The Return

Detectives

What kind of weapons do you like?”

“Any kind, except for blades.”

“You mean knives, razors, daggers, corvos, switchblades, penknives, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“What do you mean, more or less?”

“It’s just a figure of speech, asshole. I don’t like any of that stuff.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But how can you not like corvos?”

“I just don’t, that’s all.”

“But you’re talking about our national weapon.”

“So the corvo is Chile’s national weapon?”

“Knives in general, I mean.”

“Come off it, compadre.”

“I swear to God, I read it in an article the other day. Chileans don’t like firearms, it must be because of the noise; we’re silent by nature.”

“That must be because of the sea.”

“How do you mean? What sea?”

“The Pacific, of course.”

“Oh, you mean the ocean. And what’s the Pacific Ocean got to do with silence?”

“They say it absorbs noises, useless noises, I mean. I don’t know whether there’s anything to it.”

“So what about the Argentineans?”

“What have they got to do with the Pacific?”

“Well, they’ve got the Atlantic and they’re pretty noisy.”

“But there’s no comparison.”

“You’re right about that, there’s no comparison — but Argentineans like knives as well.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t. Even if they’re the national weapon. I could make an exception, maybe, for penknives, especially Swiss Army knives, but the rest are just a curse.”

“And why’s that, compadre? Come on, explain.”

“I don’t have an explanation, compadre, sorry. That’s just how it is, period; it’s a gut feeling.”

“OK, I see where you’re going with this.”

“Do you? Better tell me then, because I don’t know myself.”

“Well, I know, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Mind you, the knife thing does have its advantages.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, imagine a gang of thieves armed with automatic rifles. Just an example. Or pimps with Uzis.”

“OK, I’m following you.”

“So you see the advantage?”

“Absolutely, for us. But that’s an insult to Chile, you know, that argument.”

“An insult to Chile! What?”

“It’s an insult to the Chilean character, the way we are, our collective dreams. It’s like being told that all we’re good for is suffering. I don’t know if you follow me, but I feel like I just saw the light.”

“I follow you, but that’s not it.”

“What do you mean, that’s not it?”

“That’s not what I was talking about. I just don’t like knives, period. It’s not some big philosophical question.”

“But you’d like guns to be more popular in Chile. Which doesn’t mean you’d like there to be more of them.”

“I don’t care one way or the other.”

“Anyway, who doesn’t like guns?”

“That’s true, everyone likes guns.”

“Do you want me to explain what I meant about the silence?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t put me to sleep.”

“I won’t, and if you start feeling sleepy, we can stop and I’ll drive.”

“So tell me about the silence then.”

“I read it in an article in El Mercurio.”

“When did you start reading El Mercurio?”

“Sometimes there’s a copy lying round at headquarters, and the shifts are long. Anyway, the article said we’re a Latin people, and Latin people are fixated on knives. Anglo-Saxons, on the other hand, live and die by the gun.”

“It all depends.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“Until the moment of truth, you never know.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“We’re slower, you have to admit.”

“How do you mean, slower?”

“Slower in every respect. Old-fashioned in a way.”

“You call that being slow?”

“We’re still using knives, it’s like we’re stuck in the Bronze Age, while the gringos have moved on to the Iron Age.”

“I never liked history.”

“Remember when we arrested Chubby Loayza?”

“How could I forget?”

“There, you see — the guy just gave himself up.”

“Yeah, and he had an arsenal in that house.”

“There, you see.”

“So he should have put up a fight.”

“There were only four of us, and five of them. We just had standard issue weapons and Chubby had an arsenal, including a bazooka.”

“It wasn’t a bazooka, compadre.”

“It was a Franchi SPAS-15! And he had a pair of sawn-off shotguns. But Loayza gave himself up without firing a shot.”

“So you were disappointed, were you?”

“Or course not. But if he’d been called McCurly instead of Loayza, Chubby would have greeted us with a hail of bullets, and maybe he wouldn’t be in jail now.”

