At Close Quarters by Eugenio Fuentes Page B

evening, when we’d spoken on the phone and he’d told me he’d call back later. I opened the door to his study and it was then that I saw him. He was sitting in his chair, slumped over his desk. I remember thinking he’d suffered a heart attack or something like that, but then I saw a large bloodstain at his feet, on the light-coloured carpet. I ran to help him, although I already knew he was dead. The way he stayed still – it was too heavy, too silent. From that moment on I don’t remember precisely what I did, but I do know I lifted him slightly to feel his chest for a heart-beat , thinking about doing resuscitation as I’ve seen it done so many times on TV, and that’s where the wound was, the blood already darkened and dry. At the centre of the desk, by his hand, was one of his cards with only two words written on it. Here,’ she said, showing him an ivory-coloured card.

    Cupido picked it up carefully, as if no one had analysed it yet. On the top left-hand corner he read the printed name, unaccompanied by any profession or contact details. On the centre were the two handwritten words.
    ‘They gave it back to me yesterday, after they officially ruled it was suicide.’
    ‘Is it his hand?’
    ‘Yes, his handwriting was unmistakeable, tilted forward slightly, firm, solid and large. Graphologists have confirmed it was he who wrote the note, although they add he must have been under great stress, as the lines are a bit shaky. But of course he was under great stress!’
    She stopped for a moment, as if she needed to catch her breath before continuing with the story in the right order, without leaving out any details, as the detective had asked her.
    ‘I went to the phone at once to call an ambulance, and I stepped on something. On the bloodstained carpet was the gun with which they shot him … or he shot himself … I don’t know what to think anymore. Right now, going over everything, I wonder if I should really be here. Perhaps my father did commit suicide, and it would be best for me and for everyone to accept it and leave well alone. Anyway, the ambulance arrived quickly. They saw the body, but didn’t want to touch anything before the police and judge checked the scene.’
    ‘They did the right thing,’ said Cupido.
    ‘Yes, I don’t doubt it. They asked me to step out of the study and one of the nurses gave me a bottle of water so I could drink without touching anything in the kitchen either. Until then I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was, my mouth felt dry and acrid, a taste I identified only later and which reminded me of what it used to feel like, as a child, to touch a battery with my tongue.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Cupido, thinking of the taste of gunpowder.
    ‘It was later, once everyone accepted the hypothesis of the suicide, that I began thinking about that gun I stepped on.’
    ‘And that’s what you don’t understand,’ said Cupido.
    ‘I don’t understand it, no. I don’t understand why my father,who was so scrupulous about the law, chose that gun, whose sole possession was illegal, to shoot himself, if that was indeed the case. Why not use his regulation gun, which he always had to hand? Because the other pistol had a silencer? I don’t think so. What did he care, if he was about to die, whether someone might hear the noise? I’ve tried to find a satisfactory explanation before I decided to come and talk to you, but nothing seems conclusive, and perhaps there isn’t one. I even told myself that, faced with the other, deeper mystery of why he committed suicide, any other details were irrelevant. If I cannot understand the main thing, everything else will remain inexplicable.’
    ‘How come he had an illegal gun?’
    Marina looked at him as if she didn’t understand the question, still engrossed in her thoughts. She took a few seconds to reply:
    ‘As I said, my father was worried he might be attacked and wanted to feel safe. And, less than a year ago, there was an unpleasant