Stainless-steel lowlife, and probably connected up with a centralized data bank on stainless-steel lowlife, via tiny cybernetic wires made of nothingness spiked with cruelty. He too had felt fear recently, on several occasions, as if he had been forced finally to accept that he was no longer the measure of his external world, or even of his internal world, but just a precarious survivor.
‘This food’s delicious, Pepe. Isidro, my compliments to the maître d‘.’
Carvalho was always intensely irritated by Charo’s inability to distinguish between the cook and the maître d‘, particularly when she started complimenting restaurateurs as if she was some Biscuter, talking man to man. Since Isidro was both the maître and the owner of the establishment, he bowed slightly and mentally complimented himself.
‘But he is the maître, Charo.’
‘I’ll never learn. I always think that the maître is the one with the big white hat. Isn’t the maître the one who counts?’
More than fifteen years spent absorbing gastronomic culture, and Charo still couldn’t tell the difference between a maître and a cook.
‘There’s a call for you, sir.’
Carvalho seized this opportunity to beat a retreat. It was Biscuter. He had an urgent message for him. Camps O’Shea had called, and he was to contact him immediately.
‘He was very insistent … immediately …’
Charo finished her profiteroles with vindictive slowness. She had been expecting that their after-dinner proceedings would take them to her flat, and she had put on the red underwear which Carvalho had absent-mindedly said that he liked during one of their happier encounters. And now, as Carvalho went off and abandoned her in the restaurant, she began to cry, with a serviette held to her eyes and a little white lie on the tip of her tongue. I’m crying for Bromide. Poor Bromide, she told herself, over and over again. But she knew that it wasn’t true.
Camps O’Shea was pacing up and down his office, or rather bouncing, as if communicating to a spectacularly expensive carpet his happiness at suddenly finding himself centre-stage with an audience, on the basis of what was contained in the piece of paper that he had in his hand.
‘Listen to this, Carvalho. Our man has excelled himself:
‘ “I shall open the cages where you keep your de luxe animals, and the sheen of their muscles will light up the evening more brightly that the moon of Samarkand.
‘ “But in its charge an animal will reveal its death wound, and it will not reach the gates of the city. There’s the rub. The scapegoat which my theory of cruelty requires. The one who must die so that the majority can be free. And you, traders of muscle, are the guilty parties in this story.
‘ “He who must die will ascend to the heavens of innocence. His blood will cleanse my hands, because they will be the instruments of a new order on Earth. For all these reasons, and of this you can be sure, the centre forward will die at dusk.”
‘What do you think of it?’
‘Magnificent. It reads like it’s written by a cop.’
‘By a what …?’
‘By a cop. I’m not sure exactly what sort of cop, but these days they’re inventing new kinds of cops every day. Just have a think about it — the man’s obviously got an obsession: opening cages, directing traffic …’
‘I think it’s rather beautiful.’
Camps O’Shea was so put out by Carvalho’s lack of poetic sensibility that he went quite red in the face as he handed him the piece of paper as self-evident proof of the magnificence of the writing.
‘Whoever the author is, you can’t deny there’s a certain lyrical content. Elegaic, even.’
‘Come the day, we’ll ask him to write our obituaries …’
‘For God’s sake, Carvalho, don’t be so dismissive.’
‘Do you know what I say? Our friend won’t be killing anybody. He’s just a lousy poet, with a taste for floral effects. I’d say he’s going for a role in the next flower carnival. That’s what it is.’
‘If there’s one thing that this poetry doesn’t have, it’s floralism. It is the most anti-floral thing I’ve ever read. Come on, Carvalho, put yourself on the line. Why do you say it’s floral? Explain yourself.’
‘I think we’ve got more important things to talk about.’
But Camps O’Shea had the bit between his teeth, and he shook his head violently.
‘No, no. I can’t let you get away with that comment about floralism. Let’s be serious about it — this is a serious piece of writing. What’s more, a man’s life could be at stake.’
