Don Evaristo Tourón motioned to him to sit down, and immediately launched into gossipy memories about their native region. Carvalho was afraid he was in for another exhausting and impossibly complicated story about the wolves on Monte Negro which caused havoc throughout San Juan de Muro and sometimes even got as far as Pacios in their pursuit of Manolo the tailor’s sheep.
‘I came to talk to you about tattoos, Don Evaristo.’
‘Oh, I see. You want to get a tattoo. I don’t do them any more. You have to have a steady hand. A steady hand and the desire to do it. Nobody ever became a good tattooist if they did not enjoy doing them.’
Don Evaristo stood up to get a photo album out of a drawer in the sideboard. It showed his greatest professional triumphs.
‘Look. Here’s one I did for a man from El Ferrol. A fisherman on the cod trawlers. Look at this.’
The tattoo was a leafy tree that completely covered the man’s chest. Instead of fruit hanging from its branches there were women’s bodies. In another photo, an apeman was showing his flexed biceps with a tattoo of the statue to Columbus in Barcelona, and the motto: Merche, I’ll find you wherever you hide. A third was of a teenager proudly mooning at the camera. Don Evaristo had engraved on his buttocks: Exit only; no way in. Don Evaristo sighed as he regretted yet again not having photographed the tattooed penis of a famous pickpocket. On the foreskin he had tattooed a cat. When it was pulled back, a mouse appeared on the tip.
‘I’m telling you, Pepiño, I sweated as much blood as I spilt over that one. And you should have heard him howl. But he had balls all right.’
Carvalho asked him whether anyone was still in business.
‘I tried to create a school here. But I failed. Who was it that used to want a tattoo? Sailors and crooks. Sailors aren’t what they used to be, and the crooks don’t want tattoos any more because they can identify them. I had an apprentice by the name of del Clot who was good. But he was a queer, and in that line of business he was constantly being threatened. The only one left now is a guy from Murcia. He lives up near the park. But there aren’t many more in Barcelona. Tangiers: there are still a few there. And in Morocco in general. And some of the northern ports. Not Hamburg. Hamburg’s got a big reputation, but there’s nothing there. Rotterdam before the war. It had good tattooists then, very good ones.’
Carvalho asked him whether he had heard of the tattoo on the dead man’s back.
‘That sounds interesting. Before the war you used to get really educated people wanting tattoos. Once a kid from a good family who was in the Spanish Legion came to see me. He asked me to tattoo a motto in French for him.’
The old man went over to the sideboard again and came back with a notepad. In it he had written the best mottos he had come across.
‘What does it say there, Pepiño?’
‘Ah Dieu! Que la guerre est jolie/avec ses chants, ses longs loisirs.’
‘That’s right. He told me it was by a very good poet.’
Carvalho asked for the address of the tattooist who lived near Ciudadela Park. The old man could not remember the address, but drew him a map.
‘You can’t miss it. Besides, he’s unmistakable. He’s got a gammy leg and weighs more than a hundred kilos.’
Carvalho escaped as quickly as he could from the old man’s effusive farewells.
‘Tell me when you’re coming and we can have pork shoulder. One of my brothers-in-law sends me the meat from Pacios. I’ll keep it and you cook it, Pepiño. If only I could cook as well as you!’
Carvalho hailed a cab on the corner of Plaza Real and the Rambla. Ten minutes later he got out at the entrance old man Tourón had drawn for him. On the fourth floor a busy, irritable woman showed him into a small waiting room. There was barely enough room for Carvalho to squeeze in between a black plastic armchair and a table piled high with copies of the weekly Semana. A short while later, the tattooist’s immense belly tried to make its entrance into the room. His head was still in the doorway, but his abdomen was almost pressed up against Carvalho’s nose.
‘Don Evaristo Tourón sent me.’
‘Well now, that’s good.’
‘I’d like to talk to you about the tattooing business.’
