by Pablo Tusset
‘What do you think the men in the car wanted? To nick something from you?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt that.’
‘What then? A couple of madmen who get their kicks running over pedestrians?’
‘They didn’t seem the type.’
‘What type did they seem, then?’
‘Thirty or forty years old, average clothes … they could have passed for office workers. I think they were paid hit-men. They did the work without blinking an eye and then they left the scene.’
‘All right, Dad. What kind of trouble have you’ve gotten mixed up with?’
‘Me? I haven’t gotten into any kind of trouble.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Game over, insert coins. He wasn’t going to budge on that one, but I still hadn’t sorted out the basic issue. All right, let’s see.
‘Dad: would you mind explaining why you’ve bothered to tell me all this?’
Very pregnant silence. He made little knots with his napkin as he responded.
‘Because I wanted you to know.’
‘Does the security guard downstairs have something to do with this?’
‘I hired him yesterday.’
VERONICA AND THE MONSTERS
At five in the afternoon I awoke from a dreamless sleep. Not dreaming pisses me off. I am quite accustomed to remembering my dreams every time I wake up, just like a man who is accustomed to taking a crap every morning: if one day you wake up and you don’t crap it’s because something funny is going on inside you. Plus, it’s extremely useful to remember your dreams. And I’m not talking about Sigmund Freud’s Greatest Hits. I’m talking about the kind of dreams that function like little oracles, a dimension of dreaming that is only within reach of the person who understands that enlightened reason is often the most farfetched esoteric fantasy, the most baroque of religions.
I flicked on the radio. Coffee. Joint. A state of mind most conducive to reconnecting with my Metaphysical Club emails. It even felt like a good moment to read John’s Primary Sentences, which tend to be dense and concentrated. But first things first. I had to resolve the cash issue. Otherwise there would be no joints, no beer, no butter for my croissants.
Step one: I dialled The First’s private number, so as to prepare the terrain and not just barge into his office out of nowhere. One of The First’s Adorable Children picked up the phone – specifically the more adorable of the two, the one who always insists on calling me ‘Uncle Pablo’ no matter how much I glare. I think it was the older kid – it was the bigger one, at least that much I know. I also think it was a female that picked up, but I wasn’t too sure because she sounded pretty much exactly like her mother.
‘Is your father there, sweetheart?’
‘Who may I say is calling?’
‘Pablo. Pablo Miralles.’
I heard her shout, ‘Mommy, it’s Uncle Pablo, he wants to talk to Daddy. I think he’s drunk, he didn’t even recognise my voice!’
The mother got on the line. My Adorable Sister-in-law.
‘Pablo?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
Role reversal. I was the one calling, but she was the one asking for me. She sounded tense.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, without a trace of the slightly superior tone which I had always detected on the few occasions we had spoken in the past.
‘Fuck, everything’s such a big mystery these days.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Nothing. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing serious, not for the moment at least. But I need you to come to the house as soon as you can. I need to discuss something with you.’
‘I was planning on coming over now anyway. I need to see Sebastian. Can you get him on the line?’
‘No, no. He can’t come right now,’ she said, hesitating for a moment. ‘He isn’t here.’
‘But at his office they told me he was in bed, with a fever and everything … did he go in to work this afternoon?’
‘No. Come over and I’ll explain. I can’t go out. I’d go out to meet you, but I can’t get away just now.’
At this point in the plot, I realised that I was going to have to get used to expecting the unexpected – these hiccups in the normal routine of things were beginning to grow more and more frequent, and weren’t showing signs of letting up. I had exchanged a total of thirty-seven words with Lady First since the faraway day she had married my Magnificent Brother. Yet now, all of a sudden, she was asking me to come over so she could spill some kind of secret. Strange, very strange. But ever since the First had started giving away free money, saying things like please and stopped going to the office because of some alleged indisposition, well, anything was possible. Skirt-chasing was the first thing that crossed my mind. It all fit, including the simultaneous absence of both The First and his secretary. It all fit. Minus me, of course. What the hell did I have to do with The First’s marital crises? I should admit, though, that by then I had begun to get curious, perhaps indiscreetly so, about what exactly was going down.
‘All right. I’ll be over in a little bit.’
‘Not a word of this to your parents, all right? If they ask you, just tell them Sebastian is sick. It will only be for a few days. And the same goes for anyone else who asks questions.’
The request had a bit of the imperative in it.
‘Are you asking me to lie?’
‘Look Pablo, this isn’t a time for games. You and I have never gotten along, so if I am swallowing my pride and asking a favour of you it is because I have a very good reason to do so.’
