by Pablo Tusset
The sound of the telephone ringing was the one thing that delivered me back to Planet Earth.
‘Yeees …’
‘Good afternoon. I’m calling from the Centre for Statistical Studies. We’re conducting a standard media audience survey, and I was wondering if I might be able to take a few seconds of your time.’
It was one of those telemarketing girls, with one of those extremely sweet voices that is nevertheless incapable of hiding the underlying hostility of someone who genuinely hates her job. The annoying part, of course, was that the survey bit sounded like an excuse to try and sell me something, and that got on my nerves.
I decided to put her to work.
‘A survey? How grand, I love surveys.’
‘Oh, do you? Well, then you’re in luck … Could you give me your name, please?’
‘Juan.’
‘Juan what?’
‘Juan Tosockmi.’
‘Wonderful, Juan, wonderful. Now tell me, how old are you?’
‘Seventy-two.’
‘Your field of work?’
‘Pastry chef.’
‘Pas-try … chef. Perfect. Do you like music, Juan?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m wild about music.’
‘Really? What kind, specifically?’
‘Oh … Handel’s Messiah, La Cucaracha. In that order.’
The girl was starting to hesitate, but she wasn’t about to give up. She went on to ask if I listened to the radio, if I watched television, if I read newspapers and if so which ones. After she went through her little routine, she hit me with the big question:
‘Very good, Juan … Now, as a way of thanking you for helping us out, and given your taste in classical music, we’re going to award you three CDs – or cassettes or records, your choice. The only payment involved is for shipping and handling, it comes out to about ten-fifty, does that sound good to you?’
‘Ooh, I’m so sorry, but I’d have to check with my husband for something like that …’
My voice is unmistakably male, caveman male, which clearly unglued her. That was precisely the moment to stick it to her.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hope you’re not alarmed or anything, it’s that we’re gay, common-law marriage, you know. We’ve been living together ever since we got out of rehab and opened the sweet shop – we’re going on six months now. And as luck had it, we have this customer – he’s gay too – who comes in to buy our chocolate-covered cream puffs – if I might say so myself, we make incredible cream puffs – and anyway, he introduced us to the Society of the Brotherhood of Light … you are familiar with the Brotherhood, I suppose?’
‘Well … uh, no …’
‘Oh, well, you’ll have to get to know us. We’d absolutely love it. In the mornings, when I stay at the sweet shop, he presides over the services at the Brotherhood. And then we switch in the afternoons … So you say you haven’t seen the Light yet?’
‘No … no …’
‘No? Well, don’t worry, we can set you up in no time. Let’s see, what’s your name?’
The girl had lost it by now.
‘No, no, you see …’
‘Wait – better yet just give me your address and I can come by today and we can have a chat, how would that suit you?’
‘No, no, I’m sorry, it’s just … they don’t allow us to give out our address …’
‘They don’t what? Well, that’s no problem: I can locate your telephone call on my computer and I can send out one of our Lesbian Big Sisters to talk with your supervisor. Wait, wait, the number’s coming up on my screen right now. Let’s see … you’re calling from Barcelona, right? If you can wait just a few seconds your address should come up …’
That was about as much as she could take. Almost immediately I heard the click of the telephone on the other end.
Mission accomplished. I took a long drag off the joint and in a splendid mood I went to the kitchen to put on the water for the spaghetti. At that moment I had no idea what was going down at Miralles & Miralles; nor did I have any idea of the predicament I was about to get myself into.
TOP-HEAVY FRONTAL LOAD
An inordinately loud clap of thunder roused me from my nap: brrrrrrrrrrrrrm, just as I was dreaming about a bunch of treacherous creatures that possessed the singular ability to sink their little legs into the earth, take root there and survive indefinitely in vegetable form. They even had a name: borzogs, a strange hybrid between nettle and elf. You could walk among them and not suspect a thing and then suddenly – bam! – they would come alive, rip their roots out of the ground and become legs once again, and the little motherfuckers would take hungry bites out of your legs.
