The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  ‘Right. And you brought it here yourself?’

  ‘It brought me here is more like it.’

  ‘Are you dealing hallucinogenic narcotics or something?’

  ‘It’s my brother’s. Come on, get in and I’ll explain on the way.’

  I opened the passenger-side door and gallantly helped her in as she rather sceptically inspected the interior before deigning to enter, first placing her arse on the low seat and then tucking her legs in. I spun over the hood and got in on the other side. I discovered that by imitating her movements it was far easier to wedge my thighs in under the steering wheel.

  ‘Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?’

  ‘I’m learning.’

  I decided to put the car’s abilities to the test by heading towards the Diagonal, which would eventually get us out of Barcelona and onto the A7 motorway in the direction of Martorell. From the days when I used to actually leave the neighbourhood, I remembered a restaurant outside of the city that wasn’t half bad: one of those refurbished country homes, with a massive stone fireplace in the main dining room and a healthy selection of sausage products. I figured I had about two hundred euros on me, but after midnight I would be able to replenish the cash supply at any cash machine, so we could easily spend the dough free of worry. Definitely enough for some good wine and choice ham.

  ‘Does this car have air conditioning? It’s so hot …’

  ‘I’m sure it does, it has everything. Take a look on the dashboard.’

  As Fina inspected the equipment I focused on trying to shift into second gear. On the last stretch after taking Travessera toward Collblanc, I hit it.

  ‘It has a CD player,’ mused Fina as I narrowly missed sodomising a hapless little Renault Twingo that had darted out in front of us. She had located the sound system and underneath, in some kind of storage unit, she found CDs.

  ‘Shit, man: Schubert, Musical Moments; Bach Suites 2 and 3; Schumann, Renana Symphony … Your brother’s a real wild guy, huh?’

  ‘He’s very high-culture. Put the radio on, something’s bound to come out.’

  Fina worked the tuner until hitting ‘Der Komissar’, a song that always brings back good memories. It must have held the same charm for Fina, too, because she started dancing in the front seat as she resumed her search for the climate control. Once on the Diagonal I took advantage of three straight green lights and managed to shift my way up to fourth, and Fina abandoned the A/C bit and began frantically patting about, looking for the seatbelt. After our last stop on the Diagonal, all that lay before us was a beautiful, multi-lane motorway. Traffic was light, just a few odd cars that, along with the music, made it feel like we were on the opening screen of a video game. Green. I slammed down on the gas to fire up the engine; the heart of the Beast howled behind our necks and just as the revolutions began to slow down, I loosened up on the clutch and went full blast. We lost a bit of the propulsion as the wheels slid over the asphalt, but as soon as it restabilised we tore out of there like a hundred bats out of hell. Five seconds later the engine purred to the beat of ‘Der Komissar’ and soon began to sound like a Moulinex on pureé; the speedometer crept up to 100; I pumped down on the gas again in second until we hit 140; third, 170; I didn’t have the balls to go into fourth: 180, 190, 200, and we were glued to the back engine, which zoomed from behind like an automaton as we began to pass cars, leaving them in the dust like hats falling out of the window of a train. 220, 230, 240 … the motorway seemed to contract, until it felt like a country lane full of sneaky little twists and turns.

  ‘Pabloooooo!’

  I was getting scared, too. I lifted my foot off the gas and stopped pushing, so that we might slide a bit with the clutch down, and I shifted into fifth so that we could level off at 200kph, and pass the few cars on our right, staying far enough away from them so as not to jostle them too much.

  I lowered the volume on the radio.

  ‘Not bad, huh?’

  Fina’s hand had fluttered up to her heart.

  ‘For a second there I thought I started to get my period, and I’m not due for another week. What the fuck is this, anyway?’

  ‘Some kind of Lotus. I should slow down.’

