Off Side

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘Do we owe you anything?’

  ‘I’ll see señor Dosrius about the bill.’

  Just as he was about to beat a seemly but hasty retreat, Basté walked across and into his path.

  ‘Just a moment. Is that all?’

  ‘He was trying to tell someone something. The number of pills he took would only have been enough to put him to sleep for a day. I’ve made him vomit, but only as a precaution. He wanted to give you a fright. That’s all.’

  By now any residual sympathy in Basté had totally evaporated. He sat in an armchair facing the bathroom, and positioned himself into the stance of a father waiting to receive an ungrateful and inconsiderate son. There was no sound from the toilet, and when Camps finally appeared, he came in slow motion, as if willing himself forward. He stood before them, in his pyjamas, but obviously feeling naked. He had dark rings round his eyes, his lips were tinged with purple, and his face was hanging so low in shame that at any moment it looked like falling off. Basté allowed himself a dramatic pause so as to enable his first words to ring out more emphatically.

  ‘So? You owe us an explanation, Sito. And particularly to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Carlos.’

  ‘Sito, you are a grown man, and I have helped you as much as I was able, out of the respect that I have for your father. But I cannot permit you to play stupid tricks, frightening your friends like this. I insist, you owe me an explanation.’

  ‘It’s in the letter …’

  ‘Your letter is gibberish, Sito. I can’t make head or tail of it. What are you supposed to be guilty of? Whom have you killed? In the name of all that’s holy, who have you murdered, and what’s all this about anonymous notes?’

  Camps needed something to cover him, and he retrieved his silk dressing gown in order to don it as a protective armour. He thus regained sufficient stature to be able to lose it again in the depths of a leather armchair which enveloped him like a friendly glove.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Stop it! I won’t have you treating me like this! I’m not your slave, Carlos! For fuck’s sake!’

  It was probably the first time in his life that Camps had ever said ‘fuck’, and it was probably the first time in his life that anyone had said such a word to Basté de Linyola.

  ‘Don’t take it like that, Sito.’

  ‘How am I supposed to take it? I am confused, humiliated, and angry with myself. Can’t you see that? At least you understand, Carvalho, don’t you …?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about anything. I haven’t opened my note, but I think I know what it says. You’re the author of the anonymous letters, aren’t you …’

  ‘Yes. It’s horrible.’

  ‘Very good, Sito. So you’re the author of the anonymous letters. But does that mean that you have to go round committing suicide and putting on this ridiculous performance? You have shown a degree of stupidity that I would not have expected from you. And that is that. Why do you have to complicate my life, and everybody else’s?’

  ‘I knew nothing about it until last night. I turned the radio on before I went to bed. That was when I found out about the murder.’

  ‘What murder?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard? You neither, Carvalho?’

  Carvalho admitted his ignorance. Basté also claimed ignorance, although he may only have been pretending, having by now recovered his bearings.

  ‘You really haven’t heard? It turns out that a footballer was killed last night. From one of the lesser clubs, but you’ll know the name. Palacín. The centre forward who one time looked set to conquer the world. I remember him from when I was a kid. I used to think he was amazing. Do you remember Palacín, Carlos?’

  Carlos remained silent.

  ‘He signed a few weeks ago for Centellas, and yesterday the police found him dead. Apparently they also found the two people who killed him. And in four of the players’ lockers they discovered drugs.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘No. The truth is, I’m going to get very annoyed in a minute. What exactly is the connection between this murder and your anonymous notes? Was it you who killed him?’

  ‘No, for heaven’s sake. What I was doing was a game, a dangerous game, maybe, but still a game. I didn’t even know that Palacín was in Barcelona and that he was still playing. I swear it.’

  ‘All right, you’re going to have to explain, then. What on earth persuaded you to go and make yourself responsible for the murder, and drag us all out of bed at four o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Don’t you remember, Carlos: “Because you have usurped the function of the gods who, in another age, guided the conduct of men, without bringing supernatural consolation, but simply the therapy of the most irrational of cries, the centre forward will be killed at dusk.” He was killed at dusk! Don’t you understand? I’m sure Carvalho understands, don’t you?’

  ‘I understand. You are a sensitive soul. A poet.’

  ‘Stupid, more like.’

  Basté got up and began buttoning his charcoal-grey velvet jacket. Its elegance was almost an affront at that hour of the morning.

  ‘I am not concerned with the extreme stupidity of what you have done — both things — the anonymous letters, and then this ludicrous suicide attempt. The problem is that now you’re going to have to be very careful, so that the police don’t try and link your notes with the murder. They are two entirely separate issues, and I have no intention of letting the club’s name get mixed up in this grubby little business. Not just for my sake, you understand. I’m concerned for the prestige of the club that I represent. You’re going to have to get yourself sorted out with the police. I can cover for you as long as the situation gets no more complicated than it already is. That’s as much as I have to say. When this has all blown over, I shall expect your resignation. As for you, Carvalho, you’ll receive what’s due to you, and I expect to hear no more of it. You haven’t done a lot for your money. You’ll get a cheque, and I won’t require a receipt.’

