Teresa knew what the job was. It was on the other side of the border, because she herself had seen to what would be there. They had the word of Abdelkader Chaib-the colonel's secret bank account in Gibraltar had just gotten a little bigger-that there'd be no problems with the shipment. Santiago had been in his room in the Hotel Anfora for eight days, waiting for word, with Lalo Veiga watching the boat in a cove on the Moroccan coast, near Punta Bermeja. Waiting for the cargo. And now word had come.
"When will you be back?"
"I don't know. A week at the outside."
Teresa nodded slightly again, as though a week was about right for what he had to do. She would have made the same gesture if he had said a day, or a month.
"The dark of the moon is coming," he noted.
Maybe that's why I'm sitting here with you. The new moon is coming and you've got a job, and it's like I've been sentenced to play the same role all over. The question is whether I want to play it again or not. Whether it's good for me or not.
"I want you to be faithful to me," he-or his smile-said.
She looked at him as if returning from someplace far away. So far away that she had to make an effort to understand what the fuck he was talking about.
"I'll try," she said at last, when she understood.
"Teresa."
"What."
"You don't have to stay here."
He looked her straight in the eye, almost faithful. All of them looked you straight in the eye, almost faithful. Even when they lied, or made promises they were never going to keep, even if they didn't know it.
"Bullshit. We've talked about that."
She had opened her purse and was looking for her cigarettes and lighter. Bisontes. Harsh, unfiltered cigarettes, which she had gotten used to almost accidentally; there were no Faros in Melilla. She lit one, and Santiago kept looking at her the same way.
"I don't like your job," he said after a while.
"Oh, I love yours."
It sounded like the reproach it was, and there were many things said in four words. He looked away. "What I meant was that you don't need that Moor."
"But you need other Moors ... and you need me," she said.
She remembered without wanting to. Colonel Abdelkader Chaib was about fifty, and not a bad sort. Just ambitious and egotistical like any man, and as reasonable as any intelligent one. He could also, when he wanted to, be polite and friendly. He had treated Teresa very courteously, never demanding more than she had planned to give him, and without confusing her with the woman she wasn't. He kept his eye on business and respected the limits. Respected them to a certain point.
"Never again," he said.
"Of course."
"I swear. I've thought about it a lot. Never again."
He was still frowning, and she half turned away. Dris Larbi was on the other side of the plaza, on the corner at the Fisherman's Retreat, with a cold one in his hand, watching the people and cars pass by. Or the two of them. She saw him raise the bottle, greeting her, and she responded by bobbing her head.
"Dris is a good man," she said, turning back to Santiago. "He respects me and he pays me."
"He's a pimp and a cabron cabron and a Moor." and a Moor."
"And I'm a puta puta Indian Indian cabrona." cabrona."
He said nothing, and she smoked silently, ill humored now, listening to the murmur of the sea. Santiago toyed with the metal skewers on the plastic plate, crossing and uncrossing them. He had strong, harsh, dark-skinned hands, which she knew well. He was wearing the cheap, reliable waterproof wristwatch he always wore-no gold, no chains, no rings. The light reflecting off the whitewashed walls of the plaza gilded the hairs on his forearm, over the tattoo. And made his eyes brighter.
"You can come with me," he said at last. "It's nice in Algeciras We'd see each other every day. Far from this."
"I don't know if I want to see you every day."
"You're a strange girl. I didn't know Mexican girls were like that."
"I don't know what Mexican girls are like. I know what I'm like." She thought about it. "Well, some days I think I know."
She threw the cigarette down and crushed it under her shoe. Then she turned to see whether Dris Larbi was still at the bar across the plaza. He wasn't. She stood up and said she'd like to take a walk. Still seated, while he dug in his back pocket for money, Santiago stared at her, but his expression was different now. He was smiling. He always knew when to smile, to make the dark clouds pass and her mood brighten. To make her mood brighten, or make her do other things. Abdelkader Chaib included.
