The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  ‘And you know what else I think?’

  ‘Now it better be something flattering, to compensate for previous impertinence.’

  ‘I think that outside of Sebastian, you are the most intelligent man I’ve ever met.’

  She must have thought that was some kind of compliment.

  ‘Oh, really? What about the Exorcist, then?’

  She didn’t have a chance to answer, because the aforementioned Exorcist suddenly appeared, asking if we were ready for our appetisers. Lady First nodded yes. Then the guy turned to me.

  ‘I thought that sir and madam might like a Txomin Etxaniz txacoli to accompany the txangurro. A simple but appropriate wine for your selection. Fresh and very slightly acidic. I thought I would serve it at eight degrees centigrade.’

  I thought about asking him if the appropriateness was due to the txacoli itself or to purely phonetic reasons. But I decided to keep my trap shut because arguing about the wine with this dude was not part of the plan for the evening. In any event, the way he insisted on talking to me in the third person was incredibly annoying, because it was such obvious derision on his part – derision toward the supposed vulgarity of my orange shirt, my flat-top hairdo, and the very notion of Magilla Gorilla dining at the Vellocino de Oro. But I chose to hold off on the full-frontal attack until a more opportune moment. Instead, I continued to address him as if he were a parish priest.

  ‘I leave the wine in your hands, Don Ignacio,’ I said, making sure not to forget the folkloric form of address. He nodded, turned and walked away with a glint of irritation in his eyes. No: avarice was most definitely not what the Devil had tempted him with, nor was it lust: it was pride, and that perfect maitre’d submissiveness he so masterfully imitated was just his particular form of penitence for all the copious sins he had surely committed. I thought about this as I watched the bow-tied waiter approach us with a little cart bearing our appetisers and wine. That was when the total feeling of major negativity washed over me. It happens to me very rarely, but when it does it is extremely unpleasant. I didn’t like the place, I didn’t like Lady First, I didn’t like the Exorcist … I had to do something, immediately, something ridiculous, some kind of stupid practical joke, something truly worthy of Magilla Gorilla: jump out of my seat and start a rain-dance, anything to demonstrate the utter lack of order in the universe, to show that it is we who impose the order and that by just changing the vibe a little the entire universe will change and adapt around us. In other circumstances I would have done something, but this time I held back and sought solace in the thought that later on I could go to Luigi’s bar and get good and drunk, drunk enough to fall asleep so that I could wake up again, hit the universe’s reset button and start another goddam chapter all over again, in some other, better way. But now – now that I have the time to think at leisure about all that went on that night – I can safely say that my perturbed state that night was due to fear. I recognise this because I can now understand that it was a kind of premonition of another, sharper and more specific fear I would begin to feel in the days that followed. At that moment, it was nothing more than the undefinable, blind fright I hadn’t felt since I was a child – background fear, light but constant, like the fear of darkness, the fear of that place that is calm for the moment but where anything could suddenly come popping out.

  I got hold of myself. I finished the Vichoff and attacked the txacoli. It was time to cut out the game-playing and get some useful information out of Lady First.

  ‘Are you familiar with a place called Jenny G?’ I asked her, before filling my mouth with a small spoonful of txangurro. I pronounced it American-style, and fast enough so that anyone who didn’t know what I was talking about would have to ask me to repeat the question. Her facial expression indicated that yes, she was quite familiar with the place known as Jenny G, but that she wasn’t very interested in admitting it just like that.

  ‘Jenny G? No. Why, should I be familiar with it?’

  That was proof positive. She had repeated the name in perfect Spanish-ised English – cheni chi – as if she had seen it written down somewhere before. I didn’t think much before answering, to tell the truth.

  ‘Well, because from what I gather it’s a whorehouse that counts your husband among its clientele.’

  As soon as I said it and saw the uneasy expression come over her face I realised how unintentionally clever I had been. In the event that she had not known, the information was important enough to oblige her to adopt an attitude that would be very difficult to fake: incredulity, shock, indifference … in any case, it would have been extremely difficult to improvise.

  She chose to surrender.

  ‘You certainly haven’t been wasting your time, I see.’

  ‘I should remind you that it was you who asked me to investigate the situation.’

  ‘I didn’t think this would come up.’

  ‘Is this another one of the secrets between you two?’

  ‘I told you, your brother and I understand one another.’

  ‘And Lali, too: you understand each other with respect to her, too?’

  ‘Don’t start in with that, it’s not worth it. If Sebastian’s disappearance had something to do with Jenny G, I would know about it. And that is all I care to share with you regarding this topic.’

  ‘Well, now … you are back to being you again, my dear sister-in-law. The cold and disdainful woman I know from those Christmas Eve dinners.’

  ‘Is that how I seem to you? Cold and disdainful?’

  ‘Only when you drink Solán de Cabras water. Under the influence of whisky you seem much more compassionate. But I’d rather not waste time discussing our common relationships. I have a brother to save.’

  ‘Don’t forget, he’s also my husband. And the father of my children. And you are investigating this issue because I asked you to.’

  ‘Right. So we will be much better off if we can work together.’

  ‘Just as I told you: this Jenny G business has nothing to do with Sebastian’s disappearance.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Please, just take my word for it.’

  At this point, Lady First’s word did not inspire much, but for the moment I had to accept it. And anyway, just then the Exorcist came back to aggravate us with more of his cloying courtesy.

  ‘Was the consommé to your liking, Mrs Miralles?’

  ‘Superb.’

  ‘And the gentleman’s txangurro?’

  It was delicious, to tell the truth, but it pissed me off to admit it.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. Lady First then ordered our main dishes. Sea bass for her, and thighs of quail in onion sauce for me. When the dude finally left us in peace I reassumed the attack.

