Outlaws

by Javier Cercas

  ‘He shut up. I shut up. Tere also remained silent. Then Zarco added, in a different tone of voice, Anyway that’s not what I meant, or not only that. I was about to ask him what he meant when suddenly I knew; I also knew that he knew that I knew. Then he turned to Tere and kept talking as if I weren’t there, as if he were alone with her. Didn’t I tell you?, he asked. He’s ashamed. He feels guilty. This dickhead has been feeling guilty for more than twenty years. Un-fucking-believable, no? He thinks he left me lying there and I stopped the cops so he could get away. That’s what Zarco said. He was talking about what happened in La Devesa after the bank robbery of the Bordils branch, of course.’

  ‘And was he right? Did you feel guilty?’

  ‘No. And that’s why I was surprised that Zarco thought I did. Sure, I felt that what had happened that morning in La Devesa had been important, that I’d gambled everything and that I’d come out all right by a miracle. And of course I knew, whether he meant to or not, Zarco had saved me, and I was grateful to him for that. But nothing else. I didn’t feel guilty: if Zarco had helped me then it was because he’d been able to help me, and if I hadn’t helped him it was because I couldn’t help him. That was it, as I already told you. As far as I was concerned no one was to blame.’

  ‘But Zarco didn’t believe you; I mean: he didn’t believe that you didn’t think it was your fault.’

  ‘Evidently not. He kept on about it. He kept talking and gesticulating, puffed-up and scornful, increasingly heated, only now apparently sober. He said: Come on, tell the truth, Gafitas. You think I saved you, don’t you? And I said: The only thing I think is that tonight you’re fucking everything up, and you’re going to regret it. Zarco laughed again. Sure you do, he said. You take me for an idiot, or what? You think I didn’t know? That’s what you think and you feel you owe me and that’s why you’re a wanker and you’ll always be a wanker. There’s no hope for you: mister big-shit shyster and you’ve never understood nothing about nothing. Look at yourself, dickhead, look at you coming here to save your little friend. Aren’t you embarrassed to be such a wanker? But, don’t you realize me and you aren’t friends? Shut up now, Tere interrupted him. I don’t feel like it, replied Zarco, without taking his eyes off me. You and me aren’t friends, he went on. We’re not friends now and we never have been. Stop being so holier than thou, for fuck’s sake; stop making a fool of yourself. Don’t you realize that we’ve been using you because I knew that you had to wash away your guilt and nobody was going to do more for me than you? I told you to shut up, Tere interrupted again. And I told you I don’t feel like shutting up, replied Zarco. Let’s see if this guy can figure out that he thinks he’s real smart but he’s a wanker and he’s making a fool of himself. See if you can figure out the truth for fucking once, man . . . And you know what the truth is? He stared at me, breathing hard; then he looked at Tere, looked back at me and seemed to start to cool down. The truth is that we don’t know who ran their mouth off that day, he said, more calmly. Maybe it was you, maybe it was someone else; we don’t know, and that’s what saves you. But what we do know is that I didn’t stop anybody or defend anybody; the only thing I did was defend myself: if I’d had to fuck you over to defend myself, I would have fucked you over. Of that you can be sure. Is that clear? I didn’t say anything, and the question hung in the room’s foul air for a few seconds. During the silence that followed, Zarco tilted a beer can to his lips and, finding it was empty, threw it furiously on the floor. God, he muttered, leaning back in the sofa. That happened a fuck of a long time ago. Can’t you leave me alone, at least for tonight. Forget me, man. You don’t owe me nothing. And, if you did owe me, you’ve paid me back already. It’s over. End of story. Debt cleared. You can go now.

