Tattoo
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
MANUEL VÁZQUEZ MONTALBÁN
AND TATTOO
“Montalbán writes with authority and compassion—a le Carré–like sorrow.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Montalbán does for Barcelona what Chandler did for Los Angeles—he exposes the criminal power relationships beneath the facade of democracy.”
—THE GUARDIAN
“Montalbán is a writer who is caustic about the powerful and tender towards the oppressed.”
—THE TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
“Pepe Carvalho is a phlegmatic investigator. His greatest concern is with his stomach, but when not pursuing delicacies, he can unravel the most tangled of mysteries.”
—THE SUNDAY TIMES (LONDON)
“This is a well-trailed, nicely plotted murder mystery—with plenty of misdirected leads.”
—THE SCOTSMAN
“[Montalbán] does for modern Barcelona what Dickens did for 19th-century London.”
—TOTAL
“As ever, with Montalbán, the joy isn’t so much in the crime as in the getting there with the nihilistic, food-loving Carvalho proving a wonderful guide to Barcelona’s seedier side.”
—THE OBSERVER (LONDON)
“If Graham Green, P. G. Wodehouse, Raymond Chandler, and Anthony Bourdain all sat together in front of a typewriter, the result would be Pepe Carvalho.”
—CRIMESPREE MAGAZINE
Born in Barcelona in 1939, MANUEL VÁZQUEZ MONTALBÁN (1939–2003) was a member of Partit Socialista Unificat de Catalunya (PSUC), and was jailed by the Franco government for four years for supporting a miners’ strike. A columnist for Madrid’s El País, as well as a prolific poet, playwright, and essayist, Vázquez Montalbán was also a well-known gourmand who wrote often about food. The nineteen novels in his Pepe Carvalho series have won international acclaim, including the Planeta Prize (1979) and the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière (1981), both for Southern Seas. He died in 2003 in Hong Kong, on his way home to Barcelona.
NICK CAISTOR’s translations from the Spanish and the Portuguese include works by José Saramago and Paulo Coelho. He is the author of Che Guevara: A Life.
MELVILLE INTERNATIONAL CRIME
TATTOO
First published in Spain as Tatuaje in 1976
Copyright © 1976 by Heirs of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán
Translation copyright © 2008 by Nick Caistor
This edition published by arrangement with Serpent’s Tail
Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201
and
8 Blackstock Mews
Islington
London N4 2BT
mhpbooks.com facebook.com/mhpbooks @melvillehouse
eISBN: 978-1-61219-209-3
A catalog record for this book is available
from the Library of Congress.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Bold and blond as beer was he
A heart tattooed on his chest
Yet his sad voice was filled
With a song that was yearning for rest.
‘Tattoo’
Song by Rafael de León
The golden girl had dived off the pedalo. The olive-skinned bald man swam as fast as he could to get a closer view of her returning to the surface, to glimpse her wet body streaming with water in the bright sunlight. The noonday heat was scorching the beach. The bald man swung his legs down, realised he was hardly out of his depth, and tried to spot where his family was on the beach. A cube of a woman was busy washing a child. The man continued scanning the beach, saw he was in no danger, and turned back to get a good look at the golden girl. By now she was swimming on her back away from the unmoving pedalo, which was rocking gently in the calm sea.
That was when he saw the body floating in the water, a bobbing presence like the pedalo. It must be the golden girl’s companion who he had not noticed before. But that did not mean he wasn’t allowed look at her. Nobody could stop him gazing at her, filling his eyes with that solid flesh vivified by the salt and lustrous brightness. His gaze alternated between her as she swam strange bursts through the water and the body still floating obstinately alongside the pedalo. It slowly dawned on him that its position was too emphatic, and contrary to the laws of breathing. But some people can hold their breath for ages, he told himself, and I’m not going to be the fool who shouts for help and then finds the guy is as right as rain and has the girl laugh in his face. Now she was swimming crawl back towards the pedalo, in an easy straight line, as though in her own lane in the sea. She stopped a yard from the pedalo and stared, first suspiciously and then with growing alarm, at the body, which just went on bobbing up and down as the waves pushed at it. The girl looked round to see whether anyone else had noticed; her eyes alighted on the bald, olive-skinned man, who was no more than twenty yards away. Reassured by his presence, she swam closer to the body. When she reached out and touched it, the strange swimmer floated away from the pedalo as obediently as a dead dog. The girl turned to look at the snooper and shouted something in a language he did not understand. He waited no longer. He tried to swim showing off his style to arrive looking cool and composed alongside this wonderful girl. But the sight of the lifeless corpse won out over his appreciation of her beauty. The bald, olive-skinned man pushed the body to shallower water where he could stand, then dragged it towards the shore. Still screaming, the girl followed him. The noise burrowed its way between those who were swimming and those distilling or drying sweat on the sand. Several swimmers tried to steal the starring role from the bald, olive-skinned man, but he clutched his prize firmly, with one arm looped under the corpse’s arms.
