Off Side

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘I thought the police told you there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Quite right. And we’re not worrying. You’re a “just in case”. My experience in the world of business and politics has taught me that it’s always a good idea to have a few “just in case” people around. We live in a society that is falling apart. Everything appears to be balanced and under control, but chaos is just around the corner. People don’t believe in anything. They don’t even believe in pretending to believe in something. And societies that have lost their beliefs are the kind of societies where you get crazed killers running around.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we’re going to start seeing irrational, motiveless killings, like in the United States?’

  ‘Why not? We already have psychiatrists and private detectives, so I don’t see why we can’t have mad murderers too. And here it could be even worse, because at least in the USA they still put up an appearance of believing in God. They go to church on Sundays, and feel themselves part of a chosen people. But you don’t have that in Spain. Religion of any kind, whether political or otherwise, has disappeared. The only thing that we have left, by way of communion of the saints, is nationalism.’

  ‘Is that what makes you a nationalist?’

  ‘It’s the most gratifying thing that a person can be, and the least concrete, particularly if you are, as I am, a non-independentist nationalist. Politics is a curious thing in Catalonia. We have a situation where power is shared between socialists who don’t believe in socialism, and nationalists who don’t believe in national independence. The whole thing’s ripe for lone operators to take over, and when you look at the likes of young Camps O’Shea, the prospect becomes even more alarming. That man has no conscience, no epic memory, no life-project other than going out and winning, without even knowing what he wants to win at, or whom he wants to beat.’

  ‘And how are we supposed to deal with these lone killers?’

  ‘Arrest them while they’ve still got their guns in their holsters, or if they’ve got them out, shoot them before they get the chance to shoot first.’

  ‘And what if they manage to do their killing?’

  ‘Turn up for the funeral.’

  ‘You’re a big man in this city. Big men in big cities get there because they have more information at their fingertips than the rest of the population.’

  ‘I gather you’re implying that I haven’t told you everything I know. Don’t be naive. I know that you have to buy people, and I know whom to buy. And that’s the extent of it.’

  As he sipped his drink he seemed to enjoy having an audience. Carvalho was a new public for him, and he enjoyed surprising people with the variety of the elements comprising his intellectual and moral make-up. His English-style cynicism had acted as a point of reference for Barcelona society in the 1960s and 1970s, when the rich didn’t know what to do with themselves, and he shone as a prism with a thousand facets, capable of quoting German philosophers at the same time as getting rich without remorse, of flirting with Franco’s government and simultaneously negotiating with the clandestine leaders of the Commisiones Obreras in his various business operations.

  ‘So what’s your advice on whom and what to buy these days?’

  ‘The same as ever. You buy land, and you buy the planning people who are in a position to redesignate that land. That has been Barcelona’s stock in trade ever since the walls came down. Do you want to invest a bit of money?’

  ‘I don’t have the sort of money to be able to start investing.’

  ‘What are you saving for, then?’

  ‘My old age.’

  ‘And I’d say that’s not far off. Don’t worry, though … By then there’ll be a lot of good charities around. Charity is back in fashion. Second-hand clothes shops, and soup kitchens for the poor. But if ever you do have any spare cash, put it into land. On the other side of Tibidabo, for when they build the tunnel. Or in the area beyond the Olympic Village. That’s going to be a goldmine.’

  ‘How long does my contract run for?’

  ‘Until we come up with the author of these anonymous letters. Does it bother you not to be earning your keep?’

  ‘That’s never been a problem for me. If anything my problem is that I don’t earn as much as I think I’m worth.’

  Basté shrugged his shoulders and waited for further questions. The audience was beginning to bore him, although he still wasn’t sure why exactly Carvalho had been so keen to see him.

  ‘From what we’ve talked about so far, I don’t see why it was so urgent to meet.’

  ‘Camps is just a middle-man. I was interested to hear what you had to say.’

