All Is Silence by Manuel Rivas

cluster of fish in the sewage.
    ‘Yes, they’ll eat the light,’ said Mariscal. ‘Look at them chewing!’
    He let himself go, leaned forward, as if the fall was inevitable. But just then Brinco grabbed hold of him and pulled him back on to firm ground.

II Mute Silence

17
    THE BACK ROOM of the Ultramar is filled with the impatience that comes with the end of a hand. The players of
mus
and
tute
make up for the blazoned silence of the cards with sharp voices and authoritative raps of their knuckles on the tables. In the games of dominoes, by contrast, it is the discharge of matter that can be heard, tokens on marble, in an ascending scale of blasts excited by the advance of the victorious combination. The middle of the room is occupied by a billiard table ignored by everyone except for the trails of cigar smoke that have gathered in a storm beneath the central lamp.
    At Mariscal’s table there sounds the percussion of dominoes. He likes to adorn suspense. Hold the piece in the air for a moment, its value hidden from sight, before revealing the enigma with a thwack that, on triumphant occasions, is followed by outbursts of strange historical consequences. ‘Tremble, Toledo!
Carthago delenda est.
’
    Mariscal is on the verge of playing, but seems distracted. As almost always, he’s wearing his white gloves, which act as a shade whenever the piece is bad. He looks up at the other end of the room, above the door. There, on a ledge, is a desiccated bird in a glass case. A little owl. Its eyes shine with an electric gleam. Two illuminated lights. Inverno follows his boss’s gaze.
    ‘Looks like the owl’s not going to sleep tonight.’
    ‘Those bastards are behind schedule,’ replies Mariscal.
    ‘Do you think we’ve an informer, boss?’
    ‘No, what we’ve got is a new bedbug. That sergeant knows very well what he has to do. But tomorrow he’ll up the stakes, you’ll see. Tell us there’s another mouth that needs feeding.’
    He allows his thoughts to be heard, that constant, subordinated rumour. ‘Though it comes from filthy hands, money always smells of roses,’ etc., etc. He gazes at the token’s symmetry. A double three.
    ‘And we’ll have no choice but to pay! That’s the way the world works, Inverno. There’s no professionalism any more.’
    Brinco and Chelín’s mission is to prevent any intruders from entering the back room, which is separated from the bar by two steps and some swing doors. What they do, in effect, is act as sitting mummies. If anyone approaches, even if what they want is to play billiards, though not a sound of this game can be heard, however ignorant or foreign they may be, a simple sideways glance from Brinco, of the kind that says
go jerk off a dead man
, is usually more than dissuasive.
    So they concentrate their attention on the sergeant and the man with him. There is a third, Haroldo Grimaldo – Micho – a veteran inspector who sometimes drops into the Ultramar. Often he drops in the literal sense.
    ‘He’s half pissed already,’ says Brinco. ‘The only thing that saves him is his suspicion. He can see the demijohn before it’s reached him. He’s the one who’s clairvoyant, not you.’
    Víctor is talking about Grimaldo, but his gaze is fixed on Leda, who sometimes helps out as a waitress. With her slender body. Her blazing long hair. Black pirate trousers. Tight-fitting white T-shirt. She’s good at her job, thinks Brinco, because she knows how to be with people. How to be and not to be. She doesn’t dole out sugar to horses.
    In ceremonial style, Chelín gets out his pendulum. While he holds it in front of himself, it doesn’t move. He guides it gently towards Brinco, who’s sitting next to him, on the steps to the back room. The pendulum begins to swing. It accelerates when the centre of gravity is located above Brinco’s groin.
    ‘Brinco, you’re on fire!’
    The other man grabs his wrist. The pendulum swings even faster.
    ‘It’s your pulse, you