Outlaws

by Javier Cercas

  Chapter 12

  ‘Gamallo died on New Year’s Eve 2005. Or was it 2006? It must have been 2006, because it wasn’t long before I retired. The fact is that his death brought the press swooping back down on him, this time in search of carrion. Some journalists tried to get in touch with me then, but I didn’t want to talk to them. It was a repugnant spectacle: as if they hadn’t made up enough lies about Gamallo when he was alive; now that he was dead and couldn’t even defend himself any more they wanted to go on lying. Truly repugnant.

  ‘I lost track of his lawyer again for about a year, maybe a year and a half. In that time he didn’t show up at the prison. I asked, and was told that he hadn’t stopped working: he’d simply stopped visiting his clients; later I found out that it wasn’t just that, Cañas wasn’t well: he no longer attended trials, he seemed to have delegated almost everything to his partners, he began to get a reputation for being standoffish and eccentric. I had grown fond of him, and felt bad that what had happened to him had happened to him, that things hadn’t gone well for him and had affected him so badly; I especially felt that it had happened because he had not listened to me, because he had got his hopes up and tried to defend Gamallo.’

  ‘Do you think that was the cause of the problems Cañas had?’

  ‘In part yes. I’m not saying his sorry tale with the girl had no bearing, although it had happened a long time before and it would be logical if, by the time Gamallo died, it had been forgotten; but, anyway, I can’t give an opinion on that. What I do know is that failure is a bad business, and that Cañas felt he had completely failed with Gamallo, after having invested so much in him. For me the problem was that Cañas had believed the legend of Zarco, as I already told you, and he had decided to redeem him, redeem the great delinquent, the symbol of his generation. That was his proposal, and not achieving it hurt him: fellows used to success don’t easily accept failure. So he felt like a failure, and perhaps guilty. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to know why you think that.’

  ‘Let me finish telling you the story and you’ll understand. Cañas took quite a long time before getting back into his habit of visiting his clients, but one afternoon, shortly after hearing that he’d started doing so again, I ran into him at the prison. We happened to meet in the foyer, as I was on my way out of my office having just finished for the day. Long time no see, Counsellor, I said in greeting. We were starting to miss you. Cañas looked at me with a speck of mistrust, as if he suspected I was making fun of him, but he soon smiled; physically he wasn’t the same man: he still wore an impeccable suit, but he’d lost a lot of weight and his hair was going very grey. I took a bit of a vacation, he said. So you jumped the gun on me, I replied. That’s what I plan to do in a couple of months, except my vacation’s going to be longer. You’re retiring?, he asked. I’m retiring, I answered. It was true; but it wasn’t true that retiring made me as happy as I insisted on pretending: on the one hand it made me happy; on the other it made me uneasy: apart from resting and sitting in the front row for the spectacle of my physical and mental collapse, I didn’t know what I’d devote my life to when I retired, or what I’d do with it. I thought that, like Cañas, I was a bit pitiful too; and I immediately thought there’s nothing filthier than feeling oneself worthy of pity. Cañas and I kept talking. At a certain moment he asked: Can I buy you a coffee? I’m sorry, I answered. I dropped my car in at the garage on my way to work this morning and I have to go pick it up before they close. If you want I can give you a lift, Cañas offered. Don’t trouble yourself, I said. I was just going to call a taxi. Cañas said it was no trouble and settled the argument.

  ‘The garage was on the other side of the city, near the exit for the airport on the Barcelona highway. I don’t remember what we talked about on the drive, but I do remember that, as we rounded the bend at Fornells Park, already in the outskirts, Cañas brought up a client of his who’d recently arrived at the prison, a gas-station employee we’d been keeping under protection since he’d been admitted. Then Cañas started talking about Gamallo, who was the last of his clients subject to this exceptional treatment, and I thought that he’d brought up the gas-station attendant in order to bring up Gamallo. The lawyer confessed his disappointment, regretted that Gamallo hadn’t been able to live out his last years in liberty. Then he said: Anyway, at least you and I have clear consciences. After all, we did what we could for him, didn’t we? I didn’t answer. We were driving between a double row of car workshops and dealerships, and we turned right into an alley that led to the entrance to the Renault garage, in the back of the dealership. Cañas stopped his car in front of the open door of the garage, but he didn’t turn off the engine. Without losing his thread he continued: At least I think so. What’s more, I think almost everyone can have a clear conscience when it comes down to it. No one had as many opportunities as he did. Between the lot of us we gave him every chance, but he didn’t take advantage of them. Turning towards me he said: What could we do: it wasn’t our fault but his. I felt an awkward contrast between his reassuring words and his anxious gaze, and looked away: I wondered if our encounter in the foyer of the prison had been a coincidence or planned; I wondered if a man who says twice that he has a clear conscience has a clear conscience; I wondered if a man who makes excuses when no one has accused him of anything wasn’t accusing himself. I vaguely sensed that Cañas was suffering, I thought that he was still lost in his labyrinth, said to myself that this unburdening was no accident and he was seeking my approval, or rather he needed it.

