“If I were you,” Borja concluded solemnly, not to say threateningly, “I’d forget the whole thing and persuade a journalist to back our analysis and publish a convincing report to that effect. And I’d also try,” he added equally seriously, “to get the police to consider this hypothesis and close the case as soon as is possible.”
“I can only assume there’s something you don’t want to tell me ...” he responded rather gloomily.
“Do you want us open up a Pandora’s box or would you rather become your party’s secretary-general?” Borja asked coolly. “You know what these things are like: it’s easy enough to crack an egg, but when it comes to getting it back in the shell ...”
Our client hesitated for a few seconds, as he silently weighed up the advantages of a simple, banal explanation that ensured nobody would find any more skeletons in his cupboards. The Right Honourable Lluís Font must have known his wife well enough to anticipate there might be other time-bombs somewhere that might blow up in his face.
“Well, if you really think that’s what happened ...” he said finally, acting innocent. “You are the professionals ... Perhaps the police will come to the same conclusion. As I understand it, they’ve found no other leads.” And he added compliantly: “Luckily, they’ve left me in peace.”
The searches and questioning had apparently been wound up, and once Mrs Font was six feet under, nobody seemed to be at all interested in finding out what had really happened, with the possible exception of a few sensationalist publications that were still devoting column inches to the most extravagant theories. The rumour that the marrons glacés weren’t poisoned but past their consumeby-date, had also done the rounds, an idea the patisserie was quick to deny in a thunderous press statement. By that stage, the police must have been aware it would be very difficult to solve the case, while, on the other hand, the presiding judge must have been afraid that if he continued delving he might unearth a scandal that he could end up regretting.
“Best of luck with the secretary-generalship,” Borja wished the MP as he said goodbye and pocketed the final envelope that signalled the end of our investigation.
In a variation on Einstein’s famous saying, someone wrote that God doesn’t play dice with the universe, but a game of his own invention. We are the gamblers and he’s the croupier distributing the chips. We’re forced to inhabit a room in darkness and play his game for eternity, ignorant of the rules, with a pack of blank cards and an infinite number of calls at our disposition. It’s hardly a very optimistic vision of the human condition, but it comes in useful when we need to seek consolation for the idiocies, big or small, that sooner or later we all commit.
I expect some smart guy will think that Borja and I assumed a role of dispensing judgement that wasn’t rightfully ours when we decided not to take Lídia Font’s murderer to the police, and will be scandalized to think that by the same token some people claim a right to seize arms and take justice into their own hands. I don’t think one should take things that far. It may be true that neither my brother nor I had the slightest right to decide who is above human justice and who isn’t, and perhaps we’ll be reproached because we behaved like those arrogant little gods who see fit to pull the strings of happiness and misfortune from a heaven that does accept wagers, as if life were a game of dice. For my part, if we do find ourselves sitting by a table, in the dark, playing a one-off game we never asked for, under the invisible smile of the croupier who dealt the cards, I prefer to think we’ll attempt to play the hands we’ve been dealt as best we can.
Epilogue
About a month after our last conversation with Lluís Font, a couple of newspapers published extensive reports on roleplays and the murders perpetrated by adolescents addicted to this sinister entertainment. A handful of experts defended the hypothesis that the strange circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs Font made it more than probable it had been such a crime committed by one or more players. One of the specialists, who appeared on various television chat-shows airing the topic, forwarded the thesis that the criminals might be youths connected to gangs of Eastern European mafiosi, who tried their hands at this kind of macabre entertainment as a way of initiating themselves in the criminal business organized by their fathers.
In subsequent months, the newspapers ceased to raise the topic. Given the total, disconcerting lack of evidence, the police finally embraced the hypothesis forwarded in the press as a possible explanation of the murder. And since neither the police nor the courts are what you call overstaffed (and since no doubt they’d received a couple of decisive phone calls), the dossier was left to rot at the bottom of a cupboard and, to all intents and purposes, the case was relegated to the archives.
