‘Those are the last words I remember from that night, the second in my life that I slept with Tere. The following months were unforgettable. Tere and I started to see each other at least once a week. We saw each other in the evening or at night, at my place. There were no fixed days for these encounters. Tere called me in the morning at my office, we arranged to see each other later, at seven or seven-thirty or eight, that day I’d finish work earlier than usual, buy something for dinner in some shop in the old quarter or in Santa Clara or Mercadal and wait for her at home until she arrived, which I never knew when might happen – she was often late and more than once took two or three hours to get there, and more than once I thought she wasn’t coming – although she always did eventually arrive. She’d arrive and, especially the first times, as soon as she was through the door we’d be screwing, sometimes right in the front hallway with most of our clothes still on, with the fury of people not making love but war. Later, once we calmed down, we’d have a glass of wine, listen to music, dance, have something to eat and then drink some more and listen to music and dance until we’d go to bed and have sex until late.
‘They were clandestine dates. At first I understood this confidentiality as part of the conditions Tere had imposed – part of the no ties and no commitments or demands and each to our own of the first night – so I accepted it without protest, although I sometimes wondered who might be bothered about she and I going out together. Me, answered Tere, when I finally asked her. And you’d be bothered too. It was a categorical reply, that did not allow a rejoinder, and I didn’t have one. Otherwise, as far as I recall that was one of the few times, in those early days, that Tere and I talked about our relationship; we never did, as if we both felt that happiness is for living, not for talking about, or that mentioning it might be enough to make it disappear. This is odd, when you think about it: after all there is no subject of greater interest to new lovers than their own love.
‘What did Tere and I talk about then? Once in a while we talked about Zarco, about Zarco’s situation in prison and about what I was doing to get him out of there, although after a certain point we only talked about that in the presence of María, who in theory was the main interested party. Sometimes we talked about María, about her relationship with Zarco, about how she’d come to be Zarco’s girlfriend. Tere liked to talk about her studies and ask me about things at my office, my partners, my sister – who I didn’t see more than once or twice a year, because she’d been working in Madrid for many years where she was married and had kids – about my ex-wife and most of all about my daughter, although, as soon as I suggested to Tere the idea of meeting her, she refused without a second thought. Are you crazy?, she asked. What’s she going to think of her father hooked up with a quinqui? Quinqui, what quinqui?, I answered. There are no quinquis left any more! Zarco’s the last one, and I’m about to turn him into a normal person. Tere laughed. Getting him out of jail would be enough!, she said.
‘We often talked about the summer of ’78. I remembered pretty well what had happened back then, but on a few points Tere’s memory was more precise than mine. She, for example, remembered better than I the two times I’d stood her up after our last two encounters: the first, when I didn’t show up at La Font, and the second three months later, when I didn’t show up at Rufus. Tere mentioned those episodes without resentment, making fun of herself and the scant attention I seemed to have paid her twenty years earlier; and when I tried to deny it with the evidence that in reality it was her who paid no attention to me, or who’d paid me intermittent and very partial attention, she asked: Oh yeah? Then why did you stand me up? I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I laughed and didn’t answer; but, at least on this point, my memory of that summer was crystal clear: I had joined Zarco’s gang mainly for Tere and my impression was that, leaving aside the incidents in the washrooms of the Vilaró arcade and on Montgó beach, during those three months Tere had done nothing but avoid me and sleep with Zarco and others. All this shows, now that I think of it, that it’s not true that Tere and I didn’t talk about our love – at least we talked about our frustrated love from two decades before – but I was telling you for another reason and it’s that, after Tere brought up those two episodes a couple of times, more than once I wondered if her insistence was due to some hidden reason, if she wouldn’t be provoking me to catch me in a lie, if at some moment the repeated slight of standing her up twice hadn’t put her on a wrong track and hadn’t led her to the mistaken conclusion that, after the failure of the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular, I had disappeared and hadn’t returned to the district not because I didn’t like her any more or because I didn’t want to be with her and considered her just a fleeting summer fling, but because I was the snitch who’d tipped off the police. And I wondered whether Zarco had arrived at the same conclusion on his own or if Tere had told him and convinced him it was true and that explained in part the role of traitor that Gafitas played in Wild Boys, or at least why he was portrayed as untrustworthy or possibly untrustworthy in The Music of Freedom, the second volume of Zarco’s memoirs. And, if the reply to this wondering was affirmative, perhaps there was another reason why Zarco wanted me to be his lawyer: not just because he knew me and because I lived in Gerona and was known to be a competent lawyer nor only because our former friendship might make me more manageable and more tolerant with him and might save him fights like the ones he’d faced with his previous lawyers; but also so I could pay for my betrayal or snitching or untrustworthiness, so that it would be me, who twenty years earlier had put him behind bars, who would now get him out.