"Jesus, Teresa."
"What?"
"Sometimes you look like a teenager, and I like that." He stood up, leaving a few coins on the table. "I mean when I watch you walk, you know, and all that. You swing your ass, you turn, and I'd eat you alive if I could ... and those tits."
"What about them?"
Santiago tilted his head, trying to find a good definition. "They're pretty," he said, seriously. "The best tits in Melilla." "Hijole! "Hijole! That's the way a Spaniard pays a compliment?" "I wouldn't know." He waited for her to stop laughing. "That's what came into my head." "Just that?" That's the way a Spaniard pays a compliment?" "I wouldn't know." He waited for her to stop laughing. "That's what came into my head." "Just that?"
"No. Also that I like the way you talk. Or don't talk. It makes me ... I don't know ... lots of things. One of the things it makes me is ... maybe the word is tender.'"
"Okay. I'm glad you sometimes forget my tits and get all tender."
"I don't have to forget anything. Your tits and me being tender are compatible."
She took off her shoes and they started walking through the dirty sand, and then among the big rocks at the water's edge, under the walls of ocher stone through whose loopholes protruded the barrels of rusty cannons. In the distance rose the blue-gray silhouette of Cabo Tres Forcas. From time to time the spray wet their feet. Santiago was walking with his hands in his pockets, pausing now and then to make sure that Teresa didn't slip on the moss-covered wet rocks.
"Other times," he added suddenly, as if he hadn't stopped thinking about it, "I look at you and all of a sudden you look older, a lot older.... Like this morning."
"What happened this morning?"
"Well, I woke up and you were in the bathroom, and I got up to look at you and I saw you standing in front of the mirror, splashing water on your face, and you were looking at yourself like you were having a hard time recognizing yourself. And you had the face of an old woman."
"Ugly?"
"Horrible. Which was why I wanted to make you pretty again, so I swept you up in my arms and carried you to the bed and we screwed for over an hour."
"I don't remember."
"Being in bed?"
"Being ugly."
She remembered perfectly, of course. She had waked up early, with the first gray light. Roosters crowing at daybreak. The voice of the muezzin in the minaret. The tick-tock of the clock on the night table. Unable to get back to sleep, she had watched the light gradually grow brighter, more golden, on the ceiling, with Santiago asleep on his stomach, his hair tousled, half his face sunk into the pillow, the rough shadow of his beard grazing her shoulder. His heavy breathing and his almost perfect motionlessness, so like death. And the sudden panic that made her jump out of bed, go to the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and splash water on her face over and over again, while the face looking out at her from the mirror resembled that woman with wet hair who had stared back at her the day the phone rang in Culia-can. And then Santiago reflected behind her, his eyes swollen with sleep, naked like her, embracing her before he carried her back to bed to make love between the wrinkled sheets that smelled of them both, of semen, and of the warmth of entwined bodies. And then the ghosts fading away into the new order once again, with the shadow of the dirty dawn-there was nothing in the world as dirty as that undecided lead-gray light just before dawn-that the sunlight, now streaming in through the shutters, was banishing once more to the underground.
"With you, sometimes, I feel like I'm a little outside, you know?" Santiago was gazing out at the blue ocean, the waves rising and falling, splashing among the rocks-an experienced look, almost technical. "I've got you all controlled and then-bam!-all of a sudden you seem to go off somewhere."
"To Morocco."
"Stop it. I told you that's over."
Again the smile that erased everything else. Handsome as hell, she thought again, bien padre. bien padre. Fucking smuggling Fucking smuggling hijo de su puta madre. hijo de su puta madre.
"You seem far away sometimes, too," she said. "God knows where you are, but it's fucking far."
"That's different. There are things that worry me ... I mean things now. But you're different."
He didn't say anything else for a while. He seemed to be searching for an idea that was hard to pin down. Or express.
"You ..." he said at last, "it's that there are things that were there before I met you."
