“Do you think any of that would change if I told you we have a witness who can corroborate Amadeu Cabestany’s alibi?”
“A witness?” Now the Inspector did seem interested.
“We have the man who mugged Amadeu Cabestany at around 2 a.m.,” Borja purred, waiting for the Inspector to react.
“The mugger? You know the mugger?” the Inspector blurted out. This time he did seem to be taking us seriously. “Mr Masdéu, you are a constant source of surprises.”
“We don’t exactly know him, but I’ve spoken to him by phone,” my brother continued. “As it would appear you know everything, I suppose you will be aware that Amadeu’s agent, Clàudia Agulló, put some ads in the daily papers to try to track down a witness who’d seen Amadeu that night.”
“I seem to recall that the contact mobile number was in the name of one Josep Martínez Estivill,” he corroborated sarcastically. “We decided it wasn’t necessary to ask the judge’s permission to tap your phone.”
“So he phoned me. The other day. The mugger phoned me. But I don’t know what his name is or how to find him.”
“It could have been anyone,” the Inspector replied, shrugging his shoulders. “And if the only evidence you have is that a stranger you can’t locate telephoned you and told you he was the person who perpetrated the robbery…”
“He told me what he was wearing on the night and his statement matches the one Cabestany made to the police.”
Inspector Badia looked serious. He and Borja were level pegging.
“I’d rather not know how you got access to the police reports. Using a pseudonym is no crime but spying on police activities could cost you dear, Mr Masdéu.”
“He isn’t a professional criminal,” my brother continued, ignoring that subtle threat. “That’s why he phoned. He was in dire straits, he needed money and he had the bright idea of going to Up & Down to mug someone. He says he used a toy pistol. He thought Amadeu Cabestany was a wealthy man.”
“I can see you are on the same wavelength,” observed the Inspector ironically. “Mr Masdéu also wants to live north of the Diagonal.”
“The individual in question is ready to give himself up if he has no other option, but the fact is I really feel for him. I assured him I would find Marina Dolç’s murderer and he wouldn’t have to go to the police,” said my brother as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say.
Inspector Badia peered at Borja as an entomologist might scrutinize a rare species of beetle and said nothing. It was obvious my brother had aroused his curiosity although he still hadn’t managed to classify him. I don’t think he was disgusted by him but I’m equally sure he didn’t really warm to him. He was simply a representative of a species the Inspector was unaccustomed to seeing.
“So why do you do all this, Mr Masdéu?” he finally asked. “Why do you take pity on a petty criminal? Solidarity amongst thieves?”
“Because he was a poor man.” My brother didn’t hesitate over his reply. “If he gives himself up, his life will be thrown into turmoil. And he is prepared to do that. But if the police arrest the real murderer of Marina Dolç…”
“And, to follow your drift, Mr Masdéu, what are you suggesting we do?” Our five minutes were long past.
“Search Oriol Sureda’s home. You’ve said yourself that my explanation is entirely reasonable.”
The Inspector hesitated for a second.
“If we accept that Amadeu Cabestany is innocent, and if we accept that Marina Dolç’s watch didn’t break when she fell to the ground, and if we consider that Mr Sureda’s watch battery hadn’t run out… Too many ifs. The judge won’t countenance it.”
“So then you’ll fuck up that poor guy’s life but you’ll still have to release Amadeu Cabestany and Marina Dolç’s killer will go scot-free,” Borja challenged him.
“You’d better change your tone,” the Inspector interrupted him drily. “Don’t forget you’re talking to an inspector of the Mossos d’Esquadra.”
My brother can be rash. It’s one thing to pull Mariona’s leg, who I’m sure is happy for him to do that, but quite another to take on an arrogant, cold fish of a policeman. Just in case, I was saying nothing, just in case, and praying their exchange would soon be at an end.
