Counterfeit, p.17
Counterfeit, page 17
Jota looked up in surprise. “What’s wrong? Don’t you see? We’re winning. This time we’re going to fucking win!”
“Are you still playing your game? Can’t you see that it’s not real?”
Just then Jota’s phone started to ring. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hello, Jota.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Xavi. I think we met briefly, or at least I’m familiar with the back of you. I became acquainted with it as you left my building this morning. You’re pretty quick for a man of your age.”
Jota thought hard about what to say next. “How did you find me? You might be in serious trouble, young man. I only want names. If you give them to me, then you’ll be out of it.”
“The buyer’s name? You won’t find that in my files. I don’t know if you know what’s at stake here, for both of us. But compared to what we’re up against, you and me, any threats you make are small beer.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re on the list now too.”
“Who’s your partner?”
Xavi giggled before saying, “This isn’t the right time to tell you that. But we can all help each other out. He gave me your telephone number. I’m going to leave town tomorrow, but I have information you might find useful. If what I’ve heard is true, there might still be something you can do.”
“Why would you give it to me?”
“Because they’re going to kill me. That’s good enough reason, don’t you think? And if I give it to you, maybe you’ll have a chance to work things out. Or maybe they’ll kill you. If you work things out, I can go into hiding for a while and come back once things have calmed down, or . . . well, I win either way.”
“Give it to me.”
“No, not over the phone. You know where I live. Obviously I’m not there. If you found it, they might have too. I’ll be going by to pick up my things tomorrow. I leave for the station at eight in the morning. Let’s meet at the café opposite, at seven. All three of us. I’ll tell you everything there. Then I’ll disappear. I have some answers, but they won’t help me. They might you.”
“What if I don’t come?”
“Then I’ll have to disappear forever, I’m afraid. And what good will that do you? I’ll have a suitcase with me. Oh, please bring me back my journal and card holder—they won’t be of any use to you, and I need them. The journal isn’t even real leather.”
And with that, Xavi hung up. Jota called back again and again, but a mechanical voice told him that the phone had been switched off. When he finally gave up, Adolfo handed him the journal and the folders.
“Here, take these. I’m going home to be with my daughters. I want nothing more to do with this.”
“What?”
“I mean it. You have no right . . . I’m not chasing around after you anymore. No . . . just go.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I have a family, get it? No . . . I can’t do this anymore.”
“But this is almost over.”
“Exactly! It’s too late to fix what happened twenty years ago! Don’t you see? This is different—this is a different girl! Your best friend died, and you’ll never be able to fix that. What good do you think finding out who killed Diego is going to do? That only makes sense in your head! It was all over a long time ago. This has nothing to do with it!”
Jota didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say. Adolfo walked Jota outside in silence, locked the door behind him, and walked off without looking back.
The cat was sitting in Laura’s lap, purring. She looked at the photograph of the clock again and again. Her father’s home, the shop floor. It all looked right, and yet something didn’t fit. Something was irritating her. Laura stared and stared at the dirty wall, the desk in the background, the table lamp. It was all there, and yet it was wrong. She stared at it for so long that when she closed her eyes, the negative image appeared behind her eyelids. But she couldn’t solve the puzzle.
Suddenly, the cat turned toward the door, but instead of hissing as usual, he arched his back. His hair stood on end while his tail went puffy and rigid. Then he growled harshly and ran away from the door, toward the window. Laura jumped up, aware that something was wrong. She carefully approached the front door and listened. Then she heard whispers and scratching and realized that someone was trying to break in.
She quickly picked up her shoes, bag, and the folder and ran out toward the cat’s window. She moved the bookcase just enough for her to get by, then pulled it back again to cover her tracks. Then she quietly crawled outside, scratching and dirtying herself, and headed into the darkness. Before her stretched the dark roofs of the old city. Surveying the scene, she knew where she had to go.
“Remember: any trace, any clue. We just need the girl. We don’t have much time, and he’s good. He can’t know we were here.”
They spread out around the house, oblivious to the hidden window. They soon found her clothes.
“Hey . . . take a look at this.”
“What? What’s this?”
“The bed, the socks, the food . . .”
“Shit! Fucking hell! She was here the whole time. She’s fucking been here the whole time!”
“But he was looking for her—”
“Because he’s smarter than you are! He knew we’d hear about it. He’s a smart son of a bitch.”