  ‘But I didn’t go. How strange, I thought. The more I say I wasn’t the snitch, the more Zarco thinks it was me and, the more Zarco says he did nothing to stop the police, the easier it is for me to accept that he did. How strange, I also thought. Zarco thinks I’ve done what I’ve done to repay him a favour; he doesn’t know I’ve done it to have Tere. While I was thinking these things, Zarco had found a twisted cigarette in the Fortuna packet, had straightened it out, lit it and was smoking it while staring with ferocity at the TV, where at that moment two bikers and a woman were sitting on stools in a roadside bar talking. The coke had accelerated my heart as well as my brain; I was fed up with Zarco and the situation I’d got myself into. I looked at Tere and, although I felt no confidence or strength to convince anyone of anything, I decided to make one last attempt. You’re going to ruin everything, I told Zarco’s profile: his eyes remained on what was happening on the TV. This is your last chance, and you’re going to fuck it up. It’s up to you; there won’t be another one: if you don’t go back, forget about any releases, forget about parole, forget about a pardon, forget it all. And get ready for everyone to forget about you and to spend the rest of your life behind bars. I stopped, struck by the certainty that, in a bolt of lucidity, I’d just come to completely understand Zarco. Of course, now that I think of it, I went on, with ill-considered audacity, maybe that’s what you want. I left the phrase suspended and waited for Zarco to look at me, or ask. He did neither. Then, as if taking revenge for his bragging and insults, I said: I might be a dickhead, but you’re a coward: you’re not afraid of spending the rest of your life behind bars; what scares you is spending it on the outside. I hadn’t finished the sentence when Zarco jumped up from the sofa, kicked the improvised table out of the way, grabbed me by my shirt collar and nearly picked me up off the floor. The next time you say that I’ll break your neck, he threatened as I inhaled his homicidal breath, with his face a centimetre from mine. Is that clear, Gafitas? I was so frightened that I didn’t even nod; after a few seconds Zarco let me go and stood staring at me with a grimace of disgust, panting. It seemed as though he was going to say something else or go back to the sofa, but he turned to Tere, who was watching us unmoved, sitting on her beer case, leaning against the wall. And what are you looking at?, he said to her. Nothing, answered Tere, stroking the mole next to her nose. I was thinking about what Gafitas said. Then she stood up, started walking towards the door and added: We’ll wait for you in the car.

  ‘While we went down the stairs in the semi-darkness, I murmured: I’ve had it with that fucking bastard. Did you see that? He was about to strangle me. Don’t be silly, Gafitas, said Tere, walking ahead of me. You were great. Yeah, fucking great, I said sarcastically. So were you. By the way, thanks for lending me a hand: if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Dawn was breaking. We got in the car and I started the engine. Putting her hand on top of mine on the gearshift, Tere said: Wait. He’s going to come down. I looked at her hand and then I looked at her. Are you crazy or what?, I said, still very pissed off. He’s not coming down, don’t you realize? Then I lost it and started shouting and cursing Zarco. I don’t remember what I said, or I’d rather not remember. But what I remember very well is that Tere stopped my stream of insults with a slap. And only then did I shut up, stunned. A few seconds later, Tere said: Sorry. I didn’t answer. I turned off the engine and we sat there beside each other in silence, watching the first cars of the day on the roundabout that gave onto the ring road, watching the ash-coloured light of dawn growing on the windscreen. After five or ten minutes I heard Tere say: There he is. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Zarco walking away from the tower block on the outskirts that half an hour earlier had looked like a spaceship and now just looked like a tower block on the outskirts of town, I saw him walk unsteadily to my car, I saw him get in and sit in the back seat, I saw him look me in the eye in the rear-view mirror, I heard him say: Let’s go, dickhead.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘He showed up about seven, shortly before breakfast. By then I was starting to come to terms with the idea that Gamallo was not coming back and I was waiting for the moment to call the director-general to give him the news and then go home to get a little sleep. I’d spent the whole
night in my office. I’d gone out into the yard to kill time, stretch my legs and get a bit of air when a car pulled up at the front gates. It wasn’t completely light yet, but before the car stopped I recognized Cañas in the front seat and that girl. What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Tere.’

  ‘Tere, yes: I always forget her name.’

  ‘You already knew her?’

  ‘Of course. I’d only seen her a couple of times in the prison, but I knew she went to see Gamallo every weekend. And I knew she was working with Cañas and María Vela to get Gamallo out of there.’

  ‘Did you know what her relationship was with Gamallo and with Cañas?’