Frank and direct. I wasn’t familiar with this side of Lady First. But her request for discretion did seem to confirm my skirt-chasing hypothesis. A hypothesis which, I must confess, I relished: The First, starring in his very own sex scandal, shacked up with his secretary. What an embarrassment. Or better yet: with a hot young, black percussionist recently arrived from Havana. Or even better: caught up in a zoophilia-and-necrophilia cult affair. He would end up on every last newspaper in the galaxy for that one, cover photo and all: the congregation convening at night-time in the Montjüic cemetery, honourable citizens all dressed up as drag queens, teetering atop massive platform boots, eyeliner running down their faces, and him, perfectly positioned to kiss the arsehole of a baby goat … Anyway. I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up, I told myself. The bit about the secretary was highly improbable. She seemed like a very sensible girl, and in addition to being a terrific office ornament, I’m sure she was the kind of secretary who used her work-hours well, making Excel currency exchange spreadsheets and such. Before getting into bed with my brother, she would have tried to get an honest job, or at least would have gone elsewhere to prostitute herself decently.
But all this inevitably brought me back to the three hundred and seventy-five euros I was expecting. The idea of paying yet another courtesy call upon my parents so soon after the last one to casually suggest that they slip me a few bills to pay for my blue-zone parking spot was out – that one would definitely not fly with my FH, who always tends to suspect ulterior motives whenever I make some heartfelt gesture of filial piety. And anyway, I don’t have a car, and it was possible that my father would catch on to the ruse. I decided to weigh my alternatives. Skimming dough off Lady First would have all the sizzle of a first-time hit: after all, I was a member of the family, and it was time they treated me like one. I could also surreptitiously sidle my way into the bedroom of one of her Adorable Children and root around – though at the risk of setting off one of their anti-theft alarms. Even at their tender age they were no doubt well-versed in the more rudimentary methods of private-property protection.
So, for the moment, I got dressed and set out for The First’s family home.
My Magnificent Brother still has yet to achieve the status of a real Father’s Highness, which means he had to settle for buying the typical attic flat on Numancia, just to the south of the Diag
onal psychologists’ neighbourhood, and bide his time until cashing in on the rest of his paternal inheritance which will eventually permit him to establish his winter residence wherever the fuck he wants. Even so he sure did use the 150 square-metre penthouse to full advantage – he’d even managed to fit in a jacuzzi and matching piano. Of course, we’re talking about a cabinet piano, which doesn’t take up all that much space. The one down side is that Debussy simply doesn’t sound quite the same as on a grand piano, but my Magnificent Brother is a patient man, and he knows full well that there is a time for a cabinet piano and a BMW, and a time for a grand piano and a Jaguar Sovereign.
The entrance hall of his building has sofas as well as a doorman – a slicked-back dude with an electric blue lab-coat that works as his uniform – but the lifts aren’t half as fun as the ones in my parents’ building. They just take you up to the penthouse without much antigravitational excitement.
Doorbell.
Lady First opened the door. We double-kissed on the cheeks. She was looking better than I remembered. She invited me to come in. In the hallway another one of The First’s Adorable Children crossed our path – this one was much shrimpier than the firstborn, and most probably a male, judging from the absence of earrings and ribbons. The thing walked in front of us, executing a rather complex movement that recalled the locomotion of the quadruped, specifically that of the crocodile and other reptiles, resting its knees – rather than paws or the inferior homologous extremities – on the floor, and of course, lacking the charm that a long, zigzagging tail lends such scaly beasts. A relatively rudimentary system, no matter how you look at it: they make one think of the degeneration of the species that Jean Rostand feared. But the surprises didn’t end there: suddenly the thing stopped cold, rested back on its voluminously padded butt, looked up toward the sky and made a face that was mysteriously reminiscent of a human smile.
Horrors. It had no teeth.
Ill from the apprehension, I tried to ignore the creature by stepping over it with a wide leap. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, was clearly accustomed to this, and without exhibiting any visible signs of disgust she bent down and scooped up the little creature, who revealed his clearly limited intelligence by accompanying his babble with a few – as far as I can tell – utterly unjustified claps of the hands.
‘Veronica, could you please look after Victor for a moment?’ Lady First called out toward some remote zone of the hallway.
Given that we were alone in the living room, I deduced that “Victor” had to be the name of the little creature, which confirmed my suspicion that he was a boy. It didn’t seem possible: he didn’t even have teeth yet and yet he had a gender. Veronica, who turned out to be an obese teenager with a Greenpeace t-shirt and a pair of lavender-coloured elastic pants, appeared on the double. I liked the look of her and I offered a friendly hello. I have a soft spot for people who are so obviously fat, even if they are earthy-crunchy types. The little creature went from one set of arms to the other, continuing all the while with his delirious gesticulations. Veronica toted him down the hall, far from my presence, a most welcome gesture which only reinforced the positive feelings she had already inspired in me. I don’t want to come off as racist or anything, but those human puppies sure do stink, especially in the early stages: they give off the raunchiest stench, a combination of sweet perfume, butt creams, baby formula … a repugnant halo that sinks into everything with which they enter into intimate contact.
‘Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?’
‘Do you have beer?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Vodka?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Vichy?’
‘Sparkling water, I think.’
‘Then I’ll have a Vichoff: tall glass, ice, fill it halfway with icy vodka and juice of half a lemon, and then top it off with some fizzy water if you don’t have any Vichy. And don’t use a cocktail shaker; the water loses bubbles that way.’
‘Um, how about just making do with a whisky?’
