by Pablo Tusset
A horrifying scenario. I woke up, paralysed with fear by the image of the soft, roly-poly face of my maternal granny. Goddamn dreams. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t get her image out of my mind, and I opened my eyes so that the light filtering in through the blinds might reassure me that I was, in fact, safe and sound in my everyday, normal world. The worst part of it all, though, was the realisation that my everyday, normal world had changed so much that it was, in and of itself, a nightmare, a nightmare inhabited by little bald men that emerged from their lairs under cover of night to tie little red rags on the gates of some madhouse.
My hangover was just what I expected it would be: headache, dry mouth, and various extremities which felt as though someone had beaten them to a pulp. According to the kitchen clock it was past five in the afternoon. At least I had caught up on all that lost sleep, but the yellowish light from the street indicated the imminent sunset, and I hardly felt like plunging into another long night. I drank water, lots of water, and for the first time in years, as I clung to the tap, I felt an intense desire to be in the countryside, enjoying a brisk spring morning. This sudden change of heart had to be remedied, on the double. I located the bottle of Cardhu which I had left on the table, and filled half a water glass with its contents and gulped down the alcohol as if it were medicine. After that, I put some coffee on, rolled a joint and sat down to smoke it, though somewhat impatiently. I knew that smoking a joint and drinking coffee would kill my appetite, but I figured that I had eaten enough the day before to endure a few more hours before refuelling. I would have loved a line of coke right then. Maybe now that I was flush I could score a gram off Nico … I thought about what I might have in the house that could serve as an acceptable substitute, and rummaged through my medicine chest until I came up with a box of aspirin that I remembered having bought a while back. They had expired more than a year earlier, but I took two anyway and chased them down with a slug of the Cardhu, and then smoked another joint as I took a few sips of coffee.
After twenty minutes, I was Pablo Miralles again, and I was even able to brush my teeth and shave – carefully, of course, being careful to respect the boundaries of my stylish new moustache.
Next up: I started to worry about what I was afraid I would have to worry about. My first plan of action had been executed to completion the previous night; all I could do now was think some more. I did this and came up with at least two potential avenues of investigation. I decided to opt for the first, simple and easy. On the dining room table I looked for The First’s mobile phone, which was one of those tiny jobs with a fold-out mouthpiece, and I focused on unravelling its various mysteries. I was sure it had to have some kind of telephone directory, and maybe I could even investigate the source of the last phone calls he had received, or at least the last phone calls he had made from the thing. In no time at all, I figured out how to use the directory function, and discovered a total of sixteen memorised numbers, all of which I jotted down on a piece of paper. Given the names and also by comparing them to the numbers listed in my own address book, I confirmed that four of the numbers stored on his mobile were known quantities: that of my Parents’ Highness (PaMa), that of The First’s residence (house), that of the office (Miralles) and mine (P.José). Other numbers like Taxi, Insurance, and Pumares were relatively easy to identify and the list was whittled down to seven unknowns. The telephone number of The First’s secretary was probably one of them, but I couldn’t remember her first name. Probably it was the one that went with that very familiar Lali, but to save time I decided to put in a call to Milady.
‘Gloria, it’s me, Pablo. Any news?’
‘Nothing. And you, have you got anything?’
‘Nothing concrete. Listen, I’m calling you because I need your help with something. Do you know how Sebastian’s phone works?’
‘Well, it’s like any other mobile, I suppose.’
Some help.
‘One other thing: have you got paper and a pen handy?’
She did not. I was put on hold as she went to locate them.
‘I want you to copy down some names I’m going to read off to you, and tell me if any of them rings a bell. I found them in the phone directory in Sebastian’s mobile. And I want to know whose numbers he has stored. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Okay, so here goes the first. Llava. L-L-A-V-A. Sound familiar?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, second one: Vell Or. V-E-L-L space O-R.’
‘Vell Or, no, nothing.’
‘Number three: Mateu. M-A-T-E-U.’