It was after seven in the evening and raining buckets, a real springtime thunderstorm, short but fierce, and my head cleared as I gazed out at the sheets of water coming down outside my window. Barcelona is pretty cool when it rains: the trees become bright green, the postboxes bright yellow, and the bus roofs bright red, all washed clean by the pouring rain. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with the buses in Barcelona, but from up above they always look like they’re full of shit. Except when it rains hard and everything becomes green, blue, and red – primary colours against a gloomy grey, turning the city into a giant toyland – a massive Scalextric or a Legoland. I put some coffee on to face my second wake-up of the day, much more relaxed at this late afternoon hour, and I turned on the radio. Something slow was playing, a melodious black voice accompanied by long drags on a saxophone. Afterwards, I turned on my computer and as it booted up I lit a joint and poured myself a coffee. I settled down in front of the monitor and connected to my server. Hmm.
Twelve messages. Three of them junk mail. The other nine had a little more sizzle. I did a superficial scan for prioritising purposes. John from Dublin: ‘hey, how are you, here are some Primary Sentences I’ve been working on,’ etc. The people at the General Patent Office: ‘unfortunately we cannot provide you with the information you requested.’ Blah, blah, blah. Lerilyn from Virginia: ‘I can’t stand my American scene, I miss Barcelona so bad …’ Her note was signed with kisses (besos spelled with a v) and an hasta luego (minus the h). I lingered a little longer on a message from the Boston Philosophy College, inviting me to give a lecture during their summer session. Naturally I had no intention of going, but I entertained myself with that email for a few minutes, for the ego boost it provided. In the street, I may be a nobody, but on the Web I do have something of a name for myself and I do still have a shred of vanity – another one of my bourgeois weaknesses. The other six messages were from the Metaphysical Club mail server which I downloaded before logging off so that I could read them at my leisure. From what I could tell, everyone was talking about my latest instalment. ‘If every word introduces a new concept, the simple phrase “all that which does not exist” is sufficient to make everything that does not exist, exist.’ This was the message from a guy named Martin Ayakati, in an attempt to refute my most recent Metaphysical Club effort. A slightly insignificant, though not entirely meaningless comment. But inferior to my own, in any event.
I decided to be organised about this, and respond to my messages one by one as I read them. I hit the ‘reply’ button and began to write, in Spanish:
‘To say “all that which does not exist” is to introduce, effectively, a new concept, but it does not bring into existence anything more than that very concept which it introduces. That is, a certain entity about which we know nothing except that it bears the name of “all that which does not exist.” I should point out that in the same fashion, a woman may call herself “Rose” and that does not mean that she is full of thorns …’
I was just getting warmed up when the telephone rang. It was becoming clear that this was to be a day of telephonic interruptions.
‘Yeeeesss …’
‘I’ve been calling you for half an hour, but I kept getting a busy signal.’
It was The First. He must have called while I was checking my email.
&nbs
p; ‘What the hell do you want now? We agreed to meet on Monday, didn’t we?’
‘Not anymore. Drop it.’
‘Whaat …?’
‘Drop the whole thing. I’m not interested in the information any more.’
‘Oh, no? Well, I, for one, am still interested in those five hundred euros.’
‘I have no doubt that you haven’t even begun to do what I asked you.’
‘Well, I have, in fact. It has taken up a considerable amount of my mental space. And anyway, a deal is a deal. You owe me that money.’
‘Fine. Keep the advance I gave you.’
Now that was definitely weird. I had to take advantage of the opportunity to hit him up for more.
‘I don’t have the advance any more, and I turned down another offer because I was counting on the balance that you were going to pay me next Friday. You do the math.’
‘All right, all right. Don’t start in with me. Come by tomorrow and I’ll give you the rest. But forget about the whole thing, all right? Forget it.’
Interesting: The First was giving me a whole five hundred euros, free and clear: without arguing, without bargaining, without getting all hot and bothered. Something major was going down, I was sure of it. Or at least that was what I inferred from the vehemence in his voice, the ‘drop it’, that odd imperative, ‘drop it.’ Now that I think about it, there was definitely a note of alarm in his voice, although at the time I perceived it as impatience, an impatience that was just what I needed to put an end to the conversation before he had a chance to have misgivings about the money.
‘All right, I’ll come by tomorrow. Listen, I’m kind of busy right now … And if you need to call again, try not to ring so loud next time, all right?’
‘Wait, there’s something else.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Dad. He broke his leg.’
‘His leg … what for?’
It wasn’t a joke; I was just shocked by the news. My Father’s Highness never does anything without sufficient motive to justify his actions.
‘There’s been an accident, he got hit by a car. He called me from the hospital and I went over to pick him up. Mom is a bit hysterical. She hasn’t called you yet?’