  ‘I felt pity again, for him and for me, and again felt enraged at feeling pity. Only then did I intercede. Remember what I told you about Gamallo the first time we spoke about him?, I asked; without waiting for an answer I went on: Believe me: I’m sorry that I was right. Anyhow, you’re right too when you say that the failure was not our fault; on that count you can rest easy. That said, don’t deceive yourself: Gamallo had no chance. None. We offered him all of them, but he didn’t have any. You were his friend and can understand that better than anybody. You understand, right? I read in his eyes that he didn’t understand; also that he needed to understand.

  ‘I looked inside the garage; they were just a couple of minutes away from closing time and I could only see one mechanic shuffling papers inside a glass-walled office. I sighed and undid my seatbelt. Let me tell you something, Counsellor, I said, and I waited for him to turn the engine off, before I went on. Have I ever told you that I’m from Toledo? My father and mother were both from there too. My mother died when I’d just turned five. My father didn’t have any relatives and didn’t remarry, so he had to raise me on his own. He was no longer a young man, he’d fought in the war and he’d lost; after the war he spent several years in prison. He had a job at a hardware store, very close to Zocodover Plaza, and, until I was fifteen years old, when I got out of school I’d always go to the store. I’d get there, sit on a stool to do my homework, at a little table near the counter, and wait for him to finish so we could go home. I did that every day of my life for ten years. Every day. Then, just as I turned sixteen, I was awarded a scholarship and went to Madrid to finish school. At first I missed my father and my friends a lot, but later, especially when I started studying at the university, I felt less and less like returning to Toledo. Of course, I loved my father, but I think I was a little ashamed of him; I also think a moment came when I preferred to see him as little as possible. I liked life in Madrid and he lived in Toledo. I felt like a winner and he was a loser. I was grateful to him for having raised me, sure, and, if he hadn’t died so early, I would have made sure he lacked for nothing in his old age; but, apart from that, I didn’t feel in debt to him, I didn’t think he mattered at all as a person, or had influenced me in any way . . . Anyway, nothing out of the ordinary, as you see, normal things that happen between fathers and sons. Why am I telling you this? I paused and looked back inside the garage: the gate was still open and the mechanic hadn’t left the glass office yet
. I’m telling you because my father never told me where good was and where evil was, I continued. He didn’t have to: before I had the use of reason I knew that it was good to go to the hardware store every afternoon, do my homework sitting on my stool beside him, wait for him until the shop closed. Evil could be many things, but that was surely good. I paused again; this time I didn’t look at the garage but kept looking at Cañas. I concluded: Nobody ever taught Gamallo any of that, Counsellor. They taught him the opposite. And who can say they weren’t right? Who can be certain that, in Gamallo’s case, what we call good wasn’t evil and what we call evil wasn’t good? Are you sure that good and evil are the same for everyone? And, in any case, why wouldn’t Gamallo be how he was? What opportunities to change did a kid born in a barracks hut ever have, who was in a reform school at seven and in jail at fifteen? I’ll tell you: none. Absolutely none. Barring, of course, a miracle. And with Gamallo there was no miracle. You tried, but there wasn’t. So you were completely right: at the very least it wasn’t your fault.

  ‘That’s more or less what I told him. The lawyer didn’t answer; he just moved his head vaguely up and down, as if he approved of my words or as if he didn’t want to discuss them, and soon we said our goodbyes: I went into the garage and he started up his car and drove off. And that’s how we left it.

  ‘You mean that was the last time you saw Cañas?’

  ‘No. Since then we’ve run into each other two or three times – most recently, at the supermarket: he was on his own and I was with my wife – but we haven’t spoken of Gamallo since then. Well, we’re finished here, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, but would you allow me to ask one last question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Were you being sincere with Cañas that day? Did you say what you said to him because that’s what you think or out of compassion? So he wouldn’t feel unsuccessful and guilty, I mean, to help him get out of the labyrinth.’