“Maybe he’d be dead.”

“Or free, if you get my drift.”

“McCurly?. . the name rings a bell; wasn’t he in a cowboy movie?”

“I think he was, I think we even saw it together.”

“We haven’t been to the movies together for ages.”

“Well, this would have been ages ago.”

“The arsenal he had, Chubby Loayza; remember how he greeted us?”

“Laughing his head off.”

“I think it was nerves. One of his gang started crying. I don’t think that kid was even seventeen.”

“But Chubby Loayza was over forty and he made himself out to be a tough guy. Though if we’re going to be brutally honest, there aren’t any tough guys in this country.”

“What do you mean there aren’t any tough guys, I’ve seen really tough guys.”

“Crazies, for sure, you’ve seen plenty of them, but tough guys? Very few, or none.”

“And what about Raulito Sánchez? Remember Raulito Sánchez, with his Manurhin?”

“How could I forget him?”

“What about him then?”

“Well, he should have got rid of the revolver straightaway. That was his downfall. Nothing’s easier to trace than a Magnum.”

“The Manurhin is a Magnum?”

“Of course it’s a Magnum.”

“I thought it was a French gun.”

“It’s a.357 French Magnum. That’s why he didn’t get rid of it. It’s an expensive piece and he’d gotten fond of it; there aren’t many in Chile.”

“You learn something new every day.”

“Poor Raulito Sánchez.”

“They say he died in jail.”

“No, he died just after getting out, in a boarding house in Arica.”

“They say his lungs were ruined.”

“He’d been spitting blood since he was a kid, but he was brave, he never complained.”

“I remember he was very quiet.”

“Quiet and hard-working, but a bit too attached to material possessions. That Manurhin was his downfall.”

“Whores were his downfall.”

“Come on, Raulito Sánchez was a faggot.”

“You’re kidding! I had no idea. Nothing’s sacred. Time levels even the tallest towers.”

“Give me a break, what’s it got to do with towers?”

“It’s just that I remember him as really manly, if you know what I mean.”

“What’s it got to do with manliness?”

“But he was a man, in his way, though, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“I saw him with whores at least once. He didn’t turn up his nose at whores.”

“He didn’t turn up his nose at anyone or anything, but I’m certain he never slept with a woman.”

“That’s a very definite assertion, compadre, careful what you say. The dead are always watching us.”

“The dead aren’t watching anyone. They’re minding their own business. The dead are shit.”

“What do you mean they’re shit?”

“All they do is fuck stuff up for the living.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree there, compadre, I have the greatest respect for the departed.”

“Except you never go to the cemetery.”

“What do you mean I never go to the cemetery?”

“All right, then, when’s the Day of the Dead?”

“OK, you got me, I go when I feel like it.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I’m not sure, but I know there are experiences that make your hair stand on end.”

“That’s what I was coming to.”

“You’re thinking of Raulito Sánchez?”

“That’s right. Before he died for real, he pretended to be dead at least twice. One time in a hooker’s bar. Remember Doris Villalón? She spent a whole night with him in the cemetery, under the same blanket and, according to Doris, nothing happened all night.”

“Except that Doris’s hair turned white.”

“It depends who you talk to.”

“The fact is her hair went white in a single night, like Marie Antoinette’s.”

“What I know from a reliable source is that she was cold and they climbed into an empty niche; after that it’s not so clear. According to one of Doris’s friends, she tried to give Raulito a hand job, but he wasn’t really up for it, and in the end he fell asleep.”

“There was a man who never lost his cool.”

“It happened later, when the dogs had stopped barking and Doris was climbing down from the niche; that’s when the ghost appeared.”

“So her hair went white because of a ghost?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Maybe it was just plaster dust from the cemetery.”

“It’s not easy to believe in ghosts.”

“And meanwhile Raulito went on sleeping?”

“Without even having touched the poor woman.”

“And what was his hair like the next morning?”