‘That’s even better.’
The tattooist withdrew his belly and invited Carvalho to follow him. He disappeared into a small office that reminded the detective of the one in the hairdresser’s where he had spoken to Don Ramón. The tattooist sat behind a desk and offered him a cheroot.
‘They’re mild. Perfect for this time of day. So you want to talk about tattooing. That’s good. But the business itself is bad, real bad. Haven’t done a thing since an Italian ship was in port about six months ago. Everything good is disappearing. There’s no time for anything these days. In the past all a man needed to do was show a woman his tattoo and he was made. Now he has to show her something else straight away.’
He began to laugh, coughing and spluttering as he did so. Carvalho echoed him politely.
‘I’m looking for a man who has a very curious tattoo. The motto reads: Born to raise hell in hell.’
The last ripples of the tattooist’s laughter died away. He looked Carvalho up and down.
‘You say you’re a friend of Don Evaristo’s?’
‘We’re from the same village in Galicia.’
‘Well now, so you’re from Galicia too,’ said the Murcian tattooist without much enthusiasm. He studied Carvalho and waggled his head as though he were facing a real dilemma.
‘That stupid tattoo,’ he said at length. ‘The cops have already been here asking me about it.’ He did not take his eyes off Carvalho as he spoke. Carvalho did not flinch.
‘The cops?’
‘The guy with the tattoo is dead. And not a nice death.’
‘Did you do the tattoo?’
‘The cops told me not to talk about it without getting in touch with them.’
‘Before or after?’
‘They didn’t say’
‘Well then, you can get in touch with them after you’ve told me.’
‘Yes, I did the tattoo.’
He realised that by saying this he was opening some kind of door.
‘Who was he?’
‘I can see you know nothing about the business. Nobody gives their name here. Particularly if it’s only a simple tattoo.’
‘But you must talk about something while you work.’
‘When I work I don’t drink or talk.’
He burst out again with his spluttering cough, which he seemed to switch on and off without warning. All at once his face became as solemn as if he were at a funeral.
‘Is this a loved one you’re trying to find?’
‘Let’s just say I’m beginning to warm to him.’
‘Oh! I can’t say my heart’s in it any more. It’s a tough job. I scarcely make enough to get by, and I have to charge so much it scares off the few clients I might have.’
‘Talking wears out the tongue. I’ll pay you something to compensate.’
Carvalho took a thousand-peseta note out of his wallet. The tattooist held his hand out as far as his belly allowed, and waited for the note to fall into it.
‘He was a tall, blond kid. He seemed like a foreigner, but he wasn’t. He had some sort of accent, but it didn’t sound like he was from Andalusia or Murcia. I’ve heard similar accents in people from Ciudad Real. Or he could have been from the south of La Mancha. Or from Extremadura. It was very odd.’
‘Did he live in Barcelona?’
‘No, he was just passing through. He told me he had worked in Holland. At the Philips factory in The Hague. That’s all I know.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About a year and a half.’
‘Do you remember anything else about his face or body? Anything that struck you at the time?’
‘Nothing, I swear. And the information I’ve given you is more out of friendship for Don Evaristo than for the thousand pesetas. Friendsh
ip is a good thing. Why are you looking for that kid?’
‘A premonition. I think he might be a friend.’
Carvalho sat on the terrace outside the Versalles. Bromuro was on the prowl for customers. He came to a halt in front of Pepe’s muddy shoes and was told he could clean them. The waiter served Carvalho a gin and tonic and a plate of stuffed olives. Bromuro waited until he had gone, then said in a low voice:
‘I don’t have anything precise on that dead guy. But there’s a helluva storm going on. The police raided everywhere yesterday and arrested lots of people. Whores and their pimps. Hundreds of them.’
‘Maybe it’s just a clean-up operation.’
‘I’ve heard they’re after anyone who has anything to do with the drugs trade. Lots of French pimps have moved in recently, and they’re well organised. They bring their own girls, drugs, the lot.’