“But she’s not here.”
“He must have moved her without our noticing. Shit. Is anyone on him right now?”
“No, we’re here and on Xavi.”
“Shit, shit, shit. He’s one step ahead of us. Fine, nothing changes. Let’s go; there’s nothing we can do here.”
“I don’t know. There’s something strange about all this.”
“What?”
“The clothes, the food . . . it’s like she was still here.”
“Are we sure she isn’t hiding? Search every last inch of this place.”
“But then he’ll know we were here.”
“If we want him to lead us to her, maybe he should know. Turn this place upside down—quick. We can’t be too long. Where might he have taken her?”
“A hostel maybe. She could be anywhere.”
“Shit, shit, shit. We had her! She was right in our grasp. What do you think, Richard?”
Richard walked away from his men to speak to the blond man. “Don’t worry; we’re almost there. We have them all, don’t we? That’s why you hired me. It’s just a question of being patient. It’s Jota’s weakness. Only Xavi and the other scout are left. We need to calm down. Jota will lead us to them, and when we’ve finished them off, he’ll lead us straight to the girl—he’ll have no choice. And that’s if he doesn’t come to ask me for help first. We just have to follow him. Xavi and the girl are as good as dead.”
7
Jota parked the car with a bittersweet feeling. His success with Xavi had been undermined by his frustration with Adolfo and the fear he’d seen in his friend’s eyes. What had changed? Maybe Adolfo was right about him chasing ghosts from twenty years ago. But then he thought about Laura, a girl who’d lost her father. She was so similar to her mother. She’d been little more than a girl back then. And he’d been just a boy. They’d all been children.
Jota knew what he was going to do. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he was going to do it anyway. The fire was burning away inside him, and only one thing would extinguish it now. It had lodged in his soul, intense and destructive. The fire now defined his entire existence and would keep raging until he’d seen this through to the end, even if that meant the end of him too. He knew what might happen and how easily it might all go wrong. He knew what was at stake, just as Xavi had reminded him. They might all end up dead: Xavi, him, maybe Adolfo. But Laura couldn’t end up like that—she was too young. She’d lost too much in too short a time. She’d given too much already. Hope, a reason to live, the fire gave him everything. Before he went home, Jota went to see his accountant to finish up the paperwork he’d been preparing for several days.
When he got home, late, something in the air felt wrong. His front door was open. The lock had been forced, and he saw immediately that it had been left that way to send a message. They wanted him to know that they’d been there. Just in case, he took out his knife and slowly pushed the door open. He felt his way in the dark and looked around: everything was a mess. Knowing it was pointless, he began to search, whispering into the darkness. He was acting instinctively, the way you did at stressful times. Hoping against hope.
“Laura?”
He went through each room in turn, getting increasingly desperate.
“Laura? Fuck!”
Almost certain of the worst, he felt for his phone. There was still hope, he told himself. If they’d killed her, the body would still be there. They wouldn’t have bothered to take it anywhere. Maybe they’d want to make a deal. If they had taken her, she must still be OK—at least she was alive. His hands shaking, he dialed her number, expecting to hear a man’s voice issuing instructions or making demands. But there she was, whispering, relaxed: she was safe, unharmed.
“Jota, are you at home? I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me. Someone was trying to break in, but I got out through the window. They didn’t see me. I wasn’t followed.”
“Laura! Laura! My God! Are you OK? Did they do anything to you? Has anything happened? Tell me the truth. Are you alone? Are you safe?”
“You aren’t listening to me. I’m fine—safe and sound. No one knows where I am. Don’t worry.”
“Forgive me—it was my fault. I left you alone for too long. I was just asking for them to find you. I was overconfident. Forgive me. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up. From now on you stick with me.”
“No, Jota. I think that now I’m safer on my own. Also . . . I think . . . I’m not sure yet, but I think I might have something. I know it’s somewhere in my brain. I just can’t access it.”
“Laura, I’m going to pick you up, wherever you are. I won’t leave you—”
“Jota, just listen, please. They found your house. They might know that I was there. Well, they definitely will if they’re not complete idiots.” She laughed caustically. “What if they’re watching you? I’m not sure that I’m safe with you. I think I almost have it, just . . . leave me alone tonight. You can pick me up tomorrow and take me to your friend Rodrigo, OK? Please, please. Just tonight. I’ll be safer that way.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, I can’t leave you alone. What if they find you?”