‘Well, that one, yes. That must be Lluis Mateu, our lawyer. We had dinner together once, with his wife. He looks after Sebastian’s legal matters, has done for years.’
‘Very good. Next one. Lali. L-A-L-I.’
‘Yes, that must be Lali’s … 410 7690, is that right?’
‘Right. Our friend the secretary?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I figured. Okay, next: Villas. V-I-L-L-A-S.’
‘No idea.’
‘Next one: JG, looks like a pair of initials. Are you writing this down?’
‘Yes. But I don’t recognise that one either.’
‘Next one: Maria. The usual, only no accent.’
‘I don’t know, I suppose I know a lot of Marias … maybe your father’s old secretary, the one at the reception desk now?’
‘Good idea. I’ll check that out. Here’s the next one. Tort. T-O-R-T.’
‘Nothing.’
‘All right, here’s the last one: Fosca. F-O-S-C-A.’
‘That must be the house number at Fosca.’
‘What?’
‘Fosca. It’s a beach, near Palamós. We have a little house rented there. Does it have a Girona dialling code?’
‘972. Yeah, I guess so. That must be it. Listen. I want you to take another good look at that list, see if anything pops out at you, all right? And if it does, call me. I’ll be at home for a while, but if I’m not here just leave a message. Do you know how to activate the phone company’s answering service?’
Star ten, double hash. I tried as soon as we hung up. Nobody deigned even to say go rot in hell, no pre-recorded chit-chat or anything. I hung up and then picked up again to see if it had activated. ‘The Telefónica answering service informs you that you do not have any messages waiting for you.’ Bingo.
The next order of business was to call the office. It was about five to seven, there would still be some employees in action there. As always, Maria picked up.
‘Maria, it’s me, Pablo. Listen, is your telephone number 323 4312, 93 dialling code?’
‘How did you know …?’
‘I’m taking a class in telepathy. How about this one: does the name Tort mean anything to you?’
‘Yes, he’s the branch manager at the Banco Santander office downstairs. He comes around here a lot.’
Two down. I asked her to put me through to Pumares, and recalibrated my voice to a tone that would be convincing enough for him to take seriously the instructions he was about to be given by the good-for-nothing brother of his boss.
‘Yes, Pablito, tell me … how is your brother doing?’
‘Convalescing. But better, thanks. In fact, he just told me something he wanted you to do for him. He needs a list of all the phone calls that have been made from the office in the last month. He’s sick of lying in bed and wants to use the time to figure out how to reduce phone costs.’
‘He wants a whaaaaat?’
‘A list. A compilation of information organised in lines, called “entries”, and columns that are commonly known as “fields.” Since the advent of the computer they are a very common sight in offices.’
‘Don’t give me that, Pablo, I know what a list is. What I mean is, where the hell am I supposed to get that information?’
‘I suggest you call Telefónica.’
‘Shit, Pablo, that costs money …’
If the order had come straight fro
m The First, Pumares would have busted his arse to get it done on the double, but when someone like me came along, all he did was whine and moan as if I had woken him up at three in the morning with an order to bring me a strawberry parfait. I could have reminded him that his hiring contract also had my signature on it, as an equal partner in the company, but this wasn’t the moment for arguing. And anyway, pulling rank is almost always useless when pitted against twenty years of conditioned reflexes.
‘Listen, Pumares: I told you this is my brother’s request, he’s completely lost his voice and the doctor told him not to talk under any circumstances. Of course, if you don’t believe me and prefer that he tell my father to call you … you do trust my father, don’t you?’
The mere mention of the patriarch always has an astonishing effect. A long pause ensued, during which he let out a deep sigh before finally conceding,
‘Very well. Tell your brother I’ll see what I can do.’
The list of unknown phone numbers was now down to four, and so I made a second list with the remaining names to get a clearer picture of things and to see if anything jumped out at me. Villas, Llava, Vell Or, JG … It would have been perfect if JG stood for Jaume Guillamet, but things don’t usually work out quite so neatly in real life. I decided to try a kind of reverse-deduction method: what telephone numbers would The First logically have saved on his mobile directory? His office, my house, his own house, my parents’ houses in Barcelona and Llavaneras … Llava! I cross-checked in my own address book, and there it was, the phone number of my parents’ house in Llavaneras. Bingo. I was all ready to kiss my reflection in the mirror when the phone rang. It was Lady First.