“Black as ever, but it couldn’t be used to prove the point, because he’d upped and left.”

“So the plaster dust might have had nothing to do with it.”

“It might have been the scare she got.”

“The scare she got at the police station.”

“Or maybe her hair dye faded.”

“Such are the mysteries of the human condition. In any case, Raulito never tried it with a girl.”

“But he seemed like a real man.”

“There are no men left in Chile, compadre.”

“You’re scaring me now. Careful how you drive. Don’t get jumpy on me.”

“I think it was a rabbit, I must have run over it.”

“What do you mean there are no men left?”

“We killed them all.”

“What do you mean we killed them? I haven’t killed anyone in my life. And you were just doing your duty.”

“My duty?”

“Duty, obligation, keeping the peace, it’s our job, it’s what we do. Or would you rather get paid for just sitting around?”

“I’ve never liked sitting around, I’ve always had ants in my pants, but that’s exactly why I should have left.”

“That just would have helped with the shortage of men in Chile.”

“Don’t start making fun of me, compadre, especially when I’m driving.”

“You keep calm and watch where you’re going. Anyway, what’s Chile got to do with it?”

“Everything, and when I say everything. .”

“OK, I see where you’re going.”

“Do you remember ’73?”

“That’s what I was thinking of.”

“That’s when we killed them all.”

“Maybe you should go easy on the gas, at least while you explain what you mean.”

“There’s not a lot to explain. Plenty to cry over, but not to explain.”

“But since it’s a long trip, we might as well talk. Who did we kill in ’73?”

“The real men we had in this country.”

“No need to exaggerate, compadre. Anyway, we went first; don’t forget we were prisoners too.”

“But only for three days.”

“But those were the first three days, and honestly I was scared shitless.”

“Some were never released, like Inspector Tovar, Hick Tovar, remember him? He had guts, that guy.”

“Didn’t they drown him on Quiriquina Island?”

“That’s what we told his widow, but the real story never came out.”

“That’s what I can’t stand sometimes.”

“No point getting cut up about it.”

“The dead turn up in my dreams, and I get them mixed up with the ones who are neither dead nor alive.”

“How do you mean neither dead nor alive?”

“I mean the people who’ve changed, who’ve grown up, like us, for instance.”

“Now I get you — we’re not children any more, if that’s what you mean.”

“And sometimes I feel like I’m never going to wake up, like I’ve gone and fucked it up for good.”

“You just worry too much, compadre.”

“And sometimes it makes me so angry I have to find someone to blame, you know what I’m like, those mornings when I turn up in a rotten mood, looking for someone to blame, but I can’t find anyone, or I find the wrong person, which is worse, and then I go to pieces.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“And I blame Chile, and call it a country of faggots and killers.”

“And why are the faggots to blame, can you tell me that?”

“Well, they’re not, but everyone’s fair game.”

“I can’t agree with you there; life’s hard enough as it is.”

“Then I think this country went to hell years ago, and the reason we’re here, those of us who stayed, is to have nightmares, just because someone had to stay and face up to them.”

“Watch it, there’s a hill coming up. Don’t look at me, I’m not arguing with you — watch where you’re going.”

“And that’s when I think there are no men left in this country. It’s like a revelation. There are no men left, just sleepwalkers.”

“And what about the women?”

“You can be thick sometimes, compadre; I’m talking about the human condition, in general, and that includes women.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, I was perfectly clear.”

“So you’re saying there are no men in Chile and no women who are men either.”

“Not exactly, but almost.”

“I think the women of Chile deserve a bit more respect.”

“Who’s disrespecting Chilean women?”

“You are, compadre, for a start.”

“But how could I disrespect Chilean women? They’re the only women I know.”

“That’s what you say, but it’s lip-service, isn’t it?”

“How come you’re so touchy all of a sudden?”

“I’m not touchy.”

“You know, I kind of feel like stopping and smashing your face in.”

“We’ll have to see about that.”

“Jesus, what a beautiful night.”

