Carlos Gamerro - An Open Secret

A MURDER IN A SMALL TOWN.

Why here of all places? asks Mati.

Its the only small town I know.

Is that why youve come back?

And to see you all.

So whats it going to be? A film? enquires Mati again.

Or a book. Not sure yet, I reply.

Don ngels third call to table spares me from giving any further details:

Dinners ready che! I know youve got some catching up to do but do it later.

Fefe I look at you and I swear I cant believe youre really here, blurts Guido, whos so far said next to nothing. How many years has it been?

Im slow to answer because Im hauling myself up from the sofa, whose springs my body has recognised with consummate ease, as I eye the souvenirs of trips to Europe and the Middle East that the current occupants of the house have never made, and rediscover the roughness of the old tiles under my feet the furniture, the ornaments, the floors of the house that used to belong to my grandparents until their lifelong neighbours, the Tuttolomondos, bought it from them. Im back in Malihuel, I say to myself in mild amazement. Back in Malihuel.

Bout twenty isnt it? I eventually reply.

SO YOU WANT to write about Malihuel do you? Someones already written a hydrographic survey on the lagoon, donkeys years ago, bout roughly When was it Nene?

On the corner of the main street and the one variously known as Post Office, Phone Centre, Courts or Yacht Club Street stands the most traditional bar in Malihuel, Los Tocayos, whose current landlord, Don Porfirio Dupuy, is a direct descendent of one of the two Hiplitos that opened the original establishment. Three blue doors on the main street and two on the other provide access to a vast vertical expanse of sea-green walls, barely alleviated by their lining of varnished wood cladding, the framed photos of Don Porfirios pampered pups, the trophies from the Coln dog track and a Chinese imitation antique clock. The premises are L-shaped, with a billiard table and two Foosball tables at the far end of the long arm, and the bar tables in the short one and the elbow, evidently arranged around the one presided over night in night out by Don Len Benoit.

Nineteen seventy-three, the waiter answers without hesitation.

Nenes our walking encyclopaedia, theres only Professor Gagliardi knows more than he does. And there isnt much in it mind. Is it something like that youre going to write? Don Len asks.

No, I counter.

Hes a real writer, Guido sitting next to me sets him straight. He writes stories, novels Literature, he adds, in a nutshell.

Oh, weve got that here too. If its literature youre interested in I imagine youll have read His Honours Dream, its set right here in Malihuel, tells the whole story of our foundation it does. No theres a lot been written about this town believe you me, dont write us off, the other towns hereabouts may be bigger but they dont have our history. Weve been here since colonial times you know. The lagoons right there on the very oldest maps. The Northern Frontier ran through here. Indian territory back then. We suffered several raids, and the civil wars to boot. There was a fort here razed to the ground by none other than General Lavalle himself, on his way north. Weve got history to burn here. A town of two centenaries, as the song goes. So its literature is it? I was told you were interested in geography or ecology, goodness knows why. Who was it told me Nene?

Licho.

See where idle chatter gets you? And there was I finding out about the chemical composition of the lagoon water, which as you know is highly medicinal. Is that any use?

Careful, hell try and rope you into the beach-resort business next, Guido chimes in, and Don Len smiles.

The townll go back to living off the lagoon again one day, and then theyll have to put up a statue of me right next to the Comandantes. Now theres a tale to be told, the one about the Comandantes statue.

Right, sure, I nod. I had something more recent in mind though from the last I dunno twenty years at the outside, I say, and then, sensing or imagining a buzz of alarm, I explain: Itll be a work of fiction though, right, not a document? I mean the town in my storyll have lots in common with this one, the setting, the lagoon, that kind of thing, but

It wasnt as easy to explain as Id first thought.

Im even going to change the name so there wont be any mix-ups, you know, people coming up to me afterwards saying no it isnt like that, it wasnt like that at all Im going to change the name, I repeat.

Uh-huh, Don Len remarks. And what are you going to call it if you dont mind me asking?

Malihuel, I reply. The town in my storys called Malihuel.

CRIMES HERE IN MALIHUEL as I can remember Can you remember any Vicente? Don ngel asks his brother.

There was that one case ages ago now, you werent even born, Vicente replies. That business at the Arana Hotel. Remember?

Do I. The number of times I mustve heard it. You know how it goes dont you Fefe? Don ngel asks me.

Mam used to make me check under her bed every night to make sure Seora Aranas killer wasnt there. In Buenos Aires as well! I answer.

Travelling fabric salesman he was, I met him once, Vicentes voice starts up but is overtaken by his brothers.

Dont know about under but definitely on top. Most people reckoned the salesman was just the lover and it was the husband who He stabs the air with his knife. Anyway they ended up pinning the dead wife on the guy. Two birds with one stone Arana killed. Closed the hotel not long after that and scarpered. You can still see the walls out in the Colonia opposite the station. You taken him to see it yet Mati?

Don ngel is sitting at the head of the table at the welcome dinner the Tuttolomondos have laid on for me. Naturally, Ive been accorded one of the places of honour at his side; his elder brother Vicente, the other.

We could drop by tomorrow afternoon if it dries up a bit, answers my inseparable childhood friend, Mati, sitting next to me. The days I spend in Malihuel Ill be staying at his house, which had belonged to his parents until they bought my grandparents house.

The roads in the Colonia are impossible when it rains, Don ngel confirms. Is it something like that youre going to write Fefe?

Something like that, I lie. A crime novel I thought. I thought it would be a good idea to set it here in Malihuel. You know crime committed in Malihuel, population three thousand, everyone knows everyone else, no outsiders in town that night. So the murderers got to be one of them. Everyone suspects everyone else. Or maybe its a conspiracy the whole towns in on.

Youre unlikely to get anyone in this town in on anything, quips Guido, philosophically buttering a roll and asking his brother with a nudge of the elbow and a flick of the eyebrows to pass the salt. Mati obliges with a growl.

Specially when there are people who cant even get on with their own family dont you reckon? Don ngel spears a last mouthful of pionono with his fork after speaking. Guido chews his buttered roll and shrugs.

Can I get you another slice Fefe? asks Celia, whos been doing the second round of the table with a serving dish and a portion poised between spoon and fork. She smiles at me with her whole face mouth, eyes and wrinkles every time she looks at me or talks to me. Shes extremely happy to see, me that much is plain. I hadnt noticed she was so fond of me as a boy. Or maybe Id forgotten.

Thanks, Im fine for now. I never was much one for pionono. That sickly sweet taste Ill save myself for the spaghetti, I add flatteringly. Nearly twenty years Ive waited for this moment. Never tasted pasta like it all these years.