La maleta roja

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Art work by Enrique Cropper

El viajero que bajaba del vagón de tren cargaba una llamativa maleta roja. Solo eso destacaba de él, junto a un bigote ridículo y parecido al de Hitler. El resto quedaba escondido bajo un abrigo largo, de color indefinible, que lo cubría casi hasta los tobillos. El hombre andaba despacio pero comenzó a alejarse de su campo de visión así que salió de la cafetería para seguirlo. El revólver colgado en la pistolera se apretó contra su costado cuando se cerró la cremallera del anorak. Afuera había empezado a nevar y se enfadó por tener que estar en la calle, persiguiendo a un delincuente. Le apetecía bastante más estar en casa, sentado en su sillón cerca del radiador y tomando un güisqui. Cierto que su carrera de policía no le iba mal, que con su dedicación ya había mandado a más de once criminales a prisión aunque algunos se le habían escapado. La ley no siempre era justa y dejaba resquicios que permitían a trastornados psicópatas, como el hombre de la maleta roja, escaparse a Albania y burlar el castigo que les correspondía. Había asesinado a dos niñas de diez años que lamentablemente se habían cruzado en su camino. Las había invitado a montar en su coche ofreciéndoles como cebo un adorable koala de peluche. Luego las había violado y asesinado en el mismo descampado donde abandonó los cuerpos. Recordaba con una nitidez absoluta el día que recibió la llamada durante su patrulla. Un magnífico crepúsculo dorado llenaba el cielo de belleza e iluminaba la presencia desgarradora de los dos pequeños cadáveres, desnudos y amoratados.

Habían pasado diez años desde entonces, diez años de espera en los que no había dejado de pensar, ni un solo día, en aquellas chiquillas. Esa espera ahora se terminaría, porque el viajero de la maleta roja estaba ahí, de espaldas a pocos pasos de él, avanzando hacia un destino que estaba a punto de cruzarse con el revolver que se apretaba contra su pecho.

The red suitcase

The traveller coming down from the train carriage carried a striking red suitcase. That was the only thing that stood out about him, along with a ridiculous moustache similar to Hitler’s. The rest was hidden under a long coat, of indefinite colour, which covered his body almost to the ankles. The man walked slowly but began to move away from his eyesight, so he left the cafeteria to follow him. The revolver hung in the holster pressed against his ribs when he closed the zipper of the anorak. It was snowing outside and he felt angry to be in the street, chasing a criminal. He wanted to be at home, sitting in his chair near the radiator and drinking a whiskey. He said to himself that his career in the police wasn’t going badly, that his dedication had already sent more than eleven criminals to prison, although some had managed to escape. The law was not always fair and mad psychopaths, like the man with the red suitcase, could slip between the crevices and escape to Albania to elude the punishment they deserved. This man had murdered two ten-year-old girls who had unfortunately crossed his path. He had invited them for a ride in his car, offering them as bait an adorable stuffed koala. Afterwards he had raped and murdered them in the same wasteland where he abandoned the bodies. He remembered with absolute clarity the day he received the call during his patrol. A magnificent golden sunset filled the sky with beauty and illuminated the heart-wrenching presence of the two naked and bruised small corpses.

Ten years had passed since then, ten years of waiting in which he had not stopped thinking, not a single day, in those little girls. That wait now would be over, because the traveller carrying the red suitcase was there, his back a few steps away from him, moving towards a destiny about to cross the revolver pressed against his chest.

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About writingbrussels

Seven Writers. Three Languages. One City.
This entry was posted in Eva, Observing Brussels, Outlaws. Bookmark the permalink.

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