‘OK, you don’t need to keep on at me. I do know him. The sooner we get this over, the better.’
‘Won’t you miss your bus?’
‘There’s more than enough time for what I’ve got to tell you. The man’s name in Antonio. He lived in San Magín. We got to know each other. We saw each other a few times. One fine day, he vanished, and that’s all.’
‘He might have vanished, but he turned up again. Dead. On an abandoned building site. He’d been stabbed.’
She turned her face to hide a rush of tears, and wept uncontrollably, with her back to Carvalho. Her woman companion rushed over.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’ll join you in a moment.’
She turned round and looked Carvalho in the eye. The tears had reddened her nose. Her fleshy lips were trembling as she said, ‘Seven o’clock this evening. Here.’
She sat beside her friend in the bus, and must have said something about Carvalho, for the other girl listened, nodded, and looked at him in some alarm. He turned away, crossed the square to the subway entrance, and allowed himself to be carried down by the stream of humanity hurrying down metal stairs worn smooth by millions of tired steps—steps burdened with the extra weight of a realization that every new day is just like the one before, and that the stairs that you came up at night are the stairs you’ll that you’ll be going down again in the morning.
‘You should have got into a bank when you were young. By now you’d have twenty or twenty-five years’ service behind you.’
That was what his father had told him on his deathbed, repeating one last time the theme that had become his obsession as it became increasingly clear that Carvalho would pass through university, prison, the country, and life itself without ever acquiring respectability.
‘Even better if it could have been the National Savings Bank. There you get an end-of-year bonus.’
Carvalho would listen indignantly, until he reached the age of thirty; then with indifference; and more recently with a growing affection. His father had wanted to bequeath him security in life, symbolized in the use of the metro or some other means of public transport, every day, twice a day. The same metro that was now carrying him towards the heart of the city. He alighted at Paralelo, crossed the rambling intersection, and began walking down Calle Conde del Asalto, in the direction of the Ramblas. He passed familiar landmarks as if he were returning from a very long voyage. The ugly poverty of the Barrio Chino had a patina of history. It was completely different from the ugly, prefabricated poverty of a neighbourhood prefabricated by prefabricated speculators. It’s better for poverty to be sordid rather than mediocre, he thought. In San Magín, there were no drunks piled in doorways, absorbing what little heat they could from those appalling stairwells. But that was not progress—quite the contrary. The inhabitants of San Magín could not destroy themselves until they had paid all the bills outstanding for the little corner they occupied in the ‘New Town for a New Life’.
The front page of a newspaper announced that the United States would experiment with zero growth in 1980. President Carter’s photo confirmed the news—looking like the branch manager of a bank, continually surprised that one of his functions might be to bomb Moscow, or to stuff himself all day with apple pie. What would you do if you were President of the United States? You’d screw Faye Dunaway, for starters. Assuming she allowed it. I must advise you that I’m the President. Faye Dunaway would look at him with wild eyes, pretend to kiss him, and treacherously bite off his nose. I must advise you that you’ve just bitten off the nose of the President of the United States. Carvalho entered his office without making a sound.
Biscuter was snoring on the folding bed that he got out every night after he had prepared the elements of Carvalho’s surprise meal for the next day. He was sleeping curled like a foetus, with one eye half open. Curls of lank, fair hair stood out, like stunted, misplaced antlers on the sides of his skull.
‘Is that you, boss?’ said the eye, since the mouth was still in mid-snore.
‘In person. What a din! You certainly have a way of snoring!’
‘But I’m awake, boss.’ And he went on snoring.
Carvalho climbed over the bed and prepared to make some coffee. But Biscuter was already up, rubbing his strained and bulging eyes. He smiled from a far and distant world, like an ugly angel wrapped in yellow pyjamas.
‘Out on the town? You’re quite a raver, boss. You’ve had some phone calls. One from that loony girl. One from Charo. And one from a lady. At least, she sounded like a lady. I wrote it down in the office book.’
Carvalho checked his suspicion—that the lady’s voice belonged to the widow.
Señora Stuart Pedrell invites you to take an aperitif at the Vía Véneto.
‘What’s the celebration?’
‘Señor Planas’s victory in the elections for the CEOE vice chairman. It’s the only spare moment Señora Stuart has. Don’t forget to wear a tie. They’re very strict at the Vía Véneto.’
The note reminded him that the appointment was for one o’clock.
‘Have you got a tie, Biscuter?’
‘I’ve got the one my mother gave me as a present twenty years ago.’
‘That’ll do.’
Biscuter came back with a big cardboard box. It was full of mothballs, which covered a blue and white polka-dot tie.
‘It stinks.’
‘I’m very fond of it. It’s a memento.’
‘Well, hang your memento by the window, to get rid of the stink a bit. If I go in smelling like that, they’ll take me off to the hospital for infectious diseases.’
‘Things like this have to be kept in mothballs.’
Biscuter half opened the window, hung a string between the two frames, and, caressing more than constricting, pegged the tie to the line. Carvalho phoned the Stuart Pedrell house.