“They already would have.”
“No, Laura, this is the last word. Where are you?”
“Then you leave me no choice.” Laura hung up on him.
Knowing that she wouldn’t answer anymore, Jota threw the phone against the wall. He kicked the detritus of his ruined apartment across the floor until he finally got control of himself. Surprisingly, the phone was still working. He couldn’t stay where he was. He found a chain to lock the door and left the mess behind.
He spent the rest of the night driving around, smoking cigarette after cigarette, struggling with his anxiety, trying to kill the hours left until dawn, when he’d be able to tie up the loose ends and find the person responsible before Laura got hurt. His eyes burned with the intensity of the flame; his scar throbbed. His battle with time grew more excruciating with every minute. All he could do was wait, drive, and wait some more. When it was almost two in the morning, he stopped in front of Diego’s shop and kept watch for a while. He knew she was there. The stupidest place in the world, where no one would think to look for her. She was in there. He got as far as reaching for the doorknob but then thought twice. He looked into his rearview mirror and checked the street suspiciously. The night was bathed in an orange glow. No one was there. He thought again, started the car, and drove on.
After speaking to Jota on the phone, Laura sat in the position the camera had been when the photo of the clock had been taken. She looked at the space again and again, until she’d memorized every detail, comparing them to those in the image. Everything was there. There was no doubt about it. It was exactly the same, and yet it still didn’t fit. Then she thought about the invoices. The paperwork was from five years ago, when the transaction had been done. Her head lit up with an idea.
Jota was dozing in his seat when a passing ambulance woke him up. He’d slept in an awkward position, and now his neck hurt. He checked the time: 5:30 a.m. He got out of the car. He went into an open café and ordered a cognac. Time seemed to have stopped moving. He asked for change for the cigarette machine. Then he checked his watch again: 6:30 a.m. He paid the bill and left the café. He walked down a street, still checking the time. Now it was 6:50 a.m. He could see Xavi’s building in the distance. Then he saw a pair of ambulances, and he slowed down before running forward again.
People had gathered around a police cordon. Several officers were blocking their way, hiding a body covered in a metallic gold blanket. Jota spoke to the man next to him.
“What happened?”
“A tragedy, a real tragedy.”
Another man chimed in. “The kid killed himself.”
Soon a woman came over with tears in her eyes. “I saw it. It was horrible. It was awfu . . .” she broke down into a melodramatic bout of sobbing and couldn’t go on.
The first man consoled her disinterestedly. “There, there, it’s over now.”
Jota moved on and turned to a woman speaking to a policeman. “Do you know what happened?”
The policeman answered. “Are you a relative of the victim?”
“No, I’ve come to meet someone. But I can’t find them.”
Then the woman answered. “It was the boy in 6B.”
Jota knew the apartment: he’d been in there just a day before. It was Xavi, no doubt about it.
The policeman noticed his reaction and grew curious. “Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Then please move on; there are too many people around here already.”
The woman spoke between sobs. “I was just talking to him only a little while ago.”
The policeman turned to her. “Really, what did he say?”
“Oh, he was such a nice boy . . . he said he was going up to get a suitcase. He was going on a trip . . .”
“Amazing. A suitcase. Some trip he went on.”
“He was so polite—who would have thought it?”
“The best always die young. And we’re all that’s left,” the policeman summed up with all the gravity of a heartfelt platitude. He and the woman began to exchange a series of truisms and clichés.
“Did he say where he was planning on going?” Jota interrupted.
“Oh, don’t be morbid,” the policeman exclaimed in indignation.
“I asked, but he just laughed and said the bus station.”
“The bus station.”
“Yes, he said that no one would think to look for him there. Buses! Oh, my boy! Oh my God! If I’d have known what he was really talking about . . .”
The policeman led her back to familiar territory. “Oh, you never know. One moment you’re here, and the next . . .”
