The Bastard arrived around eleven. Grudgingly, I pecked him on both cheeks and led him into the dining room. With a studiedly senile smile, I offered him a cognac, which the idiot accepted in a flash while he lolled on the sofa. I seized the opportunity to go into the kitchen.
“Marçal!” I shouted, trying to ensure I didn’t sound rude. “Could you help me get the bottle of cognac from the top shelf. I can’t reach it …”
I’d left the knife under a tea towel on the kitchen top, and Carmeta was skulking behind the door, holding her breath. As soon as I heard his footsteps, I shut the window and switched on the radio.
The second Marçal stepped into the kitchen, Carmeta stuck the carving knife into the small of his back. The attack took him by surprise and he started howling. Before he had time to react, I grabbed the knife from under the tea towel and stuck it in violently. Blood spurted from his neck and through the air like a liquid streamer, splashing everywhere.
Still screaming, the Animal lifted his hands to his neck in an attempt to stop the haemorrhaging, but from the way the blood was bubbling out, I knew he had no chance. I’d stuck it right in his carotid artery, and that thrust, driven by a mother’s fury, was a death sentence.
He collapsed in under a minute. Carmeta and I left him agonizing on the kitchen floor and went into the bathroom. We washed our hands and faces, changed our blood-soaked tops and went into the dining room. We wanted the Bastard to die alone, like a dog. And he did. A Beatles song on the radio drowned out his cries.
By the time we went back to the kitchen, my son-in-law was dead. The floor had turned into a red puddle and was awash with blood. The Son of a Bitch had left one hell of a mess. We pulled on rubber gloves, grabbed the bucket and cloth and started cleaning up. The two of us were at it for a good hour, but even so it still wasn’t spotless.
After checking his body had stopped bleeding, we stripped him and put his clothes in the washer on a cool cycle, adding a squirt of one of those stain removers advertised on the TV. We wiped him a bit with the cloth. Then I took some rolls of bandage from a drawer and Carmeta and I bound him like a mummy. As we were intending to cut him into small chunks, we thought it would be less unpleasant for us if he were bandaged. I started on his head and Carmeta on his feet.
It took us ages because the Bastard weighed more than ninety kilos and wasn’t easy to lift. When we’d finished our bandaging, we left him and went back to the dining room. The effort had left us exhausted. We saw it was lunchtime, and though neither Carmeta nor I were hungry, we behaved ourselves, ate a banana and drank a glass of sugared water to re-energize. We also took another antidepressant each. Carmeta, who was worn out, dozed off straight away, and I decided to let her sleep and take a nap myself. When she woke up, she swallowed another batch of tranquillizers and we both returned to our task. Our day wasn’t over yet.
Carmeta went to fetch the electric saw and brought it into the kitchen. Luckily one of her neighbours is into DIY and the storeroom in her building isn’t locked. We pulled our rubber gloves back on and plugged in the saw, which worked perfectly. We cut his head off first and placed it whole inside a rubbish bag, and then his arms and legs, all in small chunks. We divided the pieces among different sacks and left his torso till last. As that’s where the entrails are, Carmeta and I thought it would be best to empty them out before starting to reduce the eventual mess.
I took my courage into my own hands and very carefully made an incision from the top to the bottom of his mutilated corpse, trying to tear only the skin. I must have burst his gut, because all of a sudden a horrific stink filled the kitchen and I had to open the window and squirt air freshener around. Each of us pulled on one side of his torso and succeeded in separating his ribs and wrenching out his heart and lungs. His heart slipped out of Carmeta’s grasp, and the moment it slopped on the ground I started to retch and vomit. As I’d practically been fasting I only brought up yellow bile, but I felt queasy and my stomach was churning.
Carmeta rushed me into the dining room and forced me to stretch out on the floor with my legs in the air. When she saw that I was showing signs of life again, she went back to the kitchen.
“Don’t move. I’ll gut the Son of a Bitch,” she said.
