Off Side

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  Biscuter was not in the office, but his absence was more than sufficiently made up for by the presence of three North Africans, one of whom was Mohammed. This would not have been the first beating Carvalho had taken in his life, and he sounded out his body, asking it for some small sign of solidarity. His body made no answer. It wasn’t looking for a fight. When he tried to estimate the distance between himself and the door, with the idea of making a run for it, and as he looked over at the drawer where he kept his gun, he deduced that his fate was more or less sealed, and that he wouldn’t achieve a lot by attempting elaborate conversation with a man of as few words as Mohammed. What’s more, the three men were rapidly forming up in a triangle around him, and Carvalho stood at the centre, trying to relax his body so that the blows would hurt less when they came. But nobody hit him, and nobody said a word. Mohammed’s face showed a degree of inscrutability more appropriate to an Asian than to an African, and when he finally spoke his tone struck Carvalho as alarmingly normal.

  ‘Relax. We’ve come to talk with you.’

  Carvalho moved across to his chair and sat down. The triangle reformed. Two of them stood behind him, and Mohammed had only to turn round in order to continue his role as the apex.

  ‘You know too much, but you probably don’t know everything. When somebody knows some things, but doesn’t know everything, he ends up saying a lot of stupid things.’

  There he went again, with his ‘stupid this’ and ‘stupid that’.

  ‘You don’t worry us, but go easy with what you tell people, and just so that you don’t go saying stupid things, we want to tell you something. What did you think when you saw me near the stadium?’

  ‘I thought we’d already discussed that.’

  ‘I was “discussing”, as you put it. You were acting cocky. And that was stupid, because now we could give you a bit of what you deserve. You deserve a good kicking. But a year has many days, and a day has many hours. For the time being it’s more important that you listen. Somebody killed a football player, and you were telling me that a football player had been threatened. Now I know it wasn’t the same football player, but a football player was still killed. We want you to know that it wasn’t us who did it.’

  ‘Who are “you”?’

  ‘We are we. You know perfectly well what I mean. Stupid. You’re all racists, and you know perfectly well what I mean when I say “we”. We know that somebody has hired certain people to organize a frame-up and to get certain other people to admit to a crime. The people they hired were stupid people, not very professional, the kind of people who use drugs, and who’d do anything for a dose. They did it very badly, and someone got killed, but we had nothing to do with it; and we want you to know it, and we want your tongue to know it. Watch out what your tongue goes round saying, because otherwise we might just have to cut it out.’

  Just behind the nape of his neck Carvalho heard the click of a flick-knife opening.

  ‘Show him.’

  A dark-skinned hand appeared before Carvalho’s eyes, offering him the image of a splendid flick-knife, capable of cutting out his tongue with one flick of the man’s wrist.

  ‘Only stupid people go outside their limits. For us, survival means not going outside our territory. Here, inside, everything’s easy, but outside we’d be like fish out of water, or like you with a lump of concrete tied to your feet at the bottom of Barcelona harbour. One of these days, they’re going to dredge that harbour, and they’re going to find a lot of stupid people just like you.’

  ‘Who set up this whole shebang?’

  ‘This what?’

  ‘This stupid thing. The business about the murder and the “confession”.’

  ‘I don’t know. Nor do we want to know. Those kinds of decisions are made outside our territory. You might find out, and I don’t envy you. There’s nothing so stupid as knowing things for no reason, because it doesn’t get you anywhere. We come from a poor country, where we have learned to live on very little, and by knowing only what it is necessary to know. You Spaniards have too much of everything, and you also know too much. Knowing too much is for stupid people. We can’t waste any more time now, but don’t forget, watch your tongue.’

  ‘At least you must know who actually did it.’

  ‘There’s no point your knowing it, because they’re not here any more. You’d have to hunt them on rubbish tips all over Europe and North America. Who’s going to go looking for them?’