“Don’t beautiful night me. What’s the night got to do with anything?”

“It must be because of the full moon.”

“Don’t talk in riddles. I’m Chilean, remember, I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all Chileans here and all we ever do is beat around one great big fucking nightmare of a bush.”

“You’re a pessimist, that’s what you are.”

“What do you expect?”

“Even in the darkest hours there is a light that shines. I think it was Pezoa who said that.”

“Pezoa Veliz.”

“Even in the blackest moments a little hope remains.”

“Hope has gone to shit.”

“Hope is the only thing that doesn’t go to shit.”

“Pezoa Veliz. You know what I just remembered?”

“And how am I supposed to know that, compadre?”

“When we started in Criminal Investigations.”

“At the station in Concepción?”

“At the station in Calle del Temple.”

“All I remember about that station is the whores.”

“I never fucked them.”

“How can you say that, compadre?”

“I mean at the start, the first months; later on it was different, I started picking up bad habits.”

“Anyway it was free, and when you fuck a whore and don’t pay, it’s like you’re not fucking a whore.”

“A whore is always a whore.”

“Sometimes I think you don’t like women.”

“What do you mean I don’t like women?”

“It’s the way you talk about them, with contempt.”

“That’s because, in my experience, when you get mixed up with whores it always goes sour.”

“Come on, nothing in the world is sweeter.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s why we used to rape them.”

“Are you talking about the station in Calle del Temple?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Come on, we didn’t rape them, that was an exchange of favors. It was a way of killing time. The next morning they went off perfectly happy after giving us a bit of relief. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember lots of things.”

“The interrogations were worse. I never volunteered.”

“But you’d have done it if you’d been asked.”

“I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You remember our classmate from high school who was a prisoner?”

“Of course I do, what was his name?”

“I was the one who realized he was there, though I still hadn’t seen him myself. You’d seen him, but you didn’t recognize him.”

“We were twenty years old, compadre, and we hadn’t seen the guy for at least five years. Arturo I think he was called. He didn’t recognize me either.”

“Yeah, Arturo. He left Chile when he was fifteen and came back when he was twenty.”

“Bad timing, eh?”

“Good too, in a way, though, ending up at our station, of all the places he could have been taken. .”

“Well, that’s all ancient history now, we’re all living in peace now.”

“As soon as I saw his name on the list of political prisoners, I knew it was him. It’s not a very common name.”

“Watch where you’re going; we can swap if you like.”

“And the first thing I thought was, It’s our old classmate Arturo, crazy Arturo, who went to Mexico when he was fifteen.”

“Well, I reckon he was happy to find us there too.”

“Of course he was happy! When you saw him he was incommunicado and the other prisoners had to feed him.”

“He really was happy.”

“It’s like I’m seeing it now.”

“But you weren’t even there.”

“No, but you told me. You said, You’re Arturo Belano, aren’t you, from Los Angeles, Bio-Bio. And he replied, Yes sir, I am.”

“That’s funny, I’d forgotten that.”

“And then you said, Don’t you remember me, Arturo? Don’t you know who I am, asshole? And he looked at you as if he was thinking, Now it’s my turn to get tortured or What does this son of a bitch want with me?”

“There was fear in his eyes, it’s true.”

“And he said, No, sir, I’ve got no idea, but he’d already started to look at you differently, peering through the fecal waters of the past, as the poet might say.”

“There was fear in his eyes, that’s all.”

“And then you said, It’s me, asshole, your classmate from high school in Los Angeles, five years ago. Don’t you recognize me? Arancibia! And it was like he was making a huge effort, because five years is a long time and a lot of things had

happened to him since he’d left Chile, plus what was happening now he’d come back, and he just couldn’t place you, he could remember the faces of fifteen-year-olds, not twenty-year-olds, and anyway you were never one of his close friends.”

“He was friends with everyone, but he used to hang out with the tough kids.”

“You were never one of his close friends.”

