Off Side

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘What did she do to you?’

  It was obvious. Her face bore eloquent witness, and she realized that without having actually said anything she’d given the game away. She raised her hand to her lips, but no, no words had come from her mouth. Carvalho’s eyes had deduced the facts from reading the bruises on her face.

  ‘When Inspector Contreras finds out, he’ll kill me. He told me: “Señora Concha, this has to be a secret between the two of us.” ’

  ‘In other words, you got those bruises from the girl and her boyfriend.’

  ‘Contreras will kill me — although I don’t know why he’s being so secretive.’

  ‘Well now there’s a secret between you and me. You and I know that life is like the ladder of a chicken coop — short, and full of shit.’

  ‘That’s funny — that’s just how I see life. That’s what my father always used to say, and he was right. There’s gratitude for you …! I’d just been out for a walk, and I came home to find the litle bitch in my house, and everything turned upside down. Imagine it — I’d fed her, given her food, because I felt sorry for her, and then she comes to steal from me because she thinks that I’m stupid enough to leave my money where anyone can find it.’

  ‘They came to rob you, but did they find anything?’

  ‘Not a cent. And they even turned my poor invalid out of bed, in the room down the corridor, and we had to call an ambulance, and now he’s in a hospice, because the poor soul isn’t going to get over the shock. A hospice is one of those places where they take old people who haven’t got long to live.’

  ‘And they didn’t find anything?’

  A series of photographs flashed through Carvalho’s head, showing a pair of clumsy burglars running breathlessly towards the edge of disaster and leaping over their failures with all the eagerness of determined suicides.

  ‘It must have been after that that they went to break into the football club. There’s no other possible explanation.’

  ‘That’s what I think too. But Inspector Contreras said it wasn’t my job to do the thinking. He was doing the thinking, and the business about the drugs was obvious, even to a blind man, and he was going to teach them a lesson. He said that the girl and that miserable little rat she dragged round with her did it because they were hooked on drugs, and I can quite believe it, but as far as I’m concerned, it was the money they were after.’

  ‘Did you ever see Palacín under the influence of drugs?’

  ‘No. Mind you, it made me wonder sometimes, because there was always a strange smell in his room. A cross between Evostick and housepaint. But it turned out it was liniment. He used to take good care of himself. I never saw him under the influence of drugs. But as soon as I realized that the little bitch was chasing after him, and was taking him up to her flat, I told myself: “This is going to end up badly.” I don’t miss a lot from this balcony. This balcony is my life. That’s the only enjoyment I have in life — this balcony, and my television. I always watch Professor Perich. I find him so amusing. Do you ever watch him?’

  ‘I almost never watch television. It sends me to sleep.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what I’d do without my balcony and my television.’

  So saying, she suddenly turned stony-faced and studied Carvalho to see the effect of her words on him.

  Carvalho avoided her gaze and began to take his leave, with a new secret under his hat. Namely that Doña Concha kept her money either on her balcony, or in her television.

  Doña Concha cursed herself. Several times over. Why do I have to be such a big-mouth?! She waited for Carvalho to disappear up calle de Robadors, and absent-mindedly caressed the big flowerpot in which she kept her money. A pot with a false bottom, from which grew the plastic ivy plant which the milk lady was always admiring.

  ‘It looks so pretty from the street. So neat, you’d almost think it was plastic.’

  But she didn’t have time for self-flagellation now, and she rushed to her room in order to pretty herself. She needed to, she told herself, given the state of her face after those two bums had finished with her. You should look pretty if you’re going to the police station. Pretty, but maybe a trifle war-like, because when all’s said and done policemen like strong women. She was wearing a daisy-print dress, a pair of black stockings with seams, a belt with lashings of silver, and three rings on each hand, which looked expensive, as indeed they were. If you can’t wear your rings to the police station, what’s the point of having rings? And although she could easily have reached the police station on foot, by crossing calle del Hospital, the Ramblas and Puertaferrisa, with all this jewellery about her she didn’t dare, so she took a taxi instead, like some queen who has been forbidden by her chamberlain to walk even half a step. Assuming a regal bearing, she asked for Inspector Contreras, and she was peeved when the inspector barely registered her existence and said: ‘Would you mind waiting there.’

  And there she had waited, sitting on a hard old chair in a corridor of the police HQ, surrounded on all sides by offices with opaque windows and people bustling about doing heaven knows what, or rather she knew what, because everyone was going about their business, and they couldn’t care less if she rotted there. In the end, after she’d been waiting for at least half an hour, Contreras returned. He was obviously preoccupied and didn’t even look at her.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you, Inspector.’

  ‘I thought it was the other way round, actually — but go ahead — what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that a rather strange man came to see me this morning, at my boarding house. He said he was a private detective.’

  ‘The repulsive Carvalho, as I live and breathe.’

  ‘Yes, I think that was his name.’

  ‘And did you tell him anything about our little secret?’

  ‘Me? May I drop dead now, if I said so much as a word.’

  ‘You shouldn’t tell him anything, because he’s poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and he’s trying to make a name for himself. Right. That’s enough on the subject of crutch-sniffers.’