“So why do you do all this, Mr Masdéu?” he asked again. “After all, Clàudia Agulló contracted you to prove Amadeu Cabestany’s innocence. If it’s true you have found a witness to back up his alibi, you two have done your job. From what you tell me, you don’t know this man. Why all the deviousness? Why risk coming to see me? What do you hope to get out of this?”
Borja adopted his offended gentleman’s stance and stared the Inspector in the eye.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. This is a question of principles.”
“Oh, principles, is it? I get you, Mr Borja Masdéu Canals Sáez de Astorga,” he said, consulting the papers in a brown folder on his desk. “So it’s all down to a question of principles…”
“No.” My brother was almost solemn. “You understand nothing. There are things in life that are important and things that aren’t. If we,” he said, referring to me and him, “give the impression we have a company that in fact we do not have in an office that isn’t what it appears to be, and if we earn a few euros on the side following the wife of a top executive who goes to the gym too often, or find out what a politician’s adolescent daughter gets up to after class, that’s not important. You must think we deceive people and defraud the state, but all my brother and I are trying to do is to try to survive. You know perfectly well that the top executive or politician who contracts us defrauds and deceives much more than we ever do, and certainly does much worse things” – the Inspector smiled – “Well” – Borja was on fire again – “if a poor man takes a wrong turning at a difficult moment in his life and we try to ensure he doesn’t spend the rest of his life paying for it, that is really important. Why do I do this, Inspector? Because I know life isn’t easy. Life is only easy for the rich.”
He said nothing for a few seconds. I’d been stunned by the way my brother had harangued the Inspector, who was obviously taken aback. I’d never heard him speak like that, and most surprising of all, my brother seemed to be totally genuine. It wasn’t Borja speaking, but Pep, that same Pep who went to political meetings at the age of eighteen and ran in front of the fascist police. The same Pep who went abroad in flight from the dreary, routine life our uncle and aunt had planned out for him.
“Very well, Mr Masdéu.” The Inspector had turned serious now. “It goes like this: today is yours, tomorrow is mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
“I will secure a search warrant on Oriol Sureda’s place and, in exchange, you’ll return the favour some day.”
I looked at them both and pinched myself to check I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t believe my ears. The Inspector and Borja were doing a deal.
“And do I have to kiss your ring?” asked Borja with a grin, without sounding impertinent. He’d got all that off his chest and now seemed more relaxed.
The Inspector smiled again and ignored his comment.
“Let’s simply agree that I’m doing Mr Borja Masdéu a favour and that Mr Borja Masdéu will be happy to cooperate with us one day when we’re in need of a ruined high-society heir. What do you think?”
“It seems eminently reasonable to me,” replied my brother.
“Let’s get to the point then,” he said, picking the phone up. “I’ve always had my doubts about Amadeu Cabestany. He doesn’t look like a murderer. But it’s also very likely we won’t find anything suspicious in Oriol Sureda’s flat and that he won’t confess. It’s even possible it wasn’t him.”
“In that case” – Borja’s tone was much less strident now – “I’ll ask you to do all you can to help the witness who will come forward and oblige you to release Amadeu Cabestany from prison.”
Inspector Badia nodded. A man of his word seemed to be lurking behind that vinegar
y countenance. He said goodbye to us as icily as he’d welcomed us and added he would give orders to allow us to be unofficially present during the search. He warned us not to say or do anything, unless the mossos themselves asked us to. He must have thought we were so involved in the case we might even be of use.
The next day, at 8 a.m. exactly, a detachment of mossos rang the bell to Oriol Sureda’s flat, flourishing a search warrant, and, as nobody answered, the mossos opted to force the door open. Music was playing, which we later discovered was an aria from Madame Butterfly. It was the only sound to be heard. Borja and I nervously followed the mossos who were leading the way.
