Story of a Sociopath

by Julia Navarro

  “You don’t need to tell me that. We’ll talk later.” I hung up.

  I got drunk. I didn’t want to do anything else. I was drinking and remembering last night with Yoko; then I lost consciousness. Once again, I woke up on the floor. My cell was ringing insistently, but I couldn’t move. My whole body hurt and I wanted to throw up. And that’s what I did, all over the carpet. I didn’t have the strength to get up and make it to the bathroom, and so I curled up, covering my mouth so that the smell of vomit didn’t make me throw up again.

  The maid found me on the floor. She wasn’t surprised. She opened the window and rudely asked me to get out of her way.

  “Go to bed or somewhere where you’re not in my way, but I’m telling you, this is the last time I’m going to pick up your vomit. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  Because I didn’t move, she bent down to help me. I couldn’t stay upright. She got me to my feet somehow and bundled me to my room. I don’t know how, but she helped me into bed. I lay there for a few more hours. I could hear the noise of the vacuum cleaner and her complaints at the state of the carpet. She said goodbye as she left, but I didn’t reply. I couldn’t find the strength.

  It took me a couple more hours to be able to stand up straight. It was nearly midday. I had missed my flight to Madrid. I took a cold shower to wake myself up. I came out shivering, but the water had brought me back to my senses. I made myself coffee in order to charge my batteries with a good dose of caffeine. I wasn’t ready until a little before two.

  I was lucky. There was a flight to Madrid at six that evening. I called Jim Cooper to tell him when I would arrive. He was with Evelyn in Seville. Neil was still in Madrid. When the plane landed I called Blanca. She said that she was playing the piano that night in a café with a string quartet. “Come along, we can go out for a drink afterward.” I accepted. I was starting to get used to the Spanish way of life. I was surprised by how they were able to work and enjoy life at the same time.

  Blanca had told me that Madrid was a city that never slept. She didn’t lie.

  I woke up at her apartment. I hadn’t drunk too much, so my head barely ached. I had agreed to meet Neil at eight for breakfast at the hotel. I tried to get dressed without making any noise, but Blanca woke up anyway.

  “Are you leaving already?”

  “I’ve got a breakfast meeting.”

  “Okay. Will we see each other later?”

  “Maybe, it depends on how the meetings go. I’ll call you.”

  She shrugged and turned over in the bed. She seemed not to care if I saw her again or not.

  Neil brought me up to speed. There wasn’t much to tell me.

  “Local opinion in Andalusia is divided. They are aware of the advantages, but also that environmental degradation will be inevitable. There are newspapers that are in favor, newspapers that are against…They’re having a proper brawl. The PR agency that the oil company hired is doing a good job. Because that’s what they need to do, cause a split in public opinion, make it seem that no one’s in the right.”

  “And what about the opposition?”

  “More than anything else, it’s the environmentally minded political parties. There are no arguments that sway them. Despite the promise to limit unemployment in the region, they’re still strongly against it.”

  “What have we got on their leaders?”

  “Things don’t work like that here.” Neil was talking to me as if I were a child who needed to be taught very basic facts about the world.

  “If we can smear two or three of their leaders then the problem will be solved.”

  “No, Thomas, not in Spain. We can maybe get the newspapers to publish some dirt, but that won’t take any strength away from the opposition. This is an ideological country, and public opinion doesn’t shift along the same lines as it does in England or the U.S. A political party can have a good handful of corrupt leaders and nothing happens. They are put on trial, they are sent to prison, they are set free, but the voters still trust the party itself. And something like this is above what the parties say anyway. People don’t want an oil rig to screw up the environment.”

  “But we must be able to do something.”

  “I think it would be useless to try to smear anyone because this won’t change opinions. All we can do is push along in the same direction as the Spanish PR company.”

  “Schmidt and the lawyers want blood.”

  “Well, I don’t think they need it in this case. The most practical thing we can do is to get some experts on the environment, selected by us, naturally, and with some bright shiny university degrees, to write in the newspapers, take part in debates, give interviews…You could fill the media with reports that tell you that drilling for oil actually helps the environment, or whatever…”

  “But in the material you gave me there was some solid dirt about some of the big names here.”

  “Send it to the papers if you want, but it really won’t make all that much of a difference,” Neil insisted.

  “Schmidt doesn’t see it like that.”

  “Schmidt doesn’t know Spain, or if he does know it, then he doesn’t understand it. The people here are very passionate, they support their party even if rationally they shouldn’t. There is a huge silent mass in the middle, a group that pushes the balance in one direction or another: these are the people we need to talk to. The environmentalists are scaring people and saying that drilling a few miles off the coast could trigger an ecological catastrophe. The fishermen are afraid for their future, and the tourism companies think their businesses will suffer. They are the critical mass that will support the environmental movement because their interests are the same. These are the ones we have to convince, and we don’t need to destroy anyone to do so. It’s better to run a positive campaign. That’s how I’d do it.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Up until now they’ve invited journalists to come to the oil rigs. I’d invite some tourism companies, get a couple of Nobel Prize winners to come and give speeches, and spread a little money to the people who run the fishing fleets. I’d try to get the women to change their minds too. There are associations of housewives, of working mothers, all kinds of things. You have to convince them that their children’s futures aren’t going to be affected by this drilling, that it might even be a way for them to earn their living.”

