by Pablo Tusset
‘This also opens the gate to the parking garage, but you shouldn’t have to use it. There’s a guard there, and it’s always open. Our spots are fifty-six and fifty-seven.’
I took both items, and couldn’t help but glance down at the insignia on the keychain: ‘Barcelona Tennis Club’ it said, framed by two little racquets and a golden ball.
‘The PIN number is 3-3-4-4. Easy.’
‘Thanks. Listen, have you tried calling Sebastian on his mobile?’
‘No. He left it here.’
‘I thought he always had it on him.’
‘Not always. Only when he knows he’ll be difficult to locate.’
‘So he thought he’d be locatable for a while.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Do you mind if I take it with me?’
‘The phone? No … I’ll go fetch it for you.’
She turned and went back toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway and came back with the phone. I scooped up everything in one hand and got ready to leave. Lady First walked me to the door.
‘Oh, I forgot to ask. Have you spoken with anyone from the office today?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, I called in sick for Sebastian again.’
‘And did you give them any kind of diagnosis?’
‘No. Just that he still had a fever and that we were going to call the doctor this morning. I didn’t want to invent anything specific. I’m a terrible liar, it scares me to death.’
‘Oh. One more thing. I think you’d be better off if you didn’t leave the house for a couple of days.’
‘Yes, I already thought of that. That was why I didn’t send Merche to school today.’
Once I was inside the lift, I noticed that the last button was different from the rest, a white ‘P’ for Car Park, against a blue background. I hit it.
The garage occupied an entire floor of the building. I saw the guard’s post from a distance, at the foot of a ramp illuminated by a glow filtering in from the sunny outdoors. I looked for spots fifty-six and fifty-seven. In the first spot I found a humungous blue-green all-purpose vehicle and in fifty-seven, the sports car. I had underestimated my Magnificent Brother. I had assumed he had gone for one of those Japanese jobs that you can get for twenty-five or thirty thousand euros, but instead I found a first-class two-seater: metallic grey, thirty-centimetre wheels, and a crouching-tiger shape, a real little bête noire. I moved closer to the snub nose and admired the brand-name tucked in between the retractable headlights: Lotus. The top of the car reached just past my belly button, and I wondered if I was going to be able to fit myself into that microscopic cubicle which flashed an ominous red light, indicating that some kind of security device was being employed. I decided to give it a go. I pressed the little button on the keychain and heard a muted ‘stuuuk’ which opened, in unison, the locks on the two doors. You don’t enter this type of car, though: you slip it on, not unlike the manner in which you slip on a condom. The toughest bit was getting my right thigh under the steering wheel, but once I managed it, I had the full and total sensation of making the most intimate contact imagineable with a machine capable of digesting a full 300 kilometres an hour, the maximum velocity promised by the speedometer. It smelt faintly of leather and the dry, aromatic notes of some kind of ambient fragrance. I turned the key in the ignition. First the dashboard lit up and then frzzzz, a light buzz from the open door indicated that the engine was indeed running.
I turned it off immediately. This wasn’t the moment to play racecars. Exiting the contraption proved more difficult than entering, but I did it, zipped up my zipper, which had not resisted my various bodily contortions, and walked toward the exit ramp and the street outside. That way the guard would see me, most especially considering that the Black Beast could not have escaped his notice. I waved goodbye, but he was reading something and barely even glanced in my direction.
As soon as I left the building, I headed toward the La Caixa branch on Travessera-Aviación. Now that I had given the car a once-over, it was time to check out the potency of the cash card I had been given. The inside teller windows were still open to the public, which meant that it wasn’t two in the afternoon yet. I decided to go with the cash machine. Secret code, balance enquiry, short wait for the little slip of paper to come shooting out. At first I was nearly indignant to read that the available balance was only 12 euros, 65 cents, but upon closer inspection I noticed that only two of the three zeros following the 1265 were to the right of the decimal point. That’s right – when do you ever see three zeros after a decimal point? And so the revised amount was, in fact, twelve thousand, six hundred and fifty euros, no doubt about it: one, two, six, five, zero, zero, zero. The decimal point after the first zero. I knew that The First could never leave the leave the house with his pockets empty, but more than twelve thousand for petrol and restaurant expenses surpassed all my expectations. I quickly withdrew two hundred and fifty euros out of that hot little oven before anyone could regret having put them at my disposition and, once I felt their warmth penetrating my pocket, I tried to take out two hundred and fifty more. No problemo. They came out as docile as little baby lambs.
After that, it seemed almost sinful to return home and eat fried eggs and chips and so I flipped through my mental file of neighbourhood restaurants in which one could ask for something more than just the daily bureaucrat special. I didn’t have to think for long, because right before my eyes, one such restaurant beckoned: La Yayá María. I had never been inside, but it looked like it fit the bill: superb quality but in smallish portions, one of those coy little joints where what you really want is to order three appetisers, three main courses and three desserts, a kind of excess that requires at least a hundred euros. I made my entry. For a first course, I had cream of carrot soup, a shrimp omelette and fava beans, a la catalana, of course. And then for the next course, stuffed red pimientos, grilled swordfish and a fricassee. Then for dessert, dried fruit compote and lemon sorbet, plus wine, a café cortado, a shot of icy vodka and a Rosli. One hundred and twenty-five fifty. They were so thrilled with my appetite that the chef came out to say hello.