There was still some sun on the terrace. The pale rays of spring barely gave out any heat but were a pleasant reminder of other, happier evenings when with Andreu (may he rest in peace), Carmeta and Ramon we’d rustle up a bread, tomato and mountain ham snack and stay up there late into the night chatting about this and that, never imagining that one day this small terrace of mine, with its views of Montjuïc and its flowerpots, would be an improvised cemetery. Necessity is the mother of invention, or so they say.
We buried the head next to the lemon tree, the one with the biggest pot, and stuffed his hands and feet into the ceramic pot with the pine tree. We stuck his entrails in with the magnolia, his heart in with the bougainvillea and his liver in with the orange tree, and divided the rest up among the remaining pots, taking care not to damage the flowers. We’d scarcely finished when we realized there were still seven or eight pieces of meat in a bag and we had no receptacles left, but after toiling the whole day, at that time of night we were fit to drop, so I suggested to Carmeta that we should wrap them in foil and put them in the freezer, adding, “We’ll think of something tomorrow after we’ve had a rest.”
Carmeta looked in a bad way again. Although she wasn’t complaining, her grimaces showed the pain she was in. I helped her shower and wash her hair, and switched on a washload of tops, towels and cloths we’d used to clean up the kitchen. The foam in the washing machine turned pink.
Ignoring her protests, I accompanied her home, and on the way threw the Bastard’s clothes into a rubbish container. Carmeta could hardly stand up straight, so I made her a glass of hot milk and forced her to eat some biscuits before going to bed. I waited until she fell asleep and, while she snored, I changed Ramon’s nappy and gave him his supper. Just before I left, as I was giving him a kiss on the forehead, I thought how sooner or later we’d have to do something to help him too. Good people don’t deserve to end up like that.
The minute I opened the door to my flat, I realized that if I continued on an empty stomach, without any food input, my blood pressure would take a dive and I’d faint. In the morning, before the Bastard arrived, I’d taken the precaution of leaving some sandwiches in the dining room so as not to have to go back into the kitchen. As my stomach was slightly queasy, I had a couple of spoons of syrup and ate a ham sandwich and an apple while watching the news. The sandwich and apple went down well, and I was soon asleep on the sofa in front of the TV that was still on. That night, unlike the others, I didn’t have a nightmare.
The next morning I got up early and spent the day giving the rest of the flat a thorough clean. Although they say bleach doesn’t remove traces of blood, I’d bet anything you like that if the police decided to investigate they wouldn’t find a scrap of evidence. I took a mid-morning break and first phoned Marta, who was at work, and then Carmeta, who’d got up and was feeling better. I continued cleaning. When I finished, it was past four and my back was aching.
I took the tops, cleaning cloths and towels out of the dryer, put everything into plastic sacks and went out. I threw the sacks into four different containers on my way to Ramon and Carmeta’s. Carmeta was in much better spirits and was waiting for me with a bottle of cava in the fridge, which we drank while we kept Ramon company.
The builders came the following day and gutted the kitchen with their hammers. They also chipped out the wall and floor tiles. They worked at it a good two weeks, and now I have a new ceiling, designer tiles and a built-in kitchen. The tiles and cupboards are nothing out of the ordinary because they were bought in a sale, but altogether it looks really good.
I know I must keep my lips sealed and that I can’t tell my little girl not to worry, that the Bastard won’t ever lay his hands on her again. Marta knows nothing. Nothing at all. She’s
still very young, and God knows how she’d react if she knew what Carmeta and I had done. Besides, what with her kid and her work, Marta has enough headaches, and it would be the last straw if she had to cope with moral dilemmas or stupid remorse. So mum’s definitely the word! If what we did was wrong, Carmeta says, we’ll settle our account in the world beyond, with whoever.
Some girls from our yoga group are coming to supper tomorrow. We’ll take advantage of the good weather and dine on the terrace. Just in case, I’ve bought a good supply of incense sticks, I mean, just in case the Bastard starts to get smelly and sour our meal. As Carmeta has to start another round of chemo and is leaving the class, it’ll be a kind of farewell party. I’ve also dropped out of the class, because from tomorrow I’m going to live at her place for a while. When she starts being sick and feeling like a dishrag, Carmeta will need someone to accompany her to hospital and lend her a helping hand with Ramon.