‘What have the raids got to do with what I was asking you about?’
‘There could be something.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know anything for definite. But I’ve heard that the drowned man could have some connection with all this.’
‘Does anyone know who he was?’
‘If I were you, I’d ask the girls. One or other of them must have gone to bed with him, and a tattoo like that isn’t easy to forget.’
‘How many girls do you reckon there are in Barcelona? Five thousand? Twenty thousand? A hundred thousand?’
‘Charo could help you.’
Carvalho stuck another five-hundred-peseta note in Bromuro’s waistcoat pocket.
‘So how come they haven’t picked you up yet?’
‘And why not you? Or do you have special privileges?’
Carvalho replied with a smiling ‘possibly’, and stood up to go. He walked quickly to Charo’s place. The caretaker was not there, so he had to run the risk of finding out for himself whether Charo was free or busy with a client. Although he had a key, he preferred to ring the bell. He thought he saw someone peering through the spyhole, and the door opened only a few inches. He heard Charo’s voice:
‘Come in.’
Carvalho walked down the corridor to the living room, with Charo following behind.
‘I’ve got visitors, so take it easy.’
Carvalho could already see the visitors. Two women were moving around in the kitchen, preparing lunch or perhaps breakfast. Charo put her finger to her lips for him to be quiet, and pushed him towards the bedroom.
‘They’re two friends of mine. They just managed to escape being arrested yesterday and asked if they could stay a few days.’
‘You’re getting yourself into a mess. This place will soon be crawling with pimps, and the police will be next.’
‘I couldn’t just leave them out on the street.’
‘Why not?’
‘Go fuck yourself. Get out of here.’
‘Listen. This is a serious business. These aren’t normal raids. They’re going after drugs in a big way, and all these girls are mixed up with people who deal as well. Besides, they’re going to need to work: do you want them to bring all their men back here?’
‘Why not? It’s a big enough place.’
‘And what will your select clientele say?’
‘My clientele or you? What will you say?’
Charo was in passionate solidarity mode. It was like arguing with a monument to class consciousness. She was still wearing her negligee, and the dark lines stood out under her eyes. Her blonde hair with platinum highlights looked unkempt, desperately in need of a comb.
‘Hello there, Pepe.’
Carvalho nodded as Charo’s two companions came into the room. He thought he remembered that one of them was called the Andalusian: she was small and had flame-coloured hair. He did not know the other girl: she was good looking and seemed very young.
‘I was so scared, Pepe! First we heard the whistles, then they appeared out of nowhere like ghosts. Soon the place was crawling with them. They swarmed in everywhere.’
Carvalho went out on to the balcony of this new building, put up as a one-off in a district that had not grown in a century. Every so often the gap left by a property destroyed in the war provided the opportunity for a house like this to be built, its eight floors of boxes and glass towering above the red verdigris-stained roofs all around them. If Charo had listened to him and moved to a villa out in the suburbs, there would be none of this trouble. He went back into the room, where the three women were still talking nervously.
‘As long as you’re here, your pimps stay out in the street, got it? It’s them the cops are after, not you, and I don’t want Charo to get into trouble.’
‘Don’t worry, Pepe, they’re already in clink.’
Saying this, the Andalusian girl burst into tears. Carvalho took Charo to one side.
‘I need to know if any of your friends ever met a guy who had a tattoo on his back with the motto: Born to raise hell in hell. A young, tall man with blond hair. He had an Andalusian accent, though he wasn’t from there, and he had been or was working in Holland.’
‘The madams of the brothels are more likely to know something like that. If you are nice to these poor girls and don’t upset them, I promise to find out.’
‘Leave them here and come to my house until all this blows over.’
‘Can I see my clients there?’
‘Stop working for a while. You don’t need the money.’
‘How would you know? I’m not leaving this place.’
