped cane. Facing the other way, next to the stone bust of Ramón María del Valle-Inclán, his bearing was sculptural.
Time passed and both spy and target began to grow impatient. Mariscal glanced at his pocket watch twice, but not as often as he glanced at the sky in the west. There where you could see the first line of the Azores front. A logging truck slowly ground its way uphill. Mariscal followed it out of the corner of his eye until it disappeared around the corner, in the direction of the mountain.
Fins hadn’t lost hope. All his life he’d been trained to deal with the unexpected. There was the sound of heavy machinery. A storm always starts by sending in the air force. Mariscal glanced at his watch a third time. The way he placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat, it was his ferret. He surveyed the surrounding area with suspicion. The writer’s stone bust as well. Banged the base of the plinth with his cane to shake off any mud. Went into reverse and then returned the way he’d come.
Fins patted his camera affectionately.
A day is a day.
Someone had gone and sold the same fish twice.
19
‘ MOTHER. CAN YOU hear me, mother? It’s me, Fins!’
She eyed him again in surprise. ‘Fins? There was a party. My son will be called Emilio. Milucho. Lucho.’
‘It’s a good name, isn’t it, mother? I’m going to work there, in
‘
È vero o non è vero, Tonino?
’
‘It’s true, boss. And no mistake.’
18
FINS HAD HIS eyes closed. When you close your eyes, beware of what might open. He took a deep breath, let it go slowly, like a mouth of wind. He heard a snort that attracted his attention. Aroused him from his absence. A herd of horses was grazing on the eastern slope of the mirador, where the morning sun lazily disentangled the strips of mist. The stallion’s gaze, pricked ears, defensive teeth, warning neigh, reminded him he was a nuisance. A stranger, a poacher, in his own land.
On top of the mountain named Curota, part of the Barbanza range, were large rocks with a wish to be altars. The highest one was reached by a flight of steps carved out of the stone. Fins climbed them.
Before his eyes stretched the broadest maritime view in the whole of Galicia. He looked south, had the impression he could make out the earth’s curve. It was the best place to see the estuary, which appeared as a vast stage. A marine womb set in earth. Across each other’s wake moved very different kinds of seafaring vessels. Crane boats headed in the direction of palafittic floating structures, the large estates that were the mussel platforms.
Fins glanced now to his right. There, in the west, was the open, the Atlantic Ocean. An infinite, restless monotony of hoarse mercury in the process of meltdown shielded the enigma. Each ripple or blade of light seemed to release the bud of a seabird. Their screeches grew louder, as when they had good or bad news to tell. A burgeoning shoal, a storm. The sky appeared clear, but it wasn’t an enthusiastic clarity.
Behind the line of the horizon, no one knows how the dead water will awake.
The sound of an engine came up the road. Fins hid behind the rocks.
The person driving didn’t hesitate. He turned, followed the other tracks, parked the Mercedes-Benz with whitewall tyres in the large expanse of the first mirador.
The Old Man had got up early. Been forced to take a roundabout route. Follow the line of the estuary. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill appointment. He never made a phone call in person. He used carrier pigeons, people he could trust. So this wasn’t an ordinary assignation. The fish he’d been sold wasn’t rotten. Fins climbed down through the gorse, sought out a good position. Felt the camera inside his jacket, stroked the Nikon F as he’d seen a hunter stroke his ferret when he was a child. Mariscal stood with his back to him. There was no mistaking the white linen suit, the panama hat and steel-tipped cane. Facing the other way, next to the stone bust of Ramón María del Valle-Inclán, his bearing was sculptural.
Time passed and both spy and target began to grow impatient. Mariscal glanced at his pocket watch twice, but not as often as he glanced at the sky in the west. There where you could see the first line of the Azores front. A logging truck slowly ground its way uphill. Mariscal followed it out of the corner of his eye until it disappeared around the corner, in the direction of the mountain.
Fins hadn’t lost hope. All his life he’d been trained to deal with the unexpected. There was the sound of heavy machinery. A storm always starts by sending in the air force. Mariscal glanced at his watch a third time. The way he placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat, it was his ferret. He surveyed the surrounding area with suspicion. The writer’s stone bust as well. Banged the base of the plinth with his cane to shake off any mud. Went into reverse and then returned the way he’d come.
Fins patted his camera affectionately.
A day is a day.
Someone had gone and sold the same fish twice.
19
‘ MOTHER. CAN YOU hear me, mother? It’s me, Fins!’
She eyed him again in surprise. ‘Fins? There was a party. My son will be called Emilio. Milucho. Lucho.’
‘It’s a good name, isn’t it, mother? I’m going to work there, in
Similar Books