“I would’ve liked to be, though, I have to admit.”

“And then he said, Arancibia, yeah, of course, Arancibia, and this is the funny bit, isn’t it?”

“It depends. My partner wasn’t amused at all.”

“He grabbed you by the shoulders and gave you a thump in the chest that sent you flying back at least three yards.”

“A yard and a half, just like the old days.”

“And your partner jumped on him, of course, thinking the poor jerk had gone crazy.”

“Or was trying to escape. We were so cocky back then we didn’t take our guns off to do the roll call.”

“In other words, your partner thought he was after your gun, so he jumped on him.”

“And he would have laid into him, but I said he was a friend.”

“And then you started slapping Belano on the back and said relax and told him what a good time we were having.”

“I only told him about the whores; Jesus, we were green.”

“You said, I get to screw a whore in the cells every night.”

“No, I said we organized raids and then fucked until the sun came up, but only when we were on duty, of course.”

“And he must have said, Fantastic, Arancibia, fantastic, glad to see you’re keeping up the good work.”

“Something like that; watch this curve.”

“And you said to him, What are you doing here, Belano? Didn’t you go to live in Mexico? And he told you he’d come back, and, of course, he said he was as innocent as the next man in the street.”

“He asked me to do him a favor and let him make a phone call.”

“And you let him use the phone.”

“The same afternoon.”

“And you told him about me.”

“I said: Contreras is here, too. And he thought you were a prisoner.”

“Shut up in a cell, screaming at three in the morning, like Chubby Martinazzo.”

“Who was Martinazzo? I can’t remember now.”

“We had him there for a while. Belano would have heard him yelling every night, unless he was a heavy sleeper.”

“But I said, No, compadre, Contreras is a detective too, and I whispered in his ear: But he’s left-wing, don’t go telling.”

“That was bad; you shouldn’t have said that.”

“I wasn’t going to hang you out to dry.”

“And what did Belano say?”

“He looked like he didn’t believe me. He looked like he didn’t know who the hell Contreras was. He looked like he thought this fucking cop is going to take me to the slaughterhouse.”

“Though he was a trusting sort of kid.”

“Everyone’s trusting at fifteen.”

“I didn’t even trust my own mother.”

“What do you mean you didn’t trust your own mother? You can’t fool your mother.”

“Exactly, that’s why.”

“And then I said to him: You’ll see Contreras this morning, when they take you to the john, watch out for him, he’ll give you a signal. And Belano said OK, but he wanted me to set up the phone call. That was all he cared about.”

“So he could get someone to bring him food.”

“Anyway, he was happy when I left him. Sometimes I think if we’d met in the street he mightn’t even have said hello. It’s a funny world.”

“He wouldn’t have recognized you. You weren’t one of his friends at high school.”

“Neither were you.”

“But he did recognize me. When they took them out around eleven, all the political prisoners in single file, I went over near the corridor that led to the bathroom and gave him a nod. He was the youngest of the prisoners and he wasn’t looking too good.”

“But did he recognize you or not?”

“Of course he recognized me. We smiled at each other from a distance and then he believed the stuff you’d told him.”

“And what had I told him? Come on, let’s hear it.”

“A whole heap of lies, as I found out when I went to see him.”

“You went to see him?”

“That night, after they transferred the other prisoners. Belano was left all on his own, with hours to go before the new lot arrived, and his spirits were about as low as they could get.”

“Even the toughest guys lose it inside.”

“Well, he hadn’t broken down, either, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, but nearly.”

“Nearly, that’s true. Also, a really weird thing happened to him. I think that’s why I remembered him tonight.”

“So what was this weird thing?”

