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“How?”
“How do you think? By asking.”
We peered into the corridor to make sure Sister Hortensia had vanished. Then we scurried back to the hall we had previously crossed. The wretched figures were still observing us, with looks that ranged from curiosity to fear and, in some cases, to greed.
“Watch it, some of these would sink their teeth in you if they could, to become young again,” said Fermín. “Age makes them all look as meek as lambs, but there are as many sons of bitches in here as out there, or more. Because these are the ones who have lasted and buried the rest. Don’t feel sorry for them. Go on, begin with the ones in the corner—they look toothless.”
If those words were meant to give me courage for the mission, they failed miserably. I looked at the group of human remains that languished in the corner and smiled at them. It occurred to me that their very presence was testimony to the moral emptiness of the universe and the mechanical brutality with which it destroys the parts it no longer needs. Fermín seemed able to read these profound thoughts and nodded gravely.
“Mother Nature is the meanest of bitches, that’s the sad truth,” he said. “Be courageous, and go for it.”
My first round of inquiries as to the whereabouts of Jacinta Coronado produced only empty looks, groans, burps, and ravings. Fifteen minutes later I called it a day and joined Fermín to see whether he’d had better luck. His discouragement was all too obvious.
“How are we going to find Jacinta Coronado in this shithole?”
“I don’t know. This is a cauldron of idiots. I’ve tried the Sugus candy trick, but they seem to think they’re suppositories.”
“What if we ask Sister Hortensia? We tell her the truth and have done with it.”
“Telling the truth should be kept as a last resort, Daniel, even more so to a nun. Let’s use up all our powder first. Look at that little group over there. They seem quite jolly. I’m sure they’re very articulate. Go and question them.”
“And what are you planning to do?”
“I’ll keep watch in the rear guard, in case the penguin returns. You get on with your business.”
With little or no hope of success, I went up to a group of patients occupying another corner of the room.
“Good evening,” I said, realizing instantly how absurd my greeting was, because in there it was always nighttime. “I’m looking for Señora Jacinta Coronado. Co-ro-na-do. Do any of you know her, or could you tell me where to find her?”
I was confronted by four faces corrupted by greed. There’s something here, I thought. Maybe all’s not lost.
“Jacinta Coronado?” I insisted.
The four patients exchanged looks and nodded to one another. One of them, a potbellied man without a single hair to be seen on his body, seemed to be their leader. His appearance and manner made me think of a happy Nero, plucking his harp while Rome was rotting at his feet. With a majestic gesture, the Nero figure smiled at me playfully. I returned the smile, hopefully.
The guy gestured at me to come closer, as if he wanted to whisper something in my ear. I hesitated, then leaned forward.
I lent my ear to the patient’s lips—so close that I could feel his fetid, warm breath on my skin. “Can you tell me where I can find Señora Jacinta Coronado?” I asked for the last time. I was afraid he’d bite me. Instead he emitted a violently loud fart. His companions burst out laughing and clapped with joy. I took a few steps back, but it was too late: the flatulent vapors had already hit me. It was then I noticed, close to me, an old man, all hunched up, with a prophet’s beard, thin hair, and fiery eyes, who leaned on a walking stick and gazed at the others with disdain.
“You’re wasting your time, young man. Juanito only knows how to let off farts, and those who are with him can only laugh and sniff them. As you see, the social structure here isn’t very different from that of the outside world.”
The ancient philosopher spoke in a solemn voice and with perfect diction. He looked me up and down, taking the measure of me.
“You’re looking for Jacinta, I think I heard?”
I nodded, astounded by the appearance of intelligent life in that den of horrors.
“And what for?”
“I’m her grandson.”
“And I’m the Marquis of Crèmebrûlée. You’re a terrible liar, that’s what you are. Tell me what you want to see her for or I’ll play the madman. It’s easy here. And if you intend to ask these poor wretches one by one, you’ll soon
see what I mean.”
Juanito and his gang of inhalers were still howling with laughter. The soloist then gave off an encore, more muted and prolonged than the previous one. It sounded like a hiss, emulating the puncture of a tire, and proved that Juanito’s control over his sphincter verged on virtuosity. I yielded to the facts.
“You’re right. I’m not a relative of Señora Coronado, but I need to speak to her. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”
