by Pablo Tusset
She stood there staring at me, her sky-blue eyes reflecting back at me the full terror of a little girl trapped in an ogre’s den. But she nodded yes, made a neat half-turn and ran for cover in the dressing rooms where another salesgirl was assisting a very politically-correct looking man who had come shopping with his matching girlfriend. She returned with a measuring tape wrapped around her hands. I checked my fly again and waited there with my arms up.
‘I’m all yours.’
She approached me and tried to wrap her arms around my waistline. To cover my full perimeter, however, she would have had to hug me, and her arms were far too short for the distance involved. I tried to make it a little easier on her; she’d already had quite enough for one day, I imagined.
‘Wait, wait. I’ll hold the tape here and you measure.’
I held one end of the measuring tape below my navel and guided her, as she held the other end, around my waist until the circle was complete. We exhausted the full length of the tape, though, and so we had to palm it from where she held her index finger, just above my love handles.
‘One hundred … one hundred seventeen centimetres.’
‘See how easy that was?’
‘I’ll go check to see what size that makes you.’
She consulted a small framed chart hanging on the wall, and then quickly entered the storeroom. I killed time looking at the shoe display in the middle of the store; each different model was perched atop its own little wooden cube. A black, solid number caught my eye – weren’t clunky military-style shoes in vogue at the moment? Anyway. Two minutes later the girl re-emerged bearing two pairs of pants, though they weren’t the ones I had picked out.
‘In that size we only have this model.’
The trousers in question were made of a very fine wool, very formal, dark grey. I took them off the hanger and held them against my body to see if they were long enough. When I confirmed that they were, I asked her if she also had them in light grey and subsequently added the two pairs of pants and one pair of shoes, size forty-five, to my shopping list. Over three hundred euros, all told. I was already paid up and on my way out the door with my bags when I suddenly spotted a silky Hawaiian shirt in the window: red, blue, green, papagayos, philodendrons and a South Seas landscape behind them. Eighty euros for that one alone, but it was worth it. I went back in. My girl, having realised I was so docile, had finally overcome her fear and now came bounding toward me, delighted that I was back.
‘Sorry, I wanted another shirt, like the one in the window.’
‘Large, right?’
As I left the building I looked up at the clock in the snack bar at the supermarket entrance. I was all right on time. I went through my mental map of the neighbourhood and remembered that there was a hair salon on the following corner, just before Travessera.
The hairdresser turned out to be a guy around my age, sporting a short goatee. He seemed thrilled by my visit. He had the air of a man who truly enjoys his profession, and so I decided to add some extra spice to the afternoon.
‘Listen, I’m putting together an outfit for a masquerade party. Let’s imagine that I’m a man from a very well-to-do family, I work hard at my own business, and I drive a James Bond-type sports car. How do you think I should wear my hair?
‘Age?’
‘Mmm … thirty-eight, give or take.’
‘Education?’
‘Tons. Masters degree in Important Stuff from Harvard and all the extras you can dream up.’
‘Married?’
‘Extremely. Two kids. I play tennis and go to the gym every day.’
‘That’s some disguise … Pardon the sincerity, but you’d be better off going as that monk from Robin Hood. With a brown habit and a beer stein you’d be perfect.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, I need to impress a woman. She likes the solvent type. I’ve already got the car and the clothes, I just need a haircut to match.’
‘Oh. That’s another story. Sit down and we’ll see what we can do.’
The guy knew what he was dealing with. He looked me over – up, down, back, forth – and when he seemed to have a pretty good idea of my head’s possibilities he got to work.
‘Listen, if I were you I’d go with a long, thin moustache, like Errol Flynn. A slightly fascist look would make the most ideal contrast, because in reality you look much more like a … well, something else entirely. If you start working on it at home, in a few days you’ll have it just the right shape and length. Don’t let it grow too much: it has to look just like a little French garden, very well manicured, you know what I mean?’
‘Exactly. Yes, I’ll go with the little moustache. Listen, do you have any expensive cologne?’
‘Extremely expensive.’
‘Well, give me a good splash. And note down the name for me.’
By the end of half an hour, I looked like a family-sized Bart Simpson.
On the way home, I ducked into a perfume emporium to purchase a minuscule bottle of Godknowswhat by Christian Dior – eighty euros – and then stopped at a dry cleaner’s half a block from the entrance to my building. I asked how long it would take them to wash and iron nine shirts. They said they could have everything ready in an hour. I left the goods there and went upstairs.
The first thing I did was call Lady First.
‘I made a date for us with a private detective. Eight o’clock, your house.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll come by at around seven-thirty to go over the details.’
