The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  When my Mother’s Highness threatens to succumb to a fit, measures must be taken im-med-i-ate-ly or else she follows through on her word – she’s got the kind of mind-body control that would make the Dalai Lama look like an epileptic.

  ‘Well, there’s been a bit of activity … But I don’t want Dad to know, and I’m afraid you’ll let it out …’

  ‘Pablo José! Tell me right now what is going on!’

  Right. Nothing occurred to me at the moment. The best thing, when this happens, is to say the first thing that comes to mind.

  ‘It’s Torres. He’s been hit by a car. He’s at the hospital, in intensive care.’

  ‘Who?’

  Anyone who saw me at that moment, in the bar, in front of the counter with the cognac bottles, would have had no doubt as to where I found the inspiration to improvise that last name. And I had to thank Providence, once again, for not having placed a bottle of Licor 43 in front of my eyes. I got even more out of the bottle, too.

  ‘Torres, Ricard Torres. Don’t you remember him?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘He was one of Dad’s business partners. Right around the time of the Ibarra mess. Remember what I told you about Ibarra?’

  ‘Yes: that rude man who had your father hit by a car. What I don’t see is what one thing has to do with the other …’

  I feigned impatience.

  ‘Mom, you’re not paying attention. The fact that in the space of two days they hit Dad and then his business partner, doesn’t that tell you something?’

  Silence. Deep, shocked breathing on the other end of the line.

  ‘Good lord! Do you mean to say that that … obstinate man is continuing to …?’

  Only my Mother’s Highness would think of calling such a person ‘obstinate.’ She inherited the tendency from my Magnificent Grandfather, who initiated her in the art of adjective collection at a very early age.

  ‘Extremely obstinate. The situation is more serious than we thought, and Sebastian had to extend his trip. He called to warn me that he’s filed a formal complaint against him in the Court of First Instance in Bilbao.’

  I have no idea whether the Court of First Instance is the proper place to file this kind of complaint, but my mother was not terrifically interested in the institution’s exact title. My mother does not collect names, only adjectives, and if I had told her he had filed a complaint at Benito Villamarín it would have made no more of an impression upon her.

  To recap: the rest of the conversation was an endless litany of all the domestic tribulations she was enduring. I did manage to ascertain that my Father’s Highness was as foul-humoured as he had been before, that they had not exchanged a single word for the entire day, except when Beba was around to mediate, and that they hadn’t left the house for the past two days. They had, on the other hand, received a visit from Gonzalito the masseuse as well as the regular members of MH’s canasta club. Apparently, FH had been particularly disagreeable with them, and had refused to go to the library to smoke his smelly Montecristo – hence, the reason behind the silent treatment he was now receiving from her. Beba, on the other hand, had refused to serve the visitors their muscatel and tea cookies, stating that she was not a bartender and that if those gasbags wanted to play cards they could go and do it at a saloon. Beba does have her moments occasionally, and I know she does not like my mother’s friends, but this time I did have to side with my mother: I mean, she really shouldn’t have called her guests gasbags. And I also agreed that it was unpleasant on the part of my father to begin inhaling noxious fumes without first asking the ladies’ permission, even if he was in his own living room. Anyway, everything was still under control, or rather under the systematic, habitual lack of control. The real down side of the conversation, though, was the fact that just as I was about to say goodbye I completely walked into the trap that she laid for me.

  ‘I suppose you’ll come over for dinner tomorrow night …’, she suddenly said, as if it was so obvious it almost wasn’t worth mentioning. As it happened, the next day was her birthday. I don’t remember anyone’s birthday except for my own and Albert Einstein’s – two great men, born on the very same day – and even those two occasionally slip my mind, and so I rarely celebrate them. But considering the recent state of affairs, I thought it would be cruel to say no and confirmed that I would indeed be present. After all, my mother was turning sixty, a round-enough figure to justify the exception. As always, however, this bit of stupid sentimentalism only opened the door to a new set of problems. I didn’t see the trap until after I’d already said yes.

