2001, May, 22. Havana. 05:34 h.
That it might all be his.
Ivan Walsh looks up from the notebook.
Casey is still connected, but neither of them has spoken for several minutes. Outside it is morning already, and the city has lost the extraordinary look it takes on when one stays awake all night. Cars pass. Someone raises a metal shutter. A woman sweeps a sidewalk. He is surprised that the world goes on so easily after certain ideas.
“Casey.”
“Here.”
“Do you remember what you said about centers?”
“What about them.”
“Amatlán. La Madonna. Places where someone decides they are at the center.”
He hears him stop typing.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think we’re only looking for places.”
“Then?”
He thinks of Omar.
Of Chavita.
Of five students accused of stealing food and a man capable of changing the meaning of the theft with a laugh. Not because that episode has anything to do with his dead. He refuses to do anything that stupid. Fidel does not enter his series because Omar told him an anecdote. The connection, if there is one, lies elsewhere.
“People who become the center,” he says.
“That’s rather broad.”
“I know.”
“Every leader does that.”
“No.”
He pours some of yesterday’s coffee and tastes it cold.
“I don’t mean they want to give orders. I mean they make other people’s actions mean something only in relation to them.”
Casey says nothing.
“Explain.”
“The boy steals food. That means one thing. Then someone comes along and says it shows intelligence. The headmaster looks like an idiot. The boy like a hero. The act didn’t change. What changed was who had the right to explain it.”
Casey takes a while.
“And you think La Madonna does that.”
He looks at the Virgin.
“I think someone does.”
A corpse in a swimming pool ceases to be merely a corpse when the Virgin appears.
A dead young man ceases to belong only to his family when someone places him in a series.
A student who dies on September eleventh ends up, twenty-four years later, as a piece of his puzzle.
And perhaps they are helping.
“Casey.”
“What.”
“Every time we find a connection, what is it a connection between? Who benefits from giving the connections new meaning?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We think we’re discovering the pattern. But what if the pattern exists only because someone wants us to discover it?”
“We’d already thought of that.”
“Not exactly.”
He walks toward the balcony.
“Until now we’ve assumed the author needs the victims.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps he needs the investigators more.”
Silence.
“What for.”
“To finish the work.”
Now Casey says nothing.
He thinks of Chavita again. Of that authority degraded before the students until only one remains. They all look to the same man to know whether swimming is courage or stupidity, whether stealing is a crime or intelligence, whether an adolescent can drive a jeep.
What happened does not matter.
What matters is who tells it.
“We make the dead belong to the series,” he says.
“Ivan Walsh.”
“Casey, think about it.”
“I am thinking about it.”
“Before we find them, they’re people who died in different circumstances. We put in the Virgin, the dates, the places, 3841, Walsh, Bernardo. We draw the arrow.”
“Because someone left those things.”
“Exactly.”
“So we don’t invent them.”
“No.”
He looks at the notebook.
“But we obey them.”
Casey returns to the keyboard.
“I’m going to check something.”
“What.”
“The files.”
He hears keys for almost a minute.
“There’s something strange.”
“What.”
“Some have nothing in common until after someone investigates.”
He sits on the sofa. Exhausted from trying to rewrite La Virgen de la Tribulación.
“What do you mean, after?”
“The first file contains only a name, an image and a place. The Virgin appears in a later update.”
“How much later.”
“It depends.”
“After the death?”
“Sometimes.”
That changes something.
“And other times?”
“After the police connect the case to another one.”
He stays still. He thinks of a website.
“Who updates La Madonna?”
“We don’t know.”
“Could they be watching the investigation?”
“Of course.”
“No. I mean…”
He already knows what he means.
“Could they be learning from us?”
Casey does not answer.
“Casey.”
“Yes.”
“Could they be incorporating our own hypotheses?”
He starts typing again.
“Give me a minute.”
While he waits, he returns to the notebook.
There is one last line beneath Omar’s story.
It was not in the earlier account.