‘I know, I know … The life of a Sunday hero, and the literary career of a nutcase.’
Camps was furious, and Carvalho decided that he was furious for two reasons: partly because of Carvalho’s total lack of interest, and partly because the arrival of the third anonymous letter had fired his critical passions.
‘It’s important that we treat this seriously, because a close analysis could lead us to discovering who the author is. I’m not suggesting that we start doing content analysis, as Inspector Lifante would. However, even as an amateur I think I might venture an opinion. I think I’m a good reader, and I think I can guess at the kind of person that we’re dealing with. “Open the cages …” — this suggests a familiarity with the spectacle that you see every week when the players come running out onto the pitch. Do you ever see it that way — it’s as if they’ve just been let out of their cages? Anyway, let’s carry on. The glistening of their muscles … Obviously he’s referring to the fact that when they first arrive on the field a lot of them have come straight from the massage bench, and their muscles really do shine. That’s something which a spectator probably wouldn’t see from the stands … It indicates an immediacy. It’s someone who is, or has been, close to footballers in his time — someone who might even be close to Mortimer. And what about Samarkand? What does Samarkand say to you?’
‘Ann Blyth.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I remember a film about the Mongols which I saw when I was a kid. It was called The Princess of Samarkand, and the lead role was played by Ann Blyth.’
‘No, seriously, Carvalho … Samarkand has a certain semantic richness. As place-names go, it’s very evocative. Like Asmara, or Córdoba. Some cities have names which evoke a whole history, a whole legend. Asmara, the lost city under the sands of the Sahara. Samarkand, Tamberlaine’s capital, and the centre of life in an Asia that was brutal but at the same time fundamentally civilized. And what about the euphony, listen to the euphony: Samarkand.’
Carvalho switched off his hearing faculties in order to reflect on the surrealism of the situation. Camps was evidently suffering from something like Stockholm syndrome. He was the kind of person who would actually enjoy being kidnapped. So he decided to make a noise that would deflate this flow of poetical nonsense.
‘What’s more, I reckon he’s queer.’
‘Who’s queer?’
‘Whoever wrote the note. All those shiny muscles …’
‘You disappoint me, Carvalho. And anyway, supposing he is “queer”. So what?’
‘So he’s queer. There are people who come from Cuenca, and there are people who are queer. These are objective truths, or statistics, depending on your point of view.’
‘No, Carvalho. You can’t go ducking out of what you just said. You said: “What’s more, I reckon he’s queer.” That implies a prejudice against our author’s sexual preferences.’
‘It might be a woman, and in that case I withdraw what I said.’
Camps O’Shea was either tired or put out. He retired to a defensive position behind his desk, which was also made of rosewood, although rather less ornately so than Basté de Linyola’s, and he attempted to find some way of enabling himself to relax.
‘This business is starting to get on my nerves.’
‘I can understand that. However, I’m beginning to think there’s really not much to worry about. Every time one of these letters arrives, I’m more
and more convinced that we’re dealing with an exhibitionist, somebody who’s decided to play games with us, to prove to himself that he’s cleverer than we are. Have you sent the police a copy of this latest one?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘And?’
‘You know Contreras. He started making cheap cracks about you, and about intellectuals who like flirting with the underworld. I find his reaction grossly corporatist. Don’t get me wrong, Carvalho. I’m not trying to glorify our letter-writer. Absolutely not. I just think that there’s a certain truth in what he writes, and what I read in it leads me to a different conclusion to yours. He could be dangerous. To have imagination is a dangerous thing in the times we live in. In among all this mediocrity, even if we are all accomplices in it, a man with imagination is dangerous.’
‘What’s a young man like you doing in a job like this?’
Camps shrugged his shoulders, but smiled a gratified smile. At last somebody had recognized the deep sense of unease that underpinned his life.