It was then we saw him. Oriol Sureda was in his pyjamas, crouching in a corner of the dining room, looking at us but seeing nothing. His face wore several days’ stubble and he’d peed himself, judging by the stench in the room. The mossos stared at him, asked him a few questions, and, seeing he didn’t respond, called an ambulance. They then searched the flat. It was a large flat, no doubt a family inheritance, and there were books everywhere. Initially nothing caught the mossos’ attention, except for a locked room they decided to enter by force. This room was also full of books, shelved in double or triple rows, but the titles were very different to the ones in the rest of the house. That secret chamber contained the worst literature from the twentieth century, a surprising collection of the worst kind of best-seller that would give any cultured individual heart tremors. They were in the strictest alphabetical order, and Marina Dolç’s works occupied pride of place on a single shelf. There were various editions of each of her books and many of the translated versions.
We shuddered and stumbled out of that room. The ambulance took twenty minutes to come and the nurses removed Oriol Sureda, who simply stared silently into the void, a look of terror on his face. We had now completed our assignment and once more we’d been successful, but it wasn’t as if we could feel happy. Few things in life are more disturbing than the terrified gaze of a defenceless lunatic.
PART FIVE
26
Amadeu felt as if he was floating in a dream during the first days of his release. Initially he was annoyed by the injustice he had suffered at the hands of the mossos and furious at the rumour about his alleged cannibal appetites, but his anger soon gave way to a feeling of gratitude and pleasure when he realized how his fortunes had changed. The day they let him go, seconds after Oriol Sureda had bleated a kind of confession, he wasn’t just greeted by his wife and family when he left the Model, but by the Under-Secretaries for Justice and Culture, and more than twenty journalists scrummaging for a photo and an interview. Amadeu had suddenly gone from being a blood-curdling killer to become a victim of the system, and that lent him a half heroic, half tragic halo that everyone agreed suited him to a T. A leading publisher had offered him a tempting contract to write a book about his jail experiences, and a film director had taken out a film option and wanted him to write the screenplay. To be sure, he’d been deeply saddened by Knocksie’s death, but it had shown the huge power poetry can wield. That inmate had been so moved by his rhymes that he’d suffered a heart attack.
In the end, it seemed his miserable time in prison had been worthwhile. But it was only an illusion, a false impression that evaporated as soon as Amadeu returned to his city. Yes, things were different in Vic. Instead of giving him the hero’s welcome he was expecting, they treated him standoffishly, like a criminal who’d escaped the tentacles of justice by dint of devious ploys. The folk of Vic hadn’t really come to terms with his alleged cannibalism and, to be on the safe side, they preferred to act like the inmates of the Model and simply avoid him. There was a widespread feeling of paranoia over the city that Amadeu couldn’t handle. The good folk of Vic were afraid of Amadeu Cabestany the teacher and writer.
In September, classes resumed at Amadeu’s secondary school and the teachers eyed him with more reticence than usual and avoided him in the staffroom. Most suspiciously, the pupils behaved politely and obediently in his classes, which was the envy of the other teachers. His friends began not to return his calls and, in that bleak atmosphere, his wife relapsed into deep depression. His daughters had no friends and there was tension at home. Even the parish priest, a lifelong acquaintance, suggested one day that, as God was everywhere, it might be better for him to live elsewhere for a while.
To complicate matters further, the daughter of the councillor for culture in the Vic Town Hall was one of Amadeu’s pupils, and her father had been on tenterhooks since the restart of classes. What if, for some reason he wasn’t privy to, someone had decided to cover up that nasty business? What if her teacher was still a cannibal and was eyeing up his daughter’s tender flesh? Being a politician, the councillor knew only too well how the world of politics worked: driven by favours, cover-ups and stabs in the back, naturally.
The afternoon their daughter came home a couple of hours late, he and his wife were unimaginably distressed. The fact that Llum – yes, Light was the girl’s name – was sixteen years old didn’t lead them to think she might be smooching with her boyfriend in the park or dancing at a disco with her friends. The next morning, the councillor decided to begin the process of distancing his daughter from Amadeu, and made an early call to the councillor for culture. She was a rather unpleasant woman, but, fortunately, belonged to his party and they’d known each other from their university days.
