Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [149]
‘I studied law, Mr Ren,’ said Santos, who couldn’t help varnishing his words with a hint of pride.
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Inspector Ren, looking at the station chief. ‘It was lawful.’ They again burst out laughing as if they’d played a joke on a novice.
Santos went along with it. Forced a smile. His first impressions were confirmed. The tone used by the station chief to refer to Ren wasn’t just one of loyalty, even friendship. It pointed to the mental position of a subordinate.
‘I’m called Unknown because I grew up in Charity Hospital, Mr Ren,’ said Santos politely.
‘I know that,’ Ren replied gruffly.
‘His head contains our finest archive,’ said the station chief. ‘All the city’s secrets.’
‘You’re exaggerating. But we have picked up something along the way. Now things will improve. Our friend Santos here will incorporate new methods. Long live scientific police work! I always wished I’d had a scientific training.’
‘The departments are different, but you’ll have to work together when necessary,’ said the station chief. ‘So welcome and don’t hesitate to seek help from a master like him.’
Ren couldn’t hide the fact he enjoyed adulation. Paúl Santos measured his proportions. Ren’s ego was large, physiological. It had increased in size. Ren took up more space now than when they’d first been introduced.
‘Tell me something, Santos,’ Ren intervened. ‘How did you get to Charity Hospital? Did someone take you in their arms? Were you left at night at the wheel? What’s your story? Have you looked into who your parents were?’
The man was wide. That was the word. Strong, robust, but above all wide. His manner of speaking was also expansive. With his arms crossed, he heaped rubble at the other’s feet, without caring if it landed on top of him. The only thing that was different were his eyes. They were lively and small calibre.
‘I was born in the Room for Secret Deliveries.’
Ren fell quiet. He’d be searching through the Archive for Secret Deliveries. This is where rich women gave birth to their indiscretions, so it was said. Santos thought Laboure had trained him to deal with just such people. People like Ren. Laboure’s pauses were not meant to transmit calm, but greater speed to the engine. First she’d drink some coffee. Light a cigarette, inhale deeply and seem to wait for the smoke to go to her head. Then she’d stand up and blow a plume of smoke, ‘Courage!’
It wasn’t easy to explain. A nun who gave him strength. Not with tales of martyrs. Her motto was, ‘No excuses’.
‘You weren’t born just anywhere. You were born in the Room for Secret Deliveries. You’ve been called. You’re a chosen one. You have to fight against evil. Il faut tuer le mal!’ She spoke with drunken clarity. Catherine Laboure visited every corner of the city. Went down alleyways. Knocked at doors. Left a trail of black tobacco, her Gauloises. She’d go down to the port, where she had some local skippers who kept her supplied. But today she was smoking thanks to a legionnaire who’d gone blind and sometimes dealt in cannabis.
‘You can tell good by looking at it.’
She was half crazy. Perhaps the only way to gain respect in such an enclosed space.
‘Ah, que tu es beau!’
Then very seriously, ‘You were born in the Room for Secret Deliveries.’
‘So what?’
‘Never be inhuman.’
When they were left alone, the boss said about Ren, ‘He’s not a bad person, it’s just he has a problem with people. There was a British king, George I, a Hanoverian, who was said to be an extraordinary person because he hated only three people in this world: his mother, his wife and his son. Ren’s mother died long ago and he doesn’t have a wife or child. So he’s plenty to choose from.’
Santos smiled the Paúl Santos smile.
‘I think he includes you in that category.’
‘What category?’
‘Humankind.’
On leaving the office, Santos had formed a different idea about the boss’s character. He was one of those who, instead of taking your hand, let theirs hang loosely and quickly withdraw it like a slippery concession. He wondered now whether