All Is Silence Read Online Free Page A

want to sell, but had no choice in the matter. And when the factory was his, he said to Guadalupe, ‘Now they can sing and eat all they like.’ But that was only for a while. He ended up employing the same foreman. Adela? Yes, Adela. Her beauty, her shyness, her resistance, her sudden yielding, her unfathomable sadness in the mezzanine after what happened happened. She shut herself up at home. Never came back to work. Somebody convinced Antonio Hortas, a poor, single sailor, to marry her and give his surname to the baby. Antonio didn’t need much convincing. Or paying. Because Antonio Hortas loved that woman. And if it was a question of horns, he didn’t mind; he knew plenty of illustrious members of the Confraternity of St Cornelius.
    God keeps an eye on the devil, who’s just a poor old demon. God gives as much as he has to give.
    ‘
Mutatis mutandis
,’ murmured Mariscal, avoiding the girl’s gaze. And then recovering his tone of voice, ‘Well, troops . . . there’s an end to it. You heard nothing. You saw nothing.
Os habent, et non loquentur.
They have mouths, and speak not. Learn that and you’ve gained half a life. The rest is also very simple.
Oculos habent, et non videbunt.
They have eyes, and see not.
Aures habent, et non audient.
They have ears, and hear not.’
    In the ruinous School of Indians, his voice sounded charming, velvety and hoarse. They were all ears and eyes.
    He fell silent. Sized up the weight of his charm. Then added, ‘
Manus habent, et non palpabunt.
They have hands, and touch not. Don’t pay much attention to that. The hands are for touching and the feet are for walking. But it fits the bill when things have an owner. As is the case here.’
    They listened like schoolchildren being treated to an impromptu masterclass. Here was a man acting himself and revelling in the role. He cleared his throat. Stroked his lips.
    ‘It’s very important to know why the senses exist. What are the eyes for? For not seeing. There’s what cannot be seen, cannot be heard, cannot be said. And, in this last case, what cannot be said you have to suppress and keep your trap shut. What about the mouth? The mouth is for keeping quiet. That’s the funny thing about Latin, one thing leads to another.’
    Brinco understood perfectly the meaning of Mariscal’s words. But what he liked best was the way he said them. That assuredness. That manner of asserting control with a hint of scorn, which captivated and drew you in with an obscure sense of sympathy. He felt linked to him by an invisible intelligence. A force stronger than that of rebellion, but which couldn’t override it completely. Shit. His guts. The way they rumble so it seems everyone can hear. That whiny bastard, how Mariscal likes to talk. To listen to himself. The mouth is for keeping quiet.
    Víctor Rumbo made as if to leave. Started to do so.
    ‘Brinco, stay where you are. I haven’t finished yet.’
    Mariscal approached the teacher’s desk, mounted the platform and, possibly because of his position, raised his voice, giving free rein to his discourse. ‘You have to differentiate between reality and dreams. That’s the firstest thing.’ He laughed at his grammatical error. ‘The first is always the firstest.’ Then he recovered his grand gesture, his sobriety. ‘The day you get that confused, you’re lost. So walk very carefully, children. There are bad people about, people who on account of a Johnnie Walker, one miserable smuggled bottle, will hang you from a butcher’s hook.’
    Mariscal turned his gaze towards the wall with the faded Tree of History.
    ‘History started with a crime,’ he said abruptly. ‘Haven’t they taught you that yet?’
    He interrupted himself. Seemed to gauge the weight of his own words. Stared at the map on the floor and murmured tiredly, ‘Enough lessons for today!’
    The glare of lightning illuminated the ocean inside the School of Indians. They waited, but the clap of thunder held back, as if