The Black Minutes by Martín Solares Read Free Book Online Page A

having opened my mouth. Fritz, you did it again! You got yourself into a corner now! Ramón shot me a look of amusement, perhaps suspecting what happened. But instead of asking me further malicious questions, as Bernardo would have done, he looked down at the Robert Louis Stevenson book.
    “Did you see him often, Father?”
    “Not that often,” I said and, to change the subject, added, “How’s everything down at headquarters?”
    “Same as always.”
    “It’s a shame,” I replied. Before Ramón could react, I put the chessmen away in their case. Later, I’d get rid of Bernardo’s remaining fingerprints. One of the pieces went tumbling and, instead of impounding it, my visitor handed it back to me.
    “Here you are, Father.”
    I favored him with a growl. Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do! They have eyes and do not see, ears and do not hear. While Bernardo had admirable intelligence and a deep curiosity, Ramón Cabrera was the diametrical opposite. What if suddenly . . . ? I said to myself. What if, instead of keeping silent . . . ? But no, it wasn’t possible. I told myself it wouldn’t work, but I kept getting my hopes up; one is always getting one’s hopes up, since that is what we are taught to do.
    “Father, I need your help.”
    I pretended to clean my glasses. “I’m listening.”
    He gave a summary of his wanderings and I merely shook my head.
    “Awful, simply awful. Terrible.”
    “Did you hear the rumor about the port cartel?”

    “Yes.”
    “What do you think?”
    “With all due respect, it’s bullshit. Bernardo had nothing to do with it.”
    Cabrera didn’t flinch. This could go on to infinity, I said to myself, and so looked at the clock and gave him to understand that he ought to be leaving. I had to get him out of there at the first opportunity.
    “One last thing, Father. Did you know that Bernardo had given up journalism?”
    The Church Fathers, who prohibit lying, never did counsel telling the whole truth, especially if the inquisitors haven’t asked the right question. “Yes, I did know.”
    “And can’t you tell me why?”
    “Interesting question. No.” I was silent for a second. “It’s a shame!” I said. “If you knew how to read between the lines, we could talk for hours in great detail. Bernardo was an expert at that. It’s an extremely complicated situation, Cabrera. But first tell me something: What did I give you in Logic?”
    “A
C
.”
    “A
C?
That seems too high. I’ve given only one
A
-plus in all my career as a professor, and that was to Bernardo Blanco. Are you sure it was a
C?
No, it couldn’t have been that high; I’ll look through my files.”
    “Father,” he insisted. “Tell me what happened to Bernardo.”
    “Not even I know that,” I said.
    And I was telling the truth, only he was talking about Bernardo’s earthly fate and I was talking about the salvation of his soul. Then he turned and looked at the bookshelf.
Your mother!
I said to myself again, and from the way he looked at me, I knew he had seen the bottle. Surely he must think I still drink the way I did during histime in school. Fritz, I said to myself, you need to calm down; if you go that route you’ll ruin everything. Stop worrying about the fucking bottle. What does anyone care about a fucking bottle? It could be a gift from a student or what it is: an object confiscated at the Institute. I thought he would get tired and leave, but he kept examining the bookcase and then he came alive again.
    “People told me three things about you, Father.”
    I began to sweat. “What things?”
    “Should I tell you in order or—?”
    “However you damn well please. What did they tell you?” “That you counseled Bernardo.”
    “It could be,” I commented.
    My hands were shaking, and Ramón noticed. “Forgive me,” I said, “but some people are about to come by, and I don’t want them to see you here.”
    That set him on the defensive. “Don’t you want to hear the