  ‘So at least I’ll save on the VAT.’

  ‘And the cheque will be sufficiently generous for you to keep your mouth shut. This whole business has been ridiculously childish. And before I go, Sito, I want to say something else. I realize that this job has been a bit restrictive for you, and you wanted to live it as a work of literature. That’s a very dangerous exercise, of a kind which could destroy even the best of writers — which you, incidentally, are not. I am the president of a football club in the same sense that I could be president of the United Nations. I don’t feel that I have been banished here from some higher destiny, probably because I have done things in my life. You, on the other hand, have acted like a spoilt child. You wouldn’t even make an actor. And another thing: please, the next time you decide to try suicide, don’t come bothering your friends.’

  The noise of a closing door indicated that Basté was on his way out. Camps had a look of increasing incredulity on his face, and launched into a tirade against the cruelty of his departing employer, the cold-bloodedness of victors in their hour of triumph, and the even greater cold-bloodedness of victors who feel that their victory wasn’t as great as they deserved.

  ‘His only interest is in getting the shit buried.’

  ‘I expect Contreras will be wanting to see us.’

  ‘He’s rung already. He’s expecting us at ten this morning. He’s of the opinion that the whole business has now been cleared up. Apparently the police found a couple of no-hopers standing next to the dead man’s body. They had some kind of relationship with the man, although it’s not entirely clear what. It appears it was a revenge killing, or a settling of accounts. The cocaine which turned up in the dressing rooms seems to have implicated other Centellas players too. It was a magical coincidence, Carvalho. Magic. Do you believe in magic? No. I thought as much. How else can we explain it, though?’

  ‘Death is like fate. It comes to find you. But it has its own logic. Somet
imes it’s so complicated to unravel the threads that you end up getting lost. One centre forward was threatened, but another one ends up getting killed.’

  ‘The similarities are entirely coincidental, Carvalho. That’s the amazing thing about the whole business.’

  ‘On this occasion everyone will agree that it was a coincidence. Contreras in particular, especially if he thinks he’s already solved the case.’

  ‘We’ll have to let Contreras do the talking.’

  Yes, they would have to let him do the talking. It was necessary that he made the final statement on the matter, and then signed it. The best statements are always the ones that the police write for you when they agree with you, or when you need to be in agreement with them. Carvalho turned into the street and went looking for a newspaper kiosk. There were few kiosks in the upper part of town, and this meant walking all the way to Plaza de Sarriá before he found one. The news was featured in a small item on the front pages: acting on information received, the police had shown up at the Centellas FC ground, which they suspected was being used as a base for drug dealing. The raid was mounted as a surprise operation, and as they broke into the dressing rooms of the historic football club they discovered a young couple and the body of a man who had been murdered. It appears that this was Alberto Palacín, a Centellas player. The couple were arrested, and their names have been given as Marta Becera Gozalo and M. Ll., both unemployed and of no fixed abode. It was subsequently revealed that the woman was a professional prostitute and drug dealer. After a thorough search of the dressing-room lockers, four other people were arrested — all of them Centellas players. They were found with quantities of cocaine in their lockers in excess of what could be expected for strictly personal use. It is still too early to formulate an overall view of the matter, but it has been suggested that Alberto Palacín was a linkman with the American Mafia, and that Marta Becera Gozalo and M. Ll. were drug distributors working for him. The evidence seems to indicate that the footballer was killed by the couple in the heat of the moment after an argument, and that Centellas FC was being used as a cover for drug-dealing operations whose ramifications the police are now investigating. The club’s chairman, the industrialist Juan Sánchez Zapico, said that he was shocked to hear about these developments, because they threatened the very survival of this historic club, which has, he said, been under threat of closure after its financial troubles and its poor performance in recent years. Sánchez Zapico, who has fought hard for the club’s survival, revealed his disappointment to us, and used a historic turn of phrase to indicate how depressed he was: ‘I did not send my ships out to fight with elements such as these.’

  Why did the girl have her full name printed, and her companion only his initials? Carvalho had only two possible answers: either his family had pulled a few strings, or he had been the one who had tipped off the police about the drugs. The news article said nothing about the weapon used or the circumstantial evidence of the killing. Carvalho browsed through the centre forward’s brief CV with a degree of interest that surprised him. Some people are born lucky, and some are broken before they even start, he concluded as he read of the short life and the scant miracles of Alberto Palacín, and somewhere in the inner recesses of his brain there registered the fact that the authorities were seeking the footballer’s ex-wife and son in order to inform them of his death. Carvalho had too much in front of him that day. Basté’s phone call had caught him as he was getting over the effects of a bottle of red Cacavelos which he had drunk to his own health, toasting himself and wishing for the night to turn as quickly as possible into sleep and forgetfulness.