“Well, it happened when he was incommunicado — you know how it was in that station: all it meant was that you starved, because you could send as many messages as you liked to people on the outside. Anyway, Belano was incommunicado, which meant that no one was bringing him any food, and he had no soap, no toothbrush, and no blanket to wrap himself in at night. And after a few days, of course, he was dirty, unshaven, his clothes stank, you know, the usual. The thing is, once a day we used to take all the prisoners to the bathroom, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“And on the way to the bathroom there was a mirror, not in the bathroom itself, but in a corridor that ran between the bathroom and the gym where the political prisoners were kept, a tiny little mirror, near the records office, you remember, don’t you?”

“I don’t remember that, compadre.”

“Well, there was this mirror, and all the political prisoners would look at themselves in it. We’d taken down the mirror in the showers, so no one would get any stupid ideas, and this was the only chance they got to see how well they’d shaved or how straight their part was, so they all had a look in it, especially when they’d been allowed to shave or the one day of the week when they got to take a shower.”

“OK, I get you, and since Belano was incommunicado he couldn’t even shave or take a shower or anything.”

“Exactly, he didn’t have a razor, or a towel, or soap, or clean clothes, and he never got to take a shower.”

“But I can’t remember him smelling really bad.”

“Everyone stank. You could wash every day and still stink. You stank, too.”

“You leave me out of it, compadre, and watch that embankment.”

“Well, the thing is, when Belano was in the line with the prisoners, he always avoided looking at himself in the mirror. You see? He turned away. Whether he was going from the gym to the bathroom or from the bathroom back to the gym, when he got to the corridor with the mirror, he looked the other way.”

“He was afraid to look at himself.”

“Until one day, after finding out that his old schoolmates were there to get him out of that fix, he felt up to it. He’d been thinking about it all night and all morning. His luck had changed, so he decided to face the mirror and see how he looked.”

“And what happened?”

“He didn’t recognize himself.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all; he didn’t recognize himself. He told me so the night I got a chance to talk with him. I really wasn’t expecting him to come out with that. I’d gone to tell him not to get me wrong, I was really left-wing, I had nothing to do with all the shit that was happening, but he came out with this crap about the mirror and I didn’t know what to say.”

“And what did you say about me?”

“I didn’t say anything at all. He did all the talking. He said it was a simple thing, it didn’t come as a shock at all, if you see what I mean. He was in the line, on the way to the bathroom, and as he passed the mirror, he turned suddenly, looked at his face and saw someone else, but he wasn’t frightened, he didn’t start shaking or get hysterical. I guess you could say that by then, knowing we were there at the station, he had no reason to get hysterical. Anyway, he did what he needed to do in the bathroom, quietly, thinking about the person he’d seen, thinking it over, but not making a big deal of it. And when they went back to the gym, he looked in the mirror again, and sure enough, he said, it wasn’t him, it was someone else, and I said to him, What are you saying, asshole? What do you mean someone else?”

“That’s what I would have said, too. What did he mean?”

“He said, Someone else. And I said, Explain it to me. And he said, A different person, that’s all.”

“And then you thought he’d gone crazy.”

“I don’t know what I thought, but to be honest, I was scared.”

“A Chilean? Scared?”

“You think that’s so unusual?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s usual for you.”

“Whatever you say. I realized straightaway that he wasn’t trying to kid me. I’d taken him to the little room beside the gym, and he started talking about the mirror and the way they had to file past it every morning, and suddenly I realized that all of it was true: him, me, our conversation. And since we weren’t in the gym, and since he’d been a student at our grand old alma mater, it occurred to me that I could take him to the corridor where the mirror was and say, Take another look, with me here beside you this time, take a good calm look, and tell me if it isn’t the same old crazy Belano you see.”

“And did you say that?”

“Of course I did, but to be honest, the thought came a long time before the words. As if an eternity had passed between the idea popping into my head and coming out in a comprehensible form. A little eternity, to make things worse. Because if it had been a big or just a regular eternity, I wouldn’t have realized, if you follow me, but as it was, I did realize, and that intensified my fear.”

“But you went ahead anyway.”

“Of course I did; by then it was too late to turn back. I said, We’re going to do a test; let’s see if the same thing happens with me beside you, and he looked at me warily, but he said, All right, if you insist, like he was doing me a favor, when in fact I was the one doing him a favor, as usual.”