They walked on a little farther before returning to the arch. The old kebab man was cleaning off the table. He and Teresa smiled at one another.
"You never tell me anything about Mexico," Santiago said.
She leaned on him as she put on her shoes. "There's not much to tell," she replied."... Some guy fucks over another guy because of drugs or a few pesos, or because he says you're a Communist, or a hurricane comes and everybody everybody gets fucked." gets fucked."
"I was talking about you."
"I'm Sinaloan. A little wounded in my self-esteem lately. But stubborn as hell."
"What else?"
"That's it. I don't ask you questions about your life. I don't even know whether you're married."
"I'm not." He waggled his finger, negative, before her eyes. "And it pisses me off that you've never asked till now."
"I'm not asking. I'm just saying what I don't know. That was the deal." "What deal? I don't recall any deal."
"No stupid questions. You come, I'm there. You leave, I stay."
"What about the future?"
"We'll talk about the future when it gets here."
"Why do you sleep with me?"
"Who else is there?"
"Why me?"
She halted before him, hands on her hips, as though she were about to sing him a ranchera.
"Because you're a good-looking guy," she said, appraising him, her eyes traveling up and down him slowly, appreciatively. "Because you've got green eyes, a great ass, strong arms ... Because you're an hijo de la chingada hijo de la chingada without being totally fucking selfish. Because you can be hard and sweet at the same time ... That enough?" She could feel the muscles in her face grow tense, without her realizing it. "And because you look like somebody I once knew." without being totally fucking selfish. Because you can be hard and sweet at the same time ... That enough?" She could feel the muscles in her face grow tense, without her realizing it. "And because you look like somebody I once knew."
Santiago looked at her. An awkward expression on his face now, naturally. The flattered expression had gone, and she could predict what he was about to say.
"I don't like the idea of you remembering another man."
Fucking Gallego, she thought. Pinches honibres de mierda. Pinches honibres de mierda. So easy, all of them, and such assholes. She had to end this conversation. So easy, all of them, and such assholes. She had to end this conversation.
"Jesus Christ. I didn't say I remember another man. I said you looked like somebody."
"And you don't want to know why I sleep with you?" "Besides my usefulness at Dris Larbi's parties?" "Besides that."
"Because you have a great time in my dark little cave down there. And because sometimes you feel alone."
She watched him run his hand through his hair, confused. Then he took her by the arm.
"What if I slept with other women? Would you care?"
She pulled her arm away gently, until she felt free again. "I'm sure you sleep with other women." "In Melilla?"
"No. Not that I know of. Not here."
"Say you love me."
"Orale. I love you." I love you."
"That's not true "
"What do you care? I love you."
I.
t was not hard for me to trace the life of Santiago Fisterra. Before I went to Melilla, I supplemented the Algeciras police report with another document, a very detailed Customs report that had dates and places, including Fisterra's birth in O Grove, a fishing village on a tidal inlet, the Ria de Arosa. Which is how I learned that when he met Teresa, Fisterra had just turned thirty-two. His was a classic case: He had shipped on fishing boats starting at age fourteen, and after military service in the navy had worked for the amos do fume, amos do fume, which in Galician is the "tobacco bosses," the capos of the smuggling rings that operated in the Galician which in Galician is the "tobacco bosses," the capos of the smuggling rings that operated in the Galician rias rias-Charlines, Sito Minanco, the Pernas brothers. Three years before he met Teresa, the Customs report had him in Villagarcia as the owner of a speedboat working for the Pedrusquinos, a well-known clan of tobacco smugglers who were then expanding into Moroccan hashish.