‘A man has to do something. I studied art, and I was hoping to set up a gallery, or become an art consultant. I’d never have considered teaching. Teaching is a job for mediocrities, and sooner or later it ends up fossilizing you. But the trouble was, I had no money of my own, and my father is, as you might say, extremely down to earth. He wouldn’t shell out a penny for anything to do with “spiritual matters”, as he put it. My grandfather, on the other hand, was a very different sort of man. There wasn’t a cultural initiative in Barcelona that he was not involved in. And he didn’t just want to get rid of his money — he actually thought it was important. I follow in the foot-steps of my grandfather. When Basté offered me this job, I thought that it might be interesting, and so it is. An organization like this has an important cultural side to it. It is something consciously created, an idea embodied in a mass of people, and the way in which it develops depends on who is there to mould it. The masses are basically stupid, and the footballing public is as neurotic and child-like as any collective subject you care to name. It was as if he was offering me something that I could mould and shape with my own bare hands.’
In general Carvalho didn’t like confessions, but this one was beginning to interest him. He observed the PR man as if he had only just discovered him. He, for his part, was ecstatic to note Carvalho’s interest. He clearly felt the need to surprise, and was forever sending up little messages that said: Here I am! I’m not just the dogsbody that you saw at the press conference! I’m not just Mortimer’s wet-nurse!
‘Have you come up with anything?’
‘Yes and no. I’m becoming more and more convinced that there isn’t really a conspiracy to kill Mortimer. Nor can I see any logical reason why anyone would want to kill him. Basté has just taken over, the team’s going well, and there’s every reason to think they’ll win the championship league. There’s no opposition in sight. There are no petty feuds between Mortimer and the other players, because he’s only just arrived and hasn’t had time to create enemies, on the pitch or off. So we’re dealing with a one-off situation. Too much of a one-off, for my taste. We might take these notes seriously if they were directed at a rock singer. Bad poets are capable of killing famous poets, but not of killing footballers. In these, what shall we call them, poems … there’s something that doesn’t ring true, and in my opinion that something is the word “death”. If you ask me, he’s just playing with words.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Camps sighed, and this sigh signalled an end to the audience. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve arranged to go shopping with Dorothy. We’ve managed to get rid of the aunt. She’s busy packing her bags to return to England. She’s now seen for herself that Barcelona isn’t running alive with Aids, and Dorothy wants to shop and see the city without the old lady in tow.’
‘Shopping?’
‘Don’t you like shopping?’
‘To be honest, I’d prefer an intensive interrogation at police headquarters to having to go shopping with a woman.’
‘I find it both fascinating and delightful. I could write a guide-book on women’s boutiques in this city. I have a sister, whom I get on with very well, and she always rings me to go shopping with her. She says I have excellent taste. Wouldn’t you like to give it a try? Why don’t you join us? Dorothy must be waiting downstairs by now.’
Carvalho accompanied him to his rendezvous, because he couldn’t resist a second viewing of that creature with her air of future power, and the soft skin of the quintessential Englishwoman. ‘Voyeur,’ he said to himself, as he discovered himself undressing the girl with his eyes. She was wearing a green woollen dress, close-fitting at the waist, which gave a good intimation of her well-proportioned rear. Then there was that fiery explosion of red hair. And that mouth like a carnivorous plant. And the eyes the colour of green peppers. He envied Camps O’Shea as he watched him drive off with the girl in his imported Alfa. But something told him that the girl was in no danger at all.
The collective brain of the city, of the whole country in fact, was savouring, as yet a further demonstration of its own intelligence, the fact that Mortimer and his team had won their match on the ‘… ever-dangerous Betis pitch’. On the other hand, for all that Centellas was supposed to be part of the city’s collective memory, the fact that the team had managed a surprise home draw against a tough side from La Vidrera, achieved by another unexpected goal by Palacín, did not spark much interest. It merited a bare three lines in a summing-up of the day’s results, about the ‘Palacín effect’ on the otherwise uninspiring Centellas team. Three lines, however, was better than no lines at all, and before the afternooon training session at the Centellas ground the professionals and the amateurs alike eagerly devoured those three lines as a sign of identity justifying their existence. Palacín was crowned with an invisible halo: it was thanks to him that they were getting their name in the papers.
