At three in the morning, he called Lita Vilardell. A man picked up the phone. It was the lawyer Viladecans.
‘Ask Señorita Vilardell if she has a piano lesson tomorrow.’
‘Is that why you’re calling at this hour?’
‘Just ask her.’
She came to the phone herself.
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That I want to see you tomorrow. Early, if possible.’
‘Couldn’t you have waited till the morning?’
‘No. I thought I’d give you all night to think about what we’re going to talk about.’
The woman pulled away from the telephone and had a whispered conversation with Viladecans. It was he who came back on the line.
‘Couldn’t you come round now?’
‘No.’
Carvalho hung up. He slept fitfully for brief spells, tangling up the bedclothes as he tossed and turned. During the times when he was wide awake, he consoled himself with the thought that he was not the only one who wouldn’t be sleeping that night.
They had just finished taking a shower. They asked Carvalho casually if he would care to join them for breakfast. The detective declined with a wave of his hand. They proceeded to butter their toast and to spread the jam with a curious air of childlike absorption. Drinking white coffee as if it were the elixir of life. Taking obvious pleasure in breathing in the morning air that entered through the half-open balcony door.
‘Would you like a coffee at least?’
‘Yes, please. Black, with no sugar.’
‘Are you diabetic?’
‘No. When I was young, I fell in love with a girl who was a coffee addict. Black with no sugar. I got used to it out of love and solidarity.’
‘What became of the girl?’
‘She married an Austrian who had a little aeroplane. Now she lives in Milan with an Englishman. She likes Englishmen, and she writes surrealist poetry in which I sometimes appear.’
‘Just think. What an interesting life this man has had!’
Viladecans smiled broadly and lit up a cigarette.
Drawing deeply, as if bent on consuming the cigarette in a single puff, he immediately filled the room with smoke.
‘Do you often phone people at three in the morning to fix appointments?’
‘It seemed a reasonable time to me. One has returned home and just finished making love.’
‘You must lead a very orderly life. I prefer the afternoon, personally.’
‘So do I.’
Viladecans listened to their conversation in silence.
‘I really don’t see how I fit in here,’ he said, finally.
‘You will. In fact, maybe you fit in more than it seems. Now that you’ve satisfied your stomachs, let me tell you my little problem. Three months ago, Carlos Stuart Pedrell was stabbed in San Magín. He was left wounded. He thought he was probably dying, and so he tried to find help. He ran through the various possibilities, and finally decided on you. After all, you’d had a passionate relationship for the past eight years.’
‘That’s putting it too strongly.’
‘As I was saying, a passionate relationship. Anyway, the fact is that he chose you. He told you that he was wounded, and asked you to go and pick him up. Maybe you were reluctant, maybe not. But in the end you went. Then you took him somewhere. Here? Yes, probably here. You must have called someone to help you. Or maybe that someone was already here. Would I be wrong in supposing that it was you?’
Viladecans blinked and smiled.
‘Ridiculous.’
‘If not you, then it must have been the guy with the Harley Davidson.’
‘Which guy with the Harley Davidson …?’
‘She knows who I mean. So, you took a while checking that Stuart Pedrell was dying—so long, in fact, that he actually died right here. Then you and Viladecans, or you and the Harley Davidson guy, took the body back into the car. You looked for a suitable spot out of the city. You eventually settled on an abandoned building site. Viladecans might even have known about it from one of his dealings with the property companies. You pushed the body over the fence, and heard it fall to the ground and roll down the slope. You thought it would be weeks before the body was found, but the very next day a car thief was running from the police and tried to hide on the site. They fished him out. Stuart Pedrell must have said something before he died. He probably put together a few jumbled sentences about where he had been for the previous year. That year suddenly became a threatening black hole for you. Did he tell them that he was trying to get help from his former lover? From the girlfriend he had once arranged to meet in London at four in the afternoon, in the middle of Hyde Park? Or at the Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen, at the Laughter Well?’
‘You’re very well informed about Carlos’s erotic fantasies.’
‘I’ve already said that everything about people like you is public knowledge. You needed to know where Stuart Pedrell had been—which were the Southern Seas that he’d travelled. So did the widow and her partners. After all, the interests at stake ran into millions.’
‘I had no hand in starting the investigation. Mima acted alone. In fact, I thought it was absurd from the outset. But as her lawyer, I couldn’t refuse.’
‘As her lawyer, and as one of the parties involved. I’m no moralist, and I won’t dispute your right to get rid of embarrassing dead bodies. Your chosen method wasn’t particularly tasteful, but the value of a human being is and always has been a matter of convention. Maybe you could even have done something to save his life.’
‘There was nothing that could have been done.’
‘Lita!’
‘What does it matter now? He knows everything and nothing. It’s his word against ours. Your deductions are entirely correct, Señor Carvalho. It wasn’t the Harley Davidson rider but my friend here. We were together when he rang—in bed, to be precise. Even if the call had actually been from the South Seas, it could hardly have seemed more distant, more absurd. At first I didn’t want to go, but his voice sounded really scared. The two of us went to find him. He wouldn’t go to a hospital. We offered to drop him outside one, and then we would have driven off. But he refused. He wanted a doctor who was also a friend. We thought about whom we could call. But he didn’t give us enough time. He died.’