When he reached the water’s edge, four of the onlookers hauled the body out. The bald, olive-skinned man directed operations. They carried it face down, just as it had been pulled from the sea. He was wearing only a pair of trunks. He was young and blond, his whole body suntanned. The four bearers turned him on to his back on the sand. A cry of horror expanded the circle of the half-naked crowd. The body had no face. Fishes had eaten his cheeks and eyes. They quickly turned him over again. It was then that a little kid noticed there was a tattoo on his back. A hand brushed away the wet sand. Somebody read out the motto tattooed on his shoulder-blade: BORN TO RAISE HELL IN HELL.
It could only be the doorbell. Pepe Carvalho’s hand groped for the alarm clock, but the heart of this nervous animal was not beating loudly. Someone was at the door. He tapped Charo’s naked shoulder where it protruded from the sheets.
‘There’s someone at the door.’
‘Go and open it, then.’
‘It’s your flat. How should I know who it might be?’
‘What time is it?’
By now Charo was almost awake, and
seemed keen to know what was going on.
‘One o’clock.’
‘At night?’
Pepe Carvalho pointed to the shafts of sunlight pouring through the shutters on to the bedroom floor. Charo leapt out of bed. Her naked body quivered; she wrapped it in an embroidered silk dressing gown. She put on his slippers, tidied her unkempt hair, and left the room. Raised on one elbow, Carvalho listened to the typical sounds of a door opening, followed by a short conversation, then the door shutting again. The slippers came slapping back across the wooden floor. Charo looked annoyed and disappointed.
‘Fat Nuria.’
‘Who?’
‘Fat Nuria. The apprentice at Queta’s hairdresser’s. It’s you she’s looking for. Her boss wants to see you.’
‘Why? How did she know I was here?’
‘What kind of a neighbourhood do you think I live in? You can send her packing if you’re not interested.’
But Pepe had already left the bedroom. He found himself face to face with a fat adolescent. Her rotund attractions could not hide the look of sly malice in her eyes. They surveyed Carvalho’s only half-hidden bulk with an air of fellow-feeling.
‘The owner would like to see you.’
‘Who is your owner?’
‘Señor Ramón, Señora Queta’s husband.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He says you’re to come. He says it’s urgent. Here, take this.’
She held out a piece of paper. Carvalho pushed open a shutter so that he could read it properly. ‘I’ve got something that might interest you.’ Carvalho dropped the note on to the hall table and went back into the bedroom. His clothes were draped all over a rocking chair. He sorted them out and put them on; Charo meanwhile was busy with her blackheads at the dressing-table mirror.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Are you very busy today?’
‘Four or five of them, from seven on.’
‘They all quiet sorts?’
‘Hmm … a bit of everything. But you can come to spend the night if you like.’
‘I have to go home, to see if there are any letters. I’ve let things get into a bit of a mess.’
Carvalho headed off back towards the hall, then changed his mind and aimed for the kitchen instead. The fridge was as empty as it was brightly-lit. He stuck a finger in the cream on a dish of Lyonnaise potatoes, then licked it. He decided to drink some chilled water and half a slab of chocolate. He saw there was still some champagne in the bottle that Charo always kept in her fridge. He uncorked it and drank a little of the freezing, flat but welcome liquid. He poured the rest down the sink, but as he turned round, he saw Charo standing in the doorway. Her face was covered in cream, and she was wearing a white dressing gown.
‘Thanks for emptying it for me.’
‘It was flat.’
‘I like it flat.’
‘Sorry.’
By then Charo had already disappeared from the doorway, leaving the way clear for him. He went back into the hall, where Fat Nuria was puffing and blowing impatiently. In the lift he gazed out of the corner of his eye at the adolescent’s fluffy mountains of flesh; she accepted his survey through half-closed lids. Carvalho let her get out of the lift first, then followed her along the pavement. Fat Nuria walked along like a starlet, trying to flick her short, over-lacquered curls into the air. The city was entering its midday period of truce; the air was filled with the creaking sound of metal shutters being wound down for the end of morning business. They walked through several cavernous streets of run-down buildings until they came to Calle de la Cadena. Fat Nuria speeded up and Carvalho soon saw the sign for Queta’s hair salon. Beyond the frosted-glass windows he was greeted by the spectacle of the last clients under hairdryers, their faces distorted by the plastic bubbles and with white towels round their necks. Carvalho studied the hairdressers’ legs. They all seemed to be wearing red plastic slippers. One especially pert backside beneath a blue overall caught his eye.
‘Who was that fourth one?’
‘That fourth what?’
‘The hairdresser at the back of the room.’
