The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after one.’

  ‘One? How long were you bullshitting with those two?’

  ‘I don’t know, honey, I thought you’d gone to the toilet and were coming back.’

  ‘I told you I was going to wait for you in the car. The problem is, when it doesn’t suit you, you decide not to listen to me.’

  She fell silent. Still glowering. I tried to adopt a more conciliatory tone.

  ‘All right, now. Why don’t you put on the air conditioner?’

  ‘You put it on, Mr Perfect. How am I supposed to know where to find it?’

  ‘Shit, Fina. It’s only right in front of your face. See the little picture? Red for hot air, blue for cold.’

  ‘Fine, then. If it’s so obvious then put it on yourself. I’d love to see you hunt for it as you fire down the motorway.’

  ‘The one all fired up is you, baby. Come on, put on some music. Think you can find the button yourself, my little fleur de lis, or shall I help you out with that, too?’

  She turned away and gave me a little slap on the shoulder as if teaching me a little lesson. I took that as a good sign.

  I gunned up the Beast, and we slowly made our way back to town via the National motorway. Fina reviewed the CD case and found a Dinah Washington greatest hits album. By the time ‘Mad About the Boy’ came around to smooth things over, we were back on speaking terms.

  ‘Who were those two, anyway?’

  ‘Toni and Gisela? We went to university together. You don’t know them.’

  We stayed like that for a while, Fina telling me all about her friendship with Gisela, me driving under 120 and listening without much interest, and Dinah Washington doing her best to create a smooth atmosphere. Once we were back in the neighbourhood, I turned at Nicaragua and took a moment to double-park in front of the La Caixa cash machine at Travessera. Technically speaking, another working day had begun; I didn’t know what the limit was on my brother’s Magnificent cash card, but given that the machine had spat out five hundred big ones only a few hours earlier, there was no reason it wouldn’t do it again.

  Smooth sailing. Fina’s eyes grew as big as saucers when she got a load of the dough.

  ‘Why are you taking so much money out at once?’

  ‘Didn’t you learn anything from the story of the hardware scion of Omaha, my little fleur de lis?’

  ‘Call me fleur de lis one more time and I’ll slug you with my purse.’

  We got back into the Black Beast and I had to drive circles around the block in order to end up not 500 metres from where we were before – that is, directly in front of Luigi’s bar. Car issues. We triple-parked in a tiny spot sandwiched between the thousands of taxis and the City Guard van parked in front of the bar (sometimes Coyote and Roadrunner bring the van with them). From his spot behind the bar, Roberto saw us pull in and as he recognised us let out a ‘sonofabitch!’ which was, in fact, audible from where we were. Still in his apron, he immediately ran outside, heading straight for the Beast and staring at us with wild eyes as we passed him on the sidewalk. Fina and I followed him inside the bar, but Roberto’s sudden stampede had caught the attention of the bar clientele. Five or six taxi drivers, Coyote and Roadrunner, the usual drunks plus a second-rate artist formed a human wall at the entrance to Luigi’s bar, watching Roberto as he walked round and round the car. Fina and I managed to penetrate the wall of rubberneckers, though only to be greeted by Luigi’s suspicious gaze, which focused, for once, on me rather than Fina. It seemed that he had decided to refrain from commenting on my appearance until a later point, so as to find out what the hell everyone was staring at. Roberto wasted little time: he was soon back in position at the bar, with a perplexed expression on his face.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God: a Lotus Esprit. 007’s car!’

  That was enough to let the crowd know exactly what kind of machine we were talking about, and the group pounced on us, demanding an explanation. The first time I had seen Bagheera, I knew it was worthy of someone with a licence to kill, but I had no idea that it was the very same car that James Bond drove.

  I sat down, feeling the need to minimise the impact of the situation.

  ‘I thought James Bond drove an Aston-Martin …’

  Roberto was beside himself.

  ‘No, no, that was only with Sean Connery. Roger Moore drove the Lotus Esprit. You saw The Spy Who Loved Me, didn’t you? Remember the scene when he dives into the ocean in a white sports car that turns into a submarine? This is the same car. Well, this is the newest model, V8 GT. And did you see Basic Instinct?’

  ‘No, but I saw Meatballs Two.’