‘Whose idea was it to throw him over the fence?’
‘That’s not important. We thought of how it would look: Stuart Pedrell’s body showing up in his lover’s apartment, at a time when she was having an affair with his lawyer. An Interviu article would expose the evil ways of the rich, and would probably also dig up dirt on the companies in which Carlos was involved … We had no choice.’
‘You could have left him outside his own house. It would have looked as if he hadn’t had enough strength to ring the bell. The wanderer returns home to die among his family.’
‘That didn’t occur to us. Neither of us has that much of a literary imagination. Do we?’
‘Leave me out of it. I didn’t agree to anything. I haven’t said a word.’
‘Shouldn’t you be saying that you’ll only speak in the presence of your lawyer …?’
‘Laugh if you like. We’ll have to see how Mima reacts.’
‘What will she do? Brandish her wounded love? She cares even less than I did about Carlos. What do you think, Señor Carvalho? Can we expect a happy ending?’
‘You mean, can you expect a trouble-free ending?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s not up to me. The widow will have the last say.’
‘I would like to suggest, Señor Carvalho, without prejudicing anything, and strictly off the record, that there might be ways of resolving this business to everyone’s satisfaction. Couldn’t we be written out of the story? I’d pay handsomely.’
‘I wouldn’t pay anything. Don’t be stupid. What do we have to lose?’
‘The bill I give the widow will be quite high. I think I’ll be paid handsomely enough, an
d the case has also given me the chance to examine a set of exemplary circumstances that almost make me believe in fate. Some things are against nature. If you try to deny your own age, to escape from your social condition, in the end it turns to tragedy. Think of that whenever you’re tempted to go off to the South Seas.’
‘If I ever go, it’ll be on a cruise. But I’m not tempted by the idea. My sister has been there, and although it all looks marvellous, you daren’t even put a toe in the water. If there aren’t water snakes, then there are always sharks around. I prefer the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. They’re the only civilized seas in the world.’
‘Remember my offer when you go to see Mima. And by the way, remember that no gutter press will pay you as much as I can.’
The lawyer suddenly remembered that he was late for court. He should have been there an hour ago. Carvalho did not take the hint, not even when the lawyer opened the door for him. Lita Vilardell motioned for Viladecans to leave. Carvalho looked at her dynastic eyes, inherited from the last European and the first Catalan to have been a trader in black slaves. Gradually, she dropped the ironical curl of her lip and turned to gaze to the balcony, where a sudden breeze was fluttering the leaves of the banana palms.
‘The wind is the salvation of this city,’ she said.
Finally she decided to meet Carvalho’s gaze.
‘It may surprise you, but a lover can feel more humiliated than a wife when she becomes an old and forgotten part of a man’s harem.’
Carvalho was on the fast lane to drunkenness. In the course of preparing his report, he had emptied a bottle of Ricard and all the iced water that Biscuter kept in the fridge. With his stomach turned into a sea of watery aniseed, he now required tons of food to soak up the liquid. He finished off the salted codfish with garlic, and Biscuter’s improvised onion and potato tortilla. Then he demolished one of Biscuter’s soused sardine sandwiches, a speciality wherein oregano had primacy over the bay leaf. He called Charo to confirm the arrangement for the weekend, and to check what time she would pick him up from Vallvidrera.
‘What’s up with you? You sound constipated.’
‘I’m drunk.’
‘At this time of day?’
‘Can you think of a better time?’
‘I hope you’re not going to stay drunk all weekend.’
‘I’ll stay any bloody way I like.’
He hung up, and dulled the pangs of remorse by eating the bananas with rum that Biscuter had prepared as he watched the detective’s stupendous display of gluttony.
‘Biscuter, go down to the Rambla and get them to send a bunch of flowers to Charo. Today.’
He finished the report, put it in an envelope, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he took another sheet of paper and wrote on it:
‘Maybe it would be a good idea for you to make this trip—but alone, or with someone other than me. Find a nice boy whom you’d be doing a favour by inviting him along. A sensitive young man with some culture and not much money. You’ll find dozens of them at the Faculty of Philosophy and Literature. I’m enclosing the address of a professor friend of mine who’ll help you to find one. Don’t abandon him, at least until you reach Katmandu, and be sure to leave him with enough money for a return ticket. Carry on with your journey, and don’t come back until tiredness or old age get the better of you. You’ll return to find that everyone here has become petty-minded, mad or old. Those are the only three ways of surviving in a country which did not make the industrial revolution in time.’
He added Sergio Beser’s address and a few words of warning about people from the Maestrazgo. Then he put it all in an envelope, wrote Yes’s name and address on the front, and drenched the stamp in a sea of alcoholized saliva. He went into the street, clutching the envelope. He despatched it into the depths of a mailbox, which he stood watching as if it were halfway between an unidentifiable object and the tomb of a loved one. Mission accomplished, he said to himself. But something was still troubling him. He realized what it was only as he was passing a shop window which had formerly been the Jai Alai.