We both know she’s not got much time left. She knows and I know, so there’s no need to mention it. Nonetheless, tomorrow’s farewell will be a whale of party: we’ll eat and drink until our livers give out on us. It’s not our style to turn tragic, and even less so when we’ve both got one foot on the other side. What’s coming our way is coming.
I live very near the Ninot market, where I shop every day. I like to look around the stalls and gossip with the saleswomen and locals from the neighbourhood. As I’m there daily and never use the freezer, I’d completely forgotten the packets that were still there. That morning, the visit by the police had reminded me I must do something about that, and I rang Carmeta. I told her I was thinking of going to the florists and buying some earth and a couple of big pots.
“Forget about the pots!” Carmeta retorted. “Go to the Ninot and see if you can buy some spongy mushrooms and fairy rings. And buy garlic and onions as well. Tomorrow,” she added in an authoritarian tone, “we shall eat roast pork and spring mushrooms!”
Initially I objected, mostly on behalf of the other girls. But, in the cold light of day, I have to agree it’s not a bad solution.
Still Life No. 41
I’ve been sacked. It happened this morning. The chief executive summoned me to his office and said he was sorry but the minister had decided to relieve me of my post. He said the scandal had gone too far, and he couldn’t brush it under the carpet. I tried to defend myself, but realized it was hopeless. There was no way he was going to reverse his decision. He dismissed me, my tears welled up and I went to the bathroom for a good cry.
It’s unfair. Anyone could have made the same error. And I mean anyone. In fact, nobody noticed the day the exhibition opened. Or the day after. A week went by before the mistake was spotted. Because it was a mistake, and a bad one at that.
I wasn’t to blame for what happened. No way. And the proof is that the police who arrested me in the first instance let me go scot-free after a couple of days. It was obvious I’d done everything in good faith and that it had simply been one big gaffe. Maybe I was a little naive – “incompetent” was the word the Minister of Culture actually used – but naivety and incompetence are hardly crimes. I reckon everyone has a right to make mistakes. What really pisses me off is that I won’t find another job in the art world for a good long time as a result of this ridiculous business.
They say that at the end of the day it was my responsibility and that’s why they’re giving me the push, but it’s obvious they need a scapegoat. They’re a bunch of chauvinist pigs. They gave me the option of resigning rather than being sacked. I accepted, naturally.
There was only one day to go until the inauguration of the exhibition and I was nervous, as you can imagine. If you have ever curated an exhibition, you’ll know what I mean. I’d just started in my post as director of the MUAA and it was the first big exhibition I had organized by myself. I was nervous, but also very excited, and so happy, I can tell you. A mere twenty-six years old and here I was about to enter the city’s art scene through the front door, because it’s no mean feat to be Director of the Museum of Ultra-Avant-Garde Art. Absolutely not. Quite a few people would kill for a position like it, and though I knew every step I made would be scrutinized under a magnifying glass to see whether I triumphed or made a cock-up of things, I was convinced the exhibition would be a success and that I’d get my fair share of congratulations. And that was how it turned out. The launch was first-rate and the artworks and canapés mesmerized those invited in equal measure. They all said Eudald Mataplana was a great artist, and the catering firm I contracted belonged to a girlfriend I trusted completely. If you’re going to do something, then do it well, I say.
As I told the police, I didn’t choose the subject of the exhibition, let alone the pieces that were exhibited. The museum had been negotiating for two years with the artist’s agent and I’d only just taken up my post as director. The tragic disappearance of my predecessor, who according to the official version died of a sudden heart attack, and according to the off-the-record account from an overdose of blue pills, was a real stroke of luck. One of the openings for an art history graduate is a post directing a museum or gallery; the deceased was an uncle of mine, and that coincidence really smoothed the path for me. When Uncle died, I’d already been working with him for a year and a half, and Daddy immediately rang the Minister to remind him of a thing or two. Obviously these posts aren’t hereditary, but Daddy likes to see some return on the money he pays out every election time. Besides, competition for any decent post is so fierce nowadays it’s hardly a mortal sin for a father to give his daughter a helping hand. Blood is thicker than water, and Daddy has so many contacts it would be criminal not to take advantage of one occasionally.
