Southwesterly Wind Read online

  “Sergeant …”

  “Espinosa.”

  “Sergeant Espinosa, I don’t have anything to say about what happened; I don’t even really know what happened. I’m just here with my friend …”

  Irene was visibly taken with the officer. Olga was pleased by this turn of events, as it meant she wasn’t focusing her attention on Gabriel.

  Gabriel was starting to get impatient.

  “If you could listen to my colleague …”

  “Of course I can; that’s why you came, after all. Please, Miss.”

  Olga was disconcerted by the lack of importance the officer seemed to be granting the visit. Except, of course, Irene’s presence.

  “I don’t know exactly what you want to know, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about what I want to know. Focus on what you want to tell me.”

  “All right.” She looked at Gabriel as if asking for help; she looked at Irene, who was looking at Espinosa, and then began relating the events at Gabriel’s birthday party. The story didn’t vary much from the version he himself had told, except that she didn’t emphasize the Argentine’s phrases as much as he had. As she spoke, Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on Espinosa, as if he were awaiting some more explicit statement, maybe some kind of declaration. When she finished, he couldn’t contain himself anymore.

  “So?”

  Nothing.

  “What do you think, sir?”

  Espinosa remained silent, a silence that didn’t last more than a few seconds but that, because of the kid’s anxiety, seemed like long minutes.

  “I think it’s perfectly compatible with what you told me.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “If I didn’t believe you, we wouldn’t be sitting here. What you don’t seem to understand is that the fact that I believe your story doesn’t mean I also have to believe that the Argentine’s prediction is going to come true. Dona Olga, have you ever seen the Argentine before?”

  “No. I didn’t even know he was from Argentina.”

  “Neither do we.”

  “And you, Miss …”

  “Please don’t call me Miss … just Irene. No. I only learned about this situation a couple of days ago, in the middle of so much beer that I can’t even keep all the names straight. Until a few minutes ago I didn’t know if Espinosa was the name of the cop or the fortune-teller. If I may say so, Espinosa seems like a better name for a psychic than for a policeman.”

  “Sometimes we try to be psychic.”

  “Sorry, Officer. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here. I’m worried; I’m not good at sitting on the sidelines.”

  “There’s no reason to drag out this conversation. There’s nothing here that justifies an investigation. The supposed Argentine didn’t charge for what he did. He didn’t force anybody to listen to him. And according to what you’ve both told me, he was calm and respectful. So what do you want me to charge him with?” he said, looking at Gabriel. “The only person who can be accused of anything is you, in the event the prediction comes true.”

  Gabriel’s face was frozen, his eyes glassy. His lips were pressed together; he looked as if he was about to collapse.

  “Officer, my friend is very nervous,” Olga said. “He can’t concentrate at work, he doesn’t talk to anybody in the office, he seems sick…. It’s true that the fortune-teller was polite and friendly, but I was there, and I have to say that he shocked me and all our friends…. But nobody else took it seriously, maybe because they were too nervous to think about it. I guess Gabriel took it more seriously than anybody else, but after all the prediction was about him.”

  “I understand your point of view completely. But I’d like you to try to understand mine. I am a police sergeant. I don’t have any jurisdiction over people’s imaginations. I don’t have a single concrete fact to begin an investigation with. Unless he gets in touch with Gabriel and offers to undo the prediction with a sum of money … For now the most concrete thing we have is the psychological effect of a prediction on a person’s mind. There’s no more or less truth to it than there is in the prophecies of the fire-and-brimstone preachers on the street corner. As for the possibility that Gabriel could kill somebody, it only depends on whether he wants to confirm the fortune-teller’s prophecy or give it the lie.”

  “You mean … you mean … that you’re closing the case?”

  “I’m not closing the case. The case was never opened. All there was were a couple of conversations between the two of us, and my offer to see you whenever you wanted to talk to us. The offer, and our availability, remain open.”

  The daylight had diminished, and the light on Espinosa’s desk was proving inadequate. Along with the light, Gabriel’s spirits were growing dimmer and dimmer as the meeting wound its way to the end. The lamplight picked out the holster and gun that Espinosa had left on the desk. That’s where Gabriel’s gaze finally came to rest. Espinosa put the gun in a drawer, got up, and turned on the overhead light. The encounter ended with Espinosa’s request that they all write down their names and telephone numbers on a piece of paper, in case he needed to get in touch with any of them.

  When they said their farewells, the officer made a point of walking them out. Irene generously returned Espinosa’s gaze and handshake, certain that his asking for their names and numbers was just a strategy to get hers. On the sidewalk in front of the station, Gabriel blinked nervously and sought out Olga’s hand. It was clear that he was unhappy with having Irene there. Together, they all walked toward the subway station. He was sure that the meeting’s failure was Irene’s fault. When Olga took his hand, it felt dead.

  3

  The manager of the luncheonette gave the message to Hidalgo, who went muttering back to his partner.

  “Just like yesterday. Someone’s looking for us.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No, but it doesn’t sound like somebody who wants a puppet show for their kid.”

  “Could it be somebody you promised to help?”