‘Pablo. It just occurred to me that Sebastian, Lali and I often go to a restaurant on Marqués de Sentmenat … its called “El Vellocino de Oro.” He often calls in advance to make the reservation for us. I thought maybe that was the “Vell Or” on the list. Does that make any sense?’
‘All the sense in the world. I’ll look into it right now. I’ll ring you right back.’
I dialled the number. A male voice answered.
‘Vellocino, good afternoon.’
I claimed a wrong number and crossed one more suspect off the list. The only ones left were Villas and JG, and so I mulled over them for a while, trying to identify the street locations by the three numbers following the Barcelona 93. Villas was a 430, a classic Les Corts exchange, specifically covering the vicinity of my own house, as well as The First’s penthouse and office. JG was a 487, which meant nothing to me, although I thought I might try my luck by calling information. I dialled the number.
‘“Welcome to the Telefónica directory information service” … Good afternoon, this is María Ángeles speaking.’
‘Hello, María Angeles, how are you? I need to confirm a bit of information. The first three digits of a telephone number identify a specific geographic zone in the city, is that right?’
‘Umm, yesss …’
What the hell did that mean, “ummm, yesss …”?
‘Well, can you tell me what neighbourhood corresponds to 487?’
‘Do you have the full number?’
I read off the number.
‘Sarrià-Sant Gervasi.’
‘You can’t give me the exact address?’
María Ángeles was very sorry but she was not authorised to do so.
Sarrià-Sant Gervasi. That had to mean from Plaza Calvo Sotelo all the way the hell out to nowhere up the mountain toward Tibidabo. Who knew, that could even include Pedralbes, or even Vallvidrera … I never did get the hang of all the weird municipal zones within the city and I certainly didn’t feel like getting up to speed right then. Anyway, wherever that JG lived or worked, he could just as well be The First’s shrink, his antiques dealer or the crusty old tailor who makes those custom-made pretty boy suits of his (Jesús Gatera, Jacinto Garrafones, Juanito Gazuza, who knew?).
Enough hypothesising, I told myself, and decided to ring JG right then. I punched in the number, and had to wait before anyone picked up.
‘Jenny G, good afternoon.’
Good God: kitty-cat voice, perfect enunciation. She sounded thrilled to have made my acquaintance. Whorehouse. Unquestionably. It threw me for such a loop that I had to stall a couple of seconds, to think of what to say. I solved the dilemma by faking the voice of a fortysomething gentleman looking for some exotic-type action.
‘Yes … uh, Jenny, please.’
‘Are you … ah, a friend of the house?’
‘No, no, not exactly. I’m calling on behalf of a friend of mine.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, I think you may have made a mistake.’
Good, good, good. Not only was my Magnificent Brother shacking up with his secretary, but he also got his rocks off at a whorehouse with a receptionist who was probably a Literature student in her spare time and said things like ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ At that rate, the prostitutes were probably descendants of the Romanovs. I began to envision The First in a whole different light now – suddenly he had morphed into a Magnificent Gangster with a camelhair coat and monogrammed cigar.
I didn’t want to leave anything hanging, and so I tried the Villas number next. After a couple of rring-rrings, it picked up but there was no answer on the other end.
‘Good afternoon?’ I said. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Nothing. I hung up, redialled to see if I had made a mistake the first time round, but once again, nothing. No sign of life. I even tried a third time, to no avail. Anyway. For the moment, I considered my telephone investigation concluded and turned on my computer. I logged on to the Internet and typed in ‘Jaume Guillamet’ on the Alta Vista dialogue box.
A vortex.
