The Songs of Manolo Escobar

by Carlos Alba

  Uli smiled provocatively.

  ‘With British news,’ I added.

  His smile broadened.

  ‘Why would you want journalists writing British news for a British paper to be based in China?’

  He looked at me as though he found it ridiculous that I should find anything remotely odd about his plan.

  ‘China has a highly educated labour force that earns a fraction of the salaries expected in Britain. No union-negotiated employment rights. We save money.’

  I tried again. ‘But what do people in China know about producing a British newspaper?’

  He laughed heartily. ‘No, Herr Noguero. You are missing the point. They will be producing a global newspaper.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  He sighed. ‘We publish tabloid newspapers all over the world – in Britain, in Germany, in Australia, in America, in South Africa. And what do our readers in all of these countries want? They want to read about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, about Jay-Z, Beyoncé and Tiger Woods. So why do we need staff in all these countries writing the same stories about the same people?’

  ‘But they also want to know about what’s happening in their own countries, with their own politicians and public services and celebrities and sports teams.’

  He yawned and shook his head as though I was detaining him with trifles. ‘We will have maybe one or two freelance journalists in the UK to take care of that. Soon all of our titles will be online, and all of our advertisers global brands. We did not buy your newspaper because we are interested in Britain. We are interested in the world.’

  ‘That’s not a very patriotic message to send out to our readers. How are you going to sell it to them?’

  ‘I’m not, Herr Noguero,’ he said smiling. ‘You are.’

  17

  There was no way I was getting a 2:1. With the amount of work I’d put in, I’d be lucky to get a third. I didn’t really want a 2:1 anyway. I didn’t know how they expected anyone to get a 2:1 with the questions they’d set. None of the subjects I’d expected came up. I mean, how did they expect anyone to anticipate obscure Italian legal philosopher Del Vecchio? No one had revised for Del Vecchio. Having said that, I could have got a 2:1 if I’d tried, but I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t understand why it was so important to get a 2:1 anyway. It was a nebulous distinction given to academics by other academics to keep them in work. It’s not like you wouldn’t get a job with a 2:1. Most people got 2:2s. The only people who got a 2:1 were spotty nerks with no mates, no life and nothing better to do with their time other than worry about whether they were going to get a 2 fucking 1.

  ‘Antonio, why don’t you shut up and drink your coffee?’ Cheryl said. ‘Talking about it all the time isn’t going to make the results appear any quicker.’

  Those twenty-seven-and-a-half days waiting for results after my final exam were the longest, most tense period of my life. Of course I wanted a 2:1. Everyone wanted a 2:1. Well, everyone wanted a first, but that idea wasn’t even worth entertaining. Getting a 2:1 was all I’d thought about. I was convinced that if I came up short the rest of my life would be a desperate, downward trajectory into a black pit of abject, humiliating failure and death.

  I got a 2:1. It would have been a pitiless bruising injustice had I got anything less after all the hard work I’d put in. Cheryl got a first. Standing in front of the results boards we hugged each other tightly. We were now officially both high achievers, and that meant that our relationship was more than a student romance: we had the same life goals and we could achieve them together.

  After the high of learning my grade, I faced the low of the graduation ceremony with my father. Until then I hadn’t given it a thought because I’d been so focused on my exams. Now it was a reality – my first formal outing, as an adult, with Papa.

  He was determined to be a sartorial standout, arriving resplendent in a pure-wool, double-breasted navy suit, a camel cape and spats. The ensemble was rounded off with a brass-headed cane that he’d picked up at a junk shop, and which he carried, ostentatiously, in full view of all the other graduands and their parents. This was his interpretation of how a British gentleman presented himself in society. He looked more like a Mafia don.

  ‘Papa, will you put that cane away? It’s embarrassing,’ I pleaded as we gathered in the medieval quadrangle among a sea of black gowns and wedding hats.

  ‘Wha you say embarrass? This is good cane,’ he said loudly. ‘This good quality. You know how much it cost?’

  I ignored the question, hoping he would drop it.

