Silent Island Page 3

  “Don’t do anything stupid!” he yelled from his office. “I’ll be watching you!”

  I walked down the corridor without taking my eyes off of him. When I looked forward again, a well-dressed, gray-haired man, accompanied by another police officer, crossed paths with me. I tripped over him and I felt a slight sting in the arm.

  “Damn it!” I groaned.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man. “I didn’t see you.”

  “What was that?” I said.

  “My watch; the bracelet is coming off, and the links’ edges are sharp,” he quickly answered. “I’ll have it fixed; I’m sorry.”

  The man kept walking toward the end of the hall, apologizing.

  I got out of there and got my hand in my back pocket. I touched the yellow envelope. I had forgotten about it and did not leave it at home. Then I paid attention to my arm again and saw the scratch was red.

  I took out my sunglasses, lit a cigarette at the entrance of the police station, and got out of there before the officer regretted letting me go.

  The day was far from over, and I had plenty of stuff to do. I was livid. I did not want to go back to the newsroom because then I would be returning to the police station handcuffed in a patrol car. I felt so helpless and impotent under my skin that I was capable of going into the newsroom, kicking Ortiz’s door open, and slamming his bald scalp against his desk until I turned it into a Pollock.

  I would someday.

  Ortiz should be listening to the tick-tock. His hours were counted.

  I walked to a nearby bar, sat at the countertop, and asked for the cheapest whiskey and coke they had. Again, I felt safe. The waiter looked at me disdainfully, as though he were serving a drink for an alcoholic. I could not care less, but I did notice the wooden cross on his scrawny chest. I paid three euro and drank the highball glass before the news show ended. I ordered a second one and felt more relaxed. The sun was setting, people were getting out of work, and some girls were returning from the beach in tight tops.

  Between drinks, I began wondering why I had covered Hidalgo, the rector of the University of Alicante. We were friends, we had spent a lot of time together, but it had been years since we last heard from each other. Coincidentally, since he had become someone, and I had not.

  I took out my mobile phone and called him up.

  I only had to wait a little.

  “Hello?” he said on the line. It was him, I recognized his voice.

  “Antonio?” I asked.

  “He’s speaking. Who is this?”

  “It’s Gabriel,” I replied, “the journalist, your invisible friend.”

  “Wow, Gabriel, long time no see,” he said monotonically. He did not sound enthusiastic about my call. “Now is not a good time for me, I’ll give you a call another day, okay?”

  “We need to talk, Antonio” I sentenced, “tonight.”

  “I can’t do tonight,” he said. “What is this about?”

  “I wouldn’t be calling if this weren’t important. After all — ”

  “I’m really busy,” he excused himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you — ”

  “Cut the crap,” I interrupted him. “I’ll see you at ‘El Barrio’, as usual, in one hour.”

  “One hour?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’ll make it, Gabriel. It’s not a good time for me.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “Don’t you leave me hanging.”

  I hung up, finished my drink, and paid another three euro. I was a drunken straight shooter.

  Hidalgo was hiding something. I had set an appointment with him at the same bar where we had spent so many nights.

  Soon, I would learn what that was all about.

  5

  The traffic in the beautiful city of Alicante turned into a mechanical centipede of cars and motorcycles that rolled up the main highway, filling it with smoke. Lines of tense and tired people coming from work, willing to break something. At the doors of Mulligan’s — a two-story pub where one could get drunk, and with a little luck, leave accompanied — a line of foreign tourists waited to come in.

  I walked through El Barrio, which by then was already boiling with its people on the terraces, the contemporary Tony Maneros of the moment, who had exchanged the golden chains for gym bodies, military haircuts, tribal tattoos, and fitted shirts. That was a ground-breaking area when compared to other areas of the city.

  Everybody was welcome, or almost everyone, because at the end of the night, more than one would have ended up in an unsolicited brawl. I walked through the alleys, and the smell of pizza and frying oil brought back memories of my early adulthood. I got to the bar where I had spent so many nights getting drunk at the countertop bar like a damn madman. That is where I met my kind, and Coltrane, and Baker. There, I fell in love for the second, third, and fourth times. There, I got my heart and jaw broken. Hidalgo had brought me to that place. I still remembered it.

  Our friendship was most chaotic. Friendships between teachers and students are not commonplace, but Hidalgo had always been different. Most teachers simply taught their class, warmed up their chairs during tutorials, and collected their paychecks at the end of the month. I signed up for one of his creative and journalistic writing courses. It was a summer, and the course was tough. However, he was the one person to trust me when I was on the verge of throwing the towel.

  We bonded over coffee before classes at the faculty cafeteria. We talked about books, writers, my contempt for Bukowski, and above all, the new girls who arrived in the classrooms. All of them were beautiful, full of songs and void of words, so much so that the Faculty of Journalism was a modern mermaid island. Shortly after, I learned that Hidalgo had gotten divorced despite being as young as thirty-three.

  “Untimely decisions are often doing what is allegedly correct,” he once told me.