  ‘Marvellous. We’ll be exactly five couples, then: a family dinner.’

  ‘Five couples?’

  ‘Five, in addition to your father and me: Aunt Salomé and Uncle Felipe, Aunt Asunción and Uncle Frederic, the Blascos, their daughter Carmela, and you … You know, Carmela – the girl I told you about … the bohemian.’

  And a brave bohemian she was, to have accepted an invitation to dine with her parents at the home of my parents, in the additional company of two older couples whose masculine halves were, respectively, a bigwig in the conservative Convergència i Unió party and an ex-General of the Spanish Army. Of course, knowing my MH, it was highly probable that the unsuspecting Carmela had also gotten herself caught up in my mother’s matchmaking shenanigans. My Mother’s Highness is capable of getting the president of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance to put on a mantilla and attend a mass for the head of the Opus Dei. It’s one of her specialities. Anyway, after I agreed to turn up at their house at nine on the dot she let me go without any more hassles.

  Roberto, seeing me all wrapped up in such a complicated discussion, had disengaged himself and was now fiddling with the remote control for the television. He appeared to be looking for a station with the most aesthetically offensive content, and ended up settling on BTV, Barcelona Television. It was ten to ten according to the clock behind the bar, just enough time for a vodka shot before picking up Lady First. But as I contemplated the TV people conducting an interview with a young painter in the heart of the Barrio Gótico, I started to get depressed and decided I had to get out of there, my taste buds dry and unsatisfied. I don’t know what it is about those progressive trendsetter types, they always end up depressing me.

  Once I was back out on the street, I looked for the spot where I had parked Bagheera. There she was, laying low as usual. Someone had left a bunch flyers on the windshield: pizzas, a car-wash, a parking garage, a parking ticket … I leaned over to remove the sheaf of papers, blew Bagheera a little kiss and left her there, where she was clean and happy. I arrived at the home of Lady First just before ten o’clock and buzzed her from downstairs. She answered it herself. She was ready.

  ‘Be down in thirty seconds,’ she said, which gave me time to take three or four drags off a Ducados before she came bounding out of the lift. At least she didn’t make me wait forty-five minutes like Fina had.

  ‘I didn’t think you would be so punctual. You’re not exactly known for that,’ she said as she walked out the front door of the building.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disappoint you.’

  I actually meant that, but I think she took it as a joke. She was wearing a pair of eggshell-coloured pants, turtleneck sweater, navy blue jacket, and navy blue shoes. The outfit revealed a slim, well-shaped silhouette – not exactly my type, but she did make you kind of want to check her out from the corner of your eye. She wore her hair in that Greta Garbo style that was so very becoming. When completely tranquil, she had a rather mysterious, and not entirely disagreeable air about her: a woman with a past, Oscar Wilde would have said about her. We didn’t speak at all as we walked over to the restaurant, which gave me time to think about what kind of attitude I ought to adopt for this encounter, but I came up with three different points of view that spawned so many alternative solutions and options that were so incompatible and contradictory that I decided to blow them all off and improvise as the evening un
folded. We only walked for a couple of blocks, but the silence was as thick as that of a championship chess match.

  We reached the vestibule of the restaurant: a potted plant with hibiscus flowers, a stand with the menu and a golden sign proclaiming ‘El Vellocino de Oro’, traditional country cuisine. It was one of those places I had passed a thousand times without ever going in. Until then, I hadn’t even noticed that it was a restaurant.

  Once inside, we were greeted by a girl in a black vest and white lace cap, who was in charge of the reception zone and the coat-check. She seemed to know Lady First.

  ‘A table for two, please, Susana. The usual one, if possible,’ said Lady First.

  ‘Of course. I’ll go tell Don Ignacio you’re here.’