Every authority needs a witness who accepts the new version.
Beneath it is another sentence, smaller:
And so does the criminal.
He does not like it.
It is too perfect.
He runs his finger over it.
The ink is dry.
Inexplicably, that reassures him.
“Ivan Walsh.”
Casey is back.
“What.”
“I have an example.”
“Tell me.”
“The body in the swimming pool.”
“Yes.”
“The first entry doesn’t mention the Virgin.”
“But it was there.”
“That’s what we think now.”
“We have the photograph.”
“The photograph appeared later.”
He feels something shift.
“After what.”
“After Canchola said he’d seen a similar reproduction in another file.”
“So someone added the image.”
“Or uploaded a photo they already had.”
“How long did it take?”
“Twenty-seven minutes.”
He says nothing.
“Casey.”
“Yes.”
“Who was present when Canchola said it?”
He starts searching.
While he waits, he thinks of Omar again, although the story has stopped amusing him now. Not because of Fidel. Not because of Chavita. Because of the structure.
An authority pronounces an interpretation.
The others accept it.
From that moment on, they all remember the act in that form.
Perhaps a criminal system could work the same way.
It does not need to falsify the entire past.
It only needs to intervene at the moment when someone is trying to understand it.
Casey stops typing.
“I have the list.”
“Who.”
He gives him four names.
Pili.
And a technician.
“Which technician?”
“There’s no surname.”
“First name.”
Casey takes a while.
“Bernardo.”
He immediately feels the print in his pocket, even though twenty-four years have passed.
“Say it again.”
“Bernardo.”
He does not want to make the inference. It comes on its own.
Paseo del Prado.
The Virgin.
The abandoned station.
Pilgrims.
“Age?”
“Forty-something in 2023.”
He does the math.
Twenty-something in 2001.
It could be.
That means nothing.
There could be ten thousand Bernardos.
“Photo.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Look.”
Casey tries something.
“There’s an expired ID, but the image won’t load.”
“Send it to me.”
“There’s no image.”
“Casey.”
“Wait.”
He hears clicks.
Then he stops talking.
“What.”
He does not answer.
“Casey.”
“The page changed.”
He stands up.
“What page.”
“La Madonna.”
“What changed.”
“There’s a new photograph.”
He knows before he asks.
“Of whom.”
“Omar.”
He does not understand.
“Omar who.”
“There’s no surname.”
He cannot breathe.
“Where is he.”
“Sitting in a car.”
“Date.”
Casey takes a while.
“2001.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“There’s text underneath.”
“What does it say.”
Casey reads:
THE DRIVER.
Nothing else.
He looks at the notebook, open at the story of the Lenin School.
“Is he dead?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Look.”
“I’m looking.”
“Casey.”
“Ivan Walsh.”
“What.”
“The photo was just uploaded.”
Now he understands.
They are not merely reading his investigation.
Someone is reading with him.
He looks at the page.
Omar is still laughing in 2001, driving toward San Antonio. He is beside him. Omar tells him the story of Chavita, and he hugs his backpack. He tells him about Fidel, about a fourteen-year-old boy at the wheel of a jeep who thinks an aspirin makes him immortal, and about that very simple rule that seemed to replace all the others:
You are a son of the Revolution.
On Casey’s screen, twenty-four years later, the man who told him the story appears.
And for the first time he no longer asks what it means.
He asks something much simpler.
“Where is Omar now?”
2001, May, 22. Havana. 05:34 h.
That it might all be his.
Ivan Walsh looks up from the notebook.
Casey is still connected, but neither of them has spoken for several minutes. Outside it is morning already, and the city has lost the extraordinary look it takes on when one stays awake all night. Cars pass. Someone raises a metal shutter. A woman sweeps a sidewalk. He is surprised that the world goes on so easily after certain ideas.
“Casey.”
“Here.”
“Do you remember what you said about centers?”
“What about them.”
“Amatlán. La Madonna. Places where someone decides they are at the center.”