I started out by reading a report by the Spanish Association of Dentists and Odontologists which stated that sixty per cent of the adolescents in Granada currently suffer from dentomaxillary dysfunction due to maxillary overcrowding. To make matters even more interesting, a scientific study had revealed that only thirteen per cent of medieval skulls show evidence of this disorder. This tremendous discrepancy had led experts in the field to believe that a very serious pattern has emerged, though it was not clear whether they meant in Granada, in the Judeo-Christian Western world, or in the entire galaxy. Next up, I tried my luck with an article on the historical-pathological aspects of periodontal reconstruction, and then another item on the appropriate dental bridges for handling such reconstructions. At this point, I began to suspect that someone named Jaume Guillamet was a dentist and, in fact, found a number of documents bearing his signature, along with the title ‘President of the Promotional Delegation of the Executive Committee of the Society of Spanish Ortho-Maxillary Surgeons and Gastroenterologists’, a position which definitely smelled of dentist – and the expensive kind, at that. But this was only the beginning: after a bit of surfing I learned that there were various Guillamets involved in the Steering Committee of the Figueres Sporting Club; one Guillamet who had photographed the gravestone of Kiki de Montparnasse and who was currently the curator of the artistic patrimony of Andorra; a Miss Eva María Guillamet who, on her personal website, declared that her interests included Agatha Christie novels, camping, and meeting interesting people (not like her). I even found a taxi driver in Manhattan named Sylvester Guillamet, who had something to do with the New York Taxi and Limousine Commission. In mentioning the Taxicab Rider’s Bill of Rights he did make special note of the passenger’s right to oblige the driver to provide ‘a radio-free (silent) trip.’
After half an hour of learning things that I had no need to learn about, I clicked on to the ‘advanced search’ option and entered ‘TEXT: ((‘jaume guillamet *15 OR ‘15* jaume guillamet’) AND ‘barcelona’) NEAR (‘dir*’ OR ‘address’ OR ‘mail’)’ and waited to see if luck was on my side. It was. Only a few links came up, maybe half a dozen, and that is always an encouraging sign.
I clicked on to the first one. It was an enquiry regarding traffic fines that had been sent to a consultancy service. The e
nquirer had parked his Citroen BX, number plate B-blah, blah, blah next to a construction site located at Jaume Guillamet number fifteen. Apparently the city towing service had been obnoxious enough to tow the car and leave a triangular-shaped sticker stuck to the kerb in its place. The letter was dated January of 1998, which must have been when the work began on the apartment building across the way from the little house with the garden.
Alta Vista’s search engine seemed to be in top form, though it wasn’t doing me much good.
I clicked on to the second link and was greeted with an untitled page. The first line of text read ‘22th Juny’ and underneath it, a massive list of schedules, names, and addresses. I scanned the first few paragraphs: the addresses were in cities all over Europe: Milan, Bordeaux, Hamburg, organised in what appeared to be a rather arbitrary fashion. The word ‘worm’ was repeated across the bottom of the page, sort of like a mosaic, with a dark grey, fake bas-relief background. The first thing that came to my mind was the conventional English meaning of the word: worm. I tried searching the site for the word Jaume and came up with, in English:
00:00 a.m.
G.S.W. Amanci Viladrau
Password: 25th Montanyà St.; 08029 Barcelona (Spain)
Address: 15th, Jaume Guillamet St.; 08029 Barcelona (Spain)
Interesting. I tried the third link, which turned out to be a mirror of the same page, only in French. The next link was in German, and the last one in Spanish. That was it for the search engine’s responses. I couldn’t imagine what the hell it could possibly mean, but it was weird, definitely weird enough to continue down the trail.
The domain of the mirror site was worm.com, and so I went there. The first thing that popped on the screen was an undulating message which promised vengeance in the form of a virus to anyone who dared enter the site, and it immediately executed a MIDI with a depressing musical jingle. The idea was for it to look like some kind of system message, but it looked a lot more like the Mummy’s curse. They were clearly trying to scare away the casual, easily impressionable surfer who had happened to chance upon the site. Precisely for that reason I decided to forge ahead.
