Free Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel by Víctor del Árbol Page A

María’s skeptical expression.
    “If I imagine my own hand going into my body through my stomach, I can feel kidneys, liver, lungs. I can even feel my heart blindly among my entrails, cells, corpuscles, and nerves. I can weigh it up in the palm of my open hand, feel the movement of its rhythmic contraction and expansion. But not my soul. I can’t find it anywhere. We did what we had to, justice. You should be happy for having beaten the windmills.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic. There is nothing quixotic in all this; it has nothing to do with justice. We both know what kind of man Ramoneda is, and you’ve already seen his wife, spending the indemnity money in Galerías Preciados. And I can’t get that inspector out of my head. Did you see his resignation, his disheartened expression?”
    “They sentenced him to life in prison; he’s not likely to be jumping for joy.”
    “It wasn’t prison that was weighing on his eyes; it was the feeling of injustice. I heard about his daughter. She was the girl in the photo, right?”
    María threw her napkin on the table angrily.
    “That’s enough, Greta, please. Yes, I heard about the daughter’s kidnapping, too. But it’s all a myth; there’s no proof, nothing. On the other hand, there is a ton of evidence that he is a corrupt, brutal police officer.”
    “But what if it’s true? And what if that informer had something to do with the girl’s disappearance?”
    “Let the police figure it out. That’s not our job.”
    Greta smiled sadly. She looked toward the lights of the city, which spread before her like an illusory haven of peace.
    “You’re right; our work is finished. Now, we simply have to forget. But I wonder if we’ll be able to.”
    *   *   *
     
    The guards who moved César Alcalá came in through a side door of the prison.
    The old prison’s innards were rotten. They were like catacombs filled with closed doors, boarded-up windows, labyrinthine waste pipes, and corners that had never seen the light of day. A pipe of wastewater had burst, flooding everything with shit. Some men, naked to the waist, splashed about barefoot with their hands in the filth. Handkerchiefs minimally protected their mouths, and it was obvious the liquids were making them gag. They were people without name or face who lived in the basement like rats: sometimes they could be heard scampering beneath the wood, but they were never seen.
    César Alcalá tried to keep his composure, but his legs were giving out under him at the devastating sight before his eyes. The guards forced him into a small room where he could barely stand up without his head hitting the damp, dripping ceiling.
    “Take off your clothes,” one of the guards ordered, without even blinking his inexpressive eyes.
    César Alcalá had to shower with freezing cold water and barely had time to dry himself off before they had him walk to a cracked line of paint on the floor. That line was the meridian between two worlds. Behind was life. In front was nothing.
    They took his fingerprints on some yellow cards and photographed him. Then they handed him his toiletries and had him stick his personal objects into a box and sign a receipt.
    “Everything will be given back to you when you get out…,” said the functionary who had searched him, as if he wanted to add, “If you ever do get out.”
    César Alcalá asked if he could hold on to the photographs of his daughter and his father that he kept in his wallet. The functionary examined them both, scrutinizing the photo of the girl more carefully.
    “How old is she?”
    “Thirteen,” murmured the inspector sadly.
    The functionary licked his lips like a hungry cat.
    “Well, she’s got a good set of tits on her,” he said cruelly.
    César Alcalá clenched his jaw, but he held back his desire to smash in the head of that worm.
    “Can I keep them, please?”
    The functionary shrugged his shoulders. He tore the photographs with maniacal attention to detail into the