  By now we were on the final stretch in Molins de Rey, turning off the exit ramp – a 270-degree turn, as good an occasion as any to test the car’s suspension. I cranked into second and the centrifugal force sent me slamming against the door. Fina started screaming ‘Pablooo!’ and clung to her seatbelt for dear life, as tense as a cat, but the machine hung tough, barely losing its horizontality at all, and the tires gripped the asphalt like Velcro. It would take much more than the Molins de Rey exit ramp to throw off the Beast: good for Bagheera. Fina actually seemed to be having a splendid time – afterward she claimed not to have experienced anything like it since she went up the Dragon Khan roller-coaster at Port Aventura. When we reached the driveway of the country-house restaurant we were dripping with sweat. I parked the nose of the car headfirst into the kerb, and as we got out we straightened our clothes and hair and went through the front door of the restaurant arm-in-arm, like a couple of newlyweds on their honeymoon with that exhilarating recently-fucked feeling you get from a damn good car ride. The hostess who greeted us was a fortyish lady with blond hair pulled back into a bun and a gold-lamé blouse that would have made Elizabeth Taylor proud. Her outfit went rather dismally with the rustic decorating scheme, but that’s women for you. Fina asked where the toilet was and I busied myself picking out a table.

  The main dining room was empty. Of the twenty or thirty tables scattered about, only one table was occupied, by two old couples that looked like vacationing foreigners. Despite the time of year and the air conditioner, the stone fireplace was nevertheless crackling away. I picked a table close by: in addition to the ham and the wine, this was the main attraction of the place. When Fina returned from the toilet I followed suit and went to the gents to wash my hands, and after a while we were both sitting there studying the menu. I focused on the Rioja wines. They had my beloved Faustino I, but I feared that might be a bit heavy, both for Fina’s palette as well as the fine sausage delicacies we were going to eat. I also dismissed the 1973 Conde de los Andes due to the high price, and wavered between the Martínez Lacuesta Special Reserve and the 1985 Remelluri. The Lacuesta is perfect for ham, but Fina liked the Remelluri because, according to her, it was so smooth. Plus it was cheaper and it was still unclear how much fun those two hundred euros would buy us, especially if we ordered desserts.

  ‘This place sure is nice … listen, do you have money? All I’ve got is a twenty.’

  ‘I’ve got two hundred. What are you going to order?’

  ‘Your call, Fittipaldi.’

  I scanned the menu.

  ‘Let’s see, what do you think of: an escalivada to nibble at while we wait …, smoked trout …, a platter of cured pork loin and a couple of platters of cured ham. And ciabatta with tomato; they roast it on a woodburning fire. Then we’ll see. If my memory serves me right, they have a stellar manchego.’

  ‘I put my taste buds in your hands.’

  I turned around to look for a waiter. The only one in the dining room quickly repaired to our table. Evidently he was slightly bored at the lack of clientele. I ordered. In the end I went for the Remelluri, and asked him not to serve it to us too warm. What with the usual routine of serving red wine at room temperature, they usually end up serving you a lifeless Rioja at twenty-five degrees.

  As soon as the waiter retreated, Fina began her interrogation.

  ‘All right. What’s this business with you in your brother’s car?’

  I don’t like lying to Fina. I don’t like it at all.

  ‘How about if you explain to me, first, exactly what you are doing here with me. Wasn’t your husband supposed to come home today?’

  She lowered her head, eyes down. When she opened them again her pupils travelled up to a faraway point somewhere in the corner in the ceiling.

&n
bsp; ‘Meetings … They have to report back to their boss about the Hewlett Packard scene in Toledo … the usual. I got angry and told him that I would just go out with some friend – a male friend – and not to wait up for me.’

  I lit a Ducados to allow her to continue on in that vein or change the topic of conversation.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Pablo … Look at me, I spent all day waiting around for him like an idiot … I was excited to see him, really, to go out to dinner somewhere, I don’t know, have some quality couple-time together … But no, “oh, we hung about the office for a while to talk,” he said. I could have killed him, I swear. Sometimes I think he stays with me just so that it looks like he’s a normal person, you know? Like, it’s natural and normal to be married, so he gets married and that’s it … I don’t know how many weeks it’s been since we last had sex. I’m going to look for a lover, I’m serious. Damn right I’m serious, I’m sick of this …’

  ‘Did you try talking to him?’