  Hidalgo was a good journalist. He was the only reporter in that stinky building whose credentials listed having worked at prestigious newspapers such as El País, El Mundo, and T.V.E. He knew the big names though he spoke little of them, and when forced to, he did it humbly.

  He insisted that I write a novel, perhaps to encourage me, or for me to leave him alone for a while. He had published several, but it was more of a therapy for him than a source of income. His fortuitous divorce was the inspiration for a trilogy that reached the chart tops in sales during its first few months. It was called Pause. In it, the professor berated his wife through the ghosts of their past. I read it and liked it, although I never dared tell him that it sounded, perhaps, a bit too personal. I was the same way in every aspect of my life.

  After a few months, I graduated. And little after, I started working at the newspaper. Hidalgo called me up one day to ask me to give his freshmen students a motivational speech. I agreed. I ignore if it was appropriate. I stood there, in front of a hundred young people with a bleak future ahead of them. They wanted to hear a story that I was not willing to tell. They wanted to hear a speech that would set them adrift for five years and then blame me when they came face to face with reality. I remember seeing Luther King and Steve Jobs videos on the Internet and taking some notes. And that is exactly what I did. Among Black Panthers and fruit-stamped devices, I helplessly jumped into the void with a poor and unprepared speech that ended with a forced applause by the teacher.

  Hidalgo laughed at me while I cleaned my glasses, embarrassed. That gesture gave my nervousness away.

  Our friendship surpassed the boundaries of the ordinary teacher-student relationship. We were but two friends who faced each other on equal footing, without lecturing or advising the other. He was the voice of experience, whereas I was the one speaking from the trenches. The only thing than entering a newsroom in the morning can be likened to is psychological warfare. Having to listen to a boss, regardless of what he has to say, is in a way, torturous.

  I envisioned him like Robert Redford in that damn Nixon movie, perhaps because of his blond hair and his knowledgeable advice, and I was a rebellio
us Dustin Hoffman with thick-framed glasses. The night became our habitat; we broke hearts and ended up at dawn, stinking of camaraderie and solitude. It was an unanticipated unwholesome spiral of vice.

  We were about to lose our jobs when one day, he disappeared from my life.

  I think he did the right thing.

  Although, I did not understand it at the time.

  We were riding the crest of the wave. I knew that we would eventually fall from the heights and break our shells against the ground.

  I gave up my vice in the months that followed. Going on a spree made little sense without him. I had become a Robin without a Batman, confused, and anchored in a world where I did not belong. I did not hear from him again, not even a call. He did not reply emails nor text messages.

  I felt sorry for — perhaps — having offended him without realizing it. Things were not going too well for me. I was not earning enough, and Patricia was cheating on me with a bastard. I told him so on an email, aware that he would read it, and perhaps pity could tear to pieces whatever separated us, but the truth is that he never wrote back. So I understood that our friendship was over. That was the game, I told myself. That was life, and friendship was something ephemeral that could not endure one-hundred years. One could not expect much from it. I did not hold a grudge against him.

  Six months after, I got an email from the faculty. It was him. He told me that he was going to get appointed rector. I congratulated him, although hastily and cold. I suggested we celebrate it, but he said that it was not the right time to do it. It had been longer than six fucking months, and all he could talk about was inconvenience.

  Now I was neck-deep in some shitty problem that concerned him, and there I was, waiting for him at the entrance of the bar where we used to hang out, listening to depressing alternative rock in the background. I looked at the watch. I had arrived too early, so I decided to have a beer while I waited for him.

  “Can you play anything by Coltrane?” I asked the kid at the computer behind the bar.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Col-trane.”

  “No.”

  “Can you play some jazz?” I requested. “This music gives me a headache.”

  “No,” he repeated.

  “This is a jazz bar,” I said pointing to the sign. “What happened?”

  The kid put the hands on the bar. He was not willing to change the music.

  “Look, man,” he answered seriously, “this is what we have. If you don’t like the music, you can leave.”

  “If you weren’t just a kid,” I said, “I’d break your teeth.”

  “Are you threatening me?” he asked. Things were getting heated. I felt an adrenaline rush, the fear of death. “You’d better get out of here.”

  “Alright, screw you.” I said, grabbed the beer bottle and dropped it to the floor.

  I made a scene, broke glasses, and spilled beer on the floor.

  Miraculously, I did not get my jaw broken in two or more pieces. At twenty-seven, I still had to learn to keep my mouth shut.

  I was still an idiot. I had always been and would remain one. A bigmouth, a warm-blooded insolent with a bleeding nose.

  I left the place for the square under the scrutiny of the guests who were calmly having a drink.

  “Where should I go now?” I asked myself. There in the street, I saw the bottles on the shelves of a Kebab place and went inside. I ordered whiskey with Coke and paid three euro. I was surrounded by youngsters and drunkards. I took note of the name of the bar and texted Hidalgo.

  A few minutes later, he showed up there.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he said. I turned around. I was already drunk. I looked him in the eye but did not recognize him. He looked like someone else. He had done something to his hair, something stupid and horrendous. But I could not put my finger exactly on what. Hidalgo was the rector of the university and the same stag I had met. But, unlike me, he seemed to have taken charge of his life. He had become a tame and boring being in a social coma.