  ‘I shall be giving a lecture tomorrow, on “Urban Growth and our Olympic Future”. That’ll give you an opportunity to hear me in action.’

  ‘I don’t like lectures. The last one I went to was all about the art of the detective novel, and as far as I was concerned they were all talking bullshit. By the way, you’re pretty rich, aren’t you?’

  ‘Rich enough.’

  ‘So why do you want to be richer?’

  ‘Because that’s what gives meaning to my life. When I was younger I always felt I’d been cheated, because I would have loved to have been a first-rate artist. In those days I used to paint, and write, and play the piano. Then I decided that politics was what would give meaning to my life, and I was on the point of taking it to the top, but the problem is that nowadays rich people don’t get a very good press, and even right-wing voters prefer their leaders to be of moderate means. People are willing to forgive stupidity, but not wealth. So now I run a football club, which is rather a lower order of power, but equally attractive. My intention is to remain rich, and maybe try to become a senator before I get too old for it. That’ll provide another couple of lines for my obituary in La Vanguardia. My descendants deserve an impressive obituary. I want at least two columns. Anything under two columns isn’t worth the effort.’

  ‘I’m cooking dinner for Camps tonight.’

  This appeared to amuse Basté.

  ‘I know hardly anything about you, but I should warn you that Sito has no female friends. Or male friends, either, so far as I know.’

  ‘Peppers stuffed with seafood. Stuffed shoulder of lamb. And fried milk. How does that sound?’

  ‘It doesn’t do a lot for me, I’m afraid. I’m an everyday sort of eater.’

  ‘I feared as much. There had to be something wrong with you.’

  ‘When I need to eat well, it’s usually in order to seduce someone, and in that case I have three or four reliable restaurants that I go to. My father was the same, and my grandfather too. Restaurants may change, but family traditions don’t. I’ll tell you something which might interest you. My great-great-grandfather was a muleteer from Bages who came to Barcelona. In the nineteenth century Barcelona was only inhabited by riff-raff, Spanish soldiers, and rich people who were old and devoid of imagination and whose riches were about to run out. My great-grandfather became a moderate regionalist, and he was the first in our family to be what you would call rich. My grandfather used to hire gunmen to kill anarchists. My father went over to Franco during the Civil War, and used armed police when his workers started giving him a hard time. For my part, I studied in Germany and the US, I’m a democratic nationalist, and I hire private detectives.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to make of all that …?’

  But by now Basté de Linyola was calling over the barman and pulling out his wallet to pay.

  Fuster arrived before Camps, carrying a folder which constituted the entirety of his office premises. ‘You’re a disaster, Pepe, and one of these days you’re going to get a pasting from the tax people. Have you organized your second instalment? What are you waiting for? If you can’t afford it, go and take out a loan.’

  Carvalho had read in the papers that the owner of a big construction firm in Barcelona was paying not much more than himself by way of taxes, and he interrogated Fuster as to the meaning of
this mystery.

  ‘I don’t think you have much that you could set off against tax. The only things you could claim for would be the expenses you incur running after people. Not like a big businessman. He can even claim the paper he uses when he goes to the toilet between business appointments. Sign Biscuter onto the social security and set yourself up as a businessman. I’ve told you so a thousand times.’

  ‘Faced with a choice, I think I’d rather go to prison for non-payment than end up as a businessman.’

  ‘If you’re short of cash, why don’t you take out a loan?’

  ‘That’ll mean I end up with even less money. If you have to borrow money to pay your taxes, can you claim it off tax?’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘What about my gun and ammunition? I’m a private detective, a servant of the law.’

  ‘You’re not a lot of use to the law, and you don’t use much ammunition either. How many bullets have you actually fired in recent years?’

  ‘Two, in ten years.’

  ‘You won’t get much of a discount for that. Dinner’s smelling good.’

  Fuster propelled his Cistercian presence into the kitchen, rubbing his hands as he went and smoothing down his white hair.