  “All right, we’ll do it as you say. Neil, you’re a genius.”

  “I’m no genius. There are things that are evident; you don’t send an army to change people’s minds, it would be counterproductive.”

  “Could you put down what you’ve just told me in writing?”

  “I’ve got it here. I knew you’d ask. Hey, I’ve got nothing more to do here. I’ve had some good wine, I’ve eaten like a king, and I’ve even had time to get a good quiet look at the Prado and the Thyssen-Bornemisza museums, but I don’t have any proper work to do. I could stay. But while I’m here the meter’s running and you know I’m expensive. You tell me.”

  “Stay a couple of days more, and give Evelyn and Cooper a hand organizing everything you’ve said.”

  “I think you should talk to Pedro López, the head of the Spanish agency. He knows how to get things done.”

  —

  Cooper and Evelyn got to work looking for experts who’d make the claim that oil prospecting would be a boon for any area. And I, albeit unwillingly, finally met Pedro López, whose agency had been feeding us useful information.

  López’s agency was located in Chamberí, a wealthy part of town.

  From the moment we shook hands López reminded me of my former boss Mark Scott. Same age, same clothes—jeans, blue shirt with no tie, cashmere jacket, shiny lace-up shoes—and an overly friendly smile. He even gleamed with that tan belonging to men who use outdoor exercise as a chance to do business and maintain their meticulous appearance at the same time.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Spencer. It’s a pleasure working
with your agency. Cooper and Evelyn have discussed with me what’s needed…It’s not easy to convince the public of the benefits of oil prospecting, but we’ll do what we can.”

  “That’s just what it comes down to, convincing people. And there’s no better way to convince than by presenting things in a positive light. We don’t want to fight with anyone, we don’t want any hostile confrontations with opponents of the project. The ideal way for citizens to have an opinion is to provide them with the tools to reach that opinion on their own. That is what my clients expect from us,” I said, satisfied with myself.

  “How do you intend to do that?” asked López curiously.

  “I’d like you to draw up a list of all the civic organizations in the region: housewives, tourism groups, fishermen…Essentially, representatives of all areas of society. We’ll invite their leaders to visit a couple of oil rigs, just like with the journalists, but this way they will see for themselves the security measures in place on these rigs and how they work. Then we want to promote a series of conferences and debates among experts—maybe we’ll bring along a Nobel Prize winner.”

  “And politicians? The Andalusian politicians will want to see too.”

  “No, absolutely not. Our mission is to convince society. If society is convinced then politicians will have to act accordingly. We’ve got no interest in journalists either.”

  “Very wise. Good, we’ll draw up a plan and as soon as you approve it we’ll get started straightaway.”

  “We need the plan tomorrow so we can get to work on it the day after.”

  “Too soon.”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  López promised nothing. He couldn’t master time, but he did invite me to play tennis with him that weekend.

  “You’re invited to lunch at my house, but bring your racket, we’ll play a game first. A couple of other friends are coming, so we can play doubles—sound good to you? And of course if you want to bring someone that’s no problem. My wife loves to have the house filled with people.”

  I made my excuses. I didn’t have the slightest desire to spend the weekend listening to conversations I didn’t care about between executives about whom I cared even less.

  I preferred to keep waking up at Blanca’s. I was having a good time with her, even though I would have preferred to be waking up next to Yoko. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. But Blanca was a good substitute, not least for the carefree and cheerful attitude she brought to everything she did.

  I sent Schmidt a report with the strategy we were going to execute and sent a copy to the lawyers. I received no response, which I took to mean that they were giving me free rein to get this right or wrong. Whatever happened, I would be the one responsible.

  López proposed we set ourselves up at his company, and gave us a small office. “It’s best if we’re in touch at all times, working side by side.” He was right. Cooper and Evelyn also found it easier.

  Blanca suggested that I stay at her apartment while I was in Madrid, which I guessed would be a couple of months. I was tempted to say yes but I preferred to keep my room at the hotel. I didn’t want to create any kind of tie that would complicate the relationship, nor did I want to feel obligated to share every night with her. I was willing to do that only with Yoko or with Esther—or both at once, if that were possible.

  Those were the best months of my life, even without Yoko and Esther. I started to reconcile myself with my Hispanic origins, and while the Spanish didn’t exactly remind me of Latinos in the United States, they shared a willingness to confront life head-on, even when luck had turned its back on them.

  I was surprised to see how people were always open to spending time together. They shared a beer—a caña—at the bar, and many spent their time going out for a stroll along the streets, as if the mere act of breathing were sufficient, in spite of the ups and downs of the economy.

  “The light, it’s the light,” I heard again and again, and I still believe that it is the light that defines the character of a country, as well as its people.