Jota walked off into the crowd, stumbling toward his car like a sleepwalker or a ghost. He hadn’t slept much, but this felt like a waking nightmare. Jota got into his car and sat for half an hour with no idea what to do. They’d gotten to Xavi first. What could he do now? He’d hit a dead end. Only the other scout was left, and after this he’d never be able to find him. He went over their conversation again and again. When someone gave you all the information, you didn’t bother scrutinizing it. “He gave me your phone number.” Jota opened the journal and started to read the names one by one. “He gave me your phone number.” What if he knew him? What if he knew the other scout? Maybe someone in the diary could help him. Or at least set him on the right track. But none of the pages gave him what he was looking for. “He gave me your phone number.” Then he got to S. A surname. Rafa’s surname. It had been him all along, shit. Rafa. He’d never stopped working for Diego. Just another lie from a pair of huge liars who liked to keep their business secret. Speculation, no more than that. But no, it was Rafa. Who else could it be? Did Xavi say that he was getting out of there? He was, but was Rafa too? Could he just leave like that, disappear? They’d planned to meet, but Rafa had obligations, businesses. Then again, he could well be that desperate. Jota knew that he was minutes, maybe hours, behind. He didn’t have a second to lose.
The neighborhood was tense; the atmosphere was claustrophobic. There were more and more incidents—a demonstration had been planned for that afternoon to protest the high crime rate. People’s opinions were quickly getting polarized. Jota was going as quick as he could. He was desperate. People had stopped talking in the street; they just looked around fearfully. He went into a café. The people having breakfast at the bar turned around, and one or two said hello.
The barman looked up as he served coffee. “What’s up, big man? What can I do for you?”
“Is Rafa here?”
“Not today. I was just saying how strange it was. He’s usually here by now.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Well, it’s Thursday today, isn’t it? He’s probably at the customs office, dealing with the new shipments.”
The barman served another coffee. When he looked back up, Jota had left.
Jota was driving like a man possessed, burning up with flames that would never go out, the flames that drove him on and threatened to destroy him. Every second counted. He got to the industrial estate by the airport and parked by the guard post outside the customs building. Several tired-looking people were waiting in a room next to a vacant window. Movement could be heard on the other side. Eventually, a little man appeared and came to the window, but none of the people waiting went over to him. He called to Jota.
“You: have you come to pick up something?”
“No, I’m looking for a customs agent, Rafael Sanz.”
“Rafael?”
“He comes on Thursdays. He must have arrived a little while ago.”
“Oh yeah, I know him. He hasn’t come in yet, but he won’t be long; he has boxes to pick up. You can wait over there.”
“Are you still playing your game? Can’t you see that it’s not real?”
Just then Jota’s phone started to ring. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hello, Jota.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Xavi. I think we met briefly, or at least I’m familiar with the back of you. I became acquainted with it as you left my building this morning. You’re pretty quick for a man of your age.”
Jota thought hard about what to say next. “How did you find me? You might be in serious trouble, young man. I only want names. If you give them to me, then you’ll be out of it.”
“The buyer’s name? You won’t find that in my files. I don’t know if you know what’s at stake here, for both of us. But compared to what we’re up against, you and me, any threats you make are small beer.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re on the list now too.”
“Who’s your partner?”
Xavi giggled before saying, “This isn’t the right time to tell you that. But we can all help each other out. He gave me your telephone number. I’m going to leave town tomorrow, but I have information you might find useful. If what I’ve heard is true, there might still be something you can do.”
“Why would you give it to me?”
“Because they’re going to kill me. That’s good enough reason, don’t you think? And if I give it to you, maybe you’ll have a chance to work things out. Or maybe they’ll kill you. If you work things out, I can go into hiding for a while and come back once things have calmed down, or . . . well, I win either way.”
“Give it to me.”
“No, not over the phone. You know where I live. Obviously I’m not there. If you found it, they might have too. I’ll be going by to pick up my things tomorrow. I leave for the station at eight in the morning. Let’s meet at the café opposite, at seven. All three of us. I’ll tell you everything there. Then I’ll disappear. I have some answers, but they won’t help me. They might you.”
“What if I don’t come?”
“Then I’ll have to disappear forever, I’m afraid. And what good will that do you? I’ll have a suitcase with me. Oh, please bring me back my journal and card holder—they won’t be of any use to you, and I need them. The journal isn’t even real leather.”
And with that, Xavi hung up. Jota called back again and again, but a mechanical voice told him that the phone had been switched off. When he finally gave up, Adolfo handed him the journal and the folders.
“Here, take these. I’m going home to be with my daughters. I want nothing more to do with this.”
“What?”