He hears him stop typing.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think we’re only looking for places.”
“Then?”
He thinks of Omar.
Of Chavita.
Of five students accused of stealing food and a man capable of changing the meaning of the theft with a laugh. Not because that episode has anything to do with his dead. He refuses to do anything that stupid. Fidel does not enter his series because Omar told him an anecdote. The connection, if there is one, lies elsewhere.
“People who become the center,” he says.
“That’s rather broad.”
“I know.”
“Every leader does that.”
“No.”
He pours some of yesterday’s coffee and tastes it cold.
“I don’t mean they want to give orders. I mean they make other people’s actions mean something only in relation to them.”
Casey says nothing.
“Explain.”
“The boy steals food. That means one thing. Then someone comes along and says it shows intelligence. The headmaster looks like an idiot. The boy like a hero. The act didn’t change. What changed was who had the right to explain it.”
Casey takes a while.
“And you think La Madonna does that.”
He looks at the Virgin.
“I think someone does.”
A corpse in a swimming pool ceases to be merely a corpse when the Virgin appears.
A dead young man ceases to belong only to his family when someone places him in a series.
A student who dies on September eleventh ends up, twenty-four years later, as a piece of his puzzle.
And perhaps they are helping.
“Casey.”
“What.”
“Every time we find a connection, what is it a connection between? Who benefits from giving the connections new meaning?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We think we’re discovering the pattern. But what if the pattern exists only because someone wants us to discover it?”
“We’d already thought of that.”
“Not exactly.”
He walks toward the balcony.
“Until now we’ve assumed the author needs the victims.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps he needs the investigators more.”
Silence.
“What for.”
“To finish the work.”
Now Casey says nothing.
He thinks of Chavita again. Of that authority degraded before the students until only one remains. They all look to the same man to know whether swimming is courage or stupidity, whether stealing is a crime or intelligence, whether an adolescent can drive a jeep.
What happened does not matter.
What matters is who tells it.
“We make the dead belong to the series,” he says.
“Ivan Walsh.”
“Casey, think about it.”
“I am thinking about it.”
“Before we find them, they’re people who died in different circumstances. We put in the Virgin, the dates, the places, 3841, Walsh, Bernardo. We draw the arrow.”
“Because someone left those things.”
“Exactly.”
“So we don’t invent them.”
“No.”
He looks at the notebook.
“But we obey them.”
Casey returns to the keyboard.
“I’m going to check something.”
“What.”
“The files.”
He hears keys for almost a minute.
“There’s something strange.”
“What.”
“Some have nothing in common until after someone investigates.”
He sits on the sofa. Exhausted from trying to rewrite La Virgen de la Tribulación.
“What do you mean, after?”
“The first file contains only a name, an image and a place. The Virgin appears in a later update.”
“How much later.”
“It depends.”
“After the death?”
“Sometimes.”
That changes something.
“And other times?”
“After the police connect the case to another one.”
He stays still. He thinks of a website.
“Who updates La Madonna?”
“We don’t know.”
“Could they be watching the investigation?”
“Of course.”
“No. I mean…”
He already knows what he means.
“Could they be learning from us?”
Casey does not answer.
“Casey.”
“Yes.”
“Could they be incorporating our own hypotheses?”
He starts typing again.
“Give me a minute.”
While he waits, he returns to the notebook.
There is one last line beneath Omar’s story.
It was not in the earlier account.
Every authority needs a witness who accepts the new version.
Beneath it is another sentence, smaller:
And so does the criminal.
He does not like it.
It is too perfect.
He runs his finger over it.
The ink is dry.
Inexplicably, that reassures him.
“Ivan Walsh.”
Casey is back.
“What.”
“I have an example.”
“Tell me.”
“The body in the swimming pool.”
“Yes.”
“The first entry doesn’t mention the Virgin.”
“But it was there.”
“That’s what we think now.”
“We have the photograph.”
“The photograph appeared later.”
He feels something shift.
“After what.”
