the edge of the sofa to wait, in the secret hope that the thickness of the music would give way to the sound of Luís Terranova arriving, a key turning, a door opening that changes everything. He murmured sounds of regret. Felt happy. Fine. His singing kept the romance company. Vien, Leonora, a’ piedi tuoi serto e soglio . . . Of what importance was the time? Who could be disturbed by the sublime? Rest, sleep, all you cuckolds, while bel canto’s High Command on permanent night duty discusses a prince’s fate in a room of curtains with turbulent folds, like Sotomayor’s sumptuous, warlike sky in his paintings of enhanced bigwigs. That’s what I call having a painter to hand. Taking midgets to the heights. He got up at the end of the music and went over to the window. He could easily imagine himself in a portrait by Sotomayor. Conquerors painted with conquering paint. Successful outcome guaranteed. Needless to say, Sotomayor, Director-General of Fine Arts, was out of his reach. The ranks of painting. What about his pupils? Of the ones he knew, there was none he liked, who was up to the task, without being decadent or abstract. Chelo Vidal was, without doubt, a good painter. Nothing in common with the school of Sotomayor, of course, her art was semi-naive like Chagall’s. Her realism had mystery. That was the word. Now that he thought about it, she put aura on the canvas. The judge was right. She should be better known. Leave the provinces. Change theme. She couldn’t spend her whole life painting those women with things on top of their heads. Even if she had a special way of doing it. No, they weren’t typical scenes. It wasn’t folk-art. The women she captured out and about turned into goddesses on the canvas. That chap from the shipping company who bought everything of hers was smart. Before she finished a painting, he’d already bagged it. ‘Jews,’ Ren said to him one day laconically. He did look a bit like a Jew. His surname was Loureiro. Laurel, the name of a tree. Apparently anyone named after a tree is of Jewish ancestry: Maceiras, Carballo, Pexegueiro, Nespereira, Freixo, Salgueiro . . . Apple, Oak, Peach, Medlar, Ash, Willow . . . But that would make half of Galicia Jewish! Lots to think about. That Ren doesn’t even trust his shadow. You can’t live like that. Doesn’t even trust the dead. He told him he had to calm down. ‘You won’t have a single enemy left, Ren. Leave a cripple for the museum at least. Don’t take your duty so seriously.’ He said it as a joke. But the humorous side of Ren’s brain wasn’t very well developed. ‘I don’t do it out of duty,’ he replied. ‘I do it because I want to. We all have our pleasures and this is mine.’ One day, he had to cut him short. Because of Luís Terranova, who else? ‘That assistant of yours, that singer . . .’
‘That’s my business, Ren. He’s my ward. Didn’t I tell you he was my ward, Ren? I think I made it clear.’
He was going to add, ‘Gilda has a ward.’ Because nothing is hidden and Commander Dez also has his spies. Out and about. One of whom informed him. Too much drink and even mutes loosen their tongue. Which is what happened to him. He referred to Gilda when talking about the staff working in censorship. He quickly pointed out he didn’t mean anyone in particular, but it was too late for that.
‘We all have our things, Ren. I have an assistant, like so many others. He’s clean and attentive. And if I ask him to sing, he sings. Even “Amado Mio”, like Gilda, like Rita Hayworth doing a striptease. He sings very well, but I don’t have to force him. Got it, Ren?’
Ren grunted and fell silent. He understood.
Yes. The judge and he were old friends. He’d picked up one of the most beautiful women in Coruña. Not that it was obvious, you had to spot her beauty and he’d spotted it. Good shot, Ricardo Samos. A woman who was both artistic and sporty. Modern, but not in the modern style. A futuristic woman, he thought, and chuckled. He also had been a futuristic poet. For a few months, like Eugenio Montes. What had happened to futurism? In fridges. He found it in the advertisements for electrical