“I mean it. You have no right . . . I’m not chasing around after you anymore. No . . . just go.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I have a family, get it? No . . . I can’t do this anymore.”
“But this is almost over.”
“Exactly! It’s too late to fix what happened twenty years ago! Don’t you see? This is different—this is a different girl! Your best friend died, and you’ll never be able to fix that. What good do you think finding out who killed Diego is going to do? That only makes sense in your head! It was all over a long time ago. This has nothing to do with it!”
Jota didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say. Adolfo walked Jota outside in silence, locked the door behind him, and walked off without looking back.
The cat was sitting in Laura’s lap, purring. She looked at the photograph of the clock again and again. Her father’s home, the shop floor. It all looked right, and yet something didn’t fit. Something was irritating her. Laura stared and stared at the dirty wall, the desk in the background, the table lamp. It was all there, and yet it was wrong. She stared at it for so long that when she closed her eyes, the negative image appeared behind her eyelids. But she couldn’t solve the puzzle.
Suddenly, the cat turned toward the door, but instead of hissing as usual, he arched his back. His hair stood on end while his tail went puffy and rigid. Then he growled harshly and ran away from the door, toward the window. Laura jumped up, aware that something was wrong. She carefully approached the front door and listened. Then she heard whispers and scratching and realized that someone was trying to break in.
She quickly picked up her shoes, bag, and the folder and ran out toward the cat’s window. She moved the bookcase just enough for her to get by, then pulled it back again to cover her tracks. Then she quietly crawled outside, scratching and dirtying herself, and headed into the darkness. Before her stretched the dark roofs of the old city. Surveying the scene, she knew where she had to go.
“Remember: any trace, any clue. We just need the girl. We don’t have much time, and he’s good. He can’t know we were here.”
They spread out around the house, oblivious to the hidden window. They soon found her clothes.
“Hey . . . take a look at this.”
“What? What’s this?”
“The bed, the socks, the food . . .”
“Shit! Fucking hell! She was here the whole time. She’s fucking been here the whole time!”
“But he was looking for her—”
“Because he’s smarter than you are! He knew we’d hear about it. He’s a smart son of a bitch.”
“But she’s not here.”
“He must have moved her without our noticing. Shit. Is anyone on him right now?”
“No, we’re here and on Xavi.”
“Shit, shit, shit. He’s one step ahead of us. Fine, nothing changes. Let’s go; there’s nothing we can do here.”
“I don’t know. There’s something strange about all this.”
“What?”
“The clothes, the food . . . it’s like she was still here.”
“Are we sure she isn’t hiding? Search every last inch of this place.”
“But then he’ll know we were here.”
“If we want him to lead us to her, maybe he should know. Turn this place upside down—quick. We can’t be too long. Where might he have taken her?”
“A hostel maybe. She could be anywhere.”
“Shit, shit, shit. We had her! She was right in our grasp. What do you think, Richard?”
Richard walked away from his men to speak to the blond man. “Don’t worry; we’re almost there. We have them all, don’t we? That’s why you hired me. It’s just a question of being patient. It’s Jota’s weakness. Only Xavi and the other scout are left. We need to calm down. Jota will lead us to them, and when we’ve finished them off, he’ll lead us straight to the girl—he’ll have no choice. And that’s if he doesn’t come to ask me for help first. We just have to follow him. Xavi and the girl are as good as dead.”
7
Jota parked the car with a bittersweet feeling. His success with Xavi had been undermined by his frustration with Adolfo and the fear he’d seen in his friend’s eyes. What had changed? Maybe Adolfo was right about him chasing ghosts from twenty years ago. But then he thought about Laura, a girl who’d lost her father. She was so similar to her mother. She’d been little more than a girl back then. And he’d been just a boy. They’d all been children.
Jota knew what he was going to do. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he was going to do it anyway. The fire was burning away inside him, and only one thing would extinguish it now. It had lodged in his soul, intense and destructive. The fire now defined his entire existence and would keep raging until he’d seen this through to the end, even if that meant the end of him too. He knew what might happen and how easily it might all go wrong. He knew what was at stake, just as Xavi had reminded him. They might all end up dead: Xavi, him, maybe Adolfo. But Laura couldn’t end up like that—she was too young. She’d lost too much in too short a time. She’d given too much already. Hope, a reason to live, the fire gave him everything. Before he went home, Jota went to see his accountant to finish up the paperwork he’d been preparing for several days.