  ‘You mean about Gamallo not having any opportunity?’

  ‘Yes. Do you believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Epilogue

  The True Story of Liang Shan Po

  ‘The last time we saw each other you told me that today you’d finish telling me the story. You promised you’d tell me why, instead of telling it yourself, you agreed that I should do it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you quickly.’

  ‘Don’t rush on my account: it’s our last day.’

  ‘I know, but a lot of time has passed since we last saw each other and in the meantime I’ve discovered that what I thought was the end of the story is not. Let’s cut to the chase. Have I already told you about the dinner parties Cortés and his wife would sometimes have for me at their house? In theory the idea was to find me a girlfriend; in practice as well, I guess, though most of the time it was just an excuse to get together on Saturday nights. This particular Saturday the guests were, as Cortés had told me earlier in the week, two women in their thirties who had just founded a small publishing house for which his wife was translating a popular philosophy book.’

  ‘My publishers.’

  ‘Silvia and Nerea, yes. I got along well with them, and over dessert, as usual at those dinners, Cortés and his wife steered the conversation round to office matters, so I would feel at ease, on home ground. This minor paternalism almost always irritated me, but that night I took advantage of it to show off, and by the time we were having coffee and liqueurs I started talking about Zarco and my relationship with him. I’d never spoken to Cortés or his wife about the subject, although they knew, as everyone did, that as a teenager I’d been a member of Zarco’s gang – María had proclaimed it to the four winds, after all – and of course they knew all or almost all of the ins and outs of my adventures as Zarco’s lawyer. In any case, that was practically the only topic of conversation for the rest of the evening, which went on until two or three in the morning.

  ‘The next day, Sunday, I slept all morning and spent the afternoon regretting having told that story to two strangers. At least a couple of times I phoned Cortés, who tried to calm me down by assuring me I’d been brilliant the night before, that I hadn’t said anything I shouldn’t have and he was sure I’d impressed the two publishers. First thing Monday morning I got a phone call from Silvia, and I immediately thought Cortés or his wife had put her up to it in order to reassure me. That’s not why she was calling. Silvia asked if we could have lunch together one day that week; she added that she had a proposal she wanted to make. What proposal?, I wanted to know. I’ll tell you when we see each other, she answered. Give me a hint, I begged. Don’t leave me on tenterhooks. We want you to write a book about Zarco, she admitted. As soon as I heard the proposal I knew I was going to accept it; I also knew why I’d poured out the story of my relationship with Zarco to Silvia and Nerea: precisely because secretly I was hoping to convince them to make the proposal they’d just made. Almost embarrassed by my cunning, to keep Silvia and Nerea from suspecting that they’d fallen into my trap I turned down the proposal from the start. I told Silvia that I didn’t know how such an idea could have occurred to them and I was grateful to them but it was impossible. Without conviction, I argued: To begin with, I know how to talk, but not how to write. And besides, everything’s already been said about Zarco. That’s the best reason for you to write this book, Silvia replied easily. Everything’s been said about Zarco but it’s all lies; or almost all of it. You said so on Saturday. At least you have something true to tell. And, as far as you not knowing how to write, don’t worry about that: writing is easier than talking, because you can’t edit yourself as you talk, but when writing you can. Besides, Cortés told us you’ve begun a memoir or something like that. That’s what Silvia said, and only then did I realize, with relief, that for her and for Nerea what I’d thought a possibly romantic dinner had actually been a business dinner, if not a trap, and in that matter my novice-writer’s hunger had been joined to the neophyte publishers’ appetite for success. It’s not a memoir, I corrected her, on the verge of dropping the pretence that I didn’t want what I actually did want. They’re notes, remnants, scraps of memories, things like that; besides, they’re not just about Zarco. That doesn’t matter, Silvia enthused. That’s your book: the one you started to write before we asked you. Now you just need to finish off the remnants and sew them together.

  ‘Frankly, I got enthusiastic too. So much so that, after having lunch with Silvia the next day, I got down to work on it immediately, and for a month devoted my evenings and some entire nights to writing the book. Until I realized I wasn’t capable of it, especially because, even though everything I was writing was true, none of it sounded true. So I gave up. That was when Silvia suggested that I should tell another person the story, so they could take charge of writing it; it struck me as a good idea: it occurred to me that, as long as the story’s true, it didn’t matter who wrote it, and with time I’ve come to think that it’s preferable that someone other than me tell it, someone detached from the story, someone who is not affected by the story and can tell it with some distance.’