“So you went to the mirror?”

“We went to the mirror. I was taking a big risk because you know what would have happened if they’d caught me walking around the station with a political prisoner at midnight. And to help him calm down and be as objective as possible, I offered him a smoke, so we stood there puffing away and it was only when we’d crushed the butts on the ground that we headed off toward the bathroom, and he was relaxed, I guess he was thinking it couldn’t get any worse (which was bullshit, it could have been much, much worse), and I was kind of on edge, listening for the slightest noise, the sound of a door shutting, but I was careful not to let it show, and when we got to the mirror I said, Look at yourself, and he looked at himself, he stood in front of the mirror and looked at his face, he even ran a hand through his hair, which was really long, you know, the way people wore it in ‘73, and then he glanced aside, stepped away from the mirror and looked at the ground for a while.”

“And?”

“That’s what I said, And? Is it you or isn’t it? And he looked into my eyes and said: It’s someone else, compadre, that’s all there is to it. I could feel something inside me like a muscle or a nerve, I don’t know what it was, I swear, but it was saying: Smile, asshole, smile, and yet however much the muscle strained, I couldn’t smile, the best I could do was twitch, a spasm jerked my cheek up, anyway, he noticed and stood there looking at me, and I ran a hand over my face and gulped, because I was afraid again.”

“We’re almost there.”

“And then I had this idea. I said to him: Listen, I’m going to look in the mirror, and when I look at myself, you’re going to look at me then you’re going to look at my reflection, and you’re going to realize it’s the same, the problem is this filthy mirror and this filthy station and the bad lighting in this corridor. And he didn’t say anything, but I took that as a yes — he could have objected — and I came up to the mirror and leaned forward with my eyes shut.”

“You can see the lights already, compadre, we’re just about there, take it easy.”

“Are you playing deaf, or what? Didn’t you hear me?”

“Of course I heard you. You had your eyes shut.”

“I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. And then I opened them. Maybe that’s normal for you: standing in front of a mirror with your eyes shut.”

“Nothing seems normal to me any more, compadre.”

“Then I opened them, suddenly, I opened my eyes right up and looked at myself and saw someone staring back at me wide-eyed, like he was scared shitless, and behind him I saw a guy about twenty years old, but he looked at least ten years older, a skinny guy with a beard and bags under his eyes, looking at us over my shoulder, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t be sure, I saw a swarm of faces, as if the mirror was broken, though I knew perfectly well it wasn’t, and then Belano said, very softly, it was barely more than a whisper, he said: Hey, Contreras, is there some kind of room behind that wall?”

“The fuckhead! He’d seen too many movies!”

“And when I heard his voice it was like I woke up, but in reverse, and instead of coming back to this side, I’d come out on the other side, where even my own voice sounded strange. No, I said, as far as I know, behind it there’s just the yard. The yard where the cells are? he asked me. Yes, I said, where the regular prisoners are. And then the son of a bitch said: Now I understand. And that completely flummoxed me, because, I mean, what was there to understand? And I said the first thing that came into my head: What the flying fuck do you understand now? But I said it softly, without raising my voice, so softly he didn’t hear me, and I didn’t have the strength to repeat the question. So I looked in the mirror again and saw two old classmates, a twenty-year-old cop with a loose tie, and a dirty-looking guy with long hair and a beard, all skin and bone, and I thought: Jesus, we really have fucked up, haven’t we, Contreras. Then I put my hands on Belano’s shoulders and led him back to the gym. When we came to the door a thought crossed my mind: I could take out my gun and shoot him right here; it would have been so easy, all I had to do was aim and put a bullet through his head, I’ve always been a good shot, even in the dark. Then I could have come up with any old explanation. But of course I didn’t do it.”

“Of course you didn’t. We don’t do that sort of thing, compadre.”

“No, we don’t do that sort of thing.”