‘No, don’t wake Señorita Yes. Tell her I called. I’ll meet her at two at the Río Azul restaurant on Calle Santaló.’
As soon as he put it down, the phone rang again. A male tenor voice asked, ‘Is this the number for the private detective?’
‘It is.’
‘I’d like to consult you on a confidential matter.’
‘Has your wife run off?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Intuition.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing one can discuss over the phone. It’s very delicate.’
‘Come round straight away.’
‘I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.’
He saw the look of surprise on Biscuter’s face as he hung up.
‘How did you guess?’
‘By the voice. Ninety per cent of voices like that belong to men whose wives have run away. Probably because they are tired of hearing them.’
Biscuter went to the shops, while Carvalho amused himself drawing flowery monsters on a sheet of paper. The man knocked almost furtively. He was wearing a crumpled suit on a no less crumpled body. His bald patch would not have shamed the front row of a military parade, and his voice was midway between tenor and soprano. Some people are born to look like deserted husbands, thought Carvalho, although the real misfortune is probably to be born to become a husband.
The visitor delivered a rehearsed speech, and then burst out crying. He got as far as saying that his wife’s name was Nuria, and that she was blonde. But then he broke down.
‘Have a drop. It’s orujo.’
‘I don’t drink on an empty stomach.’
‘It shouldn’t be empty at this time of day. Would you like a sandwich? There may even be some hake in cider left.’
The man had one eye fixed on the hanging tie, and the other fixed on Carvalho.
‘I’m a modest bread manufacturer. I have a little factory.’
‘Absolutely disgusting. How can anyone run a bread factory?’
‘I’ve been in the trade all my life. My parents had a bakery in Sants, and I’ve always been in the bread trade. What more
can I say? It’s my life.’
‘And is your wife also in the bread trade?’
‘She lends a hand with the accounts. But she comes from a different background. Her father was a judge.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m ashamed to say.’
‘So you know who she’s with?’
‘Yes. Listen, it’s very embarrassing. She’s living in one of the streets around here. She’s gone with a man called Iparaguirre, a Basque pelota player who’s a big-mouth, always boasting …’
‘About what?’
‘Forget it. Let’s just say certain eccentricities. I don’t know what women see in people like that.’
‘But what does he boast about? Tell me.’
‘Of being in ETA. He used to rent a flat in the building where we have our offices. He was always chatting with me or my wife—about how the Basques have balls, how they’re tough, and so on. They set off a few bombs, kill a few poor sods, and then they think they’re Kirk Douglas or Tarzan or something.’
He laughed tearfully at his own joke.
‘You’re lucky. She could have run off with someone from GRAPO.’
‘How does that make me lucky?’
‘Because ETA is a different kettle of fish. It’s a much more solid organization. I had another case recently of a husband deceived by someone claiming to be a member of ETA.’
‘And he wasn’t?’
‘No.’
‘The nerve of them …!’
‘Anything goes, when it comes to picking up women. In my day, you’d carry half a dozen leaflets and you’d lower your voice when you talked about politics. You stood a fair chance. But nowadays, women are more demanding. They need something a bit stronger to turn them on.’
‘But my Nuria was never involved in politics. Her father was a real right-winger: one of those judges who came to Barcelona with the nacionales. My God, the things they did! So why should this guy bother my wife? I’m not interested in politics either. Politics doesn’t butter your bread.’
‘Right. You know where your wife’s gone, and who she’s gone with. So what do you want me to do?’
‘Go and see her, and make her see that she’s acted wrongly. She’s abandoned the kids. Two little girls.’
More tears.
‘I can’t do anything for you for the next couple of days. They should be left alone …’
‘But if we wait too long …’
‘What?’
‘It’s immoral.’
‘The immoral bit has happened already. It’ll take time to bring the morality back.’
‘I’ll pay whatever’s necessary.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘Here’s my card. I hope you’ll look on me as a friend rather than a client. What should I tell my daughters?’
‘What have you said so far?’
‘That their mother’s gone to Saragossa.’
‘Why to Saragossa?’
‘She goes there sometimes.’
‘What for?’
‘One of our flour suppliers is there, and we do a lot of business with them. I don’t know. I even thought of telling them … At times like this, you think of the wildest things …’
‘What did you want to tell them?’
‘That she was dead.’
He looked at him with watery eyes—resolute, almost heroic, as if holding forth the dagger with which he had slain the adulteress.
‘She’ll come back one of these days, and that would give the kids a fine shock! Affairs with pelota players never last long.’
‘This one doesn’t just play matches here and there. I think he’s on a fixed contract with a Barcelona team.’
‘That kind of person is not to be trusted. Did you say they’re living locally?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He moved out two months ago, and Nuria started coming home late. One day, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and followed her. She met him in one of the streets near here, and they went into a rundown boarding house nearby. They went up the stairs. I asked the caretaker if the Basque was living there. He was. I suppose they’re living there together now. I’ll leave you the address. I’m asking you to take on the case—you’ve only got to name your price. I know the value of good work. Shall I give you a cheque? What’ll it be? Ten thousand? Twenty?’