“After Canchola said he’d seen a similar reproduction in another file.”
“So someone added the image.”
“Or uploaded a photo they already had.”
“How long did it take?”
“Twenty-seven minutes.”
He says nothing.
“Casey.”
“Yes.”
“Who was present when Canchola said it?”
He starts searching.
While he waits, he thinks of Omar again, although the story has stopped amusing him now. Not because of Fidel. Not because of Chavita. Because of the structure.
An authority pronounces an interpretation.
The others accept it.
From that moment on, they all remember the act in that form.
Perhaps a criminal system could work the same way.
It does not need to falsify the entire past.
It only needs to intervene at the moment when someone is trying to understand it.
Casey stops typing.
“I have the list.”
“Who.”
He gives him four names.
Pili.
And a technician.
“Which technician?”
“There’s no surname.”
“First name.”
Casey takes a while.
“Bernardo.”
He immediately feels the print in his pocket, even though twenty-four years have passed.
“Say it again.”
“Bernardo.”
He does not want to make the inference. It comes on its own.
Paseo del Prado.
The Virgin.
The abandoned station.
Pilgrims.
“Age?”
“Forty-something in 2023.”
He does the math.
Twenty-something in 2001.
It could be.
That means nothing.
There could be ten thousand Bernardos.
“Photo.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Look.”
Casey tries something.
“There’s an expired ID, but the image won’t load.”
“Send it to me.”
“There’s no image.”
“Casey.”
“Wait.”
He hears clicks.
Then he stops talking.
“What.”
He does not answer.
“Casey.”
“The page changed.”
He stands up.
“What page.”
“La Madonna.”
“What changed.”
“There’s a new photograph.”
He knows before he asks.
“Of whom.”
“Omar.”
He does not understand.
“Omar who.”
“There’s no surname.”
He cannot breathe.
“Where is he.”
“Sitting in a car.”
“Date.”
Casey takes a while.
“2001.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“There’s text underneath.”
“What does it say.”
Casey reads:
THE DRIVER.
Nothing else.
He looks at the notebook, open at the story of the Lenin School.
“Is he dead?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Look.”
“I’m looking.”
“Casey.”
“Ivan Walsh.”
“What.”
“The photo was just uploaded.”
Now he understands.
They are not merely reading his investigation.
Someone is reading with him.
He looks at the page.
Omar is still laughing in 2001, driving toward San Antonio. He is beside him. Omar tells him the story of Chavita, and he hugs his backpack. He tells him about Fidel, about a fourteen-year-old boy at the wheel of a jeep who thinks an aspirin makes him immortal, and about that very simple rule that seemed to replace all the others:
You are a son of the Revolution.
On Casey’s screen, twenty-four years later, the man who told him the story appears.
And for the first time he no longer asks what it means.
He asks something much simpler.
“Where is Omar now?”
2001, mayo, 22. La Habana. 05:34 h.
Que todo fuera de él.
Ivan Walsh levanta la vista del cuaderno.
Casey sigue conectado, pero ninguno de los dos ha hablado durante varios minutos. Afuera ya es mañana y la ciudad ha perdido el aspecto extraordinario que adquiere cuando uno permanece despierto toda la noche. Pasan coches. Alguien levanta una cortina metálica. Una mujer barre una acera. Lo sorprende que el mundo continúe tan fácilmente después de ciertas ideas.
—Casey.
—Aquí.
—¿Te acuerdas de lo que dijiste de los centros?
—Qué cosa.
—Amatlán. La Madonna. Los lugares donde alguien decide que está en el centro.
Escucha cómo deja de teclear.
—Sí.
—Creo que no buscamos solamente lugares.
—¿Entonces?
Piensa en Omar.
En Chavita.
En cinco estudiantes acusados de robar comida y un hombre capaz de cambiar el significado del robo mediante una carcajada. No porque aquel episodio tenga relación con sus muertos. Se niega a hacer esa estupidez. Fidel no entra en su serie porque Omar le haya contado una anécdota. La relación, si existe, está en otra parte.