  He gave a nod of his head, and the triangle broke up. The three North Africans made for the door without taking their eyes off him, and before they left Mohammed pointed to something on the desk.

  ‘Your servant has left you a note. The shoeshine man is very ill.’

  They hadn’t even left yet, and the room was already filling up with deferred responsibilities: Charo, Bromide, Biscuter … Biscuter had written in his childish hand: ‘Bromide is very poorly and Charo and I have gone to see him. He is in the El Amparo clinic, on calle Ponterolas. Come quickly, boss.’

  But the necessity of exorcizing the omen obliged Carvalho to remain in his chair, with a painful pressure in his chest, as if his lungs had been filled with rotten air. Eventually he opened a drawer and pulled out his map of Barcelona. He managed to locate calle Ponterolas in a remote corner of Barcelona, a forgotten street for a clinic that was probably equally forgettable. From the open drawer an alarm signal registered in his head. His gun. His gun was missing. The Africans had taken it. He went down the outside stairs two at a time, and was in such a hurry to get his car started that he put it into the wrong gear and crunched into the car in front as he tried to get out. As he drove down the street his thoughts were getting too painful for him, so he turned on the radio. The speaker was announcing that a press conference was about to begin, which would be addressed by Basté de Linyola, and he emphasized that something important was probably in the air, because this time it would be the club’s chairman appearing before the press, and not the club’s spokesman, Camps O’Shea, who was apparently away on business that morning. Another indication of the importance of the press conference was the fact that Basté was accompanied by the club’s vice-chairman, along with Mortimer, and the team captain. The radio announcer found the absence of Camps O’Shea surprising, seeing that he was usually the medium for the club’s official pronouncements.

  ‘I can now see Basté de Linyola coming into the main hall, together with Riutort, Mortimer, and the club captain, Palacios. The press conference is about to begin.

  There was the sound of camera flashguns going off; then the room quietened to let Basté de Linyola begin.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends … In the past few days the citizens of Barcelona have been distressed to hear of the events surrounding the death of Alberto Palacín, who, a few years ago, was an outstanding player with this club, and was once one of Spain’s most promising footballers. Even though the facts of what has happened are quite unconnected to the life of our glorious club, we cannot remain unmoved at the death of someone who has been part of our history. A great Catalan singer, Raimon, says that those who lose their origins lose their identity. Well, paraphrasing him I could say that those who lose their history also lose their identity. We would like to do something to show that this club does not forget, all the more so because this unfortunate case has cost the life of one of us. The club wants to do something for Alberto Palacín and his family, and when I say “the club” I’m not just referring to the board, but to the team as well, and our fans. We are organizing a testimonial match for Alberto Palacín, between a club side and a selection of overseas players who are playing for other clubs in the Spanish League. At the same time I can tell you that we have got in touch with Palacín’s family, and at this very moment Palacín’s wife Immaculada, and his son, are on their way to Spain from Bogotá. We hope that in this moment of grief our great family — among which, of course, we include all of you — will show itself capable of sharing this grief, of making it our own, and we
hope that Palacín, wherever he is now, will be able to give that final sigh of relief which heroes, whether fallen or not, give after a decisive victory. Thank you.’

  A salvo of applause rose above the insistent noise of camera flashguns, and the radio announcer’s voice rose above both combined.

  ‘An emotional moment like this leaves you with a lump in your throat, but news is news and unfortunately we now have to interrupt this relay to go across to the airport, where any moment now we’re expecting the arrival of two people who meant the world to Alberto Palacín. While we share the emotion of the words just spoken by Basté de Linyola, we’re going to have to interrupt this transmission so that we can get over to the airport. I now return you to the studio.’

