Tattoo

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

With a foreign name

  I met him in port at nightfall

  His sad voice was filled

  With a song that was yearning for rest.

  That was it, more or less. He remembered how the song began:

  Bold and blond as beer was he

  A heart tattooed on his chest

  The song was sung by a woman who had fallen in love with this handsome foreigner. With this handsome sailor who had spent one night, just one night, with her. Did that woman exist in the case of the tattooed man? He certainly had enough mystery about him for a woman to be caught like a bird in the branches of a tree.

  Men of mystery tend to attract women, Carvalho told himself, almost out loud. Could the woman be Frenchy? It was significant that the man went with the same prostitute several times. Carvalho was sure that somewhere there was a woman, the singer of the song, who could tell him all or nearly all the secrets of the man who was ‘bold and blond as beer’. The motto on the tattoo was surprising as well. One thing was a veteran of the Spanish Legion, full of scorn and literature, setting off between the wars on another adventure with his gun and some verses by Apollinaire. That would never happen nowadays, thought Carvalho, now that people have discovered they can only do what’s possible. Nobody invents their life as though it were a novel.

  That’s why I search from port to port

  ask all the sailors for anything new

  alive or dead, to him I’ll always be true

  The stewardess tapped Carvalho on the shoulder and brought him out of his daydream. She pointed to his seat belt. Her smiling, healthy face with a touch of rouge framed by auburn, almost red hair gave her a look hardly ever seen in Spain. Carvalho watched as she continued on her rounds, telling passengers about their belts, asking them to stop smoking or to raise their seat-backs. She was superb. Carvalho began to feel the kind of erotic urge foreigners feel when they identify a new city with new women. Every journey should lead to a surprising woman, a grand finale, the best terminus. Why not the stewardess? Carvalho tried to catch her eye, but she was surveying the passengers with a neutral, professional glance, and skipped over Carvalho like an object she had already checked and stored away.

  Carvalho forgot about his erotic impulse and instead stretched his head so that he could look out of the window beyond the old French woman and see the orderly green fields of Holland getting larger and larger as the plane began its descent. Awake again, his neighbour tried to engage him in talk about Holland. Carvalho told her he knew Amsterdam, Rotterdam and Leiden. The old French woman was going to her daughter’s house in Rotterdam. She was married to the foils teacher for the Dutch Olympic team. Was Carvalho going to Rotterdam?

  ‘No, Amsterdam.’

  Despite the fact that his real destination was The Hague, Carvalho had chosen Amsterdam as his base. Firstly because distances do not exist in Holland, above all the distances between Amsterdam, The Hague and Rotterdam. Secondly because Amsterdam was one of the cities in the world he adored, and something told him that the man as bold and blond as beer did not exactly fit into the mould of a Spanish worker stuck in the Philips factory at The Hague. His passage must have left some traces in the splendid city of Amsterdam, and in particular in the night-time red light district.

  The plane landed at Schiphol airport, only a stone’s throw from Amsterdam and Rotterdam. Carvalho knew where to go in the airport, and headed straight for the bus station. His bus soon filled up with workers coming back tanned, moustachioed and loud voiced from holidays spent back in their home countries. Turks, Greeks, Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese: a whole alphabet of poor European countries where life was hard. It was growing dark, but Carvalho still had time to take in the green, watery geometry of the Dutch landscape between Schiphol and Amsterdam. Fugitives from a dry country, the Turks had lost their initial boisterousness and gradually accepted the convention of silence imposed by this part of Europe, where everything looked as though it were drawn with a ruler.

  For Carvalho, the old Schiller hotel was one of the attractions of Amsterdam. From the window of one of its slightly shabby rooms he looked out over Rembrandtplein. In the centre stood a statue of the heavyweight painter, displaying a serenity he would never have shown in his lifetime. If the Dutch could, thought Carvalho, they would turn Rembrandt’s tortured paintings into eighteenth-century French pastels. Above the rooftops he could see the gilded figure of an angel with a trumpet on top of a clock tower in a nearby square. He decided to postpone his visit to The Hague until the next day. It was growing dark with Nordic rapidity, and he wanted to make use of the last daylight to reacquaint himself with paths he had traced on previous visits along the canals down to the red light district, the Central Station and the port. Also, he did not want to miss having dinner in an Indonesian restaurant. He knew Amsterdam boasted two outstanding choices: the Indonesia or the Bali. The first of these was only two or three blocks from his hotel, and its Rysttafel was unbeatable.

  Nothing in the world could stop him enjoying two glasses of genever, washed down with an equal number of mugs of beer, in the first tavern he found. Places like this in England and Holland appealed to their customers with the warmth of their wooden panels and well-worn tables, the space they offered for people to sit and talk, the time allowed for beer to settle into the contours of stomachs. Carvalho realised yet again that it is the small details that create the overall meaning of something. One of the things he had been most looking forward to on his journey to Holland was to be able to drink those two glasses of Dutch gin, washed down with mugs of beer. Genever, made from grain and juniper berries, is unclassifiable, much less refined and elaborated than English dry gin. You have to ask especially for it from the waiters, because they consider it too rough for palates that are not accustomed to it, and prefer to offer English gin instead. There was a time and a place for everything. Carvalho remembered the ghastly amontillado he had been forced to drink so often in California because there was no real Spanish sherry to be had, the Californian burgundy of those Californian whites which were as similar to his white wines from Galicia as celery is to asparagus.