  Roberto had the entire bar hanging on tenterhooks with his deluge of informative details. Everyone seemed rather shocked at his display of automotive knowledge, although in reality it didn’t amount to much more than a bit of old movie trivia. This kind of expertise did not exactly fit with Roberto’s personality.

  ‘It also shows up in Pretty Woman … a classic, exceptional automobile, a gem … 550 horsepower, 32-valve biturbo engine, acceleration from one to 100 in 4.9 seconds, maximum speed of 272 kilometres per hour, limited only by the electronic system’s control unit …’

  The taxi drivers began to gaze upon me with the resentful sneers of men who own diesel-fuelled Renault 21s painted like Maya the Bee. I decided that Roberto had to be cut off as fast as possible, and so I whipped out the keys and plunked them down in front of him.

  ‘Want to take her for a ride?’

  He stood there, staring at the keys like a man hypnotised. At first I thought it was the shock, but little by little a sheepish, puppy-dog smile came over his face and his eyebrows rose up high as he murmured, with the infinite sadness of a man without means.

  ‘Well … you see, I don’t have a licence for driving cars.’

  For a few seconds everyone was frozen. Then, as soon as Luigi overcame his asthmatic breathing and let out his first ‘hah!’ the congregation followed suit. And then some. One of the taxi drivers, unable to hold in his laughter, grabbed Roberto by the head and planted a loud kiss on him, smack in the middle of his forehead, which only exacerbated the hysteria surrounding the poor buffoon who hung his head as he rubbed his hands against his apron, once again at his post behind the counter. Taking advantage of the general fracas, we quickly headed to the back of the bar and grabbed a table. Before sitting down I asked Fina what she wanted to drink.

  ‘Whisky on the rocks. I feel like getting drunk tonight. But make it a good one – I don’t want to end up with a headache.’

  I asked Luigi for a Vichoff for me and a Cardhu for Fina. I don’t know if Vázquez Montalban is aware of this, but the world has him to thank for the fact that even the worst deadbeat losers now order single malt whiskys instead of regular whisky – they think it makes them connoisseurs or something. Anyway. Luigi returned with my Vichoff, his own Cuba Libre and the Olympic nectar that Fina had requested. Then he took it upon himself to sit down with us and subject me to my second round of questioning that evening.

  ‘Right, then. Think you can do us the favour of explaining what the fuck is the meaning of that car out there and that snappy look you’re walking around with tonight?’

  I nudged Fina under the table so that she would shut up and let me talk. She flashed me a stern, let’s-see-what-you-come-up-with-this-time look. But she kept her trap shut.

  ‘We happen to be celebrating our anniversary,’ I replied.

  ‘Anniversary? What anniversary?’

  ‘Fina and I met twenty years ago today,’ I said, which was almost true. Fina and I met on the night of San Juan, the summer solstice, if not twenty, then twentysomething years earlier. ‘And we have decided to celebrate the occasion by availing ourselves of a radio programme that offers a very special evening, all expenses paid, to the listener who promises to go on the air the following day to spill all the details of the date. They hired the car we asked for, they paid for our dinner, and all the dri
nks we want. And we even have a suite reserved at the Hotel Juan Carlos I.’

  ‘You’re fucking kidding …’

  ‘Tomorrow night, just tune in to Radio Amor and you’ll hear us talking about your very own bar. The show starts at midnight, it’s called “A Hard Day’s Night.” I’m definitely going to tell them all about the scene with the Lotus: the audience will love that one. Do you want me to say something specific about the bar, mention the excellent tapas, or something like that? Take advantage of me – it’s free publicity, you know.’

  ‘Go to hell. I don’t believe you for a second.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, right outside you have proof positive of the machine that’ll get Sharon Stone going at 100 kilometres per hour in 4.9 seconds. Where else do you think we got it? Do you know what it costs to get a car like that for a night?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less. I still don’t believe you for a second.’

  ‘Well, we could have gone to Oliver Hardy’s for a bottle of Dom Perignon. Instead, however, we chose to come here, to share our festivities with you. And you go and treat me like some common liar.’

  ‘I know what you’re up to. Now you’re going to ask me for a receipt and you’re going to tell me that they pay for the drinks tomorrow, when the radio people give you the money for your expenses.’