I looked over towards the bar and spotted a bottle of Havana 7. In general I prefer Havana 3, which is less sweet, but fucking The First always buys the most expensive. He’s that kind of guy: if they made a more exclusive version of air, he’d breathe it.
‘I’ll take that bottle of rum. Do you mind if I drink straight from the bottle?’
‘Whatever suits you.’
Lady First had poured herself a few drops of whisky in a short glass. She grasped the bottle of rum, as if to pour it, but with her thumb pointing down, as if she were transporting it some very long distance. She handed it to me. Then she sat down on the enormous four-seater sofa that faced the one I sat on. This was not the woman I knew: the little bottle gesture, the indifferent way she sat down, tucking her leg beneath her, the hesitant sips of whisky … Plus, she wasn’t half as repulsive as I remembered. Maybe because most of the times I had ever seen her she had been pregnant, and pregnant women always make me anxious somehow – I don’t know what it is, but they seem like alien eggs about to expel little monsters. Looking a little closer, she actually seemed to bear a slight resemblance to Greta Garbo. Maybe it was the hairdo. A pair of green eyes finished off her look just so.
I decided to get comfortable. I unscrewed the bottle, held it high, and placed the cascading spout just above my mouth and filled it to the brim. Then I lowered my elbow and swallowed. Lady First took her first shot. Point blank.
‘So what did you think when you found out that Sebastian wasn’t at home?’
Fine. I was perfectly willing to play the game, as long as it involved free rum.
‘You want me to be straight with you?’
‘Please.’
‘I assumed he was mixed up with his secretary and that they spent the night together. Something unexpected came up and they couldn’t make it to the office this morning, and that was why they played sick.’
‘But I was the one who called in to say that Sebastian was indisposed.’
‘That could still fit the theory.’
‘All right then, fit it.’
‘Option A: Sebastian called you and told you some kind of believable lie, convincing enough to justify his no-show but inappropriate enough to make you want to keep it from his employees, and so he asked you to call his office and say that he was sick. You believed him and have followed his instructions like a good wife.’
‘And option B?’
‘Option B: you know perfectly well that your husband is shagging his secretary and this pisses you off no end, or maybe not. That part doesn’t matter. The main thing is that you don’t want a scandal and so you make sure to cover it up.’
‘Option C?’
‘I was just getting to that. My poor brother Sebastian and his lover have been abducted by extraterrestrials right before your very eyes, but you refrain from telling anyone for fear that people will think you have gone mad.’
I took advantage of her slight discomfort to steer the conversation in another direction.
‘Yet now I ask myself: how do you know that Sebastian’s secretary didn’t show up for work?’
She resisted losing the serve.
‘How do you know that I know?’
I let her have that one.
‘Because you didn’t act surprised when I mentioned it.’
‘Maria might have told me when I called the office.’
‘Might have done. Did she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still, that doesn’t fully answer the question. Maybe you already knew when she told you.’
‘Not bad. You’re clever.’
‘Clever enough to mistrust my own wits as well as your flattery. You know something that I don’t and you’re playing some kind of game with me.’
‘You misinterpret me.’
‘Possibly. It’s just that I’m not into mind reading.’
She took another sip of whisky, so I tipped the bottle back again. My prudent f
irst swig had had little effect, and so I tried another, waiting for the cascade to fill my mouth to the brim, so that I could just barely close and gulp it down. I was then suddenly taken with the illusion of brandishing a sword and climbing aboard the first galleon that might appear before my eyes.
Lady First, however, was firmly planted on solid ground.
‘Well, for someone who doesn’t like mind reading you’ve done quite a good job of guessing. The situation is, in fact, a combination of the three situations you propose.’
‘Including the extraterrestrial abduction?’
‘Not exactly. Or well, I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I am beginning to suspect that anything is possible at this point.’
She paused for a Marlboro Super Extra Light. The whisky, I assume, had done its job, and she was ready to come clean. I was all ears.
‘Sebastian has been seeing his secretary for the past two years. You were absolutely right about that. I know and he knows that I know, among other reasons because we’ve discussed it a thousand times. Are you surprised? Don’t be. Our marriage has never worked. Or, in other words: it has always worked perfectly because it is based on mutual convenience. He sleeps with whomever he wishes but he always keeps up his appearance as a family man, and I can spend my time doing absolutely nothing if I wish, with the excuse of being completely dedicated to my husband and children. There is nothing worse than having an ambition and feeling unable to fight for it. Have you ever tried to write, for example?’
‘I think I once wrote something about some vacation I took, but when I discovered Penthouse magazine I started getting more interested in photography.’
She smiled.
‘Any excuse is good enough if you really want to give up. I got some things published, you know? But then, when everyone begins to think of you as the great talent of the future and you don’t feel you can meet their expectations, that’s when it starts to get bad. And that’s when you begin to look for excuses.’
Now that she mentioned it, I did seem to remember hearing something from my family about the literary merits of my Magnificent Brother’s Brilliant Fiancée, but that was a topic that had definitely not come up in years.