‘The baker’s wife!’
He looked at his diary and joined the evening bustle of streets already animated by awakening night flowers. Pension Piluca.
‘Are you Señora Piluca?’
‘Señora Piluca was my mother. She died three years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m looking for a Basque with a name like every other Basque. He’s lodging here with a lady.’
‘They’ve just gone out. They usually go to the bar on the corner.’
‘These streets are full of corners and bars.’
‘The Jou-Jou.’
It was a poky little bar, which practised what it preached by reducing electricity consumption to a bare minimum. This simple expedient prevented customers from seeing the layer of flies covering the ‘assorted snacks’ and ‘hot dogs’. The Basque and the baker’s wife were eating a sandwich at a corner table.
‘May I?’
He sat down before they could react.
‘I’ve been sent by ETA.’
The man and woman looked at each other. He was dark and powerfully built, with a blue stubble adorning a heavy jaw. She was a fair-skinned, plumpish woman, whose blonde curls failed to disguise the brown roots of her hair.
‘We’ve heard that you’re going round boasting of being a terrorist. We don’t like that.’
‘I beg your …’
‘You’re pretending to be a terrorist so that you can lay ladies. We found out, and we’ve put you on our list. Do you know what that means? For much less than that, there are people still running round the South Pole. You’ve got two hours to pack your bags. And watch out they don’t explode in your face.’
Carvalho leant back in his chair, so that his jacket fell open to reveal a gun sticking out of his belt. The Basque rose to his feet, looked at the terror-stricken woman, and then at Carvalho.
‘Two hours,’ he repeated.
‘Let’s go.’
‘You can go. But not her. Do you want to go with this fake terrorist?’
‘I didn’t know …’
‘I wouldn’t advise it. If he’s a good boy, nothing will happen to him. But one of these days he’ll get up to his old tricks, and I wouldn’t like you to be next to him when we have to deal with him.’
The man drew away from the table.
‘Pay for this revolting sandwich before you leave. You can forget about the woman’s things. She’ll go and collect them later.’
‘I left home just with what I was wearing.’
‘So much the better. OK, mister, you can go. Take what’s left of your memories.’
Carvalho did not turn to watch him leave. The job was half done. Twenty-five thousand pesetas. Now for the rest. The woman was a picture of frozen panic, sitting at the grimy table.
‘Don’t worry: nothing is going to happen to you. We’ve been keeping a close watch on him. This is the third or fourth time he’s played this trick on us. He’s not a bad sort, but he’s too randy for his own good.’
‘I’ve been really stupid!’
‘No. I think it’s very good that you’ve taken a breather. It’ll have had a good effect on your husband.’
‘He won’t take me back. And what about the girls! My little daughters!’
‘He will take you back. Who else would do the accounts for him? Who’ll look after the kids? Who’ll take care of the house? Who’ll go to Saragossa to get flour for him? From now on, make the most of your trips to Saragossa—but next time, choose your boyfriends more carefully.’
‘Never again.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that.’
‘My husband’s a very good man.’
‘Husbands have to be good, particularly when that’s all they are.’
‘And very hardworking.’
‘It sounds like he’s got a lot to be said for him. Anyway, you should go to back to him. I know for a fact that he’s waiting.’
&nb
sp; ‘How do you know? How do you know so much about me?’
‘Haven’t you heard of our intelligence network? We know more than the government about anything you care to name. We caught onto this faker when he was still living in your block. We sent one of our people along to live there too.’
‘There’s been no one new. Except for some casual labourers. They’re always coming and going.’
‘There you are.’
‘How do you know he’ll take me back? Will you come with me?’
‘Just give him a ring.’
While she was telephoning, Carvalho finished off the Basque’s half-eaten sandwich. A sausage sandwich. Not even dog-meat. Probably rat-meat. Or lizard. And instead of paprika, they had used minium to stop it oxidizing. She returned with a radiant look and tears in her eyes.
‘I can go back. I’ve got to hurry. He says we’ll go and pick up the girls from school. Thank you. I’m really very grateful.’
‘Tell your husband not to forget me.’
‘We won’t forget you—neither of us. How am I going to get home? I’m afraid to walk alone in this part of town.’
Carvalho walked with her to the Plaza del Arco del Teatro and put her into a taxi. Then he went into the public toilets and pissed out the first streams of alcohol filtered through a body heavy like it was full of sand.
‘I’ve put it all down in writing. I must be getting old. In the old days, I never used to write my reports, I just told my clients what I’d found out, and they were normally satisfied.’
Stuart Pedrell’s widow had the drawers of her desk open. Her eyes were open too, and in one hand she held a pencil with which she was pensively scratching her forehead. A half-length chestnut wig covered her black hair. As she relaxed in her director’s chair, she had the air and dignity of a woman executive with a notion to enjoy one last fling. She leafed through the report without reading it.
‘Too long.’
‘I could give a verbal summary. But I might forget a few details.’
Southern Seas Page 21