  I rummaged through my pockets slowly and pulled out the wad of bills which I counted in his face. Then I left a twin set of blue euros on the table.

  ‘Keep the change, waiter.’

  ‘Forget it. God only knows where you got that cash. All right, now, Fina,’ he said, turning to her. ‘If you tell me the bit about the radio show, maybe then I’ll buy it.’

  Fina glanced over at me, let out a little titter, turned back to Luigi and nodded her head in a mini-gesture that wouldn’t have convinced even the most gullible of men. He got up from the table triumphantly, placing his index finger beneath his eye in a little I-get-it gesture. I shrugged my shoulders, looking at Fina, who looked at me imploringly, like an actor in some kind of Italian musical comedy.

  ‘Now. What I would like to know is how on earth you expect me to believe your gold-rush stories if you go around telling lies to everyone who crosses your path?’

  ‘And what I would like to know is why everyone is so obsessed with telling the difference between truth and lies. What is the big deal?’

  That last comment launched us into a half-hour discussion not at all worth repeating. Suffice it to say that it gave us enough time for another round of whisky and Vichoff. What with the wine at dinner, the glass of champagne, the two hefty tumblers of Cardhu, Fina was starting to get sassy. After a while, the clock behind the bar counter struck two and I decided it was time to get to work before the proverbial well froze over.

  ‘Listen, Fina. I gotta go. You know the deal.’

  ‘Al-ready? Noooo, don’t gooooo, I don’t want to go home now … I’ll go with you. Every detective needs an assistant, right?’

  ‘But it’s going to be really boring … I’ll probably spend all night in the car.’

  ‘Well, at least you won’t fall asleep if I’m there. We’ll bring something to drink, we’ll put on the radio and we’ll have a little party in the Lotus. How does that sound?’

  I thought about this, briefly. It was completely stupid, but knowing Fina, it was likely to take me a good couple of hours to get her home anyway. When she sets her mind to something, she can be the queen of sabotage – she would have come up with a thousand different tricks to put off the farewell. Anyway, what the hell, I didn’t have much desire to hole up in a car for the night, even if it was James Bond’s car. So I put on an all-right-you’ve-convinced-me look, good and resigned, and I went over to the bar counter to find Luigi.

  ‘Listen. I need to buy a couple of bottles of Cardhu off of you, plus the vodka you keep in the freezer for me, and a bag of ice. I’ll pay for it up front.’

  ‘Whaaat? Are you mental? And how much do you expect me to charge you for all that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever you’d charge me if you were serving it to me glass by glass.’

  ‘Right. About a hundred seventy-five.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got that. Take it while you can.’

  He turned around and went into the back room, muttering under his breath, and came back out, vodka bottle in hand. Then he pulled the whisky bottles from the display and plunked them down on the bar, trying to hold back a snort that somehow snarfed itself out of his nose.

  ‘Bring me two of these tomorrow. At least as full as these are.’

  ‘Done. I also need a bag of ice and two glasses, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘And where do you think I’m going to come up with a bag of ice around here? What does this look like, a petrol station?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Luigi, just stick a handful of ice cubes in any old bag, do I have to spell everything out for you? And add up the fifty from last night plus whatever I owe you for tonight.’

  ‘From today and from yesterday morning too, remember? You ran me up for a coffee and a pack of Ducados.’

  Luigi has such a sterling memory.

  After we put the bottles in a bag, Fina and I made our exit and walked over to the Beast. Suddenly she started getting all sentimental on me, insisting on hugging me and the like. Danger. This called for abrupt behaviour.

  ‘Shit, Fina. You’re all over me today.’ She gave me another little slap and jerked back, in a dramatic gesture of feigned offence. We got into the car and coasted down Jaume Guillamet in silence until we reached number fifteen. I made a left on Travessera and double-parked a few metres from the corner.

  ‘Wait here a second. I’ll be back in two minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To take a piss.’

  I got out of the car and walked over to the intersection, back to the corner and then down toward the house, my hands in my pockets, as if I had planned to meet someone there and was killing time, pacing about. The lights were out in the house, or at least the shutters were closed, so that you couldn’t see anything from the street. I stopped for a moment by the gate in front of the garden, pretended to tie my shoelaces, and looked up at the lamppost where, as before, the red rag fluttered in the night air. Then I got up, untied the rag very calmly, stuck it in my pocket and returned to the car.