  ‘What do you know about WORM?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘W, O, R, M: WORM.’

  ‘As in, insect larva?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Does it have something to do with Sebastian?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The main dishes arrived on the same cart, pushed by the same waiter, and followed by the same Exorcist who now came bearing a bottle of wine as if it was the incorrupt arm of St Cecilia.

  ‘To accompany the quail, allow me to suggest a bottle of 1981 Anniversary Julián Chivité Gran Reserva vintage: tempranillo wine, aged in oak barrels. I brought it out from the cellar at eighteen degrees. Shall I serve it immediately?’

  ‘That’s fine. Just make sure those aren’t Fahrenheit degrees, I can’t stand my wine rock solid. And would you be kind enough to bring us a calendar that lists the saints’ feast days, please?’

  Luckily I had had the foresight to end the little show with a question that would preclude him from striking back, leaving the game at two-to-one. He glared back at me with sparks flying out from his pupils.

  ‘A calendar with … the saints’ feast days?’

  ‘Yes, one of those wall-hanging ones would be fine.’

 
‘Very well … I’ll see if I can find one in the kitchen.’

  He hesitated a moment, as if trying to remember, and then retreated. Lady First waited for the waiter to finish serving us before asking me anything.

  ‘What do you want a calendar for now?’

  ‘You just follow my lead.’

  I focused on my food, in search of a bit of personal privacy. The quail thighs were exquisite – I had to admit that, in addition to his ecclesiastical talents, the Exorcist had a very respectable kitchen. And now that we were halfway through the bottle of wine (mainly due to my indulgence), the world had started to seem like an amenable place again. Good grub and good booze. My fly even got a little loose, an effect I often observe after eating well. I suppose it’s the idea-association thing: food-sleep, sleep-bed, bed-sex. The pressure of my boxer shorts was encouraging the process along, and I had to reposition my chair so that I could loosen my trousers a bit and leave room for the expansion. Luckily my cock has more volume than length, which made the manoeuvre less complicated than it otherwise might have been. It occurred to me that it might not be a bad idea to swing by Jenny G’s later on, in the interest of the investigation. Maybe there I could find a professional sufficiently vulgar for my tastes – hints of cellulite, or an imperfect nose, for example. I didn’t get too carried away with that line of thinking, though: from what I can tell, I must be the only guy of my generation who likes typical females. All the rest dream of Julia Roberts and grudgingly fuck the derivative specimen they resign themselves to marrying. It’s sad for the women, but they deserve what they get, the foolish twits.

  These profound sociological reflections lasted for the duration of the main course. Then the Exorcist returned. He appeared distraught.

  ‘I’m so sorry, the kitchen calendar doesn’t have the saints’ days. I sent someone out to enquire at some of the neighbourhood establishments, but they’re all closed at this hour.’

  ‘Don’t you have a date book, or a diary of some sort? Gloria, have you got one on you?’

  Lady First did, indeed. She removed it from her purse and handed it to me. I began talking as I flipped through the pages.

  ‘There’s this client of my brother’s … I can’t seem to remember his name, but I have an idea. You see, Sebastian once mentioned that he had come here for lunch – or maybe it was dinner – on this client’s saint’s day, just before going off to a little party for the client. It was this week, I’m almost positive. Now if I knew the exact day, I would find his name listed among the saints of that day …’

  The Exorcist came to my aid:

  ‘Mr Miralles did come here on Monday, in the company of Lali and another gentleman.’

  ‘Perfect. Let’s see: Monday the 15th … St Modesto. That’s it – Modesto Hernandez. Thank you so much, that was all I needed to know.’

  ‘A pleasure to be able to help you. Would you like to see the dessert menu?’

  We ordered coffees and then he trotted off.

  ‘I didn’t get lucky this time,’ I said to Milady.

  ‘Just to find out when Sebastian was last here you had to go and invent that ludicrous story about his client’s saint’s day? It was so complicated and farfetched, my God. I could have just asked him myself.’

  Colombo clearly would have done a better job of it, but after all I am only an amateur.

  ‘Did you know that Sebastian was here on Monday night?’

  ‘Yes. With Lluis Mateu. The man who takes care of his accounts, the one I told you about over the phone.’

  ‘Right. So we don’t know anything new.’

  Lady First did seem a bit amused, though.

  ‘Good lord, what a name: Modesto Hernandez.’

  ‘Well, it could have been worse: Filemón, Agapito …’

  ‘Just like your “Molucas” alias. How did it ever occur to you to invent such an unbelieveable name as Pablo Molucas? I don’t know how on earth that man believed you.’

  ‘Who, Robellades?’

  ‘Yes … speaking of which, where did you dig him up?’

  ‘I found him on the internet. His website was so bogus I figured he had to be pretty legit.’

  ‘Well, he looked like an encyclopedia salesman. I had trouble not laughing out loud just at the thought of having to pretend I was a “Mrs Molucas.”’

  ‘I don’t know what’s so unbelievable about it. I’m sure there’s someone out there named Pablo Molucas.’

  ‘Right. But that’s his real name. Nobody would ever think of using it as a fake name.’

  ‘That’s exactly why it makes a good fake name. Listen, I once met a man whose name was Juan López García. He was once stopped by customs agents at the airport in Medellín, Colombia. They asked him his name, and he told it to them: Juan López García, from Spain. And can you guess what happened?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They threw him in a cell behind bars and stuck their fingers up his behind to see if he had something hidden there.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No. But after that, whenever a policeman would ask him his name he would say it was Herminio