Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [215]
They shook them. To see if anything would fall out, I suppose. And it was that movement, that flapping of pages in case anything fell out, that reminded me of the day Olinda set down her load next to Santa Catarina Fountain and a man came over with a white cloth, a large parcel, and said, ‘You dropped this, madam.’ And she said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ And I thought to myself, she didn’t drop anything. But Olinda quickly put it, whatever it was, inside the bundle.
‘How long you been washing for the judge’s wife?’
‘A dozen years, give or take. I started with my mother.’
‘Where’s your mother?’
‘My mother’s dead. And I’m going to leave it.’
‘Why you going to leave it? Something happen?’
‘They bought a washing machine. Washerwomen are a thing of the past.’
‘What about your father?’ asked the dandy. ‘He alive?’
‘Yes. He digs graves.’
‘Good one,’ said Harmony. ‘That’ll show them. Now look up at the sky. So they see it’s going to rain.’
‘What do you know about the Portuguese architect?’ asked Ashen Hat.
There he had me. Judith. Portuguese architect. Ashen hat. Invisible toothpick. My heated voice told me, ‘Pretend you’re crazy. These people don’t like dealing with nutcases. They move away, prefer not to know. Nutcases make them nervous. This woman, they’ll say, has a screw loose. It’s like she’s possessed, one of those women who go to Pastoriza to get cured and, when they reach the church, start writhing about, spitting out iron coins that stick in the door. Pretend you’re possessed. Spit out iron nails, breathe out fire.’
What about you, Harmony? And Harmony tells me I have to be clever. Cleverer than they are. ‘They know who’s crazy and who’s only pretending. They’ll take you down the station and give you a record. Once you’ve a record, you won’t be able to get a certificate of good conduct. And without a certificate you won’t be able to go abroad. They’re searching for something, but they’re not sure what it is. As well as you, they’ll have questioned the other women who carry things on top of their heads. The women who appear in the paintings. It’s obvious they don’t know what they’re after. And they don’t like the orchestra of dogs.’
‘What do you know about the Portuguese architect?’ asked Ren.
And O replied straight off, without thinking, ‘Tell me, sir, what’s a Portuguese architect?’
‘Go on, off with you,’ said Ren. ‘Before it starts raining.’
I don’t know what it is today, what they see in me. Here’s another car pulling up. Smaller though. It’s a coupé.
‘Good morning. I’m from the police. Can I ask you a few questions?’
At least this one bothered to show me his badge. He was handsome, though a little too sad for my liking. A little lost. Like he was searching for someone in a cloak in Santiago.
‘Please don’t worry. My name’s Paúl Santos and I’m from the Brigade of Criminal Investigation.’
‘You’re from Crime?’
Hardly something to calm me down.
‘You wash for Mrs Vidal, don’t you?’
‘I do, sir.’
When was the last time you saw her?’
Good question.
‘Ages ago. I deal with the maid.’
‘But there’s a portrait of you in the sitting-room. The paint’s still fresh, it’s recent.’
Your legs. Hold on to your legs. What now, Harmony?
‘I looked so ugly, sir. I was ashamed!’
‘Does the name Judith mean anything to you?’
‘Judith?’
Judith
‘Now it’s all starting to fit together,’ said Mancorvo.
He acted as Ren’s analyst and memory when Ren was confused, stuck in a kind of chronological niche. The subinspector made for a strange second. Tall and thin, with aquiline features, his hair held in place with hair cream, wearing fancy clothes, cufflinks and matching tie-pin, he was quite different from Ren. You only had to see how their handkerchiefs were folded in their jacket pockets. Mancorvo’s was of immaculate triangular perfection, like a medal; Ren’s was just stuffed in.
Paúl Santos had noticed another discrepancy. Mancorvo’s hands were very fine, he kept them visible, his elbows on the table, moving his fingers in a constant manicure, as if filing and polishing his nails. Ren’s characteristic