  “Are you not going to shake my hand?” I said.

  “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

  “I’ve had a terrible day.” That seemed to amuse him. He was the only one who could still find stuff amusing. “Let’s go somewhere more welcoming.”

  I paid the check, and we left the place.

  * * *

  We walked in silence, entered a pizza joint, and ordered two beers and a Margherita. We sat at a table among loving couples who kissed like there was no tomorrow or were barely getting to know each other.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “How do I look?” I said reproachfully. “It’s been longer than a year.”

  Hidalgo put his hand on his forehead. He felt guilty.

  “Things have changed, Gabriel. You know, new projects, detox, getting started again. We were heading for chaos.”

  “We were chaos,” I said. “But that’s no excuse for erasing me from your life, you bastard.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. You don’t mean it. Whatever. You look good and that’s what matters, right?”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “There is a woman, right?”

  “More or less,” he answered smiling.

  “Do I know her?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said and changed the subject. My question seemed to have made him uncomfortable. “What was that so urgent?”

  “I have a problem. I am neck-deep in a problem.”

  “What is this about?” he asked. “Is it money? Don’t think I’m rich.”

  “Who do you take me for?” I said.

  “Sorry. People think that given my position — ”

  “Save it,” I reproached him. “I don’t care about the depth of your pockets.”

  “I see,” Hidalgo replied. “So, what is it?”

  “Rocamora. Does it ring a bell?”

  “No,” he said in a neutral tone. He did not even flinch. I was drunk but still in my senses to see his reaction. He was not going to make it easy.

  “So, Rocamora doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I’ve told you already. I don’t know who you are talking about.”

  I whacked the table with my fist. People turned to look at us.

  “Don’t screw with me, Antonio,” I said, tensing the neck. “You told him to call me. He told me.”

  Hidalgo began to sweat, suddenly, for no apparent reason. His collar seemed to tighten around his neck suddenly. The waitress brought two beers, and I took a long drink. Inside that restaurant was just as hot as outside. Opera was playing in the background. I could not name the piece, for I was a neophyte about the subject.

  “What did he say?” he asked. “Goddammit! I need to know what he told you.”

  “He told me you are a big bastard.”

  “Did he say that?” he asked surprised.

  “No,” I replied. “That is what I say.”

  “Fuck, Gabriel,” he insisted. “Let’s get serious.”

  “Drink,” I ordered. “You’re going to get dehydrated.”

  “Rocamora was a jerk,” he explained, “and had gotten himself into something very serious. I didn’t know what.”

  “You talk about him like he’s dead.”

  “Don’t you watch the news?” he said exasperatedly.

  “Look, I don’t know how you knew that man, but the police suspect me. I am the main fucking suspect.”

  “You?” he asked me and forced himself to laugh. Hidalgo was going to break down. “Why?”

  “The guy dived into an industrial meat grinder. What is all this about?”

  “Wow ...” he said. I had the impression that my last words had relieved him. “What else did he tell you?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything,” I replied. “He gave me an envelope with money. He called me an idiot, he said that you had warned him I was a complete idiot. Then he jumped. Everything is recorded. What am I supposed to do, Antonio?”


  His phone vibrated. He looked at the white tablecloth and the waitress brought our food. He weighed his answer for several minutes and in a procuring tone — proper of a lawyer rather than a friend — said:

  “There is nothing to worry about,” he assured me. “He was in serious trouble, financial trouble. He was desperate. He owed the wrong people money and wanted to wash his hands by telling the press. If he was to fall, he wanted others to fall with him. At first, he called me asking for help. I told him you might be able to listen to him but never imagined this would end up like this. Trust me; he was a poor wretch.”

  He was lying. I knew it from the moment we sat down.

  “That’s not all,” I added. “There’s more.”

  “Forget it,” he said, slicing the pizza with the knife. “Probably more bull crap.”

  “Who was the girl?” I asked. He choked on the piece of pizza he had introduced in his mouth. He was having trouble with it. He groaned, grabbed his beer glass, and took a long drink.

  “Who are you talking about now?” he asked relievedly after swallowing.

  “Rocamora didn’t call me to talk about money,” I said. “He wanted to confess a crime.”

  “My God!”

  “Yes,” I said. “There is a girl. He told me something about a girl. He also said that he didn’t want to get you in trouble because you were friends. He said something about a group of people. He wouldn’t tell me who, but ultimately, he warned me. What is all this about, Antonio?”

  He took out a fifty-euro bill and left it on the table.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t talk here,” he said hastily. “I have to leave; they’re waiting for me.”

  “Are you kidding?” I uttered angrily. “You can’t leave. You have to tell me what is going on.”

  “Dinner is on me. Enjoy the food,” he said and got up. “Do me a favor, don’t talk to anyone, don’t tell anyone you know me. Tell the police he tried to bribe you. They won’t find anything. Trust me and you’ll be safe.”

  “Antonio!” I shouted, but he walked out of the restaurant impetuously.