Chapter 26 El Cucorno
El Cucorno
If the descent down the outside of the lighthouse had been terrifying, Diego’s “secret path” wasn’t exactly relaxing. It was a narrow trail, less than a foot wide, and it went right along the edge of the cliff.
Roberto peered apprehensively over the precipice. Far below, the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks made any kind of conversation impossible.
Anyway, he was too busy concentrating on where to plant his feet. Every few steps, he felt the ground shift beneath his weight, and stones and clods of earth went tumbling over the edge.
“Diego!” He clapped the boy on the shoulder to get his attention and shouted at the top of his voice. “Are you sure this is the way?”
“Yes!” The boy nodded his head, quite sure of himself. “We’re almost there. It gets easier soon.”
Roberto had no choice but to trust in the boy, even though he couldn’t help wondering what he meant by “easier.” Fortunately, within a couple of minutes, the path widened out and swung inland, away from the edge.
It was far from well trodden, and Roberto got a few scratches on his face from down-hanging branches, but he did feel safer.
Eventually, they reached the main road, at a point far from the lighthouse, and raced along it to El Cucorno.
Arriving, they didn’t need to knock on the door. The Freires must have posted a lookout, because Rosalía was already waiting for them.
“Thank God you’re here!” she said as she flung her arms around Diego. “We were so worried! Particularly about you, you little rascal! Where did you get to?”
“That’s a long story,” said Roberto, feeling the reassurance of the heavy wooden door closing behind him. “But right now, what you need to know is that the Docampos are on a war footing.”
“We already know that,” Rosalía replied, grimacing angrily. “It was just a matter of time.”
“They want to keep all the money, and settle some old scores into the bargain,” he added. “They’re not messing around, I promise you.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Ramón Docampo told me himself.” Roberto dropped into a chair. Now that the adrenaline had begun to ebb, the pain in his arm had become close to unbearable. “I think he’s out of his mind, but nobody can make him see reason. None of his family can, anyway.”
“And nobody else either . . .” said Rosalía.
Roberto observed her carefully, and only then did he notice the grayish tone of her skin and the deep bags under her eyes, the product of a sleepless night.
She was no longer the imposing matriarch he had first met, just a fragile, overwhelmed, exhausted woman.
Even so, the flame of determination burned in her eyes.
“That arm of yours looks nasty.”
“I think it’s dislocated.” Roberto clenched his teeth. “It hurts like hell.”
“We’re used to dealing with this kind of thing,” Rosalía replied. “When you collect shellfish on the rocks, it happens all the time. Go upstairs to the first-aid station we’ve set up and ask Antía to take a look.”
A first-aid station? These people are preparing for war too.
Roberto stood up with some difficulty and made his way up the stairs, gripping the banister with his good hand. When he passed the living room, he noticed that it had been cleared and a large mahogany table stood in the middle of it.
The scene was so similar to the one he had witnessed in the Docampo household that a bitter smile came to his lips.
Around the table, three people were preparing a rudimentary arsenal of sickles, axes, and shotguns.
He noticed that one of them, whom he recognized as one of the men Pampín had accused of trespassing on his patch, was holding an item that looked vaguely familiar.
It was a moment before the penny dropped.
It was an old MP 40, a submachine gun with a folding stock similar to the weapons he had seen in the hands of German soldiers in countless war movies.
The man was carefully loading bullets into the magazine.
Roberto shook his head. The submachine gun had been carefully oiled and appeared to be in good condition, but it must have been more than eighty years old: It was almost certainly a souvenir taken by Orlando Freire from the German submarine.
He couldn’t help wondering how many more relics like that were to be found on the island and, above all, what condition the bullets would be in, after sitting in a drawer for eight decades.
Old munitions, as he knew by experience, tended to behave erratically and, sometimes, could be more dangerous for the marksman than his target.
Things weren’t looking good. The Freires were planning to defend themselves using weapons that were old and unreliable, and the Docampos were both more numerous and had the initiative, but this lethal piece of gear tipped the scales.