—Personas que se convierten en centro —dice.
—Eso es bastante amplio.
—Ya sé.
—Todo líder hace eso.
—No.
Se sirve café del que quedó ayer y lo prueba frío.
—No digo que quieran mandar. Digo que consiguen que las acciones de los demás sólo tengan significado en relación con ellos.
Casey guarda silencio.
—Explícate.
—El muchacho roba comida. Eso significa una cosa. Después llega alguien y dice que demuestra inteligencia. El director queda como idiota. El muchacho como héroe. El acto no cambió. Cambió quién tenía derecho a explicarlo.
Casey tarda.
—Y tú crees que La Madonna hace eso.
Mira la Virgen.
—Creo que alguien lo hace.
Un cadáver en una piscina deja de ser sólo un cadáver cuando aparece la Virgen.
Un muchacho muerto deja de pertenecer únicamente a su familia cuando alguien lo coloca dentro de una serie.
Un estudiante que muere el 11 de septiembre termina convertido, veinticuatro años después, en una pieza de su rompecabezas.
Y quizá ellos están ayudando.
—Casey.
—Qué.
—Cada vez que encontramos una relación, ¿es una relación de qué? ¿Quién gana resignificando las relaciones?
—No entiendo.
—Nosotros creemos que estamos descubriendo el patrón. Pero ¿y si el patrón existe únicamente porque alguien quiere que lo descubramos?
—Eso ya lo habíamos pensado.
—No exactamente.
Camina hacia el balcón.
—Hasta ahora hemos supuesto que el autor necesita a las víctimas.
—Sí.
—Quizá necesita más a los investigadores.
Silencio.
—Para qué.
—Para terminar el trabajo.
Ahora Casey no dice nada.
Piensa nuevamente en Chavita. En esa autoridad degradada delante de los alumnos hasta que sólo queda una. Todos miran al mismo hombre para saber si nadar es valentía o estupidez, si robar es delito o inteligencia, si un adolescente puede manejar un jeep.
No importa lo que ocurrió.
Importa quién lo narra.
—Nosotros hacemos que los muertos pertenezcan a la serie —dice.
—Ivan Walsh.
—Casey, piénsalo.
—Lo estoy pensando.
—Antes de encontrarlos son personas muertas en circunstancias distintas. Nosotros ponemos la Virgen, las fechas, los lugares, 3841, Walsh, Bernardo. Nosotros hacemos la flecha.
—Porque alguien dejó esas cosas.
—Exacto.
—Entonces no las inventamos.
—No.
Mira el cuaderno.
—Pero las obedecemos.
Casey vuelve al teclado.
—Voy a revisar algo.
—Qué.
—Los expedientes.
Escucha teclas durante casi un minuto.
—Hay una cosa rara.
—Cuál.
—Algunos no tienen nada en común hasta después de que alguien investiga.
Se sienta en el sofá. Agotado de tratar de reescribir La Virgen de la Tribulación.
—¿Después cómo?
—El primer archivo sólo contiene nombre, imagen y lugar. La Virgen aparece en una actualización posterior.
—Cuánto después.
—Depende.
—¿Después de la muerte?
—Algunas veces.
Eso cambia algo.
—¿Y otras?
—Después de que la policía conecta el caso con otro.
Se queda quieto. Piensa en un sitio web.
—¿Quién actualiza La Madonna?
—No sabemos.
—¿Puede estar observando la investigación?
—Claro.
—No. Quiero decir…
Ya sabe lo que quiere decir.
—¿Puede estar aprendiendo de nosotros?
Casey no responde.
—Casey.
—Sí.
—¿Puede estar incorporando nuestras propias hipótesis?
Vuelve a teclear.
—Dame un minuto.
Mientras espera regresa al cuaderno.
Hay una última línea debajo de la historia de Omar.
No estaba en el relato anterior.
Toda autoridad necesita un testigo que acepte la nueva versión.