‘It’ll be fifty thousand.’
‘Fifty thousand,’ the man repeated, as he registered the amount and reached for his wallet.
‘Don’t pay me now. In a week, when Nuria’s back home—that’ll be the time to pay.’
The man was as profuse in his gratitude as he had been in his depression. As Carvalho closed the door behind him, he said to himself: ‘Nuria, I’ll give you a few more days to let off steam. You need a break from matrimony.’ He noted in his diary the day on which he would free the unhappily married woman from the arms of her terrorist. He took the tie from its gibbet and sniffed to check that the smell had subsided. Biscuter arrived just as Carvalho was attempting to wrap the tie around his neck.
‘Biscuter, I can’t manage it.’
‘Careful, boss. Don’t destroy it.’
Biscuter tied a knot with the delicacy of a viola player.
‘Look in the mirror, boss. It suits you.’
The tsar was not there, but the place had been decorated as if to please the tsar of (nearly) all the Russias. Two or three hundred smartly dressed men were gathered there, all wearing ties, and their features seemingly moulded by some sculptor specializing in company directors. There were also fifty women evidently dedicated to a fierce, daily struggle against cellulitis, varicose veins and traffic wardens. And thirty or so waiters, carrying trays of assorted delicacies that reminded him of mushy one-for-mummy-one-for-baby spoonfuls served up to children when they have no appetite. Fingers with no appetite, but insatiable jaws devouring little corners of heaven at two hundred pesetas a square centimetre: Russian caviare, Asturian salmon, dates wrapped in Parma ham, potato tortilla with prawns crawling in a field of mayonnaise, minced Russian crab with French dressing, Kalamata olives, rolls of Cumbres Mayores ham. And most of them ordered their drinks without alcohol, as they patted waists that had been mauled by masseurs full of class hatred. Alcohol-free beer, alcohol-free vermouth, alcohol-free wine, alcohol-free sherry, and alcohol-free whisky.
‘A whisky with alcohol,’ said Carvalho, and the waiter went to seek out a bottle of whisky with alcohol.
‘This is a whisky with alcohol,’ he said to the widow by way of presenting himself. She was wearing a turban of mauve silk that gave her a striking resemblance to Maria Montez and Jeanne Moreau.
‘I needed to talk to you, and there was no other opportunity.’
‘Fine. I’ll be able to congratulate Señor Planas while I’m here.’
‘My problem is that I’ve been waiting for you to ring and tell me how things are going, but there has been no call.’
‘Things are still more or less where they were. I can’t be expected in a few hours to solve a mystery that is over a year old.’
‘Who have you spoken to?’
He told her nothing about the San Magín connection. Her face registered no emotion when he mentioned the names of Lita Vilardell and Nisa Pascual.
‘Sergio Beser? Who’s Sergio Beser?’
‘An expert on Clarín’s novel The Regent. But he’s also very well up on Italian literature.’
‘Why did you have to go to him?’
‘I don’t know everything, you know. Poetry isn’t my forte, and your husband was very keen on verse.’
‘So, what progress has there been?’
‘None, and quite a lot.’
‘When will you know something? I presume that I shall be the first to hear. And by the way, you can forget about certain other people that seem to have become involved. My daughter, for one. Yes didn’t hire y
ou—I did.’
‘The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.’
It was at this point that Planas joined the conversation.
‘Does that mean that Señor Carvalho is expecting to find his man here?’
‘It was I who asked him to come. There was no other way of talking to him.’
‘I haven’t congratulated you yet.’
‘Thank you. As I said when I was sworn in, it’s the kind of position which makes you its servant, not one that you use to serve yourself.’
‘You’re not making a speech now,’ the widow interjected.
‘I have to keep making the point until people believe me.’
He left in the direction from which he had come, carrying a glass of fruit juice. He received a slow, fulsome embrace from the Marquess of Munt, who was dressed like an admiral of the fleet from a country with no ships. With his arm around the shoulder of the successful candidate, the tall old man smiled and exchanged private whispers with Planas. Then Planas looked over his shoulder at Carvalho, and the Marquess’s gaze acquired a critical edge as it came to rest on the detective.
‘They’re watching us.’
‘So what?’
‘In a film, when the hero says to the heroine: “They’re watching us”, she is supposed to blush and give a little laugh. Then she takes him by the hand and pulls him into the garden.’
‘Here everyone looks at everyone.’
‘Yes, but usually without making it so obvious. Your two partners are watching us, and coming our way.’
‘Carvalho, why aren’t you drinking white wine? Don’t they have your brand here?’
‘You’re not drinking it either.’
‘No. I’m drinking an idiosyncracy I discovered in Portugal. Port with a cube of ice and a slice of lemon. It’s better than the best vermouth. His Highness the Count of Barcelona, in whose Council I had the honour of serving, recommended the combination during one of those endless sessions in Estoril. And Motrico agreed that it was excellent. Isidro, you ought to give up your diet, if only for a few minutes, and try a glass. Señor Carvalho, this man is impossible. When he goes on a diet, he doesn’t waver for a second. The same with his gymnastics.’
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