Barcelona Noir

by Adriana V.

  “Okay, bud, we’ll see what happened to your ride.”

  It was getting dark as he stuck his nose in the engine. A car went by, then another. Then it was deadly quiet. I took the knife for slicing ham from the car, hid it behind my back, and slowly approached. I’d lifted my arm toward his neck when, all of a sudden, a car flew past at top speed and blinded me with its lights. I couldn’t repress a hysterical scream. My heart was beating out of my chest and, with my nerves on edge, the knife fell to the ground. The Colombian, alarmed, jerked his head up and hit it on the hood of the car.

  “Goddamnit! That hurt! Why are you screaming?”

  I realize I lost it at that point. I should have gone for the knife and done things right, but, afraid I’d lose the advantage I had with the element of surprise, I decided to slam the hood down on his head with all my might. The first blow smashed his face against the engine. But it wasn’t enough: I pounded him fifteen, twenty times, until he quit screaming and ceased moving. I’d made enough noise to wake up the entire city. But when I finished the job, not even a fly was buzzing.

  After that I only remember flashes, until I got the damn Indian naked on the counter of the butcher shop. His face was a bloody mess and he wasn’t moving. I went to sharpen the machete, and when I came back to hack him to pieces, I found him sitting up, glancing around.

  “What am I doing here?” he mumbled.

  There was no time to waste in response, which consisted of a sure blow with the machete, leaving the instrument embedded in his head just above an ear. He died instantly, with a great spasm but without unnecessary suffering. I’m a good guy: I don’t like to drag out anybody’s agony. When animals suffer too much, they get poisoned with adrenaline and then don’t taste good.

  That morning at the Delicias bar, reading about Pascal Henry’s disappearance, I decided to give Maruja another chance. To celebrate the end of the betrayal and rivalry with the Colombian, I invited her to dine with me at Can Fabes, the famous restaurant owned by Santi Santamaria, which was much more accessible than El Bulli. On the back page of La Vanguardia, I had read an interview by Ima Machín with one of the survivors from the plane crash in the Andes, a guy who rebuilt his life by creating an ostrich ranch in the Pampas. When they asked him why ostriches and not cattle, he said that, to his surprise, he found ostrich meat much closer to human flesh. Both were sweet, almost porklike, and very, very tender.

  That same night, sitting at a table in Can Fabes, I wanted to try an ostrich filet. The waiter was quite taken aback with my demand but decided to ask in the kitchen if it’d be possible to satisfy my caprice. After a few minutes, all the waiters were staring at me as if I’d killed someone. Maruja got tense and asked if we could leave, but it was too late: we were already sitting under Santi Santamaria’s round shadow with carving knives in our hands.

  “I understand that you’d like a dish of exotic meats,” a raspy voice whispered a few centimeters from my wrinkled nose.

  “It’s okay, just bring us the degustation menu,” I said apologetically.

  “Why don’t you try my râble cuit au moment with cocoa sauce? If you don’t like it, no problem at all …”

  “Ah, well, unfortunately, I’m allergic to cocoa.”

  The chef lifted his own carving knife in a compulsive gesture while muttering terrible threats in a barely comprehensible Catalan, as if he were the witch doctor in an African tribe about to stuff a careless explorer into the pot. Finally, he bellowed: “Get out of my restaurant! Go home, cut your own leg off, and have some pig’s feet!”

  No other phrase could have suited me better. I took it as culinary advice from a master on the subject, and also as proof that Santamaria must have engaged in some kind of ritual cannibalism. I left smiling, but Maruja was very upset that we’d been kicked out and misunderstood my quick retreat as an act of cowardice. I drove home as fast as I could and dropped her off without paying any attention to her recriminations or insults and offering no explanations. Once alone at the butcher shop, I grabbed the best of my slicing knives, opened the industrial freezer, dropped the Colombian’s semifrozen cadaver over my shoulder, and deposited him on the chopping block. With an expertise that’s totally mine, I managed to cut off a leg without much blood splatter. Then I lit the stove, put a pot over a low flame, deboned the limb, and cut up a bit of onion. I sliced the meat in uneven pieces, dropped them in the water, and set it to boil. With a bit of butter and cream, I poached the onion and added it to the meat and its broth. After twenty minutes over the fire, I ran it through the food processor until I got rid of all the lumps. Later, I heated up the croquette mix and put the mass in spoons which I’d dipped in alginics. I fried up some bread crumbs and battered the croquettes. Finally, the result of all of my sacrifice was there before my eyes, challenging my palette, saying, Eat me. And so I did: I ate three in one shot! I couldn’t believe the results: the croquettes exploded in my mouth, filling all my taste buds with a torrent of flavor. I’d found the star chef’s best kept secret!