  ‘I tried. And you know what he does? He tells me I’m neurotic! As if all this was just some crazy hysteria of mine. “But baby! We never fuck!” See what I mean? But no, nothing. He puts the telly on for a bit and then as soon as the clock strikes eleven he goes to bed. Because he has to wake up so early, you know … And then Saturday comes along and the least little thing comes up and we don’t do it, and the day goes by and I get nothing for another week. Last week it was because he was going to Toledo, the week before it was because we had to go to Girona to see his parents and ended up coming back late, the week before that I don’t know what the fuck happened but we didn’t do it then either … And now I’m the one who doesn’t want it anymore. So that’s that.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the wine and a few slices of cold cuts that the waiter served as a pre-appetiser before launching into his wine-presentation number. I told him he could just pour it and then he left us alone.

  ‘All right. So tell me about the car. I don’t feel like talking about my husband.’

  ‘Nothing to tell. My brother gave me a surveillance assignment and I needed a car to use as an observation post.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I don’t know, some deal he’s cooking up. He’s got his eye on some property in the neighbourhood and wants me to find the owner. Five hundred euros are mine if I get the name for him by Monday.’

  ‘So what are you going to do, just wait at the front door until someone comes out?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘Well, that little machine is not exactly going to go unnoticed. You’d be better off in an Opel Corsa.’

  ‘Maybe. But my brother doesn’t have a Corsa. He has a Lotus.’

  ‘And are you planning to do the stakeout tonight?’

  ‘That’s the idea. We have dinner, then a drink at Luigi’s and then I head over there.’

  ‘I went by Luigi’s last night, I was sick of tossing and turning in bed. I tried you on the phone but since you didn’t pick up I figured you’d be there. Roberto said you’d pulled some disappearing act.’

  ‘I went for something to eat on the Parallel.’

  ‘And after that, a hooker, right?’

  I shrugged, with a gesture somewhere between innocence and resignation. Still she was intrigued enough to keep at me:

  ‘And so? How was it? Real special, yeah?’

  ‘Oh, nothing you and I haven’t done. You know me, when it comes to screwing and snuggling I’m pretty unimaginative.’

  ‘I think I’m going to go and do the same thing one of these days, go out and find myself a gigolo.’

  The food arrived. The escalivada was a touch warm for my taste; the pork loin a bit gamey, as if they had it in the icebox for too long; the cured ham was superlative, oily and aromatic; and the trout was fine. The ride in the Beast had whet our appetites, but Fina still found the time to continue with her little inquiry.

  ‘Okay. So this image change of yours?’

  ‘I had to do it. For this job he gave me …’

  She sat there looking at me, rather suspiciously, even though she didn’t know quite what to be suspicious of.

  ‘Well, you know what? I think you’re acting kind of strange. The haircut, the clothes, the car …, all that extra cash, expensive cologne … Plus you’re so serious tonight, you haven’t even cracked a joke yet.’

  I couldn’t think of a single joke right then.

  ‘My brother left me his cash card to cover my expenses … I don’t know, maybe it’s just that having good clothes and money to spare gives a person character. And anyway, I’m not used to driving a millionaire’s sports car.’

  ‘Yeah, so? Do you like it?’

  ‘Hmm … it is fun. It’s a change, anyway.’

  ‘Well, if you like it, why don’t you do something about it? Your parents are loaded, your brother, too, and you’re a partner in the business, aren’t you? You could have all the money you want …’

  ‘Don’t bother, I’ve heard that speech before. I know it cold.’

  ‘I just don’t understand why you don’t try and make more of yourself. I don’t know, if only just to be able to go out for a drink whenever you want instead of racking up bar tabs all over the place. You’re a guy with a brain, you know that. Use it.’

  ‘Actually, I think if I had a little less brains I’d be a lot more intelligent.’

  ‘There you go again. You say the weirdest things sometimes.’

  ‘See? That’s the way my mind works, I’m like a modern-day Bugs Bunny.’

  I put a Bugs Bunny expression on my face, Bugs Bunny with his carrot, digging a hole, outsmarting everyone. Fina had to cover her mouth with her hand so as not to toss her escalivada. But she blasted back at me as soon as she had the giggles under control.

