The Black Minutes

16

They were looking out over the lagoon in Paracuán. At the far end of the immense sheet of water, they could see the horizon and the hills of Nagual. From there, they could make out El Palmar, the area where they found the first girl, but they weren’t talking about that. The chords of a melodic organ were coming out of the bar, where a musician was playing a song by Julio Iglesias: I love, I love, I love. . . . Every now and then, they smelled a slight odor of disinfectant, and the wind scared away the mosquitoes. Three gringas were going in and out of the pool, enjoying themselves. Meanwhile, the doctor finished his fish à la veracruzana, put down his utensils, and looked around for the waiter, but couldn’t find him anywhere.
“My parents’ house was in front of the lighthouse in Tampico, near the jetties. Where do you live, Vicente?”
“Here, in Paracuán. On the other side of the river.”
“What part?”
“Near the ferry landing.”
“Near the old hacienda?”
“Next to it,” he said, “in the house that used to be the foreman’s.”
“You know what they say about the hacienda, right? You have to be brave to live there.”
“I don’t believe in that stuff.”
The girls exploded laughing and made Rangel shudder. When they had quieted down, the doctor asked, “I don’t see the waiter anywhere. Could you order me a cognac?”
Rangel went to the palapa and returned with the drink. Then he said he was going to make a call, and the doctor nodded. Not soon after, the doctor fell asleep.
The sound of a heavy person diving clumsily into the water woke him up. Someone got the girls all wet, how inconsiderate, he thought. The doctor saw the blurry silhouette of the diver swimming around at the bottom of the pool. That’s insane, he said to himself, he’s been down there too long. As if he had heard him, the man came up for air and started to breathe. The detective said to himself that the man moved with incredible agility despite being so large, and as he said that, lightning struck: I know that guy. He wanted to stand up, but his body felt remarkably heavy—it must be the cognac—but I do know him. What’s he doing here on the Gulf of Mexico?
From where he was sitting, the doctor saw that the swimmer was crossing a strip of light reflected in the water. He said to himself that he would wait until the guy got out of the water to confirm his impression, and he watched him swimming from one end to the other, from one side to the other, like a huge frog. The repetitive motion of the swimmer was hypnotic, and the doctor closed his eyes again.
He remembered a long-ago afternoon when he was five years old. His parents swam in the lagoon in Paracuán while he played onshore with one of his favorite toys, which he hadn’t remembered in years. My blue bike, he said to himself, I never think about it anymore; visiting the port reactivated my memory. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his parents floated in the water, his father holding his mother in his arms, as she smiled timidly. He was thinking how much he would have liked to hear his mother’s voice, when one of the three gringas let out a shrill scream and the doctor stirred in his seat. He was afraid that the same anxiety as always was about to overtake him. Lately, as soon as he got to sleep, he would dream about a man dressed in black, who seemed to laugh at him, a guy he hadn’t seen in his whole life. He told himself that the dreams were a puzzle with one question: How close am I to dying? He told himself he should think about that.
A meaty hand came out of the pool and grabbed the staircase. Then another hand, and a really fat man emerged. The doctor asked himself who it was, but no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t figure it out, the same grogginess that prevented him from getting up also kept him from remembering. The man put on his sandals, wrapped himself in a white bathrobe, and covered his neck with a little towel. All of a sudden, the girls were not to be heard. The man came over to him. Because of the glare coming off the pool, the doctor couldn’t be sure it was the same person, but he looked very similar.
The man, red as a shrimp, leaned over to say hello. Dr. Quiroz Cuarón? What a surprise! What a pleasure, it’s been so long! He recognized the face of the film director, but the name escaped him: When was the last time? Eleven, twelve years ago? A little more, Doctor, we saw each other in ’fifty-nine, through my agent. And your wife, Sir Alfred? She’s fine, resting in our room.
The two men were silent until the swimmer clarified. I’d like to tell you something, Doctor. I am so sorry for what happened between us. Listen, Sir Alfred—No, no, let me say this: When you criticized the script for Psycho, I got really upset, because the evaluation got into my producer’s hands, because of a mistake by my agent, and they wanted to cancel the project. But you were right to say the story didn’t hold up to a logical analysis, that it wasn’t believable. And because of all that, I decided to rewrite it, with better results, I let myself believe. I’m really sorry—Don’t say that, Doctor, the misunderstanding was caused by my agent—you know how meddlesome agents can be—don’t worry about it. By the way, I never knew if you saw the film. Yes, I saw it in Mexico City. And did you think it was believable?
The doctor laughed and said to him, “Sir Alfred, tell your detractors that if you were concerned about believability, you would make documentaries. The swimmer smiled. And you, doctor? What are you referring to, Sir Alfred? I don’t understand. Sir, how are you going to catch the killer? You’re not too old for this yet?
“Excuse me?”
The doctor shifted in his seat. Vicente was leaning over him. “It’s five-thirty. We need to get going.”