  Doña Concha burst out laughing.

  ‘Crutch-sniffers — the things you say!’

  ‘Anyway, down to business. I’ve called you in because the time has come to put you face to face with the girl. She doesn’t know that I know that it all started with an attack on you. You follow? I want to surprise her.’

  ‘I’m going to give her what she deserves.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. You hear?’

  Doña Concha click-clacked along behind the inspector, and her heart almost leapt into her mouth when all of a sudden, on the other side of one of the glass doors, she saw Marta, standing by the wall, swaying on her feet, looking more bedraggled than usual, with her face puffed up and scratched, her clothes falling off her, her skin moist with sweat and her eyes bulging from lack of sleep. Doña Concha felt momentarily sorry for her, and didn’t immediately reply when the inspector asked whether she recognized the girl.

  ‘I said, do you recognize her? Are you deaf?’

  ‘Of course I recognize her.’

  ‘This girl tried to rob you. You used to invite her into your house, and you gave her food, and then she goes and tries to steal from you and leaves you half dead on the floor. Is that correct?’

  ‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Inspector.’

  But her voice betrayed a tremor of pity, because she could see that the girl was falling apart.

  ‘Are you prepared to sign a statement to that effect?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’

  ‘In that case, let’s go.’

  Doña Concha wanted to say something before she went, something which would express her bitterness but at the same time her generosity of spirit, and as she prepared to turn towards the door, she raised her head in Marta’s direction and said: ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead. But I forgive you.’

  And off she went, with a p
aso doble sounding in her head which only she could hear, and hurried on by the inspector, who was clearly responding to the dictates of some secret urgency. He left her in the hands of a young officer seated at a typewriter, and went off to his office, where Lifante was waiting for him with two other young officers.

  ‘Right. If that doesn’t work, either we’re going to have to blow her legs off, or we’ll have to give her up as a bad job.’

  ‘It’s been almost seventy-two hours now; we ought to be thinking of using the anti-terrorist legislation.’

  ‘How the hell are we going to be able to use anti-terrorist legislation, after all the fuss over El Nani? What on earth are you thinking, Lifante? Don’t start with your contextual analyses now. Bring the boy in. Is he looking presentable?’

  ‘He’s just had a shower.’

  ‘Just signed his statement and all ready to leave, I trust.’

  While they went out to get the boy, he returned to the office where Marta was and, without looking at her, said: ‘Sit down.’

  She looked at him incredulously.

  ‘Sit down, I said. Are you deaf? There’s no point trying to be clever with me. I now know everything I need to know.’

  Marta sat down, and felt a wave of relief, but at the same time a terrible pain between her shoulder blades. The door opened and in came Marçal, followed by two inspectors. He was carrying a plastic carrier bag in one hand. He looked fresh and wide awake for once.

  ‘Well, here we all are. This boy is on his way home. He’s signed his statement, and he’s on his way. Give her the statement, Lifante. Take your friend’s statement, and have a good read.’

  She read it without reading it. He had admitted to everything that Contreras was wanting her to admit to. The deal was that he was to be the passive lamb who had followed her without realizing what they were getting into. She dropped the statement onto the table and tried to think, but she couldn’t. All she felt was an enormous tiredness.

  ‘Your friend is going to court now, and his daddy will be there to pay his bail. By tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest he’ll be at home, safe and sound and right as rain … So there’s no point in carrying on with this charade. We know everything that happened anyway. Including what happened to the lady at the boarding house. Take him away.’

  And they took him away. She waited for him to say something, something which might sum up their ten years together, ten years of rushing ever onwards. She savoured this phrase as if she was tasting the remnants of a meal which had been ejected half-digested into her mouth from a sick stomach. Rushing ever onwards. Contreras seemed relaxed.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said.

  Contreras waved Marçal’s statement under her nose.

  ‘The court will decide on that. Sign your statement and get out of here. You’ve done your bit. Me too. The lawyers and the judges will do the rest. You’ll see, you’ll come out of it OK. And when you get out of here, you’ll feel better. Police stations are a lot more wearing than prisons. Take it from me, I know, because I spend all my days here. Are you going to sign?’

  ‘Give it here.’

  ‘What do you want? A coffee? Something to eat? Do you want a sandwich from the café? A roll?’

  ‘A roll.’

  Contreras placed a hand on her shoulder as he walked past on his way out. Now that she was alone, she savoured the chair as if it was a warm, soft bed that could counter the deep chill that she had in her bones. For ten long years she had not slept. She had been waiting, on her feet, unable to sleep, waiting for her own destruction, and now here it was, destruction itself, enveloping her, and Marçal had gone off, abandoned her for ever. He would go home for another attempt at rehabilitating himself, and maybe this time it would work, because this time he wouldn’t be able to come running back to her. Miserable little shit that he was, growing under her skin like a parasite. And that fucking old woman had finished her off. You should never trust anyone who feels sorry for you. When she felt less tired, she would have a good cry, but she would need a corner to do it in, even if it was only the corner of a prison cell. Her sister would do what she could to help her, and her mother, and that relation who had always been a point of reference for her ever since she was a little girl, a relation who had been a well-respected figure both then and now. Captain Hook would help too, at the price of a lecture. People like to be generous; it helps them hide the poverty of their own lives. She was asleep when Contreras came back with the papers, so he left her sleeping and put a guard on her: ‘Wake her in half an hour.’