At that point, Fisterra was a hired man, so much per run; his work consisted of piloting speedboats that offloaded tobacco and drugs from mother ships and fishing boats sitting just outside Spanish waters, taking advantage of the complicated geography of the Galician coastline. That led to dangerous duels with the coast guard, Customs, and the Guardia Civil. On one of those incursions, when he was eluding pursuit by a turbocraft by making tight zigzags through the mussel barges just off the island of Cortegada, Fisterra or his copilot-a young man from Ferrola named Lalo Veiga-turned a spotlight on their pursuers in the middle of a maneuver, and the Customs men crashed into a barge. Result: One dead.
The police reports gave only a rough outline of what happened, so I fruitlessly dialed several telephone numbers until Manuel Rivas, a writer friend of mine who happened to be Galician and happened to live in the area-he had a house on the Costa de la Muerte-made a couple more calls and confirmed the episode. What Rivas told me was that no one could actually prove that Fisterra had a hand in the incident, but the local Customs officers, who were as tough as the smugglers-they'd been raised in the same small towns and sailed on the same boats-swore to send him to the bottom at the first opportunity. An eye for an eye.
That had been enough to make Fisterra and Veiga leave the Rias Bajas in search of less insalubrious air: Algeciras, in the shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its Mediterranean sun and blue waters. And there, profiting from the permissive British laws, the two Galicians registered, through a third party, a powerful speedboat twenty-four feet long and packing a Yamaha PRO six-cylinder engine that put out 225 horsepower, tweaked to 250, on which they made runs between the colony, Morocco, and the Spanish coast.
"Back then," Manolo Cespedes explained to me in Melilla, after I'd seen Dris Larbi, "cocaine was still for the super-rich. Most of the illegal trafficking consisted of moving Gibraltar tobacco and Moroccan hashish: two harvests and twenty-five hundred tons of cannabis illegally exported to Europe every year.... And all of it came through here, of course. Still does."
We were putting away a dinner remarkable for both quality and quantity as we sat at a table in La Amistad, a bar-restaurant better known by Melillans as Casa Manolo. It was across the street from the headquarters of the Guardia Civil, which Cespedes himself had had built during his time in power. The owner of the place was actually not named Manolo, but rather Muhammad, although he was also known as Juanito's brother-Juanito being the owner of the restaurant Casa Juanito, though his name was not Juanito, but rather Hassan. Labyrinths of names, all very much in keeping with a city, like Melilla, of multiple identities. As for La Amistad, it was a decidedly working-class place, with plastic chairs and tables and a tapas bar frequented by both Europeans and North Africans; people often ate standing up, even dinner. The quality of the food was memorable, as I said: a menu of fresh shellfish and crustaceans brought in from Morocco that Manolo/Muhammad himself bought every morning at the central market. That night, Cespedes and I were having clams, langostinos from Mar Chica, chunks of halibut, pollack kebabs, and a bottle of cold Barbadillo. And enjoying it, of course. With the Spanish trawlers that fishermen used nowadays, it was getting harder and harder to find anything like this in the waters off the Peninsula.
"When Santiago Fisterra came here," Cespedes continued, "almost all the major traffic was handled in speedboats. He came because that was his specialty, and because a lot of Galicians were setting up in Ceuta and Melilla and along the Andalucian coast.... The contacts were made here or in Morocco. The busiest part of the whole Strait was the fourteen kilometers between Punta Carnero and Punta Cires-small-time drug runners in the Ceuta ferries, big consignments in yachts and fishing boats, speedboats.... The traffic was so intense that that strip of water started being called Hashish Boulevard."
"What about Gibraltar?"
"Well, right over there, in the middle of everything." Cespedes pointed to the pack of Winstons in front of him on the table, and with a fork he drew a circle around it. "Like a spider in its web. Back then it was the main base for smuggling in the western Mediterranean.... The Brits and the locals from the colony left the mafias' hands free. Invest here, sir, trust us with your dough, your financial contacts, and your port facilities.... The shipment of tobacco would go directly from the warehouses on the docks to the beaches of La Linea, a thousand meters or so over there.... The fact is, it's still going on." He pointed toward the cigarettes again. "These are from there. Tax-free."