‘But I don’t want to give you a mistaken impression: the truth is that I was not very worried about that old story; and it’s also true that what Tere and I talked about at my place was far and away not the most important thing that happened on those nights of surreptitious love. The most important is that, as I said, they were happy nights, although of a strange and fragile happiness, as if separate from real life, as if every time Tere and I got together at my place we segregated ourselves inside a hermetic bubble that isolated us from the outside world. The secret nature of our dates and the fact that at first Tere and I only ever saw each other within the perpetual penumbra and four walls of my home contributed to this sensation. Music also played a part.’
‘Music?’
‘You can’t live without music, Tere had said to me the first time she came up to my place. Remember? Well, I decided that Tere was right and that up till then I’d lived without music or almost without music and now I was going to correct that mistake. And the first thing that occurred to me was to get hold of the music that used to play at Rufus when Tere and I used to go there and she would spend the nights on the dance floor and I would spend them propping up the bar watching her dance.
‘The day after Tere’s first visit to my place was a Saturday, and that afternoon I went to a record shop on the Plaça del Vi, called Moby Disc, and bought five CDs of late-seventies artists with songs I remembered hearing at Rufus or that I associated with the time we used to go to Rufus – one CD by Peret, one by the Police, one by Bob Marley, one by the Bee Gees, one by Boney M. – and that Tuesday night, when Tere came back to my place, I had “Roxanne” playing at full volume as she arrived. Fuck, Gafitas! said Tere as she walked into the dining room, starting to dance as she pulled her handbag strap over her shoulder. This one’s old too, but it’s something else! From then on I devoted many hours of my weekends to looking for records from the second half of the seventies and first half of the eighties. At first I always bought them at Moby Disc, until an acquaintance recommended two shops in Barcelona – Revólver and Discos Castelló, both on Tallers Street – and I started going to them almost every Saturday. I took great pains over what music to play for my midweek encounters with Tere and tried to follow her taste, although the truth is she liked everything or almost everything: rock and roll as much as disco or rumba, Rod Stewart or Dire Straits or Status Quo as much as Tom J
ones or Cliff Richard or Donna Summer, as much as Los Chichos or Las Grecas or Los Amaya. We both loved to listen to the corny Italian and Spanish hits from back in the day every once in a while, the songs of Franco Battiato and Gianni Bella and José Luis Perales and Pablo Abraira we had heard for the first time in Rufus. I’ll never forget the night we screwed up against the dining-room table, listening to Umberto Tozzi singing “Te amo”.
‘This idyll lasted for several months, more or less until the summer. At first I must have had satisfaction written all over my face, because everyone noticed something strange, starting with my daughter, who arrived home the day after Tere’s first visit and spent the weekend joking with lethal marksmanship (I don’t recognize you, Dad, she sprung on me several times, laughing. Anyone would think you got laid this week), and ending with Cortés, Gubau and the rest of the people at my office, who benefited from my good mood though they also suffered from my absenteeism, or my inattention. I mean that I began to deal almost exclusively with Zarco’s case and to delegate the rest of the work to Cortés and Gubau, provoking consternation in the office and complaints from some clients, accustomed to being looked after by the senior partner in the firm. But I was too absorbed by my happiness and paid no attention to the complaints or the disconcertion. That doesn’t mean I didn’t work. I was reading, studying, collecting information, arguing details of Zarco’s case with Cortés, with Gubau, sometimes with other lawyers. I often went to see Zarco. On those visits we mostly talked about judicial and prison matters, about his situation in prison and how to improve it; but neither Zarco nor I evaded talking about the past, not even the summer of ’78, especially if we considered some detail or concrete episode from back then could serve to clarify some detail or concrete episode from his later life, and in this way he was able to give me tools with which to defend him. Anyway, our relationship was strictly professional, or almost. I would say we were weighing each other up. In his case I don’t know what the initial balance was in that weighing up; in mine it was that, in spite of his visible physical deterioration and secret moral vulnerability, Zarco was all there: he thought clearly, his behaviour was reasonable, he had a real desire to get out of prison and begin a different kind of life and he seemed capable of doing it.
‘During that time I also saw María Vela with some frequency. We always or almost always saw each other at her flat on Marfà Street, in Santa Eugènia, where she lived with her daughter, a precocious and graceless teenager who was the spitting image of her mother. Seeing her – seeing María, I mean – many must have asked how it was possible that such a woman had become Zarco’s woman. When she and Tere showed up at my office I already knew the story from the press; what I didn’t know was that that story wasn’t the whole story.’
‘I only know what I’ve read in your archive.’
‘The whole story is more interesting; I pieced it together in those first weeks, thanks to María herself, and also thanks to Zarco and Tere. As far as I now understand, the story goes more or less like this. María had started off being one of the many admirers Zarco corresponded with from prison when his media profile was at its peak; there were all sorts among those women: compulsive liars, opportunists, Samaritans, naive women, thick ones, adventurers, I don’t know. In general, at the same time as going along with them, Zarco had known how to manage them and get them to work for him, because he understood very early that a great part of his wellbeing inside depended on help he got from the outside, getting his case moving with barristers, solicitors, officials, judges and politicians. My impression is that María must have combined ingredients of all or almost all the types of admirers, but the fact is the press chose to present her as a Samaritan in love.