  ‘But the coffee will go cold.’

  ‘Well heat it up, then.’

  Lifante took his shoes off, sat in his chair and leaned back on its back legs so as to put his feet on the desk. The girl was sleeping in a sitting position, strangely stiff, and breathing gently. The effects of tiredness, Lifante thought to himself, and he moved from dispassionate examination to analysis. The girl was an interesting study in bodily expressivity. If a reader had been ignorant of the historical background — in other words had not known the general and particular history of events that had brought her to that chair, would he be able to deduce it simply from examining her body and the way it was positioned? He closed his eyes and tried to de-historicize his own knowledge. Let’s see. Let’s suppose I don’t know that this girl has just spent almost three days on her feet without sleeping, and that she is accused of attempted robbery, assault, dealing drugs and murder. All I know is that I have come into this room, and I see her as she is now. Here I have a system of passive messages, so now I have to apply the Moles and Zelteman principle: on top of every particular piece of information is superimposed a set of other pieces of information which are capable of being interpreted by the person receiving them. This body looks as if it’s had a hard life. Resting, but tense; poorly dressed to start with, but the poor state of dress has probably been aggravated by a lack of care imposed by particular circumstances. An ill-treated body, the tell-tale signs of violence, a sleeping position which is tense and defensive, and a framing element (the chair) which is insufficient for the extreme tiredness which this body expresses. With all these elements I can arrive at a conclusion, but it will not be an innocent conclusion, given that my visual memory, that is to say, my visual culture, makes me associate this system of signs with similar scenes that I have seen in films or on television, or that I have read in books. That is to say, not only is there, as Moles and Zelteman would say, strict and objective information which is open to interpretation by me; there are also other reference points which help us to locate the meaning of this situation. There are only two possible interpretations: either this girl is in the hands of gangsters who have been mistreating her, or she is in a police station and is in the process of being interrogated. It’s strange how everything tends to have a history, how all analysis seems to lead inexorably to the historic, even though this tends to diminish the pleasure of analysis.

  ‘Lifante.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Wake her up.’

  He put on his shoes and stood up to go over to the girl. He put his hand on her shoulder, and noted how insubstantial she felt. He found something repellent in this contact, but he couldn’t decide whether it was her body as a material fact, or the historic context in which it was situated. The girl woke suddenly and tried to stand up.

  ‘Relax. Do you want a coffee? It’s gone cold because we let you sleep for a bit.’

  She shrugged her shoulders and drank the milky coffee, sipping it first, and then drinking greedily. Why drink a coffee like that? Is it a cultural norm? A ‘manner’, as Princeton would say? Or is it not a ‘manner’ but a simple response reflecting an elementary need made urgent by force of circumstance? And she was devouring the roll. When all’s said and done, the girl’s got a good appetite, Lifante thought, and he was glad for her.

  Sánchez Zapico let it be known that an insuperable wall of obstacles stood between him and Carvalho, but when his secretary filte
red to him two of the words which had emerged from the lips of his visitor, he gave them some thought, and finally decided to see him: the words were ‘Contreras’ and ‘investigation’. Most particularly ‘Contreras’. However, he prepared himself to receive him in the manner of a man who was extremely busy, looking as if he was expecting simultaneous telephone calls from Tokyo, Singapore and San Francisco, whereas in fact he was overseeing his plurality of interests in scrap iron, sugared almonds and building sites, which were manifested in a series of phone calls that bounced around the walls of a cheap office, and orders shouted to a pair of hapless secretaries. He explained that Carvalho would have to keep it brief, and so would he. He had needed a player who was good, but cheap. Centellas couldn’t run to the luxury of big names, so he had approached a middleman who had once had something of a reputation: Raurell. Did he remember the name? Well, never mind, because in the 1960s, when it seemed that the only foot-ballers you could sign up were Latin Americans, Raurell had filled Spain with self-styled sons of Spanish fathers, who in fact had been nothing of the sort. Now he had run into hard times, was more or less retired, and his list of footballers ditto. When Carvalho asked him what references he had had for Palacín, he replied that he had relied on his own memories of the man. Palacín had no current form as a footballer, and Centellas hadn’t even had enough money to buy a video of his past performances. He had seen some photos, and a few newspaper cuttings from the Mexican press, which said that Palacín had won himself a reputation as a gentleman with the Oaxaca fans — ‘I repeat, a gentleman!’

  ‘Did you really think you would be able to solve your team’s crisis by hiring a player who’s basically clapped out?’

  ‘I didn’t know that the man was finished. He was a name. A ground like Centellas could very easily be filled by the likes of Palacín, and in fact he played some very good games. He still had something of his old self.’