  ‘Someone told me she was a friend or relative of Gamallo’s or of Gamallo’s family. As far as I recall that was all I knew then; I found out the rest later.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. Gamallo got out of the car, rang the bell, they opened the gate and, before he went into the prison, he walked past me with his head hanging and his hands in his pockets, without looking at me or saying a word. I didn’t say anything to him either. What I did do was walk across the yard to the entry gate and stand there for a moment, in front of Cañas’ car, waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Maybe that Cañas would get out of his car and give me some explanation; maybe not. The fact is he neither got out of the car nor gave me any explanation. I mean Cañas. He just sat there looking at me through the windscreen for a few seconds, in the dirty dawn light; then he started his car, turned around and drove away.’

  ‘And you looked the other way with Gamallo.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? By not showing up at the prison on Sunday night, Gamallo had violated the conditions of his release permit. Why didn’t you report the violation? Why didn’t you inform the director-general? Why instead of reporting it or informing him did you call Cañas so he could try to solve the problem by finding Gamallo and bringing him back to the prison?’

  ‘Because it was the most sensible thing to do. Rules are not there just to be observed. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I did it; I mean it wasn’t the first time I phoned the lawyer of an inmate who had violated a weekend release, so they could try to right the wrong before it was too late and beyond repair. OK, Cañas was right, Gamallo was not just any prisoner, but at least in this respect I behaved towards him the way I would have towards any other prisoner. Or almost. Look, I think there’s something that you haven’t entirely understood. I didn’t have anything against Gamallo, and much less against Cañas; leaving aside questions of principle, we disagreed on the means, but not on the ends: Gamallo’s failure to reintegrate into society would not have just been a personal failure for Gamallo, for Cañas and for the director-general; it would also have been a failure for me, because Gamallo was in my charge. Don’t forget that: Gamallo’s failure was my failure, but his success was my success. I was also interested in everything turning out well.’

  ‘Even though you didn’t believe it could turn out well.’

  ‘Even not believing it. That’s what I meant by a question of principles. Of course I would almost say that, more than a question of principles, it was a question of character. We might say that I am a pre-emptive pessimist: I always expect the worst. That’s why I enjoy the best more. Or that’s what I believe.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘After dropping off Zarco at the prison, Tere asked me to take her home. I agreed without a word and we crossed the city one last time that Monday from one edge to the other, in silence, while the sun came up and people started going to work. It was daytime when I stopped the car in front of the building where Tere lived, and an almost summery light blazed against the white façades of the houses of Vilarroja. It must have been seven-thirty or eight o’clock. I had barely spoken a word since the slap Tere had given me in La Creueta to make me shut up and convince me to wait for Zarco, and his insults and threats were still stinging; besides, I didn’t like the idea that Tere might ask me about what Zarco had said about my participation in the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular. So I don’t know if what I said to Tere next was a way of alleviating the sting or of avoiding uncomfortable questions (or both at once). Turning to face her I asked: How did you know where to look for Zarco? Tere didn’t answer; she was pale and ravaged by the sleepless night. I asked: Is it true you hadn’t seen him this weekend? Tere continued not answering and, increasingly furious and fired-up (perhaps still under the effects of the line of coke I’d snorted in La Creueta), I took the opportunity to let off steam. And another thing, I said, do you think I’m a dickhead and a wanker, too? You think I’m a sanctimonious git and that I’ve been making a fool of myself? Are you using me too? Tere listened to this string of questions without batting an eyelid and, when I finished posing them, she sighed and opened the car door. You’re not going to answer?, I asked. With one foot already on the pavement, Tere turned to look at me. I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this, she said. Because I’ve had it up to here, I said sincerely; and I added: Look, Tere, I don’t know if you’ve been with Zarco this weekend or not, and I don’t know what kind of things you’ve got going on: that’s between you and him. Now, if you want what’s between you and me to carry on, that’s going to have to be the way everybody does it; if not, I’d rather we didn’t see each other. Tere thought for a moment, nodded and murmured something, which I didn’t catch. What did you say?, I said. Nothing, she answered as she got out of the car. Just that I knew this was going to happen.