  Don Ignacio, no less. For a moment I envisioned Paco Martínez Soria, dressed up as a rural priest, but I was only half-right on that one, as I would soon find out. The Susana chick wasted little time in nodding her welcome. We walked through one of two passageways framed by velvet curtains and entered the main dining room. On either side of the entrance were two huge goons dressed up in dark suits, with their arms crossed over their chests. If there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s guys who are bigger than me, much less two at a time, much less on either side of an exit door. The decor of the restaurant was dark, very dark: a dozen tables at the most, lit with little candles. From the back of the room, a kind of Minister of Foreign Affairs approached us with unbridled enthusiasm.

  ‘Mrs Miralles: we thought you’d abandoned us.’

  He even dared to take the hand of Lady First in his and plant a light kiss on it. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing dodgier than a guy who kisses ladies’ hands (unless the lady in question has just smeared Ponds on her face, in which case kissing her hand is the only viable option), but experience proves that the sweeping majority of women eat that stuff up. And if that’s what they like, then the fools deserve to be treated like sexual objects.

  Lady First seemed to be expecting this treatment, and had even raised her arm up to facilitate the manoeuvre.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I was here having dinner with Lali and Sebastian not two weeks ago.’

  ‘Precisely: two weeks without so much as an appearance is absolute cruelty on your part.’

  I began to get an idea of just how much dough the Lalala trio dropped in this joint. The guy smiled from ear to ear and maintained that perfectly obsequious mien, leaning forward ever so slightly. Fiftysomething, good height, silver hair, skin well-burnished by exotic sunlamps and wearing an impeccable dark suit, with a little hankie in the breast pocket to boot. No a trace of Paco Martínez Soria – he looked more like Mario Vargas Llosa, only with less teeth. He didn’t even look at me until Lady First did the honours.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to my brother-in-law Pablo Miralles, Sebastian’s brother.’

  The guy offered me his outstretched hand as if he was about to award me a medal for belonging to my Magnificent Family.

  ‘Mr Miralles … a pleasure to meet you. Please know that the brother of our most favourite client is also our favourite client.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Don Ignacio. You should know that the transitive property is not necessarily applicable in just any case.’

  ‘Very true, but I am sure yours is not just “any case.”’

  Clever guy. He turned back to Lady First.

  ‘Your usual table?’

  ‘Please, if that’s possible.’

  He ushered us over to a little corner with a round table set for four, protected by two screens that were, at the moment, folded up. Then he went through the little routine of pulling out Lady First’s chair and pushing it back in, practically up her arsehole, as she sat down.

  ‘May I offer you a drink while you look at the menu?’

  ‘Yes, for me the same as always.’

  ‘And for you, sir …’

  I could have gotten conventional so that the game could continue in peace, but I went a little overboard.

  ‘Do you know how to make a Vichoff?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, but if you tell me how … our bartender will do what he can, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s easy: ice-cold vodka mixed in a blender with a few drops of lemon juice. Served in a tall glass with plenty of ice. Add equal parts of very cold Vichy water, and a sprig of mint if you wish. If you are out of Vichy water, any kind of soda water will do. And if you are out of bartenders, any kind of waiter will do, as well.’

  The guy remained implacable.

  ‘Nothing to fear, in this restaurant we never run out of anything, not even patience. So … Campari with an orange twist and a … Vichoff?’

  My companion nodded her head. The guy took a step backwards, made a half-turn, and left us alone in a silence that was interrupted only by the light clink-clink of cutlery against plates. Two-nothing. Good for Don Ignacio.

  Lady First seemed to have enjoyed the little banter.

  ‘I should warn you that he is quite accustomed to dealing with the devil himself. And I mean that literally.’

  ‘Yeah, he does kind of look like one of Satan’s helpers …’

  ‘No, I don’t mean it like that … he studied theology in Rome. He took his vows as a priest and went to Rome to be one of Paul VI’s advisors. Among other things, he was in charge of documenting the exorcism solicitations that the Vatican received. You could spin your neck 180 degrees and speak to him backwards in Latin and he would still come up with an answer for you.’