  ‘Someone like me.’

  ‘For example.’

  ‘So it was you who suggested my name?’

  ‘No. It was Silvia. Or maybe Nerea. I don’t remember. But it was me who approved you; and also who established the conditions. A few days after I accepted her suggestion, Silvia called and said she had the perfect person for the job. The next morning I received your book on the Aiguablava crimes. I hadn’t heard of you, but I’d followed the case in the papers, and I liked the book because, contrary to what I had tried to write, everything you told in it sounded true; even better I liked that not only did it sound true, it was, or at least your version of events coincided with that of the judge.’

  ‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

  ‘No, but many fantasies were told about that story, and I was glad that you didn’t let yourself be fooled by them and you didn’t give in to the temptation of reproducing them.
I thought that, as well as knowing how to write, you were trustworthy.’

  ‘Thanks. Anyhow I should warn you that, in my case, it’s not such an achievement, because I’m one of those who think fiction always surpasses reality but reality is always richer than fiction.’

  ‘The fact is you were chosen, and I soon started telling you the story that we’re now almost at the end of.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘As I said it turns out that wasn’t exactly the end. The end – or what I now think is the end – happened a couple of weeks ago, after you and I saw each other last time. One afternoon, while I was with Gubau at the home of a client we were going to defend against a charge of embezzlement, I received a text message. “Hiya, Gafitas,” it said. “It’s Tere. Come and see me as soon as you can.” It was followed by an address on Mimosa Street, in Font de la Pòlvora, and ended: “It’s above José and Juan’s Snack-Bar. I’ll be expecting you.” I put my mobile away, tried to concentrate again on my client’s statement; after a while I realized that I wasn’t even taking in what she was saying and I interrupted her. Excuse me, I said, standing up. Something unexpected has come up and I have to leave. What’s up? Gubau asked anxiously. Nothing, I answered. You finish here and get a taxi back. We’ll talk tomorrow in the office.

  ‘It was about seven in the evening and I was in Amer, so I must have got to Font de la Pòlvora about half past seven. The neighbourhood gave me the same feeling as ever, a feeling of festering poverty and dirt; but the people, who packed the streets, seemed happy: I saw a group of children jumping on a dusty mattress, several women trying on dresses that were spilling out of a van, a group of men smoking and clapping along to a rumba. I soon found José and Juan’s Snack-Bar, on the ground floor of a building with a yellowish façade. I parked the car, walked past the snack-bar door and into the building.

  ‘In the hall I tried to turn on the light in the stairwell, but it didn’t work and I had to go up in the dark, feeling my way along the flaking walls. It smelled bad. When I got to the door of the flat Tere had indicated I pressed the bell, but it didn’t work either, and when I was about to knock on the door I noticed it wasn’t closed. I pushed it open, went down a tiny hallway and came out in a little living room; there was Tere, sitting in an old wingback chair, looking out the window with a blanket over her legs. I must have made a noise, because Tere turned towards me; recognizing me she smiled with a smile that had equal amounts of joy, surprise and weariness. Hiya, Gafitas, she said. That was fast. She brushed a hand over her dishevelled hair, trying to fix it up a bit, and added: Why didn’t you let me know you were going to come? I immediately realized something fundamental had changed in her, although I didn’t know what. She didn’t look well: she was very drawn, with big dark circles under her eyes and her bones very visible in her face; her lips, which had been red and full, were dry and pale, and she was breathing through her mouth. Instead of explaining that I showed up so quickly because she’d said to come as soon as possible, I asked: What are you doing here? What do you want me to do?, she answered, almost amused. This is where I live. But that place, in truth, did not look like a home; it looked more like an abandoned garage: the walls of the room were grey and covered in damp stains; there was no furniture apart from a formica table, a couple of chairs and, on the floor, in front of Tere, an old television set, which wasn’t on; also on the floor I saw newspaper pages, cigarette butts, an empty litre-bottle of Coca-Cola. Oblivious to the mess, Tere was in her bathrobe, with her hands folded in her lap; under the robe she was wearing a pink nightgown. Can you walk?, I asked. Tere looked at me questioningly; her eyes were a matte, lifeless green. You can’t stay here, I said. Tell me where your coat is and I’ll take you home. My words erased the joy from Tere’s face. I’m not going anywhere, Gafitas, she replied. I already told you I live here. I stared at her; she was very serious now. Come on, she said, gesturing vaguely. Grab that chair and sit down.