I walked home, en route to my siesta, feeling like the king of mambo, but I made the mistake of smoking a joint before bed, and had quite a tough time falling asleep even though my body desperately craved it.
THE MONK FROM ROBIN HOOD
I woke up from one of those free-fall dreams that have you thrashing about your bed in an attempt to cling to something stable. I looked at the alarm clock: four in the afternoon. I could stay in bed for maybe another hour, but it was so goddamn hot there was no way I would be able to fall back asleep.
I ducked into the shower to shake off the suffocating heat between the sheets, and then I made some coffee. Radio. Joint. Ten minutes of relaxation in the living room. Ah se ela soubesse que quando ela passa/ O mundo inteirinho se enche de graça/E fica mais lindo por causa do amor. When I felt sufficiently awake I lowered the volume, booted up my computer and connected to the internet. I entered ‘private detectives AND Barcelona.’
I scanned the first ten results and clicked onto ‘ACBDD, Regional Detective Association’, which offered a listing of affiliated agencies by province. I looked specifically for Barcelona, postcode 08029, and hit the link for the ‘Total Research Agency.’ It sounded like something out of a Schwarzenegger movie, but I had to start somewhere. Of course, the second I connected to the site, a MIDI launched with the Pink Panther soundtrack, which seemed so unpromising that I didn’t even bother to wait for the rest of the page to load. I went back to the ACBDD page and picked out another site that corresponded to the 08029 postcode. There were no bells and whistles involved in this one, just text, which read:
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
LICENCE NUMBER 3543
Enric Robellades i Vilaplana is a Private Detective authorised to operate by the Institute of Criminology at the University of Barcelona and by Governmental Licence number 123, issued to him by the Police Department of Barce
lona.
Mr Robellades is an investigator who has gained considerable knowledge and experience with professionals in the fields of Investigation and Security Consulting, and applies his skills toward the gathering of information and necessary evidence to find solutions to your problems in an EFFECTIVE and EFFICIENT manner.
His very conscious distinction between efficient and effective, in boldface capital letters, convinced me. It was as if he wanted to highlight the fact that he was extremely effective but didn’t want to be too superlative about it. And anyway, in general, I never trust people who write perfectly. I have observed that when it comes to practical matters, the best professionals are always the worst writers, the kind that try to use rhetorical conventions but don’t quite finish them off the way they should. I once met an internationally-renowned cardiologist – a friend of my Magnificent Family – whose Christmas cards always read ‘To our Friends Valentín and Mercedes: Wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and extending each wish to your children’, which to me always came off sounding like some kind of gypsy curse that never fully explained exactly which wish my parents were to extend to me, and which was meant for Sebastian so that we could have a halfway decent holiday. This Enric Robellades, private detective, did not make quite so obvious a gaffe in his statement, but he was promising enough and so I continued reading the section on Fields of Investigation, which had four sub-links that provided more detail on each of the various fields: Investigation of Businesses, Investigation of Accidents, Investigation of Personal Matters, and Urban Rental Investigation (whatever that meant). I clicked onto ‘Investigation of Personal Matters’, which seemed the most appropriate for my case, and was led to another page, which read as follows:
Investigation of Personal Matters
– Marital Infidelity. For filing papers of separation or divorce.
– Child Custody. This category includes asserting the above, as well as proving the spouse’s insufficient dedication and capacity to fulfil such obligations, if in fact this is the case.
– Pre-Nuptial Report. For the purpose of gathering the necessary information regarding the past and present of the potential spouse, with the goal of helping the client make such an important decision.
– Child Behaviour, Prevention of Drug Use and Involvement in Cults. For an accurate assessment of the child’s situation, and for the preparation of a plan of action.
– Missing Persons’ Search. For locating family members, in and out of the country.
– Anonymous Threats
– Incapacitation, Excessive Spending, and Inheritance Matters
– Pre-Contractual Reports on Domestic Employees
I was completely convinced by this guy, and went straight back to the home page to look for a contact number. I found the address, telephone, fax and email and then printed out the page, disconnected and rolled another joint before making the call. When I had the thing lit, I dialled the number.
‘Robellades, good afternoon.’
It was a woman’s voice, not too young. I don’t know why I imagined Mrs Robellades herself working as her husband’s receptionist/secretary.
‘May I please speak with Mr Robellades?’
‘Which one?’
‘Enric, Enric Robellades.’
‘Father or son?’
Families that toil together are loyal together. I decided to go with the father.
‘Who may I say is on the line?’
‘A client.’
‘Your name, please?’
