hair shine as if it were wet.
“Did you bring the photograph?”
I had expected a greeting, some friendly conversation, not just an urgent demand. Once I handed over the photograph, I had no power. I held it out to her but I didn’t let go of it immediately and she had to tug at it a bit. I was ashamed by my hand’s attitude, acting on its own, without even consulting me. The Mermaid looked at the photo to make sure it was the one she was looking for, turned it around and read her own handwriting: “I dreamed in the Grotto where the Mermaid swims.”
She stared and stared at the green writing.
“Does Arzaky know about this postcard?”
“No,” I lied.
“You are a gentleman, and you did the right thing by returning it.
I am eternally grateful.”
“I’m not a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t have stolen it.”
“Why did you? Did you think it would help you solve the crime?”
“No. I don’t know why. I’ve never stolen anything else in my life.”
“Now that I don’t believe. There’s never a first time, we’ve always sinned, hinting at what’s to come.”
The Mermaid had barely spoken those words when I remembered another slight infraction: two months before my trip, I had gone into the Craig family kitchen and found a pile of Senora Craig’s clothes on top of the wooden table, fresh off the line and still warm from the sun. I hadn’t stolen anything, but I had stroked the garments for a few seconds before I heard the footsteps of the cook approaching. If someone had caught me, what would I have been able to say to them? What worried me about these behaviors was not that they were my most shameful, my most illicit, but rather that they seemed more truthful than all my polite words and kind gestures.
“Are you going to tell Arzaky about our conversation?” The Mermaid’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.
“No,” I answered.
“It’s better that way. Remember, I work for Arzaky too, but I can’t tell him everything. Arzaky wouldn’t know what to do with all the things I find. He sends me to the grottos and caves so I can bring him the clues that are submerged, the worn-out pieces of sunken ships.”
“Did he send you to Grialet?”
“Arzaky has his agents. But sometimes he doesn’t trust us. Viktor believes that Grialet killed Darbon.”
“And that’s not true?”
“No.”
I felt her hand on my arm.
“Come toward the light. Your boots are so shiny. Is that Argentine leather? ”
“Yes, but that’s not why they shine. I polish them with a cream my father makes.”
“It’s raining. But your boots still gleam.”
“And my father says that this polish also cures wounds.” “I could use a bottle of that.”
“I’ll send you one when I go back to my country. Do you have black shoes?”
“No, but I’ll have to get either some shoes or a wound so I can test the cream’s effectiveness.”
A creaking noise was heard in the dressing room. There was a coat stand, a shapeless mountain heaped with garments. For a moment I was afraid that she had led me into a trap because it was obvious that someone was hiding there.
“You can come out,” said the Mermaid.
I thought maybe it was a hidden lover, I thought maybe it was Grialet, maybe even Arzaky, but it was Greta. I felt a mix of rage and relief.
“These theaters are labyrinths. She can show you the way out.”
I was sorry that the show ended so soon. I was starting to be like the people who always leave the theater last. The Mermaid closed the door to her dressing room. Greta and I walked out together.
“Are they hiring performers? It’s a good idea to try a new career. I don’t think Castelvetia can keep you much longer as an acolyte.”
“The detectives have more important things to worry about,” she said in an untroubled voice. “Castelvetia’s secrets aren’t a pressing subject.”
“Caleb Lawson is going to go after him, sooner or later.”
“Castelvetia doesn’t care about Caleb Lawson or his Hindu. He beat him once and he’ll beat him again. He’s worried about Arzaky.”
“Why Arzaky?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But he talks about it in his sleep.”
It looked like she regretted having told me. I didn’t dare ask her why she knew so much about Castelvetia’s dreams. Did she secretly go to the Numancia Hotel for clandestine meetings? Or was he the one who came to her?
We arrived at the hotel, but had to keep a safe distance away because the detectives were talking at the entrance. The acolytes were getting ready to march, in formation, toward the Necart.
“Why did you go to see the Mermaid?” I inquired.
“I wanted to ask her about the Case of the Fulfilled Prophecy.”
“That’s an old case.”
“It’s still unresolved. Castelvetia thinks that Grialet was the guilty party that time, but even though Arzaky sent the Mermaid over to investigate Grialet, they weren’t able to prove anything. Perhaps the Mermaid protected Grialet then. Perhaps she’s protecting him now.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“Nothing. She talked about Arzaky and she sang a song, the song she had sung the night they met. I thought after that she might be willing to talk. But something interrupted her.”
“What?”
“The footsteps of an idiot.”
Now Greta looked at the detectives and assistants, who were disappearing into the night.
“Is this the first time you’ve seen them?”
“No. I’ve been here before. I like to watch them, to imagine the day when I’ll enter the circle of acolytes. If I can become a member, it will be as if my father did too.”
I didn’t raise any objections to her fantasies. Who was I to pass judgment, among the ambitions and worldly matters, on what was possible and what was impossible? Greta took a step back and the streetlight illuminated her; but her face shone so brightly that it looked as if she were the one illuminating the streetlight. It was the face of a girl looking through a store window at a shiny toy she knew she would never possess.
10
The next day, at ten in the morning, I was in front of the theater again. Some acolytes were with me, as well as their respective detectives: Magrelli, Hatter, Araujo. Then Zagala arrived, wearing a hat that exaggerated his nautical air. He was complaining, saying that Benito should have been there but he was still sleeping. A policeman tried to keep the group from getting through, but Magrelli, used to wrestling with the carabiniere, had no problem getting rid of him. He f labbergasted him with convoluted pronouncements of authority, constantly pointing upward with his index finger, indicating his friendship with very important civil servants, and showing him papers affixed with bureaucratic-looking signatures and seals.
“You always have to show the police some piece of paper. They are very sensitive to written documents,” he explained to us later.
Captain Bazeldin went white when he saw the detectives burst into the room and climb the stairs toward the stage. I followed their impatient and happy march like an automaton. The fights had been forgotten and they were once again a cohesive group, now that crime had called to remind them that they had a purpose in life.
“The show is canceled,” said the inspector. “We don’t need any actors.”
But he couldn’t stop them; they surrounded him like a chorus, all questioning him at once, heaping on the