‘You can count on me to pass you the goals, eh, maestro?’
‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Confucius.’
‘Come on, come on. Let’s see some action! This is only the start. If I wasn’t here to get you sweating, you wouldn’t even have enough balls to tie your bootlaces.’
The players immersed themselves in the training session with an enjoyment that they hadn’t felt in a long time. If Centellas created a stir, talent scouts would start arriving from the bigger clubs, and one day one of them might end up getting the phone call that changes a person’s life — the call that gives meaning to what had previously been only a dream. Palacín, however, seemed unaffected by the euphoria of his fellow players, and as he ran and jumped and did his press-ups and dribbled a ball round oil drums that were strategically placed around the pitch, he did so with less than his usual enthusiasm — as if he had left his head somewhere and didn’t know where. He was plucked out of his reverie by a couple of unpleasant fouls by Toté during the warm-up, and his anger got the better of him. He found himself caught up in a duel of pushing, kicking and elbowing which the manager had to stop.
‘I’ve just about had it up to here with you two! What the hell do you think you’re trying to prove?!’
He wasn’t shouting at Toté, who was pawing the ground like an angry bull, but at Palacín.
‘Why can’t you just play football, and stop letting the goals go to your head?’
‘The bastard tried to kill me.’
‘Kill you … don’t be so pathetic …! I’ve just about had e-fucking-nough of you. You, Toté, you go and do some circuits, and I hope they do you some good. As for you, Palacín, go practise a few penalty shots, so that next time the good Lord decides to grant a penalty in our favour, we’ll give them something to remember us by.’
Palacín found the ritual of shooting penalties irritating. He never enjoyed the repeated exercise of gunning down a goalie, and only succeeded in getting twelve out of his twenty in.
He abandoned the penalties and stretched out on the ground for some leg exercises, raising f
irst one leg and then the other skywards. It was getting late. Fluffy clouds were passing overhead, and passing flocks of birds gave an autumnal feel to the space that occupied his gaze. He abandoned the exercises and lay back, relaxed. He felt as if he was out in the country, lying under a tree, with the world feeling cool at his shoulders, and somewhere in his mind a notion that he could dive right deep into the universe, a notion which sometimes came to him in his dreams and made him wake up suddenly with a sensation that he was falling out of bed. His knee was hurting, and he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to leave it many more days before he’d have to go looking for Marta again, to get his ration of cocaine and low-grade sex. He shut his eyes in an attempt to make himself disappear, but when he opened them again he was still there, lying on a small patch of grass that had somehow managed to survive in one corner of the Centellas pitch.
‘Dreaming of the seaside, are you?’
‘I’m not feeling well.’
‘Is the knee hurting?’
‘No. It’s my guts.’
‘It must be the salad they gave us at La Vidrera. You can bet your life they put rat poison in it to give us the shits.’
The manager sat next to him on the ground, and his voice was all of a sudden velvety-smooth.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Palacín. I know you’re new to the club, but as far as I’m concerned you’re not just anybody. I’ve always admired you, and I’m proud to have you with us. The trouble with Toté is that he’s a nobody, but he’s a particularly tough nobody, and he wants to prove that he’s not scared of you just because you’re famous. You follow? I have to do what I can to keep his morale up, because he’s got no balls. Don’t get me wrong.’
‘Sure, sure …’
‘He’s still got a few years of footballing ahead of him, and he’s like the others — worried that the club is going to fold. This is a very valuable piece of real estate. If the team goes down the pan, then Centellas disappears with it — and you probably haven’t seen them, but every day there’s a hundred vultures hanging around waiting for us to go under. You with me, Palacín?’
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