  “Maybe. I just can’t think who.”

  “You can’t mix up your puppet clients with your fortune-telling. I bet you don’t even remember what you tell people. Eventually you’re going to slip up and they’re going to realize it’s all a farce.”

  “What farce, woman? It’s not a farce. I always tell the truth, because people always ask the same things: if they’re going to have money, health, and love. In that order.”

  “I don’t like this, having people looking for us. It could be the tax man. It could be the cops.”

  “Nonsense. We’re not criminals.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Get a grip. You’re scared of traffic guards. Get the dolls ready. I’m going to get us some sandwiches and soft drinks.”

  Hidalgo crossed the McDonald’s party room as if he were gliding through a salon in a royal palace. The children, who were bawling and running in every direction, didn’t exist; even the adults were ignored. If they didn’t get out of the way, he would have walked right through them. And yet children and adults, men and women, were transfixed by his looks, his demeanor. Stella, his girlfriend, assistant, and business partner, was very pretty, but she wasn’t quite as alluring, perhaps because she spoke in a slightly vulgar way or because, compared to her boyfriend, there was nothing outstanding about the way she carried herself.

  “We’re ready whenever you want to start. The kids are getting impatient,” said the birthday boy’s mother, looking dreamily at Hidalgo.

  “Of course, ma’am. As soon as we’re finished eating we guarantee you half an hour of silence and peace. Ours will be the only voices heard.”

  And that’s exactly what happened. By the time the prince announced his intention to rescue the princess, the children had their eyes glued on the small stage where the little puppets were obeying Hidalgo and Stella’s commands. After their presentation, it was time to sing “Happy Birthday,” for the birthday boy to blow out his candles, and for the parents to
distribute the plastic-wrapped slices of cake. It was time for Hidalgo to say farewell to the parents and to offer some extra services.

  “Congratulations, ma’am. Your son is a beautiful child. I foresee a wonderful future for him. He’ll be perfectly able to overcome the obstacles that come his way.”

  “What do you mean, obstacles? Do you see something bad in his future? Are you a psychic?”

  “I’m occasionally able to foresee isolated incidents in a person’s future, though I can’t control this capacity.”

  Screaming disrupted his communication with the young mother. He had chosen his moment strategically.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just congratulating you and your son.”

  “But what do you mean by obstacles? Health problems? Money?”

  “It’s not too clear. While we were performing I was busy with the voices and the puppets, and after that all the kids started running around and shouting….”

  “Maybe in different circumstances. Do you have a phone?”

  “Unfortunately not, but if you give me your number I’ll get in touch.”

  She wrote her name, Maria Clara, on a paper napkin; underneath she added “mother of Eduardo (Duda).” Hidalgo took advantage of the arrival of one of the children’s mothers to say good-bye and move on. Stella had taken apart the little stage and packed up the puppets and equipment into two bags.

  “Here, keep this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Didn’t you want to organize our clients? Well, you can add Duda’s mother to the list. She’s anxious to know if he’s going to be rich and healthy.”

  “Be careful. It could end up costing us the money for the performance.”

  “We’re not going to lose anything, sweetie. We’re going to make more. A lot more. We need a place to see clients. It’s not a good idea to do it at home. It’s about time we start reaping what we’ve sown.”

  “I just want you to be careful. Don’t forget, I work for the government. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “Like you said, it’s a job, not work. Now we’re going to have to get to work. With our heads.”

  It was the end of the afternoon. Hidalgo and Stella left the restaurant. She was carrying the bags; he looked like he was waiting for the chauffeur to bring around the limo.

  He turned the corner without noticing Gabriel entering the McDonald’s.

  Gabriel hadn’t talked to Olga since the encounter at the police station. In order to avoid her, he tried to arrive at and leave the office at irregular times. He didn’t say more than “Hi” or “How’s it going” when she visited his part of the floor and peered over his partition. Nor had he called the station again. He didn’t want to talk to the detective who had been assigned to take care of him; clearly, the fellow didn’t have any professional experience. And he certainly didn’t have enough life experience. Olga had deeply, perhaps irrevocably, disappointed him by bringing Irene along. Had she not understood how serious the situation was? Didn’t she comprehend the enormity of the tragedy that was taking hold of him? Had it been his mistake, failing to realize that Olga couldn’t distinguish between a tragedy and an everyday event?

  In the three days since the meeting, Gabriel had retreated into himself. Or at least he’d tried. He’d been educated by Augustinians, and in grade school the brothers taught him how, in moments of crisis, when the exterior world became impossible, to reach deep inside himself. The truth is not outside of us, they said. Why hadn’t he looked inside himself to make sense of the Argentine’s prediction? Why the sergeant? Could it be that his once-acute ability to discern good people from bad was becoming dulled? That Irene was disqualified. It was clear the moment he’d first set eyes on her. The sergeant, though he seemed like a good enough person, was a man, and, as far as Gabriel could tell, single. Irene picked up on it immediately. Women knew those things. She was certainly an attractive woman. Her eyes pierced his soul like the nails that pierced the crucified Christ. Maybe he was mixing things up. What did Christ have to do with this? It was a police station, not a church. That’s why he’d asked the officer if they could meet outside the station. Places polluted people. Nobody could avoid thinking about God in the middle of a church. And nobody could avoid thinking about evil in the middle of a police station. Including, of course, the officer himself. It was naive to imagine that Espinosa, the very man who reigned over that environment, could get to the truth of the matter. He’d given up searching for the truth in order to play the seduction game with Irene. The idea that Gabriel could seek external help was an illusion.