  ‘They’re putting Bromide into a home tomorrow. They’ve even found him a bed.’ Biscuter and Charo had both phoned to pass on the news.

  Having drunk the bottle he fell asleep. He dreamed of Camps O’Shea in the process of trying to commit suicide. He’d had to listen to the sound of his vomiting, spewing up everything, and now his consciousness was full of premonitions of death. The centre forward had been killed at dusk. If destiny exists, he thought, a person would have to commit suicide. Sooner rather than later.

  ‘How many hours have you been on your feet, now?’

  Marta shrugged her shoulders, but even this simple gesture sent a vibrating pain right through her body. She felt like a tensed steel hawser and she ached all over, from her swollen feet to her tired and drooping head. The weight of bewilderment in her brain was slowly turning into a tumour which was becoming increasingly malignant as she reviewed the absurd circumstances of her life.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  What was the name of this unspeakable policeman, who was just as vile as the others, but who was offering friendliness in the manner of a gentleman offering a woman a seat on a bus?

  ‘I’m going to tell you what happened, and then, if you care to repeat it the way I told you, you can sign the statement, and then we’ll let you sleep for as long as you want, Marta. Look, kid, it’ll be a weight off your mind. You had a relationship with the footballer. He was into big-time drug dealing, and you were just small fry. You got your boyfriend involved in the business as well. Palacín tried to pull a fast one on you. You went to see him for an explanation. When he refused to explain, you stabbed him.’

  ‘What with? We weren’t armed.’

  ‘Your boyfriend had a knife on him.’

  ‘For trimming his nails.’

  It hurt when she tried to think. She was sore all over from the blows she had received at the hands of the police, and all her extremities were aching from the pain of not having been allowed to sit down, not even to go to the toilet. ‘I want to piss.’ ‘Piss where you are, then.’ And she had, and they had punched her in the back and threatened to make her drink it. ‘Where’s my friend?’ ‘He’s said his piece. They’ll be sorting out his bail soon, and then he can go home.’

  ‘You did it because you were hooked on drugs. If you were hooked on drugs, the judges will count it as a mitigating factor. You know you’re hooked. If you weren’t hooked, you wouldn’t have done what you did.’

  ‘We only went there to steal money.’

  ‘What about the stolen car?’

  ‘Travel. We wanted to travel.’

  ‘You know there’s more to it than that, Marta. You can tell me — just think of me as your father. And just remember — I could always hand you over to some of our younger officers, and they’re capable of just about anything. You know that there’s a lot more to it than what you’ve told me. If you give me a way out, then I can sort things out for you. You with me? I can’t go to my superiors, and those bastards from the press, without a result. You help me and I’ll help you. I want a statement from you to the effect that Palacín was a drug dealer, and was also running you as a prostitute.’

  ‘No. He wasn’t a dealer. He was just a poor bastard like me.’

  ‘Eighteen hours without sleep, kid. Eighteen hours without sitting down. And it can go on. Twenty, thirty, forty … I can use the anti-terrorist legislation in your case if I need to, because, in my opinion, you were preparing an armed hold-up. Are you with me, Marta? Now look, your boyfriend’s been a bit cleverer than you. He’s signed his statement, and let’s say you don’t come out of it too well.’

  ‘Let him say it to my face.’

  ‘You won’t have a lot of face left, by the time the lads here have finished with you. Where did you get those scratches on your face? We don’t scratch, that’s for sure. Was it Palacín, before he died?’

  ‘He was already dead when we got there.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, a well-educated girl like you, telling lies. We’ve talked with your sister and your brother-in-law. They appear to be respectable people. And your boyfriend, even more so. Now listen. His father has a lot of influence, and neither you nor I have a lot going for us. He’s going to get an easy ride of it, because his family’s got money. But as far as I can see yours hasn’t. So let’s be sensible, eh? How and when was Palacín getting the
drugs to you? And what did he do that provoked you to stab him?’

  She had lost her sense of time, and felt the need to find out where Marçal was.

  ‘Where’s Marçal? How is he?’

  ‘A lot better off than you. He’s signed already. We’ll get him up before the judge shortly. He’ll get bail, and he’ll be off home in no time at all. Don’t be stupid, girl. You’ll end up signing what we want in the end. You’ll end up signing even for things that you never did. It’s just a matter of time and maybe a bit of rough handling. Nobody’s going to tell you that they’re going to jump you, because you’d probably like that. You’re just a bit of shit, kid, why kid ourselves? But a couple of smacks in the mouth is the least that you’re going to get from my boys … And I won’t go into what the rough ones might do. Trust me. You won’t hear a bad word against Contreras, Marta. I’ve been forty years in this job. A professional is a professional. Did you kill Palacín?’