  Carvalho suddenly changed his mind, gave a turn of the steering wheel, and pointed the car in the opposite direction to the hospital where Bromide was, with the instinct of one who goes looking for inconclusive endings. He mentally asked Bromide’s forgiveness, and told himself that the man was in the company of better people than himself. The city seemed to be trying to escape from itself even more than usual, and the armada of cars driving out to the airport seemed unusually dense. As he arrived, Carvalho saw a crowd in the international arrivals lounge that was probably bigger than any Centellas gate. He had only to merge with the throng to hear the glories of Palacín being sung on all sides, in varying conversational styles and richnesses of vocabulary. ‘There’s been nobody like him for using his head — not since the days of César.’ It sounded like a bit of Shakespeare, but it was a comparative exercise in footballing reminiscence. The general opinion was that somebody had had it in for Palacín and had destroyed a man who could have been the best Spanish footballer of all time. By the time he got to the sliding door that led into the customs area, Palacín had been transformed into the best player in the world, and everyone had seen him play, regardless of the fact that some of them were too young to have been around at the time. Press photographers and TV cameramen were hovering about with the light of obsession in their eyes, and the guardia civil had to force a way through so that the reception committee headed by Basté could take up position near the customs exit. There was still no sign of Camps O’Shea, and Mortimer seemed incapable of stopping smiling, despite the fact that he was effectively attending Palacín’s second funeral. His head was probably occupied with thoughts of the following Sunday’s goals, or maybe he was remembering goals from the past, and this whole performance must have looked like an anthropological ritual. Anthropological in the sense of national characteristics. The Latin temperament, and all that … Flashing green letters announced the arrival of the flight, and everybody struggled to get a better position for the moment when the doors would open and the last remains of the life and works of Alberto Palacín would slide into view, like an appetizing morsel of collective spirituality. And while the more enthusiastic were trying to involve the rest in singing the club’s theme song, without much sign of anybody being able to remember the words, all of a sudden the doors opened, and behind one pair of guardia civil appeared another pair of guardia civil, and then another, and the crowd and the cameras swayed and moved with the pushing and shoving of the police as they tried to clear a path to the centre of the celebration. Basté de Linyola was propelling a woman through the crowd, his arm around her shoulder. She was in mourning. Her whole body was in mourning, as were her eyes behind her dark glasses. The splendid flower of her big pink mouth seemed to be the only live thing in her thin, bony frame. And at her side came a boy, who was tall for his age in the opinion of various experts in heights and ages of boys, and he stared at the ground, partly because he was confused by the triumphant smile that he was incapable of repressing, and partly because his father was posthumously bestowing on him the role of hero. The applause seemed to legitimate the sadness of his family and the triumphal death of a footballer who had been killed under a cloud of suspicion. A sense of the ridiculous defeated various attempts to shout ‘Long live Palacín!’ but when the more eager among them resorted to chanting the club’s name, the effect was more rousing than their singing. Carvalho pushed his way through to the line of guardia civil, because he wanted to see if he could read anything in Basté de Linyola’s face which would betray his real state of mind, given that Basté de Linyola was very busy being Basté de Linyola at that moment. Several hours previously he had turned the appropriate phrases … ‘our great family … will show itself capable of sharing this grief, of making it our own, and we hope that Palacín, wherever he is now, will be able to give that final sigh of relief which heroes, whether fallen or not, give after a decisive victory …’ — a complex sentence, which he had thought up over breakfast. Basté actually seemed to have tears in his eyes, and while the boy continued smiling the woman was tearful behind her dark glasses. When it was all over, Carvalho followed the caravan of cars returning to the city, and on the way he tuned in to pick up the last few crumbs of the radio news. The testimonial match would take place in a fortnight, and the kick-off would be given by Palacín’s son. In a separate development, the police had announced that Palacín’s presumed killer had now confessed and would be appearing in court in a few hours. The caravan of cars had the feel of a collective subject returning from a funeral. It was as if they had all just attended a cannibal banquet. The fans were drunk with emotion, and the cars seemed to share a certain complicity. And what was he going to do about Bromide? Bromide, who now stood at night’s distant horizon.