Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel by Víctor del Árbol Page A

together.”
    María felt a very strong pressure at the nape of her neck, as if a claw was pushing her forward against her will. Suddenly, the feeling that had always inhibited her when she was with Lorenzo returned. The feeling of ridiculousness and the fear of going too far.
    “I’m very busy these days. Besides, I don’t think you and I have anything to talk about.” She felt comforted by her own determination.
    A snort was heard on the other end of the line, followed by a deliberate silence.
    “I don’t want to talk about us, María.”
    “Then what do you want to talk about?”
    “About César Alcalá, the inspector that you put in jail three years ago … Could you come see me right now at my ministry office? You’ll find it on the second floor of the Provincial Police Headquarters.”
    María was slow to react.
    “What do you have to do with that man?”
    “It’s complicated, and I don’t think we should talk about it over the phone. It’s best that we see each other.”
    Just then, Greta came into the office to check some information. It took her a few seconds to lift her head from the papers she was carrying in her hand. Then she noticed María’s paleness, how she hung absently onto the telephone.
    “What’s going on?”
    María shook her head very slowly, as if denying a thought that disturbed her.
    “I have to go to Barcelona. A client wants to see me.” She didn’t have any reason to lie to Greta, but her intuition told her that for the moment it was best not to mention Lorenzo.
    “Now? It’s almost ten PM .”
    “Yes, it has to be now,” said María, grabbing her coat and car keys. “Don’t wait up.”
    She knew that Greta hadn’t believed a word, but she didn’t make any real effort to be more convincing. There’d be time for explanations later. Now she was too shocked to think.
    She drove quickly along the coastal highway, going through small towns that were deserted at that time of the year. In spite of the cutting cold that came in through the lowered window, María couldn’t completely wake up. Suddenly, all the anguish she had felt throughout the day took on weight and dimension.
    Beneath the yellowish light of the street lamps the street’s appearance changed with undulating sadness. In the distance she saw some pedestrians walking through the rain. They were like small insects running for shelter in the night. María stopped in front of the door to the Provincial Police Headquarters to make certain that this was where Lorenzo had said to meet him.
    She was approached by a policeman enveloped in shadows who was doing the rounds on his watch. Water dripped everywhere, darkening his face. The barrel of the automatic rifle slung across his shoulder shone with rain. He was one of those haughty public servants, sure of himself beneath the tight chinstrap with his weapon at the ready. His Spartan face was as theosophical as it was superficial.
    “What are you doing there?”
    “I’ve come to see…” She hesitated, not knowing what post Lorenzo now held in the CESID, the intelligence service. “Lorenzo Pintar. He’s on the second floor.”
    The policeman’s expression contorted. He knew who worked on the building’s second floor. His dark, cold eyes scrutinized María without the slightest emotion. Finally, he was satisfied and let her inside, with a justification as patently ridiculous as it was true: “You never know who’s a terrorist.”
    As soon as she crossed the threshold, María was greeted by the same police routine she was already familiar with from every other police station she had visited. There was always the sound of a cell’s metal closing at the end of a narrow hallway, the echoing footsteps of a guard, the loud voices of prisoners and officers. It was a world far from the light. It depressed her.
    She went up to the second floor. She had to sit and wait on the edge of an uncomfortable chair. Every once in a while she looked out of the corner of her eye