Duende

by Jason Webster

  The truth was, though, that none of us really fitted in. Javier the homosexual, La Andonda the homicidal maniac, Juanito the cripple, Jesús the cocaine-snorting car-thief. All misfits, in our own way.

  I crashed back in through the high, narrow, wooden doors at Carlota’s flat and was greeted by the familiar sting in the eyes as the ammonia hit. She had kept the room for me while I had been away, letting it only for a couple of months to a friend from the Basque country who was attending a course over the summer. We had grown used to each other, and although she needed the money, she preferred a familiar face and wanted to avoid the stress of taking on a stranger.

  ‘Oh, you’re back! How lovely to see you. Come into the kitchen. You must tell me all about it.’

  I dumped my bags and followed her through. The cats leapt out of my way in panic. ‘Bloody fools!’ she cried. It was a good day. The closer to the cats she was, the more you knew you had to be on your guard.

  I walked over to the window and looked out into the murky street. A junkie was sitting opposite, against a wall, inserting a needle into a much-abused vein, blood rushing into the syringe as he found his spot. I turned round. Carlota was sitting by the table, pulling on her cheap cigarette.

  ‘Bueno. Well, then. Tell me about the tour. Are you famous yet?’ she asked me eagerly. I sat down to begin. There was the sound of water pouring from somewhere. I looked at the tap. Then a reflection from underneath Carlota’s chair caught my eye. A stream of urine was flowing unhindered onto the floor from the cat on her lap.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and she hurried off to the bathroom. I mopped it up quickly.

  ‘Will you have a drink?’ she asked, scuttling back.

  ‘Yes. I will thanks. Back in a moment.’ I had my own call of nature to answer.

  The cheap, red, plastic loo seat must have finally given way, and had been replaced with a fluorescent green one. But apart from that, everything seemed, as I eased myself down, more or less the same. The same grimy floor, the same broken mirror, the same noise of buses and mopeds coming from the open window.

  My hand reached round for the loo paper. It had all gone. Carlota must have forgotten to buy some. I thrust my hand into a pocket to see if I had anything suitable, pulling out what looked like a flyer. It was a glossy advert for the Gypsy Kings I must have picked up from somewhere. I thought for a moment, then gladly applied it to its newly found function.

  chapter NINE

  * * *

  Por Taranta

  En diciendo ¡gente ar torno!

  todos los mineros tiemblan

  al vé que tienen su vía

  a voluntá de una cuerda.

  Calling ‘Get in line’

  the miners tremble

  at the sight of their lives

  hanging by a thread.

  ‘COME ON. TO work.’

  Jesús came to pick me up, carless.

  ‘You must ask your friend to come in, Jason. He doesn’t always have to wait for you outside, you know,’ said Carlota. Expecting Jesús to sit and drink tea while fighting off vicious incontinent cats did not seem like a good idea. I looked at the clock: it was three in the morning.

  ‘Maybe another time,’ I said, stepping out the door. The end of the tour and returning to Madrid hadn’t slowed things down as I had hoped.

  We started walking. It was a week night and the city was still half-deserted as people delayed their return home from holidays on the coast. A couple of Gypsies by the side of the road were furtively syphoning off petrol from a parked car, sucking the liquid into an old water-bottle into which it flowed, bright greeny-pink. For a moment I thought Jesús might greet them, but he passed as though they weren’t there. The sense of fraternity amongst Gypsies I had expected to come across was hard to find.

  We passed out of my quarter, away from the grubby whores and pimps, onto the Gran Vía. I watched the traffic go by in a haze: bright buses filled with hot, frustrated passengers; three-wheeled tin vans put-putting back and forth; identical old couples walking arm in arm. I felt cut off from it all. The images were obstacles, things to avoid or go round. People, cars, trees, buildings: nothing had any reality. Just a dreamscape passing in front of me. Occasionally a luxury car would flash by – one that might interest Jesús – potential targets to be swooped upon.

  ‘No problem with that one. Piece of cake. He hasn’t even got an immobiliser. Switch the fuses and we’re there.’ The thoughts of a car-thief were racing inside me.