  ‘You know how much this cost? I get you one.’

  ‘Leave it, Pablo, he doesn’t want a cane,’ Mama said.

  She had bought a new outfit for the occasion, though typically for her it was cheap and off-the-peg and did little to draw attention to her. She sloped and withdrew into herself, fearful of exposing her social inexperience in front of the other well-groomed mothers. Fortunately, students were limited to two guests – it was a good excuse not to invite Pablito. Not that he’d have come anyway; he was still at home in bed, sleeping off a hangover.

  As I strolled across the stage to accept my degree I picked out the faces of my parents in the crowd – red, joyful and proud. There were tears in Mama’s eyes. After the ceremony we’d planned to return home, where she had prepared a special lunch of rabbit in an almond sauce – one of Papa’s favourites – but Cheryl invited us to join her and her parents, who were going to The Ubiquitous Chip, a posh restaurant on Ashton Lane. I really didn’t want to go, and I could tell from the expressions of pained prevarication on the faces of my parents that they weren’t keen either. We’d been going out together since first year, but our respective parents had never met before this day. They had little in common. Her father was a director of a large drinks company and her mother was a GP. They lived in a large detached house with a walled garden on the outskirts of Edinburgh. But Cheryl seemed to think that us sitting down together was the most natural thing in the world and insisted that we come.

  The Ubiquitous Chip specialised in Scottish fine dining in a rustic, informal setting, which seemed to confuse Papa no end. He was edgy and suspicious, not least because of his inability to read the menu properly. Although my experience of eating out was confined entirely to cheap curry-houses, he and Mama clung to me as though I was a lifeline, and they were appalled when Cheryl suggested they sit apart at the table. Ordinarily Mama would act as Papa’s interpreter and adviser, but with her at the opposite end of the table from him it was left to me to talk him through the options, which I did as best I could. Given my own inexperience, I wasn’t much help with some of the culinary terminology, and Cheryl ended up ordering for us. Mama knew enough to know what she liked and seemed to warm to the experience. Cheryl’s dad, Mr Bruce, who insisted that I call him Greg, announced that we should all have champagne.

  ‘So are you going to break the habit of a lifetime, Pablo, and join us in a glass of bubbly to toast Antonio’s success?’ Cheryl asked him with pushy good humour.

  There was a brusqueness about their relationship. Though Papa denied any uneasiness, there was little of the familiar, forced sincerity that characterised his exchanges with the girls Pablito brought home. With them he was flirtatious, encouraging them to giggle with him over some perceived misunderstanding or saucy faux pas. With Cheryl he was distant and polite – I think he was afraid of being bettered. Of course, there was also the possibility he didn’t fancy her, though from the way I often caught him looking at her, I doubted that was the case.

  He shot Mama a panicked glance at Cheryl’s suggestion.

  ‘Cheryl’s asking if you’ll have a glass of champagne,’ I said quietly in his ear.

  He offered a watery smile and shook his head.

  The conversation had moved on – to the weather, the grandness of the ceremony, the difficulty in finding a parking space in the West End – before he spoke again.

  ‘Wha ya try, tae get me drunk?’ he deman
ded loudly.

  The sound of chatter stalled as Cheryl’s parents looked on bemused. They turned to Cheryl.

  ‘I say, wha ya try, tae make me drunk?’ he repeated.

  I cringed, praying for Cheryl to temper what I feared would be a full-blooded response.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Pablo, you’re cheeky enough when you’re sober,’ she responded.

  Her parents smiled indulgently.

  More graduates and their families arrived, and soon the restaurant was rocking with the sound of braying laughter and the self-satisfied clink of champagne flutes. Mama soon warmed to the jovial atmosphere of the place and sat contented, sipping champagne and exchanging easy chat with Cheryl’s mother.

  Papa remained silent. When the food arrived, he seemed to relax a little – it was unfussy and delicious – but he still didn’t join in the conversation. Several times I caught Cheryl’s father looking at him, and midway through the main course he addressed him directly for the first time.