‘No … Is it serious?’
‘No, he’s all right. He’s in a plaster cast up to his knee, and he’ll be stuck with it for a little more than a month. He’s in a bad mood now because their plan was to go to Llavaneras this weekend and stay there for the rest of the summer. Please, do me a favour and go visit them, they’re pretty shaken up.’
That was the very first time my Magnificent Brother had ever asked something like that of me. But the truly weird, even alarming aspect of this was the ‘please’ bit. Maybe our father’s accident had unnerved him – or who knows, maybe there was still a heart somewhere beneath that Hugo Boss suit. In any event, it was still highly unorthodox for him to have unloaded all that cash without a fight.
I picked up the telephone again and punched the number of the Miralles headquarters. I don’t know what got into me – all this must have given me some kind of filial adrenaline rush.
My Mother’s Highness actually answered the telephone, another unusual turn of events. After a brief exchange I could tell that the initial shock of the accident had subsided, but she was still quite out of sorts. I asked her why she hadn’t called me as soon as she’d found out about the accident, more than anything to show a little interest.
‘What do you think, Pablo José? That after all this, I’ve lost my mind, too? Of course I tried calling but you weren’t there, and then what with everything, I forgot. Your brother went to pick him up at the hospital.’
‘Is Dad there? Can you put him on for a second?’
‘No, no, he needs to rest now. He’s in bed. And I should warn you, he’s in a foul mood. I suppose you’ll be coming by to see him?’
I don’t know why, but I said yes.
‘All right, sure, I’ll come over for a few minutes sometime tomorrow morning. I have to go to Sebastian’s office so I can stop on the way.’
‘Fine. Come by at around one and we can have a drink and then eat together.’
Suddenly, somehow, this had turned into a lunch obligation. But, well … it was just for one day.
After hanging up I fixed myself another joint and poured some more coffee, hoping to return to my messages, but I couldn’t concentrate. In reality it wasn’t that big a deal: my father had gotten his leg all smashed up and The First had had a moment of weakness. Nothing terrifically out of the ordinary. But my mind has, as they say, a mind of its own, and when it doesn’t want to concentrate there’s nothing I can do about it. I got up from my chair and wandered over to the window. The rain had stopped, something by El Último de la Fila was playing on the radio, with that voice that can turn the stupidest song into a transcendental symphony, and I started to get all sad as I surveyed my living room, a veritable trash pit stretching out before my eyes. In that indoor jungle I half-expected a borzog to sprout up and start nipping away at my calves. The mere idea put me in such a negative mood that I indulged my bourgeois weaknesses and decided it was time to clean house. I started with the bedroom, the room that has come to be the eye of my domestic storm. Beneath a pile of underwear that had started to grow roots at the foot of my bed I found a copy of El País from a few weeks earlier, and I stood there fixating on it, trying to remember why the hell I had saved it. Thanks to this subtle distraction manoeuvre, my urge to clean gradually subsided, and I was able to put the pile of underwear back where it was and head for the kitchen in search of something edible. I had a major craving for a couple of fried eggs and a plateful of chips smothered in mayonnaise, something that my newly-stocked refrigerator could most certainly offer.
I was already getting to work on this when, for the fourth time that day, the telephone rang – just as the potatoes were getting nice and brown in the big skillet and the oil for the eggs had begun to crackle and spit smoke in the small one.
‘Hello?’
‘Heeeey, how aaare you …?’
I can’t stand people who don’t identify themselves on the phone. It’s like, everyone assumes that their voice is instantly recognisable, even when spoken through some piece of shit telephone receiver. This voice, however, was unmistakable. The voice of Fina.
‘Hey. You got me. I’m just about to fry a couple of eggs.’
‘Yeah, so? What’s going on with you these days …?’
I also have a strong aversion to people who call and expect me to direct the conversation. As far as I see it, the one who initiates the call is driving the bus. But Fina evidently doesn’t feel that way.
‘Nothing. I just told you: frying eggs.’
‘At this hour?’
‘Well, so what? Is there some kind of no-eggs-after-dark law I haven’t heard of?’
Giggles. If there’s one thing I like about Fina, apart from her tits, it’s that she laughs at my stupid jokes. That’s what saves her.
‘Listen, my potatoes are starting to burn …’
‘Wasn’t it eggs?’