He shuffled down the hallway until he reached the first-aid station, which was housed in a gallery that looked down onto an inner courtyard crammed with fish crates, lobster pots, and other junk.
There were a couple of beds in the gallery, one of which was occupied.
In it lay a young man with a long, deep cut on his right forearm, and Antía was tending to his wound, wrapping his arm in bandages that had been improvised by tearing a sheet into strips.
On the floor was a bloody bandage that she had just removed.
“What happened to him?” he asked. “Was it the Docampos?”
Antía looked up.
“He doesn’t know.” She carried on changing the man’s bandages. “Last night, he was coming back from checking the moorings when someone jumped him.”
“I couldn’t see him properly,” her patient added, his voice trembling. “It was dark, and it all happened so quickly. He appeared out of nowhere and took a swipe at me. I raised my arm to defend myself, and then he tripped. I wasn’t armed, so I ran straight home.”
“All done,” said Antía. “It’s much better than yesterday, but try not to move your arm too much.” She then turned to Roberto. “Your turn. You look dreadful.”
“Thanks a lot!” Roberto said. “A brilliant diagnosis, I’m sure.”
“What happened to you?” she asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
“I think I’ve dislocated my shoulder.”
“Where? How?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Roberto glanced at the bed where the young man was lying, his eyes closed.
Antía looked at him for a moment, hesitating. But Roberto’s exhausted appearance seemed to make up her mind.
“Of course.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Come with me.”
She led him down a hallway, and as they entered the room at the end, Roberto realized it must be Antía’s bedroom.
It was dominated by a large old-fashioned bed, covered with a brightly colored, handsewn bedspread.
Against one wall was a mahogany closet, and on the opposite wall were a desk and a bookcase with half a dozen heavily laden shelves.
The wallpaper, faded but elegant, gave the room a welcoming feel, in contrast with the worsening weather outside.
There was the scent of candles, sandalwood, and perfume.
“Sit on the bed,” Antía said, proceeding to examine him gently but firmly. “You’ve got a few minor cuts and bruises, but your shoulder’s the real problem. We’re going to have to do a reduction to get it back in place.”
“That sounds painful.”
“It is,” she said as she wrapped a sheet around his torso and passed it under his shoulder. “I’ll count to five and pop it back into place. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know. How should I prepare for this?”
“Take a deep breath and close your eyes.” Antía placed her hands on his shoulder and turned it toward her at an angle of forty-five degrees. “Ready? One, two . . .”
Before she had finished counting, she rotated Roberto’s arm with a swift, surprising movement. The pain was so intense and unexpected that it made the room spin. For a moment he thought he was going to faint, and he let out a cry, half curse, half exclamation.
“All done,” said Antía. “How does it feel?”
Roberto moved his arm gingerly. It still hurt like hell, but there was no longer a shooting pain as if someone were thrusting a knife into the joint. Whatever she had done, his shoulder was now back in place. Antía offered him a couple of painkillers, and he swallowed them in one go.
“Right, and now tell me what happened.” Antía sat down on the bed, next to him.
Roberto took a deep breath and started to speak.
He told her about everything that had happened since the last time they met, including the conversation with Ramón Docampo, and how he had been ambushed by the lighthouse keepers.
Antía frowned at this part, but her expression turned to one of alarm when he described their escape down the facade of the lighthouse.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she protested. “You could both have been killed!”
“True,” he said, warily moving his arm in slow circles. “But the alternative was to wait until Ibaibarriaga and his chums got back.”
“I never liked him,” Antía muttered. “I never liked any of them, always keeping themselves aloof, so superior. But I didn’t imagine they would do something like this.”
“People always surprise you,” replied Roberto, exhausted. The room had started to spin. “Look . . . Is it okay if I lie down for a bit?”
“Sorry!” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Of course you can. You must still be reeling from the pain.”
Roberto lay down and sighed with relief. The bed was soft, and it smelled faintly of Antía’s perfume. All of a sudden, it seemed like the most comfortable place in the world.
Roberto realized that it was the first time he had felt properly safe since he had set foot on the island.