  We carried on down to Cibeles and up the Castellana: Jesús’s preferred hunting ground. But this time he carried on further, pacing solidly up the boulevard towards the more modern part of the city, with its glistening tower blocks, expensive houses, and the possibility of even richer pickings. I followed reluctantly, yet obediently, in the oppressive night heat.

  There was always a switch when the moment arrived – from simply walking, to hunting. Jesús’s body movements would change; one moment an ordinary man moving forwards, the next an animal, a leopard, shoulders hunched, head lowered, feet arched, stalking over the ground as though ready to pounce at any second. Anyone else watching might not have noticed anything beyond a look of menace in his eyes. But it was dark, there was no-one around, and it was my job to keep it that way.

  He disappeared under the bonnet of a car, fiddling with the fuse wires, and with a muffled click, the central locking opened. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he brought out a steel hammer – one of the few tools he carried with him; he never had time for too much gadgetry – and smashed down on the freshly exposed steering lock, freeing the wheel. Then a simple connection of the right wires, and we were off on another drive, soaring through the sparkling night city like birds.

  We raced down the Castellana – wide, open, tree-lined and free. Returning to it now was a sort of home-coming. The car we had picked up was a Mercedes soft-top, and taking down the roof, the air rushed over us like cool water, fresh on our damp, salty skin. I looked around. The car was plush and comfortable. I tried the seatbelt on for size.

  Jesús had begun another monologue. The kick he got from driving was more important than the money. These were just going to end up as toys for rich Arabs, as far as he was concerned. There was just time for him to enjoy them briefly before they disappeared for good and became another unsolved case on the police records. And the high he got seemed to unlock something.

  ‘Bottom of that road’s the bullring. You like bullfighting? Olé! Toro! Toro!’ He took his hands from the steering wheel and, making two horns with his fingers, he jabbed at me, ducking his fingers down at my chest. We were driving very fast.

  ‘Bullfight – guy got gored. Lived, of course: stitched him up and he was all right, no problem. Bull wasn’t. Got it in the neck. Ended up on the bullfighter’s table that night. Ha! Fuckers. Serves ’em right. Live like kings. In the fields, lots of food, as many cows as they can handle. Until they end up in a fucking great ring. Go mad. Chalao. I shit on the mother who gave birth to her. Course, there’s the others, spiking it. You know . . . It doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, blood everywhere. Pain. And she’s waving the muleta, the red cape, at you, forcing you to run, can’t give up, no, you can’t, see, she’s got you hooked, there, in the ring. Nowhere else you can go. And you’re running at her, but you’re thinking, I should be running away from all this, not running into it. But there’s just nowhere to run to, so you keep running into her, and she keeps stabbing you, prodding you, waving that great red thing in your face, and like a fool you keep going. That’s the bull’s fault. Keeps going. Other animals would give up, but the bull keeps going, never gives up, until he runs himself onto the sword up there, and . . .’

  It was swerving to avoid the other car that did it. He pulled hard on the wheel, braked, and we went into a spin, flying across the road, hitting the kerb, and smashing sideways into a lamppost.

  The lamp went out, the other car sped away, and we were left alone in the deserted street.

  I lift
ed my head. Everything was silent. I’d blacked out for a few moments and my face was half-buried in an air bag, sharp pains shooting across my chest where the seatbelt had cut in. The driver’s seat next to me was empty. Jesús had disappeared.

  ‘Jesús!’ I called. There was no answer. Bastard, I thought, as a fuzzy, crackling pain began wrapping itself around my skull. He’s probably run off and left me here.

  I got out of the car shakily and checked myself. Everything seemed OK. Just dizzy, and a sense of being somewhere else, as though watching myself and everything around me on some faraway screen. The car was a mess, a great dent in the side where the lamppost had hit, glass scattered and glistening over the tyre-marks etched into the road. From somewhere came the urgent thought: weren’t you supposed to run away from smashed-up cars in case they suddenly blew up? That was what happened in films. For a moment I was gripped by the certainty that the car was about to explode, taking me with it. I ran and dived dramatically onto the grass, landing heavily on my bruised ribs. Scrambling along the ground, I kept as low as possible. The blast, I reasoned, might at least go over my head.