When I hung up I looked up at the clock in the kitchen: just after six-thirty. I had one long hour to kill. I then remembered my emails from the Metaphysical Club and decided that a quick look at John’s Primary Sentences might be just what I needed to get my mind off the mess I was in, at least for a little while. When I get into them, especially if I accompany the reading with a thick three-paper joint, I experience what feels like an odd kind of jump in hyper-time that suddenly brings me an hour and a half ahead in real time. I opened the Word document and began with the first sentence. It was completely unintelligible: ‘1. Every route is an opening of the paths.’ John must really have thought this phrase especially brilliant. Whatever. Two and three were these extremely long, dark paragraphs, and I spent a while trying to crack them. Four was also long, but looked like it might actually be comprehensible, at least at first glance. Once I read a bit more though, I could tell he was going to start in with the Rationalists – he was already salivating to the effect for the past three sentences. Bingo: number five was fully devoted to the scientificists, their arch-enemies. John is always trying to come up with an axiomatic definition for Invented Reality, but he always ends up shoving all his assertions down everyone’s throat. If we left everything up to him, we would end up a bunch of anti-rationalists mainly known for being a pain in the arse. I swear. The other danger was that of being identified as irrationalists, also a minority and an opposing faction, but very different from us (without taking into account that from time to time we do ally ourselves with the mainstream). And then we have also been confused, occasionally, with the solipsists, which is really abominable because as far as those guys are concerned the whole world ends up making a big void out of them (what else can you do with a solipsist?). The truth is, this philosophy thing is very reminiscent of politics and John always ends up arguing with absolutely everyone. And if I call him on his expository disorder he tells me that under no circumstances will he submit to some kind of syllogistic girdle because he is a John-Pablian Inventivist and that way he side-steps the Aristotelian logic bit entirely. And if I then tell him that in this case the best thing to do is write a discursive essay and not a simple list of laws, he says sure, fine, but first he wants to get his ideas straight and for that the brief assertions are useful. Anyway. After skimming number six, which I almost thought was a joke (‘6. The sceptic is not certain of being a sceptic.’), I ended the session.
; At seven sharp I went down to the dry cleaner’s. It was exquisite – not only had they washed and ironed the nine shirts by the agreed-upon hour, but they had taken them all out of their packaging and handed them over to me, carefully hung on hangers, free of all pins and tags. Spain sure is starting to get like Europe, no doubt about it. I went back upstairs and showered for the third time that day, to fully free myself of all those extra little hairs that had been left behind on my neck from the haircut, and then I tried on the pants, the shoes, and one of the shirts. The aubergine one. Now, I don’t mean to exaggerate about my fine appearance, but let’s just say that beneath the Bart Simpson hairdo, the Errol Flynn moustache and the Bud Spencer silhouette, I began to see a certain resemblance with the venerable master, Baloo. Peeking out of the flat top, even, were some jaunty little bangs that harmonised so nicely with the prominent nose and bear-like features.
When I arrived at Lady First’s building, I stopped to look at the letter box for a moment. Despite my impeccable appearance, the blue-jacketed doorman refused to take his eyes off me and I didn’t dare try and fuck with the thing. ‘Gloria Garriga and Sebastian Miralles, penthouse 1a’ it read. I could always come down with Lady First and change the name, or at least cover it up. As I waited for the lift, I saw the doorman remove his robe and rummage about in a little room behind the counter. It looked like he was finishing up for the day and getting ready to go home. In all likelihood he would be gone by the time Robellades arrived, which was a very good thing, because prepping him for the possibility that Robellades might ask for us under a false name would have been a touch tricky.
I rang the bell at Penthouse #1. Lady First herself answered the door. It took her a good five seconds to recognise me.
‘I decided to go under cover. How do you like the disguise?’
‘You’re very … handsome.’
‘I don’t think handsome is quite the word. To be exact, you might have said “cool.” Didn’t they teach you to use adjectives carefully, Miss Authoress?’
‘I don’t know, darling, but you got it right.’
‘That’s better. The important thing is to look like I might have somehow, sometime, inspired you to marry me. Let’s see: if you had met me looking like this, would you have married me?’
‘Instantly.’
‘Perfect. Listen, what do you say if we go into the living room and make ourselves comfortable, chat a bit?’
‘Sorry, of course. It’s just that you’ve left me rather stunned. Come in …’
Suddenly it was as if we had been best friends forever. It’s pretty incredible what a change of image can do for a person. Once we sat down in the living room, I went straight to the sofa and flopped down. She repaired to the bar and offered me a beverage.
‘Give me one of those things you always drink. But we should control ourselves, we want to have our wits about us for this guy.’ She served herself a whisky on the rocks and handed me one of the same. There wasn’t much time to lose so I went straight to the point.
‘We’re meeting a Mr Enric Robellades, private detective. Now, I told him my name was Pablo Molucas, so don’t be surprised if he addresses you as Mrs Molucas. The idea is that your sister – that is, my sister-in-law – has been missing for two days and we are very worried. I will try to do most of the talking, you can kind of just follow along. Now, one would assume that you know your sister better than I do, so he will probably try to get an idea of what kind of person she is by asking you for some specifics about her. Now, don’t get all worried, you told me yourself the two of you have been friends since childhood, right? So whatever he asks you just tell him the truth. Be completely straight about everything, with only one exception, and it’s an important one: you know where she works but you have no idea that she’s shagging her boss.’
She nodded in assent and took a brief sip of whisky.