  ‘During that week we didn’t see each other or speak on the phone, but I was reconsidering; on the Saturday I went to Barcelona and spent the afternoon in Revólver and Discos Castelló buying CDs – it had been a while since I’d bought any – and the following week I called her and suggested she come over to my place. I have some new music, I said, and then tried to tempt her by listing what I’d bought. When I finished, Tere said she couldn’t accept the invitation. Are you still angry?, I asked. I didn’t get angry, she answered. You were the one who was angry. Well I’m not angry any more, I said; then I added: Have you given any thought to what we talked about? She didn’t ask me what I meant. There’s nothing to give any thought to, she said. Look, Gafitas, this is a mess, and I don’t want any mess. No ties, no commitment. I told you. You were right: we can’t go out like everybody else does, so it’s best that we stop seeing each other. Why can’t we go out like everybody else?, I asked. Because we can’t, she answered. Because you’re what you are and I’m what I am. Well then we’ll see each other as we’ve been seeing each other up till now, I conceded. Come over to my place. We’ll have dinner and dance. Like we did before. We had a good time, didn’t we? Yeah, said Tere. But that’s over; I didn’t want it to end, but it’s over. And what’s done is done. Although we carried on arguing for quite a while, Tere had made a decision and I could not get her to change her mind; the decision didn’t mean a break-up, or at least I didn’t take it to mean a break-up: Tere just asked me for time to think, to clarify her ideas, to find out, she said, what she wanted to do with her life. All this sounded a bit hollow to me, or rhetorical, like something you hear in movies, but I had no choice but to accept it.

  ‘Tere and I stopped seeing each other that summer, just like that. I phoned her at least once a week, but our conversations were brief, distant and functional (mostly we talked about Zarco and María), and, when I tried to guide them onto a more personal terrain, Tere cut me off or listened in silence and then found a reason to hang up straight away. Towards the beginning of August she stopped answering the phone and I imagined she’d gone away on holiday, but I didn’t go up to Vilarroja to find out. Actually I didn’t see her again until Zarco’s wedding day.’

  ‘Zarco’s wedding?’

  ‘Zarco and María’s wedding. It was in September, three months after the frustrated escape in La Creueta, and it was the good result of that episode, or the culmination of its good results; so good that for months I
could allow myself to think that, for Zarco, that night had been like an alcoholic’s last tumble off the wagon or like the last performance of a dying persona. The fact is that the episode had an immediate therapeutic effect, and in a way revolutionized Zarco’s life. I myself noticed an improvement in his attitude straight away, his mood and even his appearance, but I wasn’t the only one to notice it; the prison reports changed from one week to the next: the guards stopped complaining about him, he went back on the methadone to combat his heroin addiction, started exercising again. This personal readjustment contributed perhaps to the fact that, in spite of the shock of the night of La Creueta, the prison superintendent did not rescind his weekend-release privileges. It’s true that I spent Sunday nights on edge, always hanging by the phone, although it’s also true that Zarco did not return late back to prison again and I did not receive another distressing phone call from the superintendent.

  ‘But the unmistakable sign that Zarco was another person – a more reasonable and less stuck-up and deranged person, more independent of his own myth, more person and less persona, more suitable for living in liberty – was his wedding to María. At least that’s how I interpreted it. That wedding meant as well that the campaign for his freedom that had been running for nine months was still moving forward. Of course by then, when he was on the verge of getting married, Zarco no longer even bothered to hide the fact that the marriage was a farce; strange as it might seem, this was not for me a proof of Zarco’s cynicism, but rather of his honesty (and, by extension, of mine): according to my clever interpretation, Zarco was using María to get free, but not at the price of deceiving her, or not at the price of entirely deceiving her. As for María, it’s almost as sure that she was still in love with Zarco as it is that deep down she knew her marriage to him was a fraud; although knowing this could sometimes make her uncomfortable, it never managed to calm her impatience to get married: perhaps she thought that in the long run she could make Zarco love her; without a doubt she had become hooked on the drug of celebrity and knew that she couldn’t dispense with Zarco because dispensing with Zarco would be dispensing with fame. In spite of all this, at least a couple of times that summer María told me the doubts she was having about her imminent marriage; my reaction was always the same: cutting her off by playing them down or clearing away her uncertainties at a stroke. A logical reaction, after all, because I knew that marriage to María was not only an indispensable prerequisite for Zarco getting his third-level parole, but also for us to successfully conclude the campaign in favour of his getting a definitive pardon, and I trusted that Zarco’s freedom would represent the end of Zarco’s problems.’