  ‘I don’t get it, really I don’t. Why can’t you just do what’s expected of you? And don’t give me another one of your analogies …’

  In general I despise it when people demand explanations about what I do or do not do – I’ve got enough on my hands with FH’s sermons and my Magnificent Brother’s sarcastic comments. But this time it came in handy because it allowed me to direct her attention away from my wardrobe transformation and onto something else, to steer the chit-chat elsewhere.

  ‘Fine. I am going to answer you with a true story that will serve as a parable.’

  ‘Only if you promise to do the Bugs Bunny face after.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. First, listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Now, then. This is the story of a young man who set off for the Yukon during the height of the gold rush. His father, a prosperous merchant, had just died of old age in his hardware store in Omaha, Nebraska, and left his son a certain amount of money. With that, plus what he made from selling the old man’s business, the young hardware-store heir figured he would have enough money to travel north and try his luck there. So this young man journeyed all the way to Seattle, crossing half the American continent, and from there, took his first steamship to Skagway, close to the western Canadian border. Shall I continue?’

  ‘Well, now that you’ve started …’

  ‘Fine. Now, the thing is, I don’t want you to picture the usual opportunist fortune-hunter type. This person was more of an … adventurer, all right? More than gold, he was searching for the privilege of perspective – he wanted to see the world from the Absolute North, he wanted to climb the cusp of the planet Earth. That sort of thing.’

  ‘A dreamer.’

  ‘Exactly. You’ve got it. All right. The guy leaves Skagway on the back of a mule that’s part of a great horse-and-livestock caravan heading further and further north toward Dawson. Six hundred kilometres of a most infernal route: avalanches, barely enough grass for the animals to survive, and an arse-whipping chill despite the spring season. In those days, Dawson was the last outpost of civilisation, a place where one could stock up on goods and supplies bef
ore going deeper into the great unknown. It was kind of a last stop from where adventurers departed for the Polar Circle.’

  ‘Sounds like a Jack London story.’

  ‘More like Jack Lunkhead. You read too much, it’ll ruin your eyesight.’

  ‘I don’t get enough action, what do you want?’

  ‘So the deal is, once he gets to Dawson, he’s suddenly not into the idea of sticking his feet in freezing water and breaking his back to look for signs of gold dust that most of the time only appears in the most ridiculously microscopic quantities. So he decided to spend a few days in the city. Dawson had still not reached its heights of splendour. It had only just begun to be regarded as the Paris of the North, but you could drink champagne, eat caviar or hire young French maidens to dance a can-can for you in lacy undergarments – all of this at nouveau riche prices, of course. And mixed in with the men who spent all their gold dust in these dancing saloons were hundreds of poor slobs who slunk around, utterly unable to pay the fortune these places charged for a plate of green beans and a hunk of bread. It wasn’t long before this scenario became a powder keg far beyond the control of the Canadian police force. Can you picture it? Now, turning back to our man from Nebraska: he had money in his pocket and after two days he couldn’t care less about the north and its privileged perspective. A week went by, then two, three, and in between glasses of champagne and gold-dusted fucks that didn’t require him to get his feet wet in the least, he ended up pissing away the money he’d inherited from his father.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but somehow I knew that was coming.’

  ‘Wait – I’m just getting to the good part. So when he was finally down to his last few bucks he realised he had no other choice but to leave. He bought a sack of provisions, tossed a coin in the air to decide which way to go, and toted his satchel, mule, and sieve in the very same direction as the other fortune-hunters: Klondike upriver. But the Klondike was already more trashed than those mademoiselles’ lace undergarments – there wasn’t a foot of river that hadn’t been claimed, and the same was true in all the principal tributaries, and so our dreamer friend busted his arse to climb up some microscopic creek where nobody had ever found the tiniest speck of gold dust. And so, after a month of stretching his supplies and climbing up the Mackenzie Mountains, he finished off the last of his provisions. The future was looking very grim indeed. Other men might have been able to survive the harsh winter by hunting and fishing, but this Omaha hardware-store heir could hardly tell the difference between a salmon and a rabbit, and he certainly hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to catch either. And so: one day, doubled over near a little creek, so hungry he could have taken a bite out of his mule, he found himself face to face with a Siwash, fishing in the water.’