My uncle was an old friend and great admirer of Eudald Mataplana, and that explains why he decided to curate the exhibition himself. To tell the truth, I wasn’t at all familiar with his work and I’d never met him personally, because contemporary art isn’t my strong point and all my meetings had been with his agent.
I had a panic attack the day before the exhibition opened when I realized there weren’t forty works, as stated in the agreement signed by the museum, but forty-one.
“What the hell’s that doing there?” I asked, put out, when I saw the piece in the main room.
“We don’t know where to put it,” the installers replied, deadpan.
I took another look at the sculpture and thought hard. I didn’t think I’d ever seen it before. After thoroughly reviewing my list, I concluded that the piece wasn’t part of the selection made for our exhibition. It was an extra. But there it was, and, what’s more, it was no small item. I reflected for a while, then decided to ring the artist and seek his advice.
Eudald Mataplana wasn’t answering his house phone or his mobile. “Typical bloody artist, out on the tiles till late and then sleeping it off in the morning!” I raged enviously. I left a message on his answering machine, not thinking for one moment that he’d ever hear it, and pondered what to do next. I knew it was a waste of time to try to speak to his agent, because he’d be flying over an ocean at that point. And Uncle was dead, so I didn’t know who I could turn to. I started to feel nervous. It wasn’t yet midday and I had to reach a decision on whether to send the item back to the artist’s studio (I’d have to phone the moving firm, talk to the insurance company, change the budget …) or discreetly shift it down into the basement. The item wasn’t in the catalogue, and it put me on the spot.
“What do I do now?” I asked my secretary in a fit of despair. “I’ve got an appointment at the hairdresser’s and then at the beautician’s. We launch the show tomorrow and I’ve still got to fetch the dress that they’re adjusting —”
“If they’ve sent it, it means they want it in the exhibition,” she said in her very matter-of-fact way. “Find a place for it and don’t worry so much. After all, it’s only one more sculpture.”
And that’s just what I did. I told the installers to erect a dais in the centre of the main room, the only free space left
for a work of that size, and told them to put it right there. The title for the work wasn’t a problem, as the names were all virtually the same: Still Life No. 1, Still Life No. 2, Still Life No. 3 … I printed out a label on my computer with the title Still Life No. 41 and placed it in front of the piece that really took your breath away.
Eudald Mataplana cultivated an oneiric-deconstructionist hyperrealism, with baroque touches that he injected with a high emotional charge. Or, to put it in plain English, he spent his time creating realistic sculptures on shocking themes to jolt his public out of their aesthetic comfort zones and provoke repulsion. I don’t know why he did it, or why his work was so successful. The fact is, all his sculptures had as their leitmotifs degeneration, sickness and death in their most macabre forms: cats and dogs that had been run over, rotten fruit and withered flowers, battered children, women undergoing chemotherapy, decrepit elderly people, worm-infested skeletons … And to rub it in, the guy added odours to his sculptures, so his withered flowers stank of withered flowers, his sick women of hospitals and his old people of urine and excrement. They were subtle smells (you had to get up close to catch a whiff), but I found them all highly unpleasant, preferring to contemplate his works from afar.
My special interest, to be frank, is the Renaissance, and to be precise, the painting and sculpture of the Quattrocento: Donatello, Botticelli, Piero della Francesca … artists who have gone out of fashion. I’ve no real enthusiasm for modern art. I can’t really see the point. Nonetheless, it was inevitable the contacts my uncle had with avant-garde artists would channel my career far away from my beloved Italians. Getting a post at the MUAA was a way to get noticed on the art scene and boost my CV, and one can’t reject an opportunity like that when it comes served on a silver platter. Clearly I’m not a total illiterate in terms of contemporary art, and I don’t want to justify my actions by pleading ignorance, but the avant-garde sensibility is so heterogeneous there’s no way to categorize it or decide what criteria to use in its appreciation. If Uncle said Eudald Mataplana was good, I believed him. If his work wowed the viewing public, then even better.
The First Prehistoric Serial Killer and Other Stories Page 3