  Energized with curiosity prompted by the Swiss gourmet’s disappearance, I began outlining a new strategy to get a reservation at El Bulli. This time, I pretended I was a respected German gastronomist on vacation in Spain. I thought the Henry case might have caused a rush of cancellations—no diner wants to think they could die at the table—and two days later I received a call from Cala Monjoi.

  “Mr. Jürgen Klinsmann?”

  “Jawohl! ”

  “We have a free table on Thursday.”

  Maruja was very happy that I was finally taking her to dinner at the most distinguished restaurant in the world. She was radiant that night in her ethnic dress and bead necklaces. She looked like a Spanish-gypsy version of the Queen of Sheba.

  “The Klinsmanns, I presume,” said the kindly maître d’ when we arrived at El Bulli.

  “No,” said Maruja.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who is Klinsmann?” she asked as they led us to our table.

  “A literary pseudonym.”

  There was no more conversation that evening. Maruja didn’t know how to even begin eating those spherified yogurt knots with ficoïde glaciale, and I couldn’t wait to taste the famous liquid croquettes. When the sacred moment of communion with the master finally arrived, my hands were trembling with excitement. But everything fell apart with the first bite—not a trace of Pascal Henry in that toasted bread crumb! No matter how hard I concentrated, I could not find the characteristic porklike taste of human flesh in the liquid croquettes or in any of the other dishes I ordered from the degustation menu.

  This being the case, where was the gourmet? Who had eaten him? Santi Santamaria probably kidnapped him, I thought as I descended into this new abyss of depression. He probably ended up in the pots at Can Fabes. Pascal Henry had dined at Can Fabes exactly two nights before his disappearance from Cala Monjoi. Santamaria’s calculations would have been as simple as they were perverse: wait for the gourmet to leave El Bulli before striking like a bird of prey—I wondered if he’d sent some underling from the kitchen or if he’d kidnapped the man himself. The consequences would fall on his competitor: a media frenzy, clients vanishing, perhaps a city inspection that would unveil a dangerous arsenal of chemicals and gels …

  Upon arriving home that night, only one thought hammered at my temples: to slice Maruja’s neck with the ham knife to quiet her constant recriminations. She was going at me the whole way home. “You didn’t say a word during the entire dinner; I’m sick of your bored and boring personality; your lack of consideration has no limits.” To be honest, I was used to her criticisms. What really enraged me was that she asked for a divorce. And all because of that asshole Colombian and his book.

  After I took my shoes off, I quietly opened the box of kitchen utensils where I’d hidden the weapon and, with cold blood, went looking for my wife. She too had taken her shoes off to snuggle up with the cushions on the couch and surrender to the final pages of Andreu Martín’s Prótesis. S
he never got to the end. So absorbed in the book, she only realized she was going to die when she felt the traitorous blade on her neck and I whispered: “No more reading at home.”

  As I wrapped her up in plastic and cleaned the stairs that went from our apartment to the butcher shop, I mused how the next day I’d take all her damn detective novels to the San Antonio market and see if a bookseller would give me a decent price for all of them.

  I decided to begin by cutting off her head, since part of the work had already been done. When I managed to separate it from her neck, I held it high, in a kind of Hamlet pose.

  “No more cheating on me with some South American!” I yelled, and I laughed with all my might.

  Later, I ripped open that stupid ethnic dress, which was now soaked with blood, removed her underwear, and began to slice off her arms and legs. I figured I’d use them to give the business a boost. Next weekend, instead of roasted chicken, there would be liquid croquettes!

