All Is Silence by Manuel Rivas Page B

impression that he was before the sea and the sea was stronger than him.
    ‘No. Memory is often painful. She’s gone past the limit of pain. In order to survive, her mind has rejected the bit that’s hurting her. Memory has these strategies. She could have chosen a different path. But she’s chosen this one. We’ll never fully understand why.’
    ‘Is it reversible?’
    The doctor took her time. In Fins’ experience, he knew that if the answer was positive, he’d have been told it already.
    ‘The truth isn’t always pleasant,’ she said eventually.
    And this was the truest thing he’d hear in a long time.

20
    ‘ ISN’T THAT THE son of Malpica, the one who died using dynamite?’
    They gazed from the sea. Used to seeing from the outside in. From west to east. From darkness to dawn. From mist to morning. At varying depths. Several of them half submerged, the water around their waists. They moved like amphibians, with effective slowness, overcoming hydraulic resistance with their home-made diving suits of waterproof clothing over wool, their whole bodies like pistons plunging down, digging, scratching, harvesting the sea with ancient implements, long-handled hoes, rakes, forks. Their heads covered in an array of scarves and hats.
    These women had been his world. They’d all passed through it. Guadalupe, Amparo, Sira, Adela, Belvís’ mother, Chelín’s mother, even Leda, with their buckets full of cockles and sacks of clams.
    ‘It is. I heard he studied to become a policeman.’
    ‘Do you have to study for that?’
    ‘It all depends . . . Not if you want to walk around with a truncheon in your hand, like your husband.’
    ‘That’s right, woman!’ The gatherer of shellfish gestured with the rake between her legs. ‘I bet you wish your husband had a truncheon like mine!’
    They all burst out laughing.
    ‘Go wash out your mouth!’
    ‘Leda . . . she’s a clever one.’
    The shellfish harvesters resumed their work. In search of molluscs, their bodies transformed themselves into strange, prehistoric monsters.
    ‘They say he’s going to be an inspector, a secret investigator.’
    ‘It can’t be that secret if you know all about it!’
    ‘That’s what I heard. Doesn’t bother me! He can be an astronaut for all I care.’
    ‘Oooh, an astronaut would be nice!’
    The women’s voices and laughter combined at that hour with the sea’s phonemes, the screeching and splashing, greedy warnings of vigilant birds. Fins couldn’t help himself. He took a photograph. Just one. And withdrew like a poacher.
    In front of the house in A de Meus, the hand on the door, calling outwards. Inside what gave him the warmest welcome was the oilskin tablecloth, on which stood an abandoned bottle, with a trail of wine like a tidemark. At dusk Fins wandered along the coastal road. Stopped at Chafariz Cross, where he used to wait for the bus. Stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. A normal man should always have some spare change. He hesitated. He had a good excuse for staying where he was. But by the time he realised, his feet had already transported him to the door of the bar. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a Friday night.
    Without touching the door handle, he moved to one side and peered in. The luminous novelties of the Rock-Ola and game machines.
    Behind the glass, in that large belljar, memory fermented. Life twisted and turned to the sound of music. With him on the outside.
    Rumbo was filling glasses on a tray placed on the counter.
    A little further down, on the other side of the counter, Leda and Víctor. He was sitting on a tall stool with a glass in his hand, looking serious. She was standing up, playing with her finger at curling the taciturn man’s hair. At that point the mocking, seductive gesture was the centre of the world. A gesture he recognised, which said, ‘Where are you?’
    Leda turned to heed Rumbo’s call. Fins could see her face to face. The pottery of time had improved any memory.