“Dolors, we’ve got to do something about this Amadeu Cabestany. He shouldn’t be allowed to stay in Vic.”
“What do you mean?” asked the councillor, sounding surprised.
“It’s because of all that kerfuffle, you know… It won’t have a happy ending. Someone will lose it and we’ll have a tragedy on our hands.” He remembered how he himself had just cleaned his father’s gun and gone out of his way to buy bullets.
“So what the hell do you expect us to do? He didn’t kill Marina Dolç and the rumours about his cannibalism were down to a stupid misunderstanding… Besides, he’s a civil servant. We can’t throw him out of the school just like that.”
“That’s up to you. You can’t say you weren’t warned.”
The councillor hung up. She was worried. They’d already made one hell of mess of that whole affair. Of course, there might be a solution, she pondered. The plan to open up a cultural centre in Lapland had been paralysed for months because they couldn’t find anyone who wanted to go. One of the priorities of her mandate was to establish contact with minority cultures, but Lapland was a long way away from the Costa Brava, freezing cold, and no candidates had come forward. Amadeu Cabestany was really the best solution available, and she could always give it a patriotic slant and offer him the position of director of centre on an executive director’s salary. Amadeu would have to learn the two variants of the Sami language and give Catalan lessons to a handful of Laplanders, but the post would give him ample time to write his novels and they’d find him a publisher. The councillor could include in the package the award of the St George’s Cross and the Blue Ribbon of Catalan Literature in fifteen or twenty years’ time when all this scandal had blown over, if not before. It was bait the despondent Amadeu in hostile Vic couldn’t fail to nibble.
Amadeu and his family soon reached a decision. His wife was slightly reluctant to begin with, but agreed to pack their cases as soon as she saw the salary they were offering her husband and that accommodation and the children’s schooling were also thrown in. Perhaps Amadeu was right and they needed a radical change of air, even if it was the icy blasts of Lapland. It was also a way to isolate her husband from that woman who acted as his agent and was still running after him. If they didn’t like it there, Clara Cabestany ruminated, working up her enthusiasm, they could always contemplate a return to Catalonia.
By November, he, his wife and daughter were installed in Jukkasjarvi, in Swedish Lapland. It was certainly freezing and they had lots of free time. After a few weeks of wallowing in the mythical whiteness of those hills and mountains that had turned their back o
n time and history, Amadeu Cabestany decided to give up writing novels and concentrate on poetry, which he’d always felt comfortable writing. The incident with Knocksie had been decisive in this respect. He would write a verse saga and tell the world of the tribulations of his small country and the exodus of its sons to the boundaries of the polar circle. It would be translated into every language, including the two variants of Sami, and finally he and his name would scale glorious heights on their way to immortality.
If his country sent him to fly the flag in distant lands, thought Amadeu, he should feel proud and grasp the nettle. He would make the supreme sacrifice and learn a language that had four hundred words for reindeer and, in exchange, Laplanders would learn Catalan and that corner of the planet would protect the language of his ancestors from pollution by foreign tongues. They would also strive to prevent the pinkish white of the Arctic snow from blurring their Mediterranean identity, so the heritage of Wilfred the Hairy permeating their DNA didn’t vanish in that deserted back of beyond. The Virgin of Monserrat, the Catalan flag and a Barça poster they’d been given when they’d departed now dominated like The Last Supper the dining room of the log cabin where they now lived, forever reminding the Cabestanys of the need to keep the flame of their origins flickering in the distant lands of Saint Nicholas.
27
“What are you doing, Dad?”
“Shush, Jordi, let your father be. He’s writing a novel.”
“What’s a novel, Dad?”
“A novel,” replied Ernest Fabià, looking up from the notebook where he was jotting, “is a story for adults.”
“Do you adults like stories then, Dad?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And does your novel have any dragons and princesses?”
“Something of the sort.”
“And a secret room?”
A Shortcut to Paradise Page 21