  ‘So, Mr Noguera, what do you think of these two skiving off to Africa instead of getting proper jobs?’ he asked cheerily.

  Papa would have caught barely a quarter of the question, and I was hoping against hope that the reference to Africa had passed him by.

  ‘Wha you say, Africa?’

  I squirmed. I’d deliberately avoided raising the subject of Africa with Mama and Papa, principally because I hadn’t made up my mind if I was going yet. It had been Cheryl’s idea, to take a year out and work on a charity project before launching our careers. She’d had her future mapped out by the end of her second year – a year in Ethiopia teaching English before returning to the UK to sit her diploma in legal practice, after which she’d get a job as a human rights lawyer.

  I wasn’t close to deciding what to do with my life. All I knew was that I wanted a job that I enjoyed and one that, if possible, was reasonably well paid. Working for an African charity seemed like a good idea at the time – I’d be able to help people, consider my career options and be with Cheryl – but I hadn’t come to a firm decision about it, largely because I knew how unpopular it would be with Papa.

  ‘I’m saying to this pair, rather than going to Africa to help the poor, they should be knuckling down to the world of work,’ Mr Bruce said, chuckling. ‘I mean, charity begins at home and all that, don’t you think?’

  He took a large swig from a glass of expensive claret that he’d ordered to accompany his rump of Perthshire lamb.

  ‘Dad, don’t be so crass,’ Cheryl scolded. ‘There are people starving in Africa.’

  Papa leaned towards me with his forehead furrowed.

  ‘Wha they talk Africa?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Papa, I’ll tell you about it when we get home.’

  His face tightened and he returned to his food.

  After that Mr Bruce turned his attention exclusively to Cheryl, and they became involved in an intense discussion about something or other which I couldn’t hear over the din of the other guests. Papa and I sat silently through dessert, and by the time the coffee and the petits-fours had arrived he’d abandoned any pretence of conviviality. He glanced at his watch and shuffled on his seat.

  Abruptly and without excusing himself, he rose to his feet and made his way to the Gents. En route he stopped and chatted briefly to one of the waiters. We all watched him leave and the conversation faltered. A few moments later he came and took his seat again. Then the waiter arrived, handing him the bill.

  ‘Now, don’t be silly, old man, we’ll get this,’ Mr Bruce said expansively and a little pompously.

  ‘Nae, I pay,’ Papa said huffily.

  ‘No, really, that’s not fair, it was our invitation, after all.’

  ‘I pay,’ Papa insisted.

  ‘Well, at least let’s go dutch.’

  This was an idiom too far for Papa, who hugged the bill protectively to his chest. ‘I pay, I pay, you nae invite me, this is my son, you nae tell me who pay.’

  ‘That’s enough, Pablo,’ Mama ordered.

  I felt tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I knew Papa had been looking forward to this day for a long time. He would never, in normal circumstances, have volunteered to pay for anything so extravagant, but this was his way of reclaiming his place. Such a gesture, however misguided, was as close as he got to a declaration of love.

  ‘No, he’s absolutely right,’ Mr Bruce declared magnanimously. ‘It is his son, and he has every right to treat him to lunch on the biggest day of his life.’

  Papa unfolded the bill and looked at it. He placed it face down and then retrieved it and looked at it again. He held it closer, as though he didn’t trust what his eyes were telling him, and the colour drained from his face.

  ‘Are you all right, Pablo?’ Cheryl asked.

  He sat back in his chair and held the table with both hands. I tried to catch his eye, but he was staring intently at the table. Mr and Mrs Bruce exchanged furtive glances as the waiter hovered uncertainly in the background. After a few moments he stepped forward.

  ‘Would anyone like anything else? More coffee perhaps?’ he asked.

  ‘I no feel well,’ Papa said quietly to me.

  Mr Bruce waved the waiter away.

  ‘Why don’t you step outside for a bit of air?’ he suggested. ‘It is blasted hot in here.’

  I took Papa by the arm and led him gently from the table into the street outside. He stood hunched and trembling, gazing coldly into the distance.

  ‘Why don’t you go and wait for Mama and me in the car?’ I suggested.