‘I may have to go abroad. Just for a few days. You could move into my place while I’m away.’
‘No chance.’
Carvalho shrugged and walked away, but Charo went after him.
‘You’ve no reason to treat me like this. Who do you think you are? This is my house and I do what I like with it. Do you pay for it? When have you ever given me a cent towards it?’
‘Drop it.’
But Charo would not drop it. She followed him to the landing door.
‘If I were in their position I’d want them to help me.’
‘You’re not in their position, but you’re getting caught up in this.’
‘I am like them. The only difference is I work for myself. Anyway, you’re like them too, or almost.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like the cops.’
Charo showed she meant it by closing her mouth in a firm line. Carvalho did not know whether to slap her or turn his back on her. He stared intently while he made up his mind, and Charo could see the indecision in his eyes. She took a step backwards and looked him up and down challengingly.
‘Find out about the tattoo.’
Carvalho was on his way downstairs when Charo leaned out of her doorway.
‘Come tonight.’
‘So we can sleep in the toilet?’
‘Would you like me to come up to your place?’
‘Drop it. I’ll call by later.’
Carvalho set off in a hurry for Queta’s hair salon. It was full of women and the buzz of conversation. Fat Nuria stopped combing through a client’s greying hair to trip surprisingly lightly up the stairs to the office. Carvalho and Queta eyed each other. She was shaking a bottle of shampoo, but her huge eyes were fully fixed on the casual, determined way Carvalho crossed the room and headed for the stairs at the back. By the time he reached the office, Fat Nuria had warned her boss he was on his way. Señor Ramón received him with a hasty smile on his lips and a quizzical look in his eye. Fat Nuria stayed in the room, like a tiny but tenacious bodyguard, until Ramón signalled for her to leave. By then Carvalho was already ensconced in the small green armchair. When the girl’s footsteps on the stairs had died away, he leaned forward and put a hand on the desk.
‘This is getting too complicated. Yesterday’s raids are linked to your dead man.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That’s my business. Did you know this case had to do with drug trafficking?’
‘I don’t even have
the faintest idea who the dead man was. Have you found out?’
‘If I don’t unearth anything definite in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to have to go to Holland. There’s a lead in that country.’
Señor Ramón’s prefabricated smile slipped a little.
‘I’ll send you the bill.’
‘Send me whatever you like, but don’t come here again until you know something for sure. I don’t want to get mixed up in this. Have they arrested your girlfriend? If not, they could at any moment. They’ve closed all the brothels. All except the really expensive ones. And the bars. Your friend is in danger.’
‘She works in her own place, and for herself. Just like your wife.’
The two men stared at each other without blinking. Señor Ramón’s freckles looked almost yellow to Carvalho.
‘Listen. The cops are making a determined effort to clean things up. A determined prosecutor is involved, and it seems some important names have appeared linked to the drugs business. Very important. Do you get me? If those important people are rounded up, the smaller fry are done for. I’m paying you to run the risks, otherwise I would have gone and got the information myself. So get out of here, and don’t make life difficult for me.’
‘For now, I’ll send you the bill if I have to go to Holland.’
The other man waved his arm in a way that was both an agreement and a dismissal. Carvalho went back down to the salon and stood in front of Fat Nuria.
‘You can move quickly for a fatty …’
The anger gathered in her eyes. Tears of rage began to form. Queta watched them from her chair. Carvalho decided to leave his confrontation with her for some other occasion. As he passed by, he sized up her charms once more. All the way out into the street, he was imagining a complicated erotic scene in which Fat Nuria was with Señor Ramón while he took Queta up into a hayloft like the ones in his childhood house in Souto. He laughed at the way that hayloft kept coming back into his erotic fantasies. All of a sudden a very different image filled the strange cinema screen he carried inside his head. Señor Ramón was staring in terror while he, Pepe Carvalho, was hitting him as often as there were freckles on his bloated face.
Tattoo Page 3
