must be two people able to communicate limpidly.”
“Do you mean telepathy and thought-transmission?”
“That’s right.”
“At university they also told us telepathy was a pseudo-scientific lie…”
Old Forcade made a gesture to cut dead the Count’s materialist diatribe, but he fell into a deep silence, and remained completely still, his hands in his lap. The closeness of his death was in this case one of those evident, visible circumstances, even before it had happened.
“I usually respect the most diverse opinions, but I like to confront them with my own… I think we must agree that nerve impulses carry their own charge of electricity, mustn’t we? And that these impulses have a transmission centre, which is the cortex of the brain, agreed? Why not allow that that matter is able to emit from its mass an electromagnetic charge and that another similar charge can capture the specific waves from that spectrum and decode them? Obviously, the right conditions must exist for this to happen… Would you like me to tell you what you’re thinking right now?”
“Yes, I would.”
“That I’m an old windbag, isn’t that so?”
“Almost: I was thinking you are a good conversationalist… and a bit of a windbag. How did you know?”
Forcade’s smile escalated higher this time and the Count had to wait for the curtain of his lips to descend slowly before he heard his reply.
“Because lots of people think that about me. Hehheh,” he said laughing, as if he were coughing, not bothering to loosen his facial muscles. “Speaking to you has done me a power of good. I even almost forgot you’d come because of the death of my son Miguel.”
“I’m very sorry, Doctor,” said the Count, who couldn’t think of a more worthy reply.
“So am I. I loved my son more than these plants, as you can imagine. That’s why I should like you to find out who killed him in a worse way than if he were a rabid animal.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“My son played dangerous games and at times that costs dear… When I saw him come back to Cuba I had a feeling something bad might happen.”
“Did telepathy let you in on something that can help me?”
Old Forcade stayed silent, as if he hadn’t heard the question. But his hands wandered from his legs to his head and his fingers ran through his wisps of white hair.
“Telepathy has told me nothing but experience tells me he was murdered by someone close to him.”
“That’s what I think. But who do you suspect?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to answer your question and influence you, because I’ve seen you are a man who is easily prejudiced… But let us agree the following: get as far as you can and if you feel all the paths are being blocked, then come and see me and we shall exchange opinions, what do you think?”
“I don’t think it is the best approach, but if it is what you prefer…”
“I think so. You are in a hurry to solve this case and your intellect is clearly up to the task, that much is obvious. And I want you to solve it, because it was my son who lost his life in this tragedy. But I prefer to remain a spectator until I have no choice. You understand? A man who is about to die and loses his son after not seeing him for ten years usually has unreliable prejudices: passion can dominate everything, and it would be regrettable were I to influence you in the wrong direction. That’s why it’s better your mind worries at it alone, till it has exhausted all possibilities.”
“Well, my reading of your brain tells me you can help me. I need to know what Miguel came for and at best you might know something that – ”
“So now you do believe in telepathy?” the old man interrupted.
“Slightly more than I did… but I want more proof. I will think of something very concrete and try to communicate it to you. Shall we begin?”
Alfonso Forcade smiled and nodded agreement. The Count, for his part, concentrated on one thought, and on propelling it out of his mind.
“Done?” the policeman asked.
“Wait a minute… Done,” said the old man.
“What is it?”
“Very easy, Lieutenant. It’s astonishing, but your thoughts are totally transparent: you are thinking about a painting, a painting where you can see a few trees. Although everything is slightly blurred, isn’t it?”
“Of course, it’s an impressionist landscape,” the Count confirmed, surprised by his capacity to communicate.
“It must be a pretty landscape. A pity I didn’t see it.”
“I didn’t either,” the policeman lamented, and reached out to shake the old man’s right hand, which had gone back to sleep on his exhausted legs. “Thanks for this conversation,” he said, letting go of the old man’s hand: he hoped Forcade hadn’t guessed that he shivered at the idea of touching a dead man’s bones.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Lieutenant,” said the old man, and the Count forced a smile.
“Forcade, what are your plants telling you about hurricane Felix?”
The old man swung his face round towards the garden, and contemplated his plants for a few minutes.
“The sage is afraid. I can tell that from its leaves. And the garlic flower, if you look, seems to be clinging tighter to the trunk of the
“Just as well,” said the Count and he moved off, not daring to think of anything. So he was transparent, was he?, and he salvaged the flower so he could smell its scent once more.
Sergeant Manuel Palacios drove the car along Rancho Boyeros at a speed faster than the Count could tolerate, but this time he let him flirt with death: after all, that outcome – sometimes visible and very real – tended to be capricious and elusive. Mario Conde wanted to reach home as soon as possible and that’s what he told Manolo when he asked him if he wanted to stop and look up his friend Carlos.
“No, what I want is to sleep and not to think about Miguel Forcade for twenty-four hours.”
“I can’t think why you told the new boss that we’d solve this case by tomorrow. It’s going to be difficult.”
“God will provide, as my grandad used to say,” the Count retorted with a sigh, by the time the car was progressing along Santa Catalina and approaching the house of his oldest, most sustained love: the twin Tamara.
Several months had passed since their last encounter, which had finally materialized in the depths of a soft bed of gentle gullies created by their bodies: his on Tamara, Tamara’s on him, and the Count could still feel in his arms and on his skin the round densities of that female form he’d longed for over some fifteen years, in the course of which she’d been the focus for his best masturbations. Then his fevered brain always had to supply the detail, for apart from the twin’s face and the reality of her smooth compact thighs, which his eyes devoured in the recreation ground at secondary school, the rest was pure poetic-pornographic imaginings, developed on the basis that what was unknown must be in line with what he’d imagined: and the margin of error had been minimal: Tamara’s backside was as tight, her pubic hair as curly, her nipples as lively as he’d ever imagined, and the mere idea he might kiss that flesh again stopped the policeman’s breath whenever he went past her house. But they left Tamara’s spell behind and the Count wondered whether he should take the offensive and try once more to sink his lance into that pliant Flanders field. Indeed: would that beautiful, superficial woman, used to an easy, carefree life, always be the sexual obsession of a guy as fucked and useless as himself, unable to guarantee the slightest security to anything or anybody, even himself?
When he was finally back home, the Count thought it better to forget Tamara so as to avoid yet another of his solitary exercises. In the undesirable silence of that empty house, he felt the accumulated hunger, doubts, depression and exhaustion he’d been dragging around all day weigh down on his shoulders. A physical sluggishness spread to his legs, releasing muscles, nerves and joints that fell to the floor like useless scrap metal, but the desire to flop on his bed was subdued by uncomfortable tremors in the intestine, urgent to the point of cannibalism. The possibility of finding nourishing relief at Skinny’s place had been dashed by inertia: the physical need to be alone with his hunger and solitude had forced him back to a deserted home, where a disastrous gastronomic drought reigned: not even a fighting fish stirred. His friend surely would want to speak of parties and saint’s days, when all