  I didn’t get far. Only a few yards on, I stumbled across a body. It was Jesús, lying on his back. Pale, eyes closed.

  ‘Jesús! Fuck it! You all right?’

  There was no reply. I felt around his neck, trying to find a pulse. He was breathing. There were no signs of any cuts or serious damage, but his eyes remained shut and he appeared to be in pain.

  ‘Jesús. Wake up.’ I slapped him around the face. Another tip from the cinema. Still he didn’t stir.

  ‘Come on. Wake up.’ I tried again. A bit harder this time. Nothing. I lifted my head. Two or three whining sirens in the distance were getting closer. Please, not the police. Not the police, dear God.

  ‘JESÚS!’ He was out cold.

  I stood up to get a better view. It looked like an ambulance, but the police wouldn’t be far behind. I began calculating how far I would need to carry him to be safe. How far could I go without being spotted, though?

  The ambulance pulled up as I was caught by a moment’s indecision, and the medics tumbled out to look for us. A man ran up with a blanket and hauled me away from Jesús.

  ‘Here, this way. You need to sit down. We’ll get you in the ambulance.’

  I shook him off. ‘I’m staying here with him.’

  ‘You’re injured. Come on. Get in the ambulance.’

  I stood still. The most important thing was taking care of Jesús. They already had a blanket around him and were fetching a stretcher. There was noise, people shouting. One of the medics went to get more blankets. The stretcher got caught on one of the bars in the ambulance and for a moment they struggled to get it out, shouting at one another angrily.

  Come on, Jesús. Wake up, for God’s sake. We’ve got to get out of here.

  But he was still unmoving, still unconscious.

  Another medic shouted at me as he ran past.

  ‘You still here? Get inside the . . .’

  ‘Are the police coming?’

  ‘Of course. Be here any second.’

  I had to do something, but racing around Madrid in an ambulance trying to escape from the police did not seem very practical. There would be the medics to deal with first, and there were three of them . . .

  I stepped over towards Jesús as they were about to put him on the stretcher.

  ‘Wait!’ I leaned over his body and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Jesús,’ I said gently, ‘wake up now.’ He didn’t move. The ambulancemen moved to push me out of the way.

  ‘Wake up now, Jesús. They’re expecting the police.’

  At the mention of the hated word, he opened his eyes, looked at me for a second and sat bolt upright.

  ‘Watch it, man,’ the medic said. ‘You’ve just had an accident. The ambulance is here, we’re going to take you to the hospital. You’ll be fine, but . . .’

  Jesús was already on his feet.

  ‘No, I’m OK.’ He was leaning heavily on my arm.

  The ambulanceman ignored him.

  ‘Right. If you just come over here, we’ll get you in the . . .’

  ‘No. I told you. I’m fine.’

  More blue lights were flashing in the street ahead. I squeezed Jesús’s wrist.

  ‘You’re not. You’ve had an accident. Now get inside the ambulance.’

  ‘We’ll be off,’ I said. The lights were getting closer. We turned to get away. The medic grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back with a jerk.

  There was no choice.

  ‘Go!’ I shouted to Jesús. Mustering as much strength as I could, I spun on the ball of my foot and punched the medic in the stomach. He gave out a low, wounded groan and folded in half, falling to the floor like a deflated balloon. For a moment, I looked at him, surprised at my own strength. It felt terrible as he lay there, face screwed up with shock. But there was no time for sympathy: the other two were bearing down on me and the police were arriving. Turning, I ran as fast as I could. Jesús was sprinting ahead, all weakness and injury melting away as he cut off the main road and headed for one of the sidestreets that wound round the back of the Cortes, the parliament. I followed, the medics coming up behind; I just hoped they hadn’t had time to tell the police what was going on.

  Carrying on up the slope, our legs began to tire. We had to be careful: just one street away, police and guards were stationed, watching over the parliament building, and they would be only too happy to intercede in the far more exciting job of pursuing a Gypsy car-thief and his mate.