I almost identified myself as Pablo Miralles, but luckily, just in the nick of time, I realised that this was not in my best interests.
‘Molucas. Pablo Molucas.’
I could have just as easily said Pablo Marbles, but the important thing in these situations is to say whatever you have to say as naturally as possible – and anyway, I happen to use Molucas often. Besides, it’s never a good idea to go around changing your assumed identity too much. The woman asked me to wait a moment. Shortly thereafter the family elder came on the line.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Robellades?’
‘Speaking. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve found a reference stating that you are a private detective and I am interested in soliciting your services. If you might be able to meet with me today, I would be much obliged. It’s a rather urgent case.’
‘What is it about?’
‘A disappearance.’
‘Who has disappeared?’
‘My sister-in-law.’
‘How long has she been missing?’
‘Two days.’
‘That isn’t very much time, Mr …’
‘Molucas. Pablo Molucas. No, it isn’t much time, but I have reason to believe that something quite serious may have happened.’
‘Very well, if you could fill me in on the details …’
‘Of course. But I’d rather not do it by phone. Would it be possible to meet later?’
‘Yes, we could do … what time is good for you?’
‘Around eight. Would you mind coming by my home? I live close to your office, on Calle Numancia. You see, I’d like my wife to be present, and she has to stay home with the children.’
‘No problem at all. If you’ll just give me the address and telephone …’
By this time I had detected a strong Catalán accent, possibly from somewhere near the Tarragona region, where everyone turns their zeds into melodious ‘s’ sounds, and add a ‘t’ to the end of certain infinitives. I consulted my address book for The First’s building and telephone number, located it and gave it to him.
‘At eight, then?’
‘On the dot.’
I made it through another joint while doing a quick mental recap to ensure that I hadn’t left any detail hanging. I hadn’t thought much about giving the detective a fake name, and I was slightly worried that it might create some inconsistencies. One would assume that a detective pays attention to details, after all, and who knows, maybe he would actually take the time to look at the letter box in the entrance hall of The First’s building, or something like that. I ruminated on this as I got dressed and continued to think as I walked up the street toward the Illa shopping centre. I wasn’t sure of what kind of mess I had gotten myself into but I did have one thing clear: before The First reappeared I had to take full advantage of his cash card, even if only to fuck with him a little. And anyway, it was in my interest to work up some kind of disguise: given the way I dressed, the claim that I was married to Lady First would be a tad unbelievable.
Once inside the shopping centre, I entered the first boutique that seemed to have appropriately informal attire to outfit a thirtysomething married man who possessed two children, a 150 square-metre penthouse on Calle Numancia and a Black Beast in the garage. The only free salesgirl watched me enter the shop like a matador about to be pounced upon by a 600-kilo Miura bull, and the gum she was chewing was suddenly rendered immobile between her teeth. Impassive, I surreptitiously ascertained that my zipper hadn’t come undone, and then I approached her, unfazed by her childish attempt to act as though she hadn’t seen me by pretending to hunt for something behind the counter.
‘Hello. I need shirts, pants, shoes.’
‘Shirts, pants …?’
‘And shoes.’
Once she realised there was no way out, she stopped playing hide-and-seek.
‘What sort of shirts are you interested in?’
‘Big ones.’
‘Big … Hmm. Do you see anything you like here?’ She indicated a wall-to-wall shelf lined with all sorts of shirts. A little group of solid, quite flashy colours caught my eye: red, emerald green, violet, and grey and black as well. Those were okay. They were the sort of shirts that you would expect the gangsters in Guys and Dolls to wear.
‘Those are all right. Do they come big?’
‘Uh … yes, I believe we have some larger sizes, yes. What colour do you prefer?’
‘I’ll take one
of each.’
She stood perfectly still for a moment, halfway between me and the shelf, but didn’t dare challenge me. Instead she simply picked out one in each colour, and piled them onto her right arm.
‘There are nine different …’
‘That’s fine, nine then. You’re sure they’re large enough?’
‘XXL. That’s as large as they come …’
‘Right. Now I need two pairs of pants.’
She pointed toward the opposite wall: another shelf with a pile of jeans in various colours, and below them, more serious-looking pants on hangers. I can’t stand jeans, there’s never anywhere to stuff your gut. Plus I tend to favour trousers with quick priapic access – if you don’t have your prick perfectly situated, erections can become torture in a pair of jeans. So I went for the hangers and entertained myself for a while looking at the roomier models, cotton and acrylic blends. I picked out a slate-grey pair and another, more pearly grey pair that would look all right with any of the shirts.
‘Like these but in my size, please.’
‘Do you know what size you would take …?’
No idea.
‘I’ve no idea.’
She examined my abdominal contours, practically out of the corner of her eye, as if it was too obscene to actually gaze directly upon that part of my anatomy. I raised my arms and spun about, to give her the full picture. The girl was going to have to initiate herself sooner or later, and she might as well be de-flowered by me instead of some other cruel customer.
‘Aren’t you going to take my measurements?’