‘I’m not saying that she wasn’t in part, at least at the beginning. She first got in touch with Zarco towards the end of the eighties, when he was locked up in the Huesca prison and announced in public declarations to El Periódico de Aragón his intention to start a magazine and asked for volunteers to help him. María was one of the people who offered to collaborate in the production and distribution of the magazine, and, although they didn’t manage to publish a single issue, from that moment on she began to write to him regularly. That’s how Zarco found out she was four years younger than him, that she’d been married and was separated, that she had a two-year-old daughter and had always lived in Barcelona but had just moved to Gerona, where she worked in a school cafeteria; and that’s how he found out later, as María levelled with him and her letters grew inflamed, that she had been reading everything written about him for a long time, that she’d fallen in love with him without ever meeting him, that she was willing to do anything for him, that she was sure that – as she had done years ago for her ex-husband, for whom she’d managed to get a special pardon – she could get him out of prison and begin a new life with him. Zarco didn’t pay too much attention to this offer, perhaps because María’s photos didn’t make her look too seductive, perhaps because at that time he was receiving similar offers from his epistolary harem of women who flirted with him from a distance; remember that, although he was behind bars, Zarco was then one of the guys most in demand in this country, a sort of icon of the recent democracy: they were making films about him, writing books and songs about him, publishing his memoirs, the newspapers and radio stations interviewed him on the slightest pretext, the intellectual journals dedicated special issues to him, his photograph appeared everywhere beside politicians, football players, bullfighters, actors, singers, writers, film-makers and celebrities, and the gossip magazines claimed he had romances with Socialist politicians, Andalusian aristocrats, beauty queens, high-school teachers, female prison guards and television presenters. So, although María kept writing to him, in the midst of that whirlwind Zarco tired very early of answering her letters, and didn’t do so again until, in the mid-nineties, he himself destroyed his public image with a couple of failed attempts at rehabilitation, the media’s interest in him plummeted and his harem of admirers disappeared. María did not miss her moment. No longer with any competition, she started to claim Zarco’s attention again, she won it and began to visit him and to have encounters alone with him in prison (face-to-face encounters they call them: a euphemism to avoid calling them sexual encounters); Zarco for his part went along with it. That was when María became what she was when I met her in my office: Zarco’s official girlfriend and the person on the outside who looked after his affairs.’
‘And in that capacity she visited you that day.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Tere? In what capacity did Tere go to your office?’
‘As María’s helper or bodyguard and as someone Zarco trusted. That was the role she’d been filling for years and that she more or less carried on doing for a while. María was ideal for Zarco for tons of reasons: because she was a normal woman, with no criminal record, because she was a mother and aside from that a respectable separated mother, because she was in love with him, because she was always available, for her air of vulnerability, for everything; but even though she was ideal, Zarco didn’t think she was smart and didn’t trust her, or he thought Tere was smarter and more trustworthy, and so he started to ask her to accompany María, or Tere herself offered to do so. And that’s how that singular couple came to be.
‘But I was telling you about my conversations with María. I saw her at least once a week too, at her home on Marfà Street. That was where I began to realize her character had some duplicity and that, more than vulgar or insignificant – which is what she seemed at first – she was one of those people of such obvious ingenuousness and such total transparency that they ended up being enigmatic. One of the things that surprised me was that María still had the idealized vision of Zarco that the media had propagated for years, a vision according to which Zarco was a noble, brave and generous youth condemned by the fate of his birth to a life of delinquency; I found it even more surprising that María still had an idealized vision of her relationship with Zarco: a
ccording to her, her story was a love story of a good, simple and unlucky woman for a good, simple and unlucky man, a love story that overcomes all, a romantic love that, once Zarco had his freedom, was going to give her and her daughter the husband and father they’d lost and Zarco the family he’d never had. In those first interviews María told me the same story several times (or different stories that deep down were variations of the same one), and one afternoon, unexpectedly, as I was walking towards my car after having spent hours listening to her I seemed to understand that the story was the answer I’d been looking for, the key that could unlock the flow of media interest in Zarco and, therefore, the key also to Zarco’s freedom: he had told his life story to the press many times as a repentant and reformed delinquent, unjustly kept behind bars; but, after he himself had refuted it so many times by reoffending, it was difficult for anyone to believe it, especially if he was the one telling it; but, if that same story, corrected, improved and expanded, was told by a school cafeteria worker, a relatively young woman, on her own, decent, poor and separated, wrapped in an air of submission and disgrace and with a daughter as well (a daughter who could also allow Zarco to present himself as a future head of a household), then the possibility existed that the media might believe it or at least believe that it was credible, spreading it, reviving interest in Zarco and helping me get him out of prison. In any case I reached the conclusion that, without that help, it would take me much longer to get Zarco released, if I ever could; I also arrived at the conclusion that it was at least worth trying.’
Outlaws Page 21