  It had all started with the Argentine’s prediction. He’d have to keep looking for him. That was the only way he could change the course of events, if indeed it could be altered. He remembered distinctly that there were no conditions attached to the prediction. Like all true divinations, it was an imperative. This was the point he wanted to clear up with the Argentine: was it a vision, the particulars of which could be open to interpretation, or did it refer to an unalterable, divinely foreordained event? Another thing he would have to look into was whether Espinosa’s transformation was just a mood or a definitive change.

  The mere idea that there was nothing he could do to prevent the murder made him shaky. He could not remain at the mercy of other people’s romantic whims. He’d have to act. Which meant, first, finding the Argentine. And, second, arming himself. He couldn’t stand the idea of carrying a weapon any more than he could stand the idea of using one against a fellow human being. But if he was going to meet the Argentine, he would have to have a way to defend himself.

  Dona Alzira had been looking for Father Crisóstomo for a week. She’d let time go by. In the meantime, unhurriedly, she had thought about the Father’s words, about how little interest he’d shown both in Gabriel’s problem and in her own suffering.

  She’d taken the opportunity of her son’s absence to check whether any of his clothes needed mending. On top of the single bed she had divided shirts, pants, underwear, socks, and coats into piles; the suit jackets hung from the handles of the built-in wardrobe. Dona Alzira made major decisions while carrying out such work. In fact, sometimes it seemed as if she chose to examine her son’s clothes (it used to be her husband’s clothes) precisely at the moment that she needed to confront an important choice in her life. Until she’d reached a decision, she didn’t consider her work complete. And if there were no more buttons to sew on, she would sew the old buttons on even more firmly. She had never put the clothes back into the closet without having resolved her problem.

  Her son had left for yet another one of those mysterious weekend excursions. She didn’t dare ask what he was up to on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. He always came home by dusk. So it was something that happened only in the afternoon, never in the morning or at night, which, in her opinion, excluded several possibilities, especially trysts with women, which she imagined to be exclusively nocturnal. She considered the possibility that he had taken on some extra weekend job, but it seemed unthinkable that he would have done so without telling her. Unless it was to surprise her. A while back he’d mentioned buying a car—secondhand, of course; they could take little day trips, and even short vacations. But Gabriel wasn’t acting like someone who was about to surprise her, at least not in the way she had in mind. Her attempts to get him to talk had had no effect. To the contrary: he’d clammed up even more.

  The afternoon was coming to an end; the mending had all been done; Dona Alzira was taking the clothes back into Gabriel’s room—and she still had no idea what to do. Her only certainty was that she was not going to stand by idly while her son was destroyed.

  If her son wasn’t going to talk, if Father Crisóstomo wouldn’t pay her any mind, there was only one thing to do: follow Gabriel and find out what was going on. The next day was Sunday.

  Espinosa’s Saturday began with the same impasse that always marked his Saturdays: of all the things around the
house that needed to be done, which should he attack first? Organize the books that were accumulating along the wall of the living room? A while back, he’d started to assemble a shelfless bookshelf. He’d lined up the books in a row, as he would on a regular bookshelf, except that in his version the “shelves” were made up of books laid horizontally along the top of the first row. Then he’d arranged another vertical row of books on top of the horizontal layer, and so on. The bookcase, which already occupied an entire wall of his living room, had grown taller than he was, a clear sign that the problem itself was now bigger than he was. Did it really need to be resolved? Or was it best to abandon it to its fate? That is, should he, Espinosa, await the day when the books were piled so high that the equilibrium would shatter and the whole thing would come crashing down?

  This was only one of the many dilemmas that greeted his Saturday mornings. There was also the question of the appliances that were nearing total breakdown, including the washing machine. If it kept moving around every time he used it, it would end up on the other side of the living room, on the little balcony, where it could enjoy the view over the square. There was the toaster, which toasted only one side of the bread, doubling the time necessary to complete the operation. Then there was the iron, and the lamp on his bedside table. He’d resolved to leave the carpentry and plumbing problems for his next vacation. With such a wide range of problems requiring urgent solutions, he decided that the best thing would be to calmly peruse the newspapers in order not to be forced to any hurried conclusion. Then the doorbell rang.

  There weren’t a lot of people who could bring a smile to his face on Saturday morning, before he’d had time to read the papers. The little creature he encountered at the door was one of them.

  “Hi, how are you? Well, ready to go?”

  “Ready to go where?”

  “Espinosa! Don’t tell me you forgot!”

  “God help me, sweetheart … but if you give me a hint …” The disappointed expression was magnified by two enormous blue eyes that stared attentively, awaiting his answer. Espinosa forced himself to remember.