Robert Wilson
The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands
Javier Falcon 02, 2004
For Jane
and
Jose and Mick
Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman!
Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale
Fear is the foundation of most governments.
John Adams, second President of the United States
RAFAEL
I am frightened? I have no physical reason for fear lying here in bed, next to Lucia, with my little Mario yipping in his sleep next door. But I am scared. My dreams have scared me, except they are not dreams any more. They are more alive than that. The dreams are of faces, just faces. I don't think I know them and yet I have strange moments when I'm on the brink of recognizing them but it's as if they don't want that right now. That's when I wake up because… I am not being accurate again. They are not exactly faces. They are not flesh. They are more ghostly than real but they do have features. They have colour, but it is not solid. They just miss being human. That's it. They just miss being human. Is that a clue?
If I am frightened by these faces I should be reluctant to go to bed, but sometimes I look forward to sleep and I realize it's because I want to know the answer. There's a key somewhere in my mind, which will unlock the door and tell me: why
I am shivering. That's what my mind can do to me. I'm cracking up. I've been sleepwalking. Lucia told me when I was in the shower. She said I went down to my study at three in the morning. Later that day I found a blank pad on the desk. I saw the indent of some handwriting. I couldn't find the original. I took it to the window and saw that it was something I had written: 'the thin air…'?
Chapter 1
'I want my mummy. I want my mummy.'
Consuelo Jimenez opened her eyes to a child's face only centimetres from her own, which lay half buried in the pillow. Her eyelashes scratched the cotton slip. The child's fingers grabbed at the flesh of her upper arm.
'I want my mummy.'
'All right, Mario. Let's go and find Mummy,' she said, thinking this is too early for anybody. 'You know she's only just across the street, don't you? You can stay here with Matias, have some breakfast, play a little…'
'I want my mummy.'
The child's fingers dug into her arm with some urgency and she stroked his hair and kissed him on the forehead.
She didn't want to cross the street in her night- clothes, like some working-class woman needing something from the shops, but the child was tugging at her, wheedling. She slipped on a white silk dressing gown over her cotton pyjamas and fitted her feet into some gold sandals. She ran her hands through her hair while
Mario sheafed her dressing gown and started hauling her away like some stevedore down at the docks.
Taking his hand she led him down the stairs one at a time. They left the chill of the air-conditioned house and the heat, even this early in the morning, was solid and unwavering with not even a lick of freshness from the dawn after another oppressive night. She crossed the empty street. Palm trees hung limp and frazzled as if sleep had not come easily to this neighbourhood. The only sound out on the tarmac came from the air conditioner's fans blowing more hot, unwanted air into the suffocating atmosphere of the exclusive neighbourhood of Santa Clara on the outskirts of Seville.
Water dripped from a split unit on a high balcony of the Vegas' house as she half dragged Mario, who'd become suddenly cumbersome and difficult as if he'd changed his mind about his mummy. The drips clattered on the leaves of the abundant vegetation, the sound thick as blood in the hideous heat. Sweat beaded on Consuelo's forehead. She felt nauseous at the thought of the rest of the day, the heat building on weeks of torrid weather. She keyed in the code number on the pad by the outer gate and stepped into the driveway. Mario ran to the house and pushed against the front door bumping his head against the woodwork. She rang the doorbell, whose electronic chime sounded like a distant cathedral bell in the silent, double-glazed house. No answer. A trickle of sweat found its way between her breasts. Mario pounded the door with his small fist, which made the sound of a dull ache, persistent as chronic grief.
It was just after eight in the morning. She licked at the sweat forming on her top lip.
The maid arrived at the gate. She had no keys. Sra Vega was normally awake early she said. They heard the gardener, an Ukrainian called Sergei, digging at the side of the house. They startled him and he gripped his mattock like a weapon until he saw the two women. Sweat careened down his pectorals and the ridges of muscle on his naked torso to his shorts. He had been working since 6 a.m. and had heard nothing. As far as he knew the car was still in the garage.
Consuelo left Mario with the maid and took Sergei to the back of the house. He climbed up on to the verandah outside the sitting room and peered through the sliding doors and blinds. The doors were locked. He climbed over the railing of the verandah and leaned across to look in the kitchen window, which was raised above the garden. His head started back with shock.
'What is it?' asked Consuelo.
'I don't know,' he said. 'Sr Vega lying on the floor. He not moving.'
Consuelo took the maid and Mario back across the street to her house. The child knew that things were not right and started to cry. The maid could not console him and he fought his way out of her arms. Consuelo made the call. Zero-Nine-One. She lit a cigarette and tried to concentrate while she looked at the helpless maid hovering over