  That radiant summer Sunday, I wrote a brilliant advertising on the butcher shop’s board: Try Ferran Adrià’s cuisine without leaving El Carmelo! Half an hour later, the place was full of diners, retirees, and Andalusian widows dressed in black. Trays of croquettes just flew out the door and I realized that what was left of my late wife’s and her lover’s bodies would not be enough to satisfy more than a week or two of demand. I needed to find myself some other spacey Pascal Henry type. But I didn’t even have to go out to look for him: that same evening, my mother-in-law called from Córdoba to tell me she was about to get on a train to come visit. I’d told the whole neighborhood that my wife was with her parents, so that crazy old woman actually posed quite a threat to my story. I went to get her at the station, and as soon as we got home, I didn’t even give her a chance to take her coat off before I’d sliced her neck and dragged her down the stairs. I realized right away that this one wasn’t such a good idea: an old hen will make a good broth but has little meat. I saw quite clearly that, at my current sales pace, I’d be out of provisions in no time.

  Then I remembered my hateful neighbors from across the street and I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I’d become famous for my haute cuisine while ridding the neighborhood of immigrants. There, just a few meters from my door, was the illuminated sign of my biggest competitors: the Chinese owners of Tiananmen Segundo Restaurant. Nobody would ask uncomfortable questions about a couple of “yellows,” so that very Monday I decided to have a “happy meal” to lure them to my store. All those things fried in MSG made me want to vomit, but in the end I decided to try what was most in accord with my exotic tastes: shark fin soup. But the maître d’ made me change my order.

  “It doesn’t taste like much, sir. Allow me to recommend a specialty that’s not on the menu.”

  “Interesting. What is it?”

  “Giraffe meat, sir. Just arrived from the African savannah.”

  “Now we understand each other, China boy.”

  That week, I found myself eating at Tiananmen Segundo every night. Mr. Hu Jintao offered me a truly personalized service: before my astonished eyes, he paraded dishes of succulent zebra filets, savory wild feline ribs, delicious turtle soups, and other delicacies made from animals en route to extinction that I savored unquestioningly. The prices were reasonable, especially in comparison with the incredibly expensive restaurants of the great chefs. And to top it off, this was across the street from my house. My nascent friendship with my former enemies allowed me to closely observe these restless beings, destined to be used as my raw material. It was still too soon to think about a kidnapping. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before I lured one of these slanty-eyed anthropoids to my shop.

  Everything was going smoothly until Mr. Jintao heard about the growing popularity of my liquid croquettes and wanted to try one. At first, I tried not to give it too much importance, but in the face of his insistence, and the shots of rice liqueur that he served me after each screaming monkey foot or rhino back, I decided to give the Oriental a little taste of my delicacy. The following Sunday, a feverish day in terms of sales, I went over to Tiananmen Segundo with a tray of liquid croquettes. Mr. Jintao was at a table with about seven or eight other Chinese guys eating rice and spring rolls.

  “Don Manolo, would you like to join us?”

  “No, thank you—I’ve put myself on a diet,” I said as I uncovered the tray to offer my goods.

  All at once, and with appreciative grunts, they launched their little yellow paws at the croquettes; I waited for these to explode in their mouths so I could take pleasure in the looks of satisfaction on their faces. But that wasn’t exactly what happened. Instead, Mr. Jintao began to gag, he turned green and then purple. Finally, he spit with a disgusting noise and a slew of curses in his native tongue. The other diners were aghast, not sure whether to chew or spit, until, one by one, they followed their host’s example. What had gone wrong? Was my most recent larder of lesser quality than the previous ones? What was wrong with my mother-in-law? Did I use too much alginic? I didn’t get a chance to ask because Mr. Jintao, like an enraged Bruce Lee, screamed and grabbed a knife, coming after me with the clear intention of killing me. Luckily, the table was long enough to give me a head start and I was able to make it to the door.

