White Bread
The bread is left to knead between muffins and puff pastries. Then it moistens, its dough rises slowly in the clay oven, and everything smells of fresh yeast, butter and warm milk.
The man opened the door of the bakery: it didn’t smell of anything, and he knew it right away.
“Good morning,” greeted the baker woman, “what can I get you?
“One loaf of white bread, please.”
To get a good crust, the bread must be sprinkled with water two or three times during baking. To form a good crumb, you must knead it vigorously, beating the dough on the table several times to break the gluten chains and give it elasticity. The yeast must be hydrated, the salt carefully dissolved and the dough kneaded. Knead, leaven, add flour, leaven, knead, knead, leaven, more flour, and bake. This is how bread smells on Sunday mornings, and its aroma permeates the corners of the houses where men work the clay. This is how the aroma of white bread mixes with steaming coffee and the sound of water falling copiously on days when rain turns mornings into Sundays.
The baker woman turned around, rummaged through bits of squeezed yeast and held out a plastic bag. There were traces of mud under her flour-soiled fingernails and a purple smudge on her cheek. Diego Torres paid and left with a curt “good morning”.
“Remembering old times, inspector?”
“These people call anything bread.”
“Your family lived in the neighborhood, didn’t they?”
“My grandmother,” answered Torres, throwing the plastic bag, with its contents intact, into the trash garbage can on the corner.
“It’s right there,” said Ramirez.
A police seal was blocking the way.
“We are still waiting for the scientists,” said Agent Gutiérrez, lifting the yellow tape.
On the other side, mud dominated the scene. The area had prospered thanks to the clay pits. But all that remained were two reddish ponds full of debris. And, among the rubble, a head with open mouth and glassy eyes was the center of attention.
“Does it have a name?”
“Jorge Garcia. The neighbors have identified him, inspector,” said Gutiérrez, pointing to a group of onlookers. “A well-known guy in the neighborhood. Until a few years ago, manager of the clay wells. Until a few hours ago, the baker’s husband.”
“Do we know how many hours?”
“It’s hard to say because the clay well has kept the body warm. We will have to wait for the results of the analysis of the vitreous humor. But a neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, says that last night she took her cocker for a walk around midnight and there was no stiff. It seems that the ponds are the official pissing place for dogs and drunks in the neighborhood.”
The burial had been quick. There were drag marks. A furrow of about two meters from the hole to the area of the open field where the neighbors parked. There were traces of blood. A dry trail from the driver’s door of a yellow Seat Leon to the well. That was where Mr. Garcia’s throat had been slit. From the back seat, with a dirty, classic, double-edged razor blade. The suspect had numerous cuts on her fingers, some had severed tendons. It was hard to believe that she had dragged the body by herself with those small, broken hands.
“Did she say anything?”
“Nothing, Inspector. She’s as if she’s gone. Deaf, blind and dumb. She had her papers on her, so it was easy. Irene Garcia, sister of the deceased.”
Inspector Torres approached the well and examined the corpse. It reeked of cheap whiskey. There were traces of white powder on the blood-soiled shirt and a soft swelling on the knuckles of the right hand. Brave prick, he thought. And, then, sometimes there are cases like that, easy but full of shit. Emotions that are kneaded until they form a dark dough that there is no way to whiten.
“And what do the neighbors say?”
“Well, you know, the typical thing: that more than bread, they made buns in that bakery.” (*)
(*) Spanish pun difficult to translate. “Make a bun” is synonymous with “being lesbian”.