‘Another thing: presumably you and I are married, so our conversation and mannerisms should suggest this somehow. Don’t overdo the role-playing, just be careful not to stick your foot in your mouth. For example, don’t drop any reference to my house when you refer to me, or anything. I think we’ll be all right on that, but we’d probably be better off if the kids don’t come out to the living room while this guy is with us, okay? They could ruin the whole thing.’
She nodded her head again.
‘Your first name is Gloria, and your surname is … oh, and what’s your friend’s surname?’
‘Robles.’
‘Robles. Now, you don’t want to tell your parents about this because you don’t want to worry them, and you also don’t want the police involved because then your parents would find out. We’ve decided to hire a detective because you can’t find her anywhere – not at home, not at the office. At work all they know is that she’s been out since yesterday morning. She’s not with your parents, either, you’ve already checked that one out.’
She looked me straight in the eye, still taking tiny sips of whisky, as if trying to digest and retain everything I had just said.
‘Do you have a recent photo of her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he’ll definitely ask you for it. What else …? Oh, yeah. What time does the doorman get off?’
‘Half-seven.’
‘Perfect. All right, I don’t think I missed anything. Repeat what I just said to you.’
‘My sister Lali disappeared two days ago. She’s not at home, she hasn’t gone to work, and I can’t find her anywhere. You, my husband, see that I am visibly worried and have decided to hire a private detective to investigate. We don’t want my parents to know, so we have to ask him for a bit of discretion on that end. Did I leave anything out?’
‘Only one thing: we want him to be discreet not only with your parents but in general. Get it? We don’t want anyone at the office or any of her friends to know that we’re looking for her.’
‘What do I do if he asks me about the kind of people she runs around with, or about the kind of men she dates?’
‘Do you know her friends, or of any other boyfriends apart from Sebastian?’
‘Hmm … I don’t know. Years ago we had some friends in common, but now …’
‘Okay. If he asks you, then that’s what you should tell him. Like I said, it’s better if you’re completely straight about everything except her affair with Sebastian. And if at any time you don’t know how to react, pretend to be disoriented or something, or turn around as if you don’t want him to see you crying and I’ll take over.’
‘Can I have another whisky before he gets here?’
I thought about it; maybe it was better for her to drink up a bit. The less nervous she was, the better.
‘Go for it.’
‘Do you want another one?’
‘I don’t usually drink before dark. Listen, do you mind if I go downstairs for a second and flip over the name plate on the letter box? Just in case he decides to check it or something … Meanwhile, you can go and tell Veronica not to bring the kids into the living room.’
She stood there with her back to me as she poured herself another whisky and nodded her head yes. It seemed so odd that this was the same Lady First who hardly ever even looked at me during all those Christmas Eve dinners at my parents’ house. Now she surrendered to me like an obedient little girl doing whatever Daddy told her, even asking permission to have another whisky. This was what went through my head as I waited for the lift, but once the doors opened and I saw myself in the mirror I couldn’t help laughing out loud, a cackle that reverberated through the hallway. There I was, dressed up like some kind of City Planning Consultant, about to impersonate my Magnificent Brother. Some joke.
The name plate on the letter box turned out to be slightly more complicated than I had anticipated. It was screwed in, and so I had to use the Black Beast key to loosen it up. Maybe instead of turning it around I should just take it off entirely, I said to myself. No name plate at all might seem more natural than one that had been fucked w
ith, so I took it off and placed it on top of the bank of letter boxes.
According to the living room clock it was already five minutes to eight by the time I went back upstairs. I think Lady First had snuck another whisky while I was downstairs; her glass was far too full to still be that standard first drink she had poured for herself. I didn’t say anything, though, and focused on the objects in the living room, thinking that Robellades would be sure to check them out. Way up high on one of the bookshelves I spied a framed photo of Lord and Lady First, ten years younger and in their wedding clothes. I suppose The First and I bear some kind of resemblance, but not so much that I could actually pass for him.
I placed it face down.
‘He shouldn’t see this,’ I said.
‘I’m scared,’ she blurted out unexpectedly.
‘Scared of what?’
‘Of saying something I shouldn’t. Are you sure we haven’t forgotten anything?’
‘When lying, it’s always helpful to leave a bit of room for improvisation. Remember, you can have doubts about things even when you’re telling the truth, hasn’t that ever happened to you? You make a mistake and then you correct it. Well, you can do the same thing when you’re lying. Believe me, I have experience with this.’
I sat down on the sofa to toss back my whisky. Lady First sat down in front of me, just as she had before.
‘You know something? You’re a strange guy … I sure would like to know who you are, for real.’
Good god: already exchanging confidences in the twilight. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘What you see is what you get.’
‘But you seem different today. And I don’t know, I’ve always had the feeling that you have, I don’t know, another side to you.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it too much. Everyone lives in the world that they themselves create. In your world, yes, I suppose I have another side. That’s all.’
She sat there for a moment, thinking, looking at me.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that reality is always an invention.’
She raised an eyebrow as if to disagree, but I was then saved, literally, by the bell – specifically the tuneless buzz of the intercom from downstairs. I gestured for her to get up and answer it and then walked over to the door with her.