When he got home, late, something in the air felt wrong. His front door was open. The lock had been forced, and he saw immediately that it had been left that way to send a message. They wanted him to know that they’d been there. Just in case, he took out his knife and slowly pushed the door open. He felt his way in the dark and looked around: everything was a mess. Knowing it was pointless, he began to search, whispering into the darkness. He was acting instinctively, the way you did at stressful times. Hoping against hope.
“Laura?”
He went through each room in turn, getting increasingly desperate.
“Laura? Fuck!”
Almost certain of the worst, he felt for his phone. There was still hope, he told himself. If they’d killed her, the body would still be there. They wouldn’t have bothered to take it anywhere. Maybe they’d want to make a deal. If they had taken her, she must still be OK—at least she was alive. His hands shaking, he dialed her number, expecting to hear a man’s voice issuing instructions or making demands. But there she was, whispering, relaxed: she was safe, unharmed.
“Jota, are you at home? I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me. Someone was trying to break in, but I got out through the window. They didn’t see me. I wasn’t followed.”
“Laura! Laura! My God! Are you OK? Did they do anything to you? Has anything happened? Tell me the truth. Are you alone? Are you safe?”
“You aren’t listening to me. I’m fine—safe and sound. No one knows where I am. Don’t worry.”
“Forgive me—it was my fault. I left you alone for too long. I was just asking for them to find you. I was overconfident. Forgive me. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up. From now on you stick with me.”
“No, Jota. I think that now I’m safer on my own. Also . . . I think . . . I’m not sure yet, but I think I might have something. I know it’s somewhere in my brain. I just can’t access it.”
“Laura, I’m going to pick you up, wherever you are. I won’t leave you—”
“Jota, just listen, please. They found your house. They might know that I was there. Well, they definitely will if they’re not complete idiots.” She laughed caustically. “What if they’re watching you? I’m not sure that I’m safe with you. I think I almost have it, just . . . leave me alone tonight. You can pick me up tomorrow and take me to your friend Rodrigo, OK? Please, please. Just tonight. I’ll be safer that way.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, I can’t leave you alone. What if they find you?”
“They already would have.”
“No, Laura, this is the last word. Where are you?”
“Then you leave me no choice.” Laura hung up on him.
Knowing that she wouldn’t answer anymore, Jota threw the phone against the wall. He kicked the detritus of his ruined apartment across the floor until he finally got control of himself. Surprisingly, the phone was still working. He couldn’t stay where he was. He found a chain to lock the door and left the mess behind.
He spent the rest of the night driving around, smoking cigarette after cigarette, struggling with his anxiety, trying to kill the hours left until dawn, when he’d be able to tie up the loose ends and find the person responsible before Laura got hurt. His eyes burned with the intensity of the flame; his scar throbbed. His battle with time grew more excruciating with every minute. All he could do was wait, drive, and wait some more. When it was almost two in the morning, he stopped in front of Diego’s shop and kept watch for a while. He knew she was there. The stupidest place in the world, where no one would think to look for her. She was in there. He got as far as reaching for the doorknob but then thought twice. He looked into his rearview mirror and checked the street suspiciously. The night was bathed in an orange glow. No one was there. He thought again, started the car, and drove on.
After speaking to Jota on the phone, Laura sat in the position the camera had been when the photo of the clock had been taken. She looked at the space again and again, until she’d memorized every detail, comparing them to those in the image. Everything was there. There was no doubt about it. It was exactly the same, and yet it still didn’t fit. Then she thought about the invoices. The paperwork was from five years ago, when the transaction had been done. Her head lit up with an idea.
Jota was dozing in his seat when a passing ambulance woke him up. He’d slept in an awkward position, and now his neck hurt. He checked the time: 5:30 a.m. He got out of the car. He went into an open café and ordered a cognac. Time seemed to have stopped moving. He asked for change for the cigarette machine. Then he checked his watch again: 6:30 a.m. He paid the bill and left the café. He walked down a street, still checking the time. Now it was 6:50 a.m. He could see Xavi’s building in the distance. Then he saw a pair of ambulances, and he slowed down before running forward again.
People had gathered around a police cordon. Several officers were blocking their way, hiding a body covered in a metallic gold blanket. Jota spoke to the man next to him.