  I don’t think there was a single night when I went to bed before the wee hours. Even when I wasn’t sleeping with Blanca. Some days, when we left López’s agency late, he insisted that we go out for a beer. And so we would, and there were few occasions when we couldn’t still be seen out at two or three in the morning, savoring a drink at some bar.

  “Your wife doesn’t get mad when you come home late?” Cooper asked López on one of these nights.

  “Why should she get mad? She knows that if I come home late it’s because I’m working.”

  “Sure, but right now you’re not working, we’re drinking,” replied Cooper.

  “Yeah, but you’ve hired my agency to get a job done. You’re not from around here, I can’t leave you on your own.” He laughed.

  His logic didn’t make sense to us. Leaving work, going to a bar, getting tapas or going for dinner, continuing the conversation in a café or a cocktail bar—this wasn’t exactly what Cooper, Evelyn, and I called work. Sure, that could be justified for one night, but there were altogether too many nights when we shared wine and laughter with López and his coworkers. The surprising thing was that the next morning they would all arrive at work on time. It also confused us that there were no strict working hours.

  “The Spanish work more than we do,” admitted Cooper.

  “They do put in the hours,” added Evelyn, “but they don’t seem to care about that.”

  “It’s because they spend so much time eating. At midday people disappear from work and they don’t come back until four or five,” I tried to explain to them.

  “Which is right when we would be having tea and finishing up the workday. They do it all the other way around,” Evelyn said admiringly.

  —

  Two months later we had achieved all our objectives. A group of astonished housewives had visited the oil rigs in the North Sea. Two Nobel Prize winners had spoken in the heart of Huelva on the subject of oil, as a provider not just of energy but also of jobs. UN environmental experts debated with local conservationists. Society remained divided, but the idea of oil as a force of evil had been warded off. I couldn’t say that public opinion had made a U-turn, but we had softened the positions of “civil society”—common people, by any other name.

  I sent a detailed report to Schmidt, filling him in on what I considered to be our achievements. I received an e-mail a week later, summoning me to a meeting with the lawyers. I resented having to go to London, but I had to get used to the idea that my Spanish adventure was over.

  This time, Brian Jones and Edward Brown were at the meeting as well as Schmidt. As I went over the results with them I could see in their eyes that they weren’t satisfied.

  “You’ve spent several thousand pounds without any results,” said Schmidt.

  “I can’t do any more than I have,” I assured them, ready to face another uphill battle with Schmidt.

  “It’s not much, what you’ve achieved,” said Brian Jones.

  “I’ve done what you’ve asked, but without bloodshed. The outcome is the same. I’ll be honest—this would have been far more difficult without Pedro López’s agency. Their work has been essential to us. They could be useful in the future.” I didn’t want to miss the chance to show my gratitude to the Spaniard.

  “Bernard, what do you say?” Edward Brown asked Schmidt.

  “The work isn’t bad, but the problem has not yet been solved,” ruled the German.

  “This is what you get when you do things properly, without killing your opponents,” I remarked sarcastically.

  “This morning I spoke with the directors at the oil company. It’s up to them now to apply full pressure on the Spanish and local governments to allow them to go ahead with the drilling. If they can’t manage that they’ll have to withdraw,” Schmidt said to Brown, ignoring my comment.

  “Well, then they should start thinking about drilling elsewhere,” I concluded.

&nbs
p; They looked at me with something akin to scorn.

  “Very well, Mr. Spencer. From today the modification to your previous contract takes effect. We’ve ordered your secretary—Maggie, isn’t it?—to pack up your things and have them ready to be removed from the building. You will tell them where to send it all. Mr. Lerman already has the settlement prepared.” Edward Brown’s tone was as cold as ice.

  “Case closed. Oh, and you should send the invoices with the latest fees as soon as possible.” Brian Jones prevented us from getting tangled up in an argument.

  “I’m intending to continue handling Parker’s matters,” I warned them.

  “Well, Mr. Parker will have to stick to his commitments. There may be issues that you might take on, or we may recommend another adviser. In any case Mr. Parker knows he must fulfill certain commitments made to some of our clients,” emphasized Edward Brown.

  It was clear that whether or not Roy permitted it—and sooner or later he would have no say in the matter—they would get rid of me. Roy might have considered me trustworthy, but they didn’t. Those were the rules. As well I knew.

  We nodded our goodbyes. We didn’t shake hands. Schmidt ignored me, not even bothering to go through the motions. He remained seated, looking through me as if I were transparent, as if I didn’t exist.

  —

  I returned to Madrid. Some of my clothes were at my hotel, the rest in Blanca’s closet. I wanted to have a goodbye dinner with Pedro López. I’d gotten along well with the guy in the end. I’d invite Cooper and Evelyn too. They were worried because I hadn’t wanted to make any commitment about their futures. I couldn’t do so before I’d first considered what I wanted to do with my own future, although I already knew what that was. I’d been mulling it over during the two months I’d spent in Madrid.

  The farewell dinner was crowded. People from the agency, Blanca and her friends, Cooper with a somewhat feminine-looking young man, and Evelyn, who surprised me by introducing one of the publicists from López’s agency as her “Spanish boyfriend.”