  Jesús, slowing at a junction to decide which way to go, turning right; me running behind him, feet barely touching the pavement, flying past streetlamps, parked cars, dirty doorways.

  Think fast. We couldn’t get away just by running. Once the police at the crash site worked out what was going on they would radio out for help, meaning an ever increasing number of pursuers ringing us in like hounds. The streets were deserted and poorly lit, thank God, and the medics were only half-hearted in their attempts to catch us, happy to leave the job of hunting us down to the police. A pair of feet echoed in the streets behind us, pounding the paving-stones with heavy, awkward steps. The man called back to his colleagues to ask if they could see us. But he was alone: there was no reply, and his steps became slower and stiffer as he ran from junction to junction trying to see which way we’d gone. I was more worried about the police at the Cortes, though. With all the noise, one of them might come out and snoop around, just to see what was going on.

  Jesús was panting and beginning to hobble. I should have been amazed he was even upright at all, but we were on the run, sweating heavily, our minds focused entirely on escape. Catching up with him, I placed his arm over my shoulder and helped him move faster, my eyes moving over the scene ahead for any way out. There were no walls to hide behind, no alleyways with fire-escapes to climb up and away, no gardens we could sneak into. For a moment I thought that Jesús could break into another car and we could just drive away, but we didn’t have the time, and he was weakening. And there was always the chance of getting stopped.

  More shouting from behind. I didn’t dare look back. Jesús was leaning more and more on my arm. Ahead was another road. We swerved to the right, heading for the Alcalá, the main avenue leading to the Puerta del Sol and the heart of the city. If we were fast enough, and with a bit of luck . . . It was late, though. I must have been mad, but it was our only chance.

  Out on the empty main road, a white car with a green light on its roof appeared a hundred yards away. I looked around; no police, but oh God it was moving so slowly. Come to us, come to us. That’s right. He’d seen us now, and was speeding up. Sticking my arm out, I let go of Jesús. For a second he staggered, then righted himself. One final effort.

  The door closed, the light went out and the taxi gently pulled away. Hold on Jesús, hold on. Just till we get past Sol and away from here. The driver was already suspicious – Jesús a Gypsy and me a foreign
er. It didn’t quite fit, somehow. I could see him trying to get a view of us in his mirror. That’s it, head down on the back of the seat, Jesús, sleep a little. Just a heavy night, that’s all. We’ll get you sorted. Away from here, away from them, away from all this. Away, and down the Calle Mayor, away from the centre, away from the boulevards and avenues and tight, narrow streets. No more. Not tonight. It’s finished. Gone.

  * * *

  ‘Listen, son. This is the last opportunity you’ll have to see him. You can’t miss it.’

  Eduardo had called from Alicante. We hadn’t spoken for months. He was coming up to Madrid for the weekend and wanted me to meet him at the bullring. It was a chance to see his favourite matador – the Alicantino, Jose-María Manzanares – in action.

  ‘He’s a great bloke. Gave me my first interview at the paper. Meet me at the main entrance at five.’

  Las Ventas is one of the finest, and, Madrileños like to think, the most prestigious bullrings in the world. It is a megalithic brick monument to neo-Moorish architecture, built shortly before the Civil War, and squats, as in many Roman towns, on the edge of the centre next to the modern equivalent of the city walls, the ring-road.

  I was struck by its size, hazy and soft-edged in the late afternoon sun. The red horseshoe arches, row after row, storey after storey, reminded me of pictures I had seen of the mosque at Córdoba, hitting a forgotten, aesthetic nerve and something of the romance that had first drawn me to Spain.

  The area around the entrance threw me into childhood fantasies of ancient Rome: hat-sellers, drink-sellers, roasted nuts, fans. And then more contemporary equivalents: plastic models of toreros and – I shuddered – flamenco dancers; or bullfighting posters on which tourists could have their name printed below those of some of the greats. Although how the sequence ‘Jesulín de Ubrique, El Cordobés y Richard Docker’ was supposed to sound authentic, I could never work out.