‘That’s Queta,’ said Fat Nuria without looking round as she climbed the wooden stairs up to a small office bathed in neon light. Behind an office desk that pre-dated the Korean War, a man raised his head when he saw them come in. He made the most of the sparse hair that grew round the sides of his head, while his white, freckled face allowed a few wrinkles to betray his age. He was wearing a grey suit, but he had a pair of leather slippers on his feet under the desk.
Fat Nuria left as soon as the man at the desk and Carvalho had acknowledged each other’s presence with a stare. Carvalho accepted the other’s silent invitation and sat in a narrow green plastic armchair. The man did not look the type to be in a business like this, or to be wearing slippers. Carvalho could sense that he was being studied, weighed up, assessed. The man finished his examination and looked away as though searching for something on the desk. It was a newspaper cutting, which he handed to Carvalho. The detective read it, and kept it between his fingers, but said nothing and went on staring at his host’s peculiar complexion.
‘Did you hear about it?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you read the news?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘What about you?’
‘I asked first.’
Carvalho shrugged. The other man had leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and seemed content to await developments. Carvalho took his time, studying this small office in a small local business, similar to any small office in any small local business. The only thing out of place was this elegant, well-preserved man sitting opposite him.
‘I’m interested to know who this man is, and what he did in life.’
Carvalho looked down at the press cutting.
‘I don’t think that would be too hard. The police must have identified him by now.’
‘I’m not interested in asking the police.’
‘That would be the quickest, cheapest and most reliable way.’
‘I’m not interested in how quick or cheap it might be. And everybody has their own idea about what might be reliable. I prefer not to lie to you, which is why I prefer not to tell you why I’m interested in finding out who that man is.’
‘Perhaps you’re interested in collecting stories about drowned men. This one is quite interesting. You don’t see a tattoo like that every day of the week.’
‘If you need to know my motives, make them up for yourself. I want to know the identity of that body.’
‘I can’t go into this blindly. The cops take this kind of thing seriously, and if I stumble around blindly I’m bound to trip over them.’
‘I’ve heard very good things about you.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
Carvalho let the cutting fall on to the paper-strewn desk, and resumed his silent contemplation of the other man.
‘You know who I am. My name is Ramón, and I run this business with my wife. Let’s just say it’s aroused my curiosity, and I don’t mind spending money on a whim. I want to know who that man was. All we have to go on is that from the description he was a young man, and he had that tattoo.’
‘Have you nothing else to say to me?’
‘Yes. I’ll pay you a hundred thousand pesetas.’
‘Plus expenses.’
‘So long as they’re reasonable.’
Carvalho was already on his feet. The other man had also stood up for the first time, and was leaning his weight on his hands on the desk. Carvalho saw he was wearing a huge gold signet ring in the shape of a Red Indian chieftain’s head.
‘Fifty thousand up front.’
No sooner had the word ‘fifty’ left his mouth than the man’s hand skulking behind the Red Indian chief delved into a wooden drawer and pulled out a bundle of notes. He counted out thousand-peseta notes until he reached fifty, then pushed them across the desk at Carvalho. The
detective stuffed them in his pocket and went back to the staircase. His feet brought out the music of the wooden steps, and when he reached the salon he looked round for the same backside that had impressed him so much on the way up. This time, however, Queta was facing him: the round, pleasant face of a woman of about forty, perhaps a little too much make-up, the eyes perhaps a little large.
By the time he was out in the street again, Carvalho was thinking he had missed an opportunity. Señor Ramón had given him fifty thousand, but there were at least another fifty still in the desk drawer. Which meant he had been prepared to pay him the whole lot there and then.
The restaurant smelled of kidneys cooked in sherry. Carvalho went over to a corner table from where he could survey the whole room, and allowed the smell to invade his nostrils, mouth and tongue. He ordered a ‘Castilian salad’ and kidneys. He tried to imagine what on earth the adjective ‘Castilian’ might mean when coupled with the noun ‘salad’. His imagination was far greater than the chef’s. It turned out to be no more than a few potatoes vinaigrette with some chunks of marinaded tuna strategically placed on top of the squares of soggy potato.
With one eye on the scarce chunks of tuna and the other scanning the restaurant tables, Carvalho soon sized up the place and its customers. He asked the waiter:
‘Is Bromuro around?’
‘He’s just finishing with a client down below. If you like, I’ll tell him to come over.’
‘Yes, do that.’
Bromuro arrived just as Carvalho was mopping up the kidney sauce with his bread. He was contemplating the chunk of bread smothered in brown gravy and then offering it to his expectant palate. A plate of kidneys is above all a pleasure for the senses of smell and touch, and Carvalho did not allow Bromuro’s arrival to spoil his enjoyment. Bromuro knelt down beside him, then lifted one of Carvalho’s feet on to his bootblack’s box.
‘Are you here to eat or to work?’
‘Both. The body of a dead man has been found on the beach. He had no face. It was eaten away by the fishes. But he did have a tattoo on his back: Born to raise hell in hell.’