  He nodded in agreement and shuffled slowly along the cobbled lane towards the car park. I returned to the restaurant, where Cheryl’s dad was paying the bill.

  I drove the car home in silence. I could tell from the smile on Mama’s face that she was tipsy from the champagne, though she knew better than to make it obvious to Papa, who sat slumped next to her in the back seat. When we arrived home we changed out of our formal clothes – Mama and Papa had bought me a suit from Burton’s, and I wanted to keep it clean for job interviews – and Mama made a pot of coffee.

  Pablito was sitting on the sofa in his dressing-gown, watching afternoon television, with an empty cereal bowl at his feet. He was unshaven, and his eyes were red and moist. He’d packed in his most recent job, as a fitted-kitchen salesman – his third in a year – a fortnight before, and he hadn’t been out of bed before midday since then.

  ‘Are you not going to ask how it went?’ Mama asked.

  Slowly he looked away from the television and cast an uninterested glance in my direction. ‘Oh aye, how did it go?’ he asked unenthusiastically.

  ‘It went fine,’ I said.

  ‘Great.’

  Papa sat brooding, smoking a succession of cigarettes, staring out of the window while Mama and I talked about the ceremony and the restaurant. Intermittently I caught her glancing at Pablito, and I saw in her face a growing sense of impatience. ‘Should you not be dressed by now? It’s past three o’clock.’

  He ignored her.

  ‘Pablito, go and get dressed,’ she said firmly.

  He continued to stare at the television screen. ‘I’ll do it after this programme has finished,’ he said distractedly.

  We continued to talk about the meal, but I could sense her attention wasn’t properly on the conversation. ‘Pablito, should you not be out looking for a job? That’s another wasted day.’

  I’d arranged to meet Cheryl in the evening, to join up with some friends for a celebratory drink. After I’d finished my cup of coffee I made to leave the room to get ready, but Papa stopped me. ‘Hey, where you go?’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Why you nae spend time with your family? Why you always go with friends?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I protested.

  He waved me away and pretended to watch the television.

  ‘I don’t spend all my time with friends,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve been locked away in the library for the past three mon
ths studying. I deserve a bit of free time.’

  ‘Oh, you deserve, always you deserve,’ he said sarcastically.

  Mama tensed, and Pablito got up from the sofa and left the room.

  ‘What are you talking about, Papa?’

  He bristled and shook his head despairingly – a gesture that suggested that if he had to explain, then his point was already made.

  ‘Is this about Africa?’ I asked. ‘I was going to tell you. I just hadn’t got round to it. Besides, I haven’t made up my mind that I’m definitely going.’

  It was enough for him that I was even considering such a thing. ‘Why you wanna go away? Who force you? Is anyone force you?’

  ‘No, no one is forcing me. If I do decide to go, it will be because I want to.’

  ‘Why you dae this? I have tae leave my country. I have nae choice. You nae have to leave.’

  ‘But Papa, this is completely different. I’d only go for a year and I could return when I wanted to.’

  ‘Wha about your family? Your family here. Here is your responsibility.’

  ‘Responsibility? For what?’

  I felt a surge of resentment and a strong desire to hold my ground, but he stared me down and my self-assurance dissolved.

  ‘You stupid. You know this. All time you read books and you stupid.’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Why you go Africa? Wha you think find in Africa? I live in Morocco. I know more than you. There is nothing. Nothing for you in Africa.’

  ‘I’m not going for me, I’m going to help other people.’

  ‘Other people?’ he scoffed with mock laugher. ‘There is other people here. Your mama, your papa, your brother, why you nae help us?’

  ‘You’re not starving.’

  ‘What you talk, starve?’

  ‘A million people have already died in Ethiopia because they don’t have access to food. I think their need’s greater than yours, don’t you?’

  His eyes narrowed and his body jerked with frustration. ‘Why you nae get job? You know wha age I am when I get first job?’

  ‘Thirteen,’ I said.

  ‘Si, thirteen, thirteen. Wha age you now?’