Lluís Font and Sílvia Font never married. In fact, after her sister’s demise, Sílvia Vilalta lost all interest in her brother-in-law, to the extent that they never spoke another word to each other after the day of the funeral. Mrs Vilalta cut her hair very short, bought loose-fitting clothes and came out as a lesbian. Needless to say, quite soon after that, she grew back her hair and married a slick Madrid businessman whose bank accounts were infested with red digits. Mrs Vilalta, now Mrs Perales, has become a fan of bullfights, white orujo and Holy Week Processions. She spends her summers in Marbella and Majorca, not always accompanied by her husband, with what remains of the jet set.
In the end Núria Font didn’t go to Oxford. She matriculated in an art and design school and now works for the Catalan Bank Foundation. She’s put on weight, made several visits to the operating theatre and gets more and more like her mother. Her boyfriend is a young man from a wealthy household, who is a member of the youth organization of the party her father heads, and occasionally, when not skiing in Baqueira, Núria babysits for the Infanta Cristina.
Enrique Dalmau didn’t stand as candidate for the party secretary-generalship and enthusiastically supported Lluís Font’s candidacy. He works as a consultant for the Telefónica and enjoys semi-retirement in the Empordá with his wife, who is by the day more tanned, wrinkled and bored with country life.
Doña Mariona Castany continues to be bored and to cough. She stopped her membership of the club to which her cousin had also belonged and now devotes her time to literary conversazione. Spiteful tongues say she’s writing her memoirs and more than one soul is shaking in his shoes.
Segimon Messegué still teaches in the same school and is now married. His mother is gradually fading away but not in great pain. The three live together in the flat that now has several fewer partition walls and a bigger kitchen. Apparently they lead a peaceful, harmonious life as a thoroughly well matched couple. Despite the remorse that sporadically hits him, Messegué the teacher is a happy man.
Lluís Font is his party’s secretary-general and for a second time will stand as its candidate for the Presidency of the Generalitat, although there’s not the slightest chance he will become its Right Honourable President. His new partner is a famous, wealthy antiquarian he will most likely marry, and his golf swing has improved considerably. He no longer collects paintings and now devotes himself to philately.
Pau Ferrer made a miraculous recovery from his attack of apoplexy. However, he passed away a few weeks later, following a tremendous overconsumption of pastis celebrating his recovery. The value of his work has gone through the roof and the Town Hall named a street after him in Barcelona, in Poble Nou to be precise.
Lola and Borja still meet secretively, although Borja continues to be Merche’s official lover and to live in her flat, which now has a new feng-shui friendly bathroom. Lola still psychoanalyses herself, does yoga and contributes to the wellbeing of the economy of La Rioja, but she’s become more of an optimist and has decided not to give up hope. She’s convinced one day she’ll hook my brother.
As for the business of the paintings, Lluís Font wanted to forget all about the portrait Pau Ferrer had painted of his late wife. Borja took it to Holland (fortunately, after the painter had gone to pastures new), where he sold i
t incognito for a goodly sum that, as loyal brothers, we divided up equally.
My mother-in-law’s painting, on the other hand, didn’t go away. A committee of experts declared it was a genuine Mir and valued it at an astronomical figure. To spare himself further headaches, Lluís Font decided to donate it to Montserrat, where it now hangs on the walls of the Museum next to other, genuine, Mirs. Before it was removed, a fine arts student made us a copy (for the modest sum of one thousand euros), which we’ve hung back in the corner of our passage to keep Joana happy. As for the other paintings my mother-in-law finally agreed to give to Borja, I haven’t a clue what he’s done with them.
BITTER LEMON PRESS
First published in the United Kingdom in 2008 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens, London W11 2LW
www.bitterlemonpress.com
First published in Catalan as Un crim imperfecte by
Edicions 62, Barcelona, 2006
Bitter Lemon Press gratefully acknowledges
the financial assistance of the
Institut Ramon Llull and the Arts Council of England
© Teresa Solana 2006
English translation © Peter Bush 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any form or by any means without written
permission of the publisher.
The moral rights of Teresa Solana and Peter Bush have been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and
Patents Act 1988
A CIP record for this book is available
from the British Library
eISBN : 978-1-904-73878-7
Typeset by Alma Books Ltd
Printed and bound by
Cox & Wyman Ltd. Reading, Berkshire
A Not So Perfect Crime Page 24