  When I finally turned back, just about when I reached the middle of Santuarios, I saw all the diners staring at me with hate from the door of Tiananmen Segundo: they had all kinds of knives in their hands, baseball bats, bottles, and even guns. This was pretty serious. How did they discover my secret? I asked myself over and over as I locked myself in my house, totally freaked out, and with the added fear that they’d call the police. Later, a bit calmer, I realized they wouldn’t call: it was perfectly clear that Mr. Jintao knew the taste of human flesh as well as I did. That gave me a bit of time: for the rest of the afternoon, I used my furniture to barricade all my doors and windows, then sat down, filled with anxiety, to wait for the yellow horde to come for my head like gremlins in the night.

  But instead of being subjected to all their firepower, at eleven o’clock I heard the light rapping of knuckles outside. Then I heard the little Chinese man’s familiar voice.

  “Don Manolo, I’ve come in peace. I only want to talk, and to make you an offer.”

  “Why should I believe you, Mr. Jintao? You just tried to kill me!”

  “I am so sorry, Don Manolo! It was a moment of confusion. I beg your eternal forgiveness for my censurable act. I give you my word that nothing will happen … if you cooperate.”

  “Just tell me what you want and let’s get this damn farce over with!”

  “Don Manolo, I merely want to buy all of the supplies you might have of your, ahem, excellent exotic filets. I need them for my restaurant. I promise there won’t be any reprisals. My organization will pay for your goods at a price you won’t be able to turn down.”

  I vomited just then. Not because I suddenly knew Mr. Jintao had been feeding me human flesh all those nights, but because I must have eaten a bunch of old Chinese dudes who probably couldn’t have passed a simple health inspection. And with all those diseases out there! How could that Chinese man have fooled me so badly? Where was my gastronomic knowledge? Where was my palette? And, more importantly, how had Mr. Jintao managed to make it seem like it was a different meat every time? What was his secret ingredient? Damnit, I thought, I’m going to have to ask him for the recipe!

  “Look here, Don Manolo,” Mr. Jintao said as soon as I dared to unlock the door, “we’ve had a great increase in clientele in our chain of restaurants. Spaniards like our products. You’re a barbaric people, bloody and cannibalistic, as is evident in your sausages, your bullfights, and your tomato fights in Buñol.”

  “Fine, it’s a deal. Take it all and cook it up! All I want is for you to leave me alone.”

  “That we can’t do, Don Manolo. You have a special talent, a talent as a provider, and you’re going to work for us: ever since the economic crisis, fewer people are coming from our country. We ca
n’t allow such an abrupt drop in supplies. From now on, consider yourself employed by the Red Dragon Triad.”

  “No, no, never! I don’t want to be a contract killer with the Chinese mafia, I’m strictly a killer on an as-needed basis.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Don Manolo. If our restaurants go empty, you’ll be the next one in the freezer. Consider yourself lucky to be alive and go get us some good meat. If not, you might wind up as chop suey.”

  Since that day, my life hasn’t been the same. It’s true that that demonic Fu Manchu lookalike paid me very generously for the arms, heads, and ribs I still had in the freezer. But I was overcome with fear, and now my days aspiring to be a star chef are over. Where am I going to find my next victim? How long until the cops get their hands on me? I suspect that, sooner or later, Mr. Jintao will be true to his word and I’ll be eaten like some vulgar duck l’orange. But this week, I intend to survive: I’ve been hanging around El Bulli again and I’ve noticed that Ferran Adrià likes to stroll on the beach every day at sunset. It’ll be easy to take him from behind by surprise, slice his neck, and stuff him in the Panda’s trunk. I’m also going to try to get the Chinese to include my delicious liquid croquettes on their menu, since I’m the one who copies them best. Adrià is chubby and well-formed, he’s going to have a lot of meat: we’ll prepare him in soy sauce and a serving of Three Delicacies rice. Then it’ll be Santi Santamaria’s turn. They’ll all be licking their fingers when they taste my star chef râble.

  [Editors’ Note: all characters and places in this story—even those based on real people and restaurants—are fictional or used in a fictional context.]

  THE OFFERING

  BY TERESA SOLANA

  Sant Antoni

  Translated from Catalan by Peter Bush