Debajo aparece otra frase, más pequeña:
Y el criminal también.
No le gusta.
Es demasiado perfecta.
Pasa el dedo.
La tinta está seca.
Eso, inexplicablemente, lo tranquiliza.
—Ivan Walsh.
Casey vuelve.
—Qué.
—Tengo un ejemplo.
—Dime.
—El cuerpo de la piscina.
—Sí.
—La primera entrada no menciona a la Virgen.
—Pero estaba allí.
—Eso creemos ahora.
—Tenemos la fotografía.
—La fotografía apareció después.
Siente que algo se mueve.
—Después de qué.
—Después de que Canchola dijo que había visto una reproducción parecida en otro expediente.
—Entonces alguien añadió la imagen.
—O subió una foto que ya tenía.
—¿Cuánto tardó?
—Veintisiete minutos.
No dice nada.
—Casey.
—Sí.
—¿Quién estaba presente cuando Canchola lo dijo?
Empieza a buscar.
Mientras espera piensa en Omar otra vez, aunque ahora la historia ha dejado de hacerle gracia. No por Fidel. No por Chavita. Por la estructura.
Una autoridad pronuncia una interpretación.
Los demás la aceptan.
A partir de ese instante todos recuerdan el acto bajo esa forma.
Tal vez un sistema criminal pueda funcionar igual.
No necesita falsificar el pasado entero.
Sólo necesita intervenir en el instante en que alguien está tratando de comprenderlo.
Casey deja de teclear.
—Tengo la lista.
—Quiénes.
Le da cuatro nombres.
Pili.
Y un técnico.
—¿Cuál técnico?
—No hay apellido.
—Nombre.
Casey tarda.
—Bernardo.
Siente inmediatamente la estampa en el bolsillo aunque han pasado veinticuatro años.
—Repite.
—Bernardo.
No quiere hacer la inducción. Aparece sola.
Paseo del Prado.
La Virgen.
La estación abandonada.
Peregrinos.
—¿Edad?
—En 2023, cuarenta y tantos.
Hace la cuenta.
Veintitantos en 2001.
Podría ser.
Eso no significa nada.
Puede haber diez mil Bernardos.
—Foto.
—No hay.
—Busca.
Casey intenta algo.
—Hay una credencial vencida, pero la imagen no carga.
—Mándamela.
—No hay imagen.
—Casey.
—Espera.
Escucha clics.
Después deja de hablar.
—Qué.
No responde.
—Casey.
—La página cambió.
Se pone de pie.
—Qué página.
—La Madonna.
—Qué cambió.
—Hay una fotografía nueva.
Ya sabe antes de preguntar.
—De quién.
—Omar.
No entiende.
—Omar quién.
—No tiene apellido.
Le falta aire.
—Dónde está.
—Sentado en un coche.
—Fecha.
Casey tarda.
—2001.
—Eso no significa que sea él.
—Hay texto debajo.
—Qué dice.
Casey lee:
EL CHOFER.
Nada más.
Mira el cuaderno abierto en la historia de la Escuela Lenin.
—¿Está muerto? —pregunta.
—No sé.
—Busca.
—Estoy buscando.
—Casey.
—Ivan Walsh.
—Qué.
—La foto se acaba de subir.
Ahora sí comprende.
No están sólo leyendo su investigación.
Alguien está leyendo con él.
Mira la página.
Omar se ríe aún en 2001, maneja hacia San Antonio. Él va a su lado. Le cuenta la historia de Chavita y él abraza su mochila. Le habla de Fidel, de un muchacho de catorce años al volante de un jeep que cree que una aspirina le da la inmortalidad y de aquella regla sencillísima que parecía sustituir a todas las demás:
Eres un hijo de la Revolución.
En la pantalla de Casey, veinticuatro años después, aparece el hombre que le contó la historia.
Y por primera vez ya no se pregunta qué significa.
Pregunta algo mucho más sencillo.
—¿Dónde está Omar ahora?