‘Eggs with potatoes. Fried. In oil. Olive oil.’
This time she responded with a fake laugh and finally got to the point.
‘Do you want to meet up later?’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know … in a little while, like nine maybe. At Luigi’s?’
By now the chips were burnt, but they weren’t any worse for the wear. I smeared them with mayonnaise and snarfed them down, using them as shovels for the eggs. Then I flopped out on the sofa. Suddenly a wave of lethargy came over me; all I wanted to do was settle in, watch TV and ventilate a bag of peanuts as soon as hunger struck again. I’ve always felt that I watch far too little TV. Somehow I always end up watching TV late at night, when my only options are an Ab Flex infomercial or a masterpiece of classic cinema. Naturally I always opt for the Ab Flex, but by the third zap, I start yearning for a good, primetime Telecinc
o show and those sets decked out with curving staircases and trampolines. That’s always how I imagined heaven would be – the heaven that the Marist Brothers always promised would be ours if only we would stop jerking off in chapel. Anyway. I got up from the sofa, very grudgingly, and went hunting in my closet for something clean to wear. I found an old polo shirt and put it on, but when I raised my arms the tail popped out from my pantwaist and dangled just below my belly button. Then I remembered that I have a mirror, and I went over to check myself out. A 1.80-metre sausage stuffed into a Starsky and Hutch-esque Fred Perry shirt. I rummaged around a bit more until I located a shirt large enough for my dimensions. It was slightly frayed at the neck from stubble abrasions, but who the hell would bother noticing the neckline of my shirt? Well, Fina would, but Fina and I are pretty tight; she could care less about things like the state of my shirt collar. The real drag was that I was starting to feel all heavy from the eggs, the mayonnaise, the expense of energy, what with all that getting up and down from the couch to dig through my closet … Luckily I was able to lay a long, noisy fart that unleashed about a quart of intestinal volume, which gave my gut some breathing space.
It was almost nine-thirty by the time I turned up at the bar, but Fina usually arrives even later than I do, so I was cool. It was doggie hour: after dinner, all the neighbourhood social outcasts emerge from their apartments with the excuse of walking the pup, and afterwards they all find their way over to Luigi’s bar, which ends up looking like some kind of a dog show. Luigi and Roberto, the night waiter, were behind the bar. About Roberto, there’s not much to tell – he can pretty much be summed up in one adjective: Mexican. This is something that you would only notice when he talks, because his talent for singing corridos is pretty much nil. I ordered a beer and leaned against the bar. The remake of The Fly was playing on the TV up above, and at a table nearby, a man and a woman sharing a plate of octopus made faces of disgust. I downed my beer practically in one gulp and then ordered another. Both Luigi and Roberto were busy taking orders from the tables, and so for lack of better entertainment I just sat there staring at the telly. The main guy was already pretty bugged-out, as they say, his face covered with boils about to explode and his body plagued with insect bites: ‘I’m saying … I’ll hurt you if you stay,’ the fly-man said to his girlfriend as the spit dribbled from his face. I finished off the second beer and started in on the third. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s when my life becomes some kind of interior dialogue, so I kept my eye on the TV monitor until the movie ended and struck up a casual flirtation with a boxer puppy while his owner sunk his day’s pay in a slot machine. I had almost forgotten that I was waiting for someone by the time Fina showed up. Although, to be precise, she did far more than just show up – her entrance into the bar was most definitely an arrival. A grand arrival in a sweater dress that showed off every last curve from her tits down to about fifteen centimetres below her crotch. A pair of diamond-patterned fishnets took over from there down to a pair sadomasochist-housewife boots. In addition to this, she had dyed her hair orange, very short, buzzed at the back, and she had made up her face taking special care to outline her lips. A long pendant hung from her neck, swinging back and forth and pointing suggestively toward her plunging neckline, just in case anyone hadn’t noticed it. The guy at the slot machine missed a Triple Bonus, the man eating the octopus with his girlfriend dribbled oil all over his shirt, and Luigi almost had a choking fit before jumping up to greet her. She approached the far end of the bar to solicit a hello kiss and then Luigi, with a sick sweetness he did little to hide, whispered something in her ear – ‘it’s been so long since you last came around,’ or something of the sort. Everyone had to wait for the little ceremony to conclude before any more beer could be ordered. Then, finally, we settled in to the table in the back.