  As soon as I turned the corner and saw the back of the Beast with the lights on, I heard the muffled sounds of The Police singing ‘doo-doo-doo-dah-dah-dah’, which must have been on full-blast inside the car. The silhouette of something that looked suspiciously like a Muppet, bobbing up and down inside the car confirmed the fact that Fina was most definitely feeling the effects of the whisky.

  ‘Are you mental? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘De-doo-doo-doo, de-dah-dah-dah, de-na-na-na-na-na-na-na, bu-boom, de-doo-doo-doo …’

  ‘Fina! For Christ’s sake! The windows are wide open!’

  I lowered the volume as soon as I got in. Fina had decided to get cute on me, and started chiding me in the voice of a drunken rich girl.

  ‘Oh, come on, ever since you got a little cash on you you’ve started getting so fussy … de-doo-doo-doo, de-dah-dah-dah …’

  Now she was singing in a kind of whispery parody, continuing to move about like the Cookie Monster. I turned on the ignition, planning to move down the block.

  ‘Fina, if you don’t behave yourself, you’re going to screw up the entire plan, and I’m talking about five hundred big ones.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me, sir. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  Abruptly her attitude changed: suddenly she got very serious and fiddled with the radio until locating a classical music station that was playing some kind of baroque music, solemn as all hell, and she began to wave an imaginary baton for the imaginary quartet she was directing, her face brimming with an almost religious ecstasy. I started to laugh which, of course, was what she was trying to get me to do in the first place, and she stopped pre
tending to be the master of ceremonies, pinched one of my chubby cheeks and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my big little boy!’

  ‘Fina, please. Drop it.’ It was hopeless. As soon as she hits on something that she knows pisses me off, she won’t stop until I’m about ready to kill her. I decided to focus on the issue at hand and wait for her to get tired of caressing and pinching me. There were no parking spots to be had as we drove up Jaume Guillamet, but about fifty metres from the house, across the street, I spotted a couple of driveways that led to an auto-repair garage. ‘Body work and painting’ said the sign. I decided to park the Beast there; it was highly unlikely that anyone would need a paint job at two in the morning. From that vantage point I could keep my eye on the entrance to the house, and both the distance and the shadows from the street lights guaranteed us a modicum of discretion – that is, as long as Fina didn’t start singing again, something she is wont to do during phase C of her drinking jags. For the moment, however, she had settled on a pop station that was playing some kind of modern reggae.

  ‘Are we there yet? I thought we were going to take a spin in the Black Beast. Full speed, wheeeee … But wait, wait: where is this place that we have to check out?’

  I pointed to the house.

  ‘The house with that little garden? What a pit!’

  ‘Exactly. Do you know how much money you can make putting up a residential building on that lot? Just do the numbers: six floors with two flats on every floor, at five hundred thousand euros a piece. Times twelve. Six million big ones.’

  ‘Well, I like it just the way it is, with its little garden and those little trees.’

  ‘Didn’t you just say it was a pit?’

  ‘Well … yes, but all it needs is a bit of fixing up, really. Anyway, what? Aren’t we going to have a drink? What do you fancy?’

  ‘Pass me the vodka bottle, please.’

  ‘Straight from the bottle? Well, I am going to have a whisky in this tall glass right here, with ice and everything …’

  She dropped three ice cubes into the glass and poured just enough whisky to coat the ice cubes completely. A double, by anyone’s standards. I tried to drink straight from the bottle, but between the measuring gadget at the tip, which complicated the flow of liquid, and the Beast’s extremely low ceiling, which did not allow a full elbow angle, I gave up and served myself a glass with a couple of ice cubes. The strains of a Mike Hammer-style version of ‘Can You See Her?’ began wafting through the speakers, which was dangerous with Fina around, because this particular song always gets me a tad sentimental. To fortify myself, I downed the vodka in one go. Vodka softens the heart, they say, but it also softens the prick, which I wanted to keep flaccid for the moment. And so I served myself another healthy dose of my anti-aphrodisiac tonic and continued sucking it down in short gulps.