  ‘Who have you invited tonight?’

  ‘A young man from a good family who’s presently the PR man for the city’s principal football club. Camps O’Shea by name.’

  ‘Building contractors, importers of Swedish trucks, hotel interests in Ampuria Brava … Very rich …’

  ‘This one must be the son who had no head for business.’

  ‘People like that always have a head for business. One day they discover that there’s a market for ballpoints with invisible ink, or egg-timers with lunar sand, and they end up making pots of money like their fathers before them. Making money is inherited in the genes.’

  ‘He’s the restless sort. Intellectually restless.’

  ‘Very good, Pepe. It’ll do you good to mix with people who can more or less combat your tendency to barbarism.’

  When Camps O’Shea arrived, he was evidently disposed to be amazed and enchanted by everything he saw.

  ‘What a marvellous place … Vallvidrera is enchanting … It’s a marvellous night … I hope you don’t mind — I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you this piece of ceramics by Noguerola, a wonderful ceramicist from La Bisbal.… What a marvellous house. So spontaneous and natural. Did you do the decor yourself?’

  Carvalho had a hard time deciding whether this was sarcasm or flattery, because the house was a picture of orderly disorder. Everything in it bore the hallmark of decay, from the damp-stains on the ceilings to the signs of spilt drink discolouring on the upholstery.

  ‘It’s as if every single thing in this house wants to tell a story,’ Camps enthused as he fingered a tie which Carvalho had left hanging over a lamp bracket. He peered at it more closely. ‘Is this Gucci?’

  At this moment Fuster emerged from the kitchen, and Carvalho did the introductions.

  ‘Are you one of the Fusters from Comalada, the ones who summer at Camprodón?’

  ‘No, I’m one of the Fusters from Villores, province of Castellón.’

  Camps began to laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry, but some provincial names make me laugh. They all seem to have comic associations. Castellón, La Coruña, Puce-la … Spanish place names always seem to sound comic. Either comic or tragic. It’s the same in Italian. French and English place names, on the other hand, have a certain dignity.’

  Fuster glared at Carvalho, silently demanding to know why he had been invited into this trap.

  ‘This is an enchanting house, Carvalho. You’re a very lucky man.’

  They sat down to eat, and each mouthful was accompanied by one of the only two adjectives that Camps O’Shea seemed able to muster that night. He insisted on having the recipes spelt out in detail so that he could note them down carefully in an expensive pocket book with an expensive fountain pen. Carvalho was a great fan of fountain pens, and particularly this one, which looked like the mother and father of all fountain pens. Camps noted his interest, and passed it over.

  ‘Take a look. It’s the most classic of the Mont Blanc classics. I have to confess, I’m a bit of a fetishist when it comes to objects. One does not need to be very rich, but one ought to surround oneself with emblematic objects. For example, earlier on I thought that you had a Gucci tie there. You should buy yourself a Gucci every once in a while, because ties should be Gucci. It’s unthinkable that a tie should not be Gucci, or that a fountain pen should not be Mont Blanc. Dupont is too common, and Watermans can’t touch Mont Blanc for style. The Mont Blanc has substance. I could make you a whole list of emblematic items that one should have about one’s person. Jeans should be authentic Levi’s; jumpers and sports jackets should be Armani; overcoats — cashmere, naturally — ought to be Zegna … yes, Zegna, even though they’re starting to go in for mass production. Zegna overcoats are particularly well made. They use the wool of twenty animals which are only to be found in the mountainous regions of Inner Mongolia. Admittedly, it’ll set you back two hundred thousand pesetas, but it’ll last you a lifetime. You should have two — one light brown and the other black, and you’ll have coats which are suitable for any occasion and which will last you a lifetime. As for personal accessories, a Vacheron Constantin watch, or maybe an IWC; a Burberry mac like Dustin Hoffman wears; Vuitton suitcases; Alvarez Gomez eau de cologne; Limoges porcelain, of course, because where else is real porcelain made? English shoes, and where possible made by Foster and Son; Chanel Number 5 for the lady — there’s no arguing with that; handbags by Loewe; silk scarves by Hermes; Dupont will do for lighters; a good Le Corbusier office chair, because you can’t beat them, particularly for style. Objects confirm an individual’s identity, and his social status. Look at this ring for example.’ He showed him the ring that he was wearing.