  ‘Right. And the devil tempted him with avarice and so he ended up opening a posh restaurant in Barcelona.’

  ‘He hung up his habit when the Pope died. Well, in reality, he fell in love with one of the nunzio’s nieces. Ever since then, he’s travelled a great deal and has a daughter who is the living image of her mother, who died during childbirth. Very novelesque, the whole story.’

  ‘I’d say you’ve grown rather fond of the Exorcist. Are you planning to write some 500-page Tolstoy-type thing?’

  ‘I don’t write anymore. I drink, which is more satisfying.’

  Just then a bow-tied waiter arrived with the drinks. Then the Exorcist reappeared and waited for my verdict on the Vichoff. I pulled out the mint sprig, tried it, and nodded my assent. With a reverential flourish he withdrew, and I turned my attentions back to Lady First. What with all the chitchat we hadn’t even looked at the menu. I opened one and gave it a quick once-over: sea bass a la ciboulette, sole with blackberries and other such exaggerations. I asked Milady to order me something elegant. She asked me about my preferred dishes. I told her general edibles and left it at that. When the bow-tied waiter reappeared to properly set the table, Lady First ordered a vegetable consommé, txangurro, Solán de Cabras water and an unspecified white wine to start. Once again we were alone. I thought it wiser to wait for the appetisers to arrive before launching into the Looking-for-The-First issue; by then we could be sure that we wouldn’t be interrupted again. Personally, I would have been perfectly content to just sit there quietly sipping my Vichoff, but Lady First seemed determined to get me to talk.

  ‘So. Now it’s your turn to tell me about something interesting.’

  Shit.

  ‘Did you know that dentomaxillary dysfunction due to jaw overcrowding affects sixty per cent of adolescents living in Granada?’

  Silence. A baffled batting of the eyes. I quickly offered more details, to see if that would get her eyebrows to return to their normal position.

  ‘As it turns out, the medieval crania that have been analysed only show thirteen per cent of this disorder, which makes for a rather striking difference. One would be inclined to look for a reason for the incremental shift, especially if one is a dentist.’

  ‘But we are not dentists.’

  Fina would have cared less about not being a dentist. With her, I would have made a face – that of a dentomaxillarially overcrowded child – and she would have laughed her arse off, with those nois
es that make her sound as though she’s running out of petrol. But Lady First wasn’t familiar with that kind of game.

  ‘And what makes you think the explanation is a dental one?’ I replied, as if trying to embarrass a lazy student. But it didn’t have much of an effect.

  ‘Well … I don’t know … I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘Pff, forget it.’

  I tried to focus my concentration, once again, on my Vichoff. But the respite was brief.

  ‘All right. He’s back again now,’ said Milady. For a moment I thought she meant the Exorcist and I even turned around to take a look, but she quickly clarified her statement.

  ‘You’re back to being the Pablo I’ve always known.’

  ‘That you knew when?’

  ‘Before this week: at my wedding, at the Christmas Eve dinners, at your parents’ birthdays … scornful and pedantic.’

  I overlooked the ‘scornful’ comment, because I almost agreed with her, but the ‘pedantic’ bit was really untenable. Me, pedantic? Me? After having resigned myself to maintaining a relationship with the members of my family, which is, in and of itself, an unprecedented show of humility?

  ‘Excuse me, but I am not pedantic. You see, when a person is truly great, no amount of modesty can conceal his true stature.’

  I said it so seriously that she sat there for a moment, staring at me with an equally serious look on her face. Then, very slowly, her mouth began to curl into a grimace of utter condescension.

  ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘Something very impertinent, I’m sure. If not you would have just come straight out with it.’

  ‘I think that such tremendous self-confidence only serves to hide some kind of inner weakness.’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe that weakness just happens to be my greatest strength, Miss Enigma.’

  She was silent for another moment. Then her face changed completely, and her features reassembled into a complex expression of utter yet complicit resignation, if in fact such a face can be transformed as such.