A deathly silence ensued.
“No way.” Roberto shook his head as he took out his phone. “I’m not getting caught up in anything like that.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” interrupted Luis Docampo’s wife, Amaia, with a hint of bitterness. “You don’t live here. In a few weeks, you’ll go home, return to your comfortable writer’s life, and nobody will know you had anything to do with this. It isn’t you they’ll come after. We’ll have to pay the price.”
Roberto stopped, his fingers hovering above the screen of his phone. There was truth in what the woman said. But the very idea of taking the money revolted him. In Mexico, he had seen at close quarters how many broken lives the narco empire left in its wake.
“I have a suggestion.” Ramón Docampo held his hands palm outward. “Why don’t we count the money first to see how much we’re talking about? There could be something else under the top layer of bills. Or maybe there’s nothing at all. We need all the information before we make a decision.”
Roberto had to admit that his logic was impeccable.
“Okay,” he conceded. “But everyone has to wear gloves when they touch the money.”
It was as if he’d fired a starting pistol. Everyone threw themselves on the bundle and began to tear the wrapping off, sending bills flying everywhere.
“Calm down, calm down! Let’s take it slowly.”
Order was soon reestablished. Roberto, Antía Freire, and Luis Docampo counted out the wads as if they were the tokens in some children’s game. The rest of the islanders milled around, watching carefully.
It was more complicated than it had seemed at first sight. Beneath the top layer of five-hundred-euro notes was a layer of hundred-euro notes, grouped together in thick bricks. Below that, the familiar features of Benjamin Franklin greeted them from a layer made up ofhundred-dollar bills, his enigmatic expression reminding Roberto of theMona Lisa. When they reached the final layer, another surprise awaited them.
“What the fuck is this?” Luis Docampo held up a wad of long purple notes.
“They’re Swiss francs,” replied Roberto, interrupting the count for a moment. “They’re worth a lot.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Each of those notes in your hand is worth about a thousand euros, give or take.”
“It looks like Monopoly money.” Luis smiled as he dropped the wad into his lap.
Roberto fell silent, his suspicions growing. This wasn’t going at all how he’d envisaged it.
Finally, the last wad emerged from the package. He’d been keeping a tally in his leather-bound notebook, and he went over the figures again in silence as the others watched impatiently.
“So? How much is it?”
Roberto ignored the question and checked the total again, incredulous.
“The dollar and Swiss franc exchange rates vary but—” he began.
“Stop beating around the bush!” interrupted Luis. “How much is there?”
Roberto looked up very slowly.
“Seventy-five million euros ... give or take.”
Once again, everyone fell silent as they each pondered the ridiculous sum of money piled up in front of them in the wheelbarrow, like paper bricks.
It was Diego who broke the moment of concentration.
“Is that a lot of money?” he asked.
“Yes, Diego, it’s a lot of money.” Roberto squeezed his arm, trying to feign a cheerfulness that he didn’t feel. “A whole lot of money.”
The exchange had a liberating effect. Suddenly, everyone was clapping and laughing, and hugging each other, although the division between the two families remained firmly in place. Roberto felt like one of those journalists sent to cover the story of a lottery jackpot won by a village syndicate. They just needed someone to spray the crowd with champagne. Everyone was euphoric.
Apart from him.