  If there is room in the human body for two genevers and two mugs of beer, there is room for four. In a spirit of great self-sacrifice, Carvalho put this theory to the test, then went out for a walk, happy to concede that the world, or at least the Dutch corner of it, was as it should be. The waters and the trees of the canals were dark, but the blood flowing through his own veins was lit up by the alcohol he had consumed. He walked along several streets, catching the first glimpses of darkness in the bowl of night. Slow cyclists drifted lazily past him, while cars sped along, trusting to the survival instincts of anyone on foot.

  The evening was cool, so Carvalho decided to return to his hotel for his coat. The receptionist gave him his key, and told him to wait a moment. From the far end of the foyer an immense trench-coat appeared, topped by a tiny green Tyrolean hat sporting a grey feather. A pure Ayran quickly showed Carvalho his police badge. He spoke in English, and asked whether he minded answering a few questions. Carvalho went to sit with him in the same corner he had emerged from. As if by magic, the man’s hand suddenly sprouted a small wooden box with two rows of tiny cigars the size of toothpicks. Carvalho took one.

  ‘We remember you well.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Not long enough. You were here for two years as a security expert.’

  ‘That was a political appointment.’

  ‘Yes, I know. My colleague Rinus Kayser told me. He sends his regards. He could not come in person. How many days will you be in Holland?’

  ‘Not many. Three or four.’

  ‘The reason for your trip?

  ‘A sentimental one.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Amsterdam. It’s a city I love.’

  ‘Hmm. Are you sure there is no professional reason for your visit? We could help you.’

  ‘I don’t work much these days, and when I do it’s as a priva
te investigator, as you would call it. I live in Spain now, and all the work there concerns investigating unfaithful wives.’

  ‘You don’t investigate unfaithful husbands?’

  ‘In Spain it’s the men who have the money to investigate their wives’ infidelity.’

  ‘Is it one of those cases that’s brought you to Holland?’

  ‘We also have motels in Spain. Adulterous couples don’t have to travel as far as Holland.’

  ‘OK. Anyway, you know where we are. We would be very upset if we thought you didn’t trust us.’

  Carvalho said goodbye to the cop with all the warmth of his Celtic ancestors. He even accompanied him through the revolving doors and out into the street. Afterwards he went up to his room to go over the interview in his mind. He had not expected things to move this quickly. Of course he knew where to find them. In Holland you never see a cop in the street, but there are as many police stations as there are chestnut sellers in winter. He wondered whether they would keep watch on him during his stay. He didn’t think it was very likely, unless the Spanish police had sent a report before he had got here, linking what he was doing to their anti-drugs operation. That did not seem likely either: most probably it had just been an indirect warning from the Polizei. We know you’re here, and by the way you no longer have any of the privileges of a security expert sent by the US government. OK, message received. Carvalho thought that was probably the end of it.

  His determination to eat in an Indonesian restaurant put an end to his deliberations. With every step he took towards the Indonesia he could feel his appetite increasing. The short ride up in the lift to the restaurant did nothing to diminish it. Faced with the huge choice on the menu he was offered, he decided there was only one option: the most expensive Rysttafel. Anywhere else in the world, it would have been heresy not to accompany it with wine. But in Holland it was heresy not to have a couple of glasses of chilled beer. When the small candles under the hot plates for the Rysttafel were lit, Carvalho suddenly felt depressed. It was nothing more than the typical sense of being let down that anyone dining on their own tends to feel. Faced with the implications of that, there was nothing for it but to eat a lot and well. Within five minutes, the stomach starts its psychological warfare with the brain. And as always happens on these occasions, it is the practical intelligence which wins out over the theoretical. The tongue serves as intermediary between spirit and flesh, and brings the two together with all the art of a pander with a first-class degree. The sauces were based mostly on peanut, as ingredient or on the side. The wide range of stews and fried dishes combined perfectly with the white, bland taste of the long-grain Indian rice. And whenever Carvalho’s palate began to suffer from an overload of spices or sticky sauces, half a glass of beer washed it clean and fresh, ready to undertake further magical research.

  Many of the houses in Amsterdam’s Jewish quarter are nothing more than their façade, kept in order to preserve the city’s visual harmony. Behind that, most of them are empty, or have collapsed, and the façades are shored up to await the final curtain. This one was different. It was a noble building, with silversmiths’ signs, the smell of money and efficient offices. Carvalho walked up two floors. He reached a door lit by strip lighting. In the centre of it was a brass plate: Mr Cooplan, Import & Export. Without taking his eyes off the door, Carvalho stretched out his left arm until it was touching a big Delft flowerpot. He lifted it a few inches with his fingertips, until he had room to feel what he was looking for. A key.