  ‘A Cartier triple ring. I presume you know the story of this fascinating ring.’

  Unfortunately he didn’t.

  ‘It’s wonderful. This ring was designed in 1923 for Jean Cocteau. He wanted to give a present to three friends of his, and he asked Cartier’s advice — Louis Cartier, that is. They came up with this brilliant idea. How could it be otherwise, between two geniuses? They decided on a triple ring, as a symbol of the friendship between the three of them. Today this ring has become a classic and they sell more than thirty thousand a year. More than thirty thousand, in fact. And my shoes are Foster and Son, as you will have guessed. They’re expensive, but I prefer to spend my money on things that ratify the reality which I have chosen to live.’

  He showed them his shoes.

  ‘English shoes have been the best in the world ever since John Lobb laid the basis of modern shoe-making in the nineteenth century. These days a pair of Lobb shoes will set you back anything between a hundred thousand and a hundred and fifty thousand pesetas, although, if I’m to be honest, I think that’s rather excessive. Each shoe takes forty-five hours of work, and the people who wear them, or have worn them, include President Pompidou, the Shah of Iran, and Prince Charles of England.’

  ‘I thought Prince Charles was a socialist. Isn’t he always saying things like society should take better care of poor people?’

  ‘Ideas is one thing, shoes is another …’

  Fuster almost choked on the spoonful of fried milk that he was about to swallow, but by now Camps was already absorbed in a careful transcription of the recipe which Carvalho was in the process of dictating.

  ‘For red peppers stuffed with seafood, first of all you need good red peppers. Good and fleshy, but not too large. One or two per person, depending on how big they are and how hungry you are. Grill the peppers carefully, so that when you peel them they don’t split. Then you have to prepare the stuffing. That takes prawns, clams and shellfish, cooked and combined with a thick bechamel made of equal parts of milk and the juice from boiling the prawn heads, seasoned with an aromatic pe
pper and tarragon. Use this stuffing to fill the peppers, then cover them with the bechamel, and put them to bake slowly in a moderate oven. The shoulder of lamb is more complicated. It’s from a medieval recipe collected by Eliane Thibaut i Comalade, who specializes in old Catalonian cookery. I don’t know if you’ll have enough ink in your Mont Blanc to write it all down. You need a boned shoulder of lamb, well flattened. This is stuffed with minced lamb, pine kernels, raisins, garlic, parsley, bread soaked in almond milk, and salt. The other things you need for the stuffing are black pepper, cumin, fennel, chives, grated lemon skin, three eggs, a large onion, a piece of lard, olive oil, and thyme.’

  ‘Very medieval Mediterranean!’

  ‘True. Anyway, you mix the stuffing ingredients together, and put them in the centre of the meat. Then you roll it up, making sure that the stuffing is properly packed inside. Once that’s done, you truss the whole thing up with bacon rind so that it looks tidy, and be sure to trim any bits that are hanging out. It has to end up looking like a big butifarron. You brown this butifarron in a cast-iron casserole, with the oil good and hot. When it’s well browned, you add a quarter of a litre of water, pack cloves of garlic around it and leave it in the pot, on a low flame. It’s important to remember to turn it over every ten or fifteen minutes, and don’t let it overcook, because lamb tends to turn leathery when it’s overcooked. Once it’s cooked, you take it out, remove the bacon rind, and pack it tightly into the middle of a dish. You take the juice that’s left over, and add a bit more water, together with the mashed garlic cloves.’

  ‘And what about the sauce that goes with it?’