“What happened?”
“A tragedy, a real tragedy.”
Another man chimed in. “The kid killed himself.”
Soon a woman came over with tears in her eyes. “I saw it. It was horrible. It was awfu . . .” she broke down into a melodramatic bout of sobbing and couldn’t go on.
The first man consoled her disinterestedly. “There, there, it’s over now.”
Jota moved on and turned to a woman speaking to a policeman. “Do you know what happened?”
The policeman answered. “Are you a relative of the victim?”
“No, I’ve come to meet someone. But I can’t find them.”
Then the woman answered. “It was the boy in 6B.”
Jota knew the apartment: he’d been in there just a day before. It was Xavi, no doubt about it.
The policeman noticed his reaction and grew curious. “Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Then please move on; there are too many people around here already.”
The woman spoke between sobs. “I was just talking to him only a little while ago.”
The policeman turned to her. “Really, what did he say?”
“Oh, he was such a nice boy . . . he said he was going up to get a suitcase. He was going on a trip . . .”
“Amazing. A suitcase. Some trip he went on.”
“He was so polite—who would have thought it?”
“The best always die young. And we’re all that’s left,” the policeman summed up with all the gravity of a heartfelt platitude. He and the woman began to exchange a series of truisms and clichés.
“Did he say where he was planning on going?” Jota interrupted.
“Oh, don’t be morbid,” the policeman exclaimed in indignation.
“I asked, but he just laughed and said the bus station.”
“The bus station.”
“Yes, he said that no one would think to look for him there. Buses! Oh, my boy! Oh my God! If I’d have known what he was really talking about . . .”
The policeman led her back to familiar territory. “Oh, you never know. One moment you’re here, and the next . . .”
Jota walked off into the crowd, stumbling toward his car like a sleepwalker or a ghost. He hadn’t slept much, but this felt like a waking nightmare. Jota got into his car and sat for half an hour with no idea what to do. They’d gotten to Xavi first. What could he do now? He’d hit a dead end. Only the other scout was left, and after this he’d never be able to find him. He went over their conversation again and again. When someone gave you all the information, you didn’t bother scrutinizing it. “He gave me your phone number.” Jota opened the journal and started to read the names one by one. “He gave me your phone number.” What if he knew him? What if he knew the other scout? Maybe someone in the diary could help him. Or at least set him on the right track. But none of the pages gave him what he was looking for. “He gave me your phone number.” Then he got to S. A surname. Rafa’s surname. It had been him all along, shit. Rafa. He’d never stopped working for Diego. Just another lie from a pair of huge liars who liked to keep their business secret. Speculation, no more than that. But no, it was Rafa. Who else could it be? Did Xavi say that he was getting out of there? He was, but was Rafa too? Could he just leave like that, disappear? They’d planned to meet, but Rafa had obligations, businesses. Then again, he could well be that desperate. Jota knew that he was minutes, maybe hours, behind. He didn’t have a second to lose.
The neighborhood was tense; the atmosphere was claustrophobic. There were more and more incidents—a demonstration had been planned for that afternoon to protest the high crime rate. People’s opinions were quickly getting polarized. Jota was going as quick as he could. He was desperate. People had stopped talking in the street; they just looked around fearfully. He went into a café. The people having breakfast at the bar turned around, and one or two said hello.
The barman looked up as he served coffee. “What’s up, big man? What can I do for you?”
“Is Rafa here?”
“Not today. I was just saying how strange it was. He’s usually here by now.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Well, it’s Thursday today, isn’t it? He’s probably at the customs office, dealing with the new shipments.”
The barman served another coffee. When he looked back up, Jota had left.
Jota was driving like a man possessed, burning up with flames that would never go out, the flames that drove him on and threatened to destroy him. Every second counted. He got to the industrial estate by the airport and parked by the guard post outside the customs building. Several tired-looking people were waiting in a room next to a vacant window. Movement could be heard on the other side. Eventually, a little man appeared and came to the window, but none of the people waiting went over to him. He called to Jota.
“You: have you come to pick up something?”
“No, I’m looking for a customs agent, Rafael Sanz.”
“Rafael?”
“He comes on Thursdays. He must have arrived a little while ago.”
“Oh yeah, I know him. He hasn’t come in yet, but he won’t be long; he has boxes to pick up. You can wait over there.”