  He thrust it in the lock without hesitation. He found himself in a brightly-lit corridor the colour of eau de Nil. The figure of a man dressed like a mannequin on the Champs-Elysées appeared from behind a frosted-glass door at the far end. As he came towards Carvalho, his features also took on the painted, stiff appearance of a mannequin. Although obviously taken by surprise, he walked confidently up to the detective, and stopped only a couple of metres from him. Even his few grey hairs seemed deliberately put there to show off a bronzed, youthful face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The man’s gaze dropped to Carvalho’s hand holding the key.

  ‘You still have a key?’

  ‘No, this is the one that was under the pot outside.’

  The mannequin raised an eyebrow – just one, but with the practised ease of an actor at a crucial moment. He turned on his heel, then set off back down the corridor.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Carvalho ignored him. He started to open the doors into the offices lining the corridor. They were all neat and tidy, ready for the next working day. He stepped inside one that was full of filing cabinets. All the drawers were locked.

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  The mannequin was in the doorway. The expression on his face must have been irony.

  ‘Time is what I have most of.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘There’s no reason I should give you any. You don’t work with us any more.’

  As ever, Max Blodell spoke to Carvalho in a mixture of Harvard English and Colombian Spanish, reflecting the two countries where he had found it necessary to learn the language.

  ‘Let me put it this way. Get out of here right now, Pepe. You’re not welcome here. They don’t like people who storm out like you did. Now what are you doing?’

  Blodell closed in on Carvalho. Pepe had a gun in his hand, and was aiming it at the lock on a filing cabinet. Blodell thought about wrestling the gun from the Spaniard, but decided instead to go for his own in his shoulder-holster. Carvalho did not give him time to reach it: he stuck the barrel of his automatic in the other man’s stomach.

  ‘Overreacting as usual, Max. Is Cor here?’

  ‘No, he’s working in Indonesia.’

  ‘How could you bear to be separated from your great love?’

  ‘That’s all over and done with.’

  ‘Didn’t you succeed in setting up a homosexual branch of the CIA?’

  Max took two steps back. He looked upset.

  ‘I’ll forgive you that, Pepe, if you leave right now.’

  ‘I won’t be long. But I need some information.’

  ‘I can’t give you any.’

  ‘One good turn deserves another.’

  ‘What good turn?’

  ‘The one I always did you and Cor by not telling headquarters that you loved each other until death did you part.’

  ‘Private lives …’

  ‘You know that’s nonsense. You know that as soon as headquarters finds they have a homosexual on their books they treat him differently, and sometimes even use him for that.’

  ‘You always were a creep.’

  ‘I need just a few things, and no one will ever know I got the information here. It’s not a very important case. Are you still in charge of Latino immigrants?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m on the trail of a Spaniard who worked at the Philips factory in The Hague. All I know about him is that he had a tattoo with the motto: Born to raise hell in hell.’

  ‘Sounds like a verse from Milton.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  Max signalled for him to follow, and they went into the next-door office. Max looked in a file devoted to strange identifying marks.

  ‘Your tattoo isn’t here.’

  Pepe mechanically checked some of the faces in the file, until he realised he was returning to his old habits, when he was in charge of this CIA office in Amsterdam together with Max and Cor.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’

  ‘But you can. You might not know, but someone else could. Some former colleagues who might have seen the tattoo.’

  ‘My informers won’t be of any help. If they had seen something like that, they would have told me.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not only your informers who have that kind of information. Tell me the name of a leader, one of those Spanish workers who has authority and knows everything, someone wh
o’s respected and asked for advice.’

  ‘A communist?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Almost better if he wasn’t. They tend to be suspicious, and I don’t have much time. A “born” leader who’s not that involved in politics.’

  ‘At the Philips factory in The Hague?’

  ‘Right.’

  Max led him into another office. He took a folder out of a filing cabinet identical to all the others.

  ‘This man might help you.’

  Carvalho noted down the name, age and place of birth of a gaunt forty-year-old with thin lips, square jaw and a high forehead exaggerated by a receding hairline. Max drew him a map of the factory and the workers’ exits.

  ‘This is where he comes out. He’s nearly always accompanied by another man. I think they come from the same part of Spain. You’re sure to see him there at two minutes past twelve. That’s when they have lunch.’

  ‘Have you had him followed?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Is he a Red?’

  ‘No, but he collaborates with them when he thinks it’s a purely work-related matter. And the Reds seek him out too because he’s got so much prestige.’

  ‘Is he distrustful?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Anyone apart from him?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘How about asking prostitutes?’

  ‘That’s pretty impossible. There are so many of them and not all are registered with the police. There are private security people now who protect them and hide them. It was easy when they were just German or Italian, but now it’s gone completely haywire – there’s Turkish women, Greeks … even Spaniards.’

  Max giggled at the thought. Carvalho put his notes in his pocket and headed for the door.

  ‘Leave the key where you found it. No, better still, give it to me.’

  ‘I’ll leave it where I found it.’

  ‘I hope this is the last time we meet.’

  ‘That’s not the sort of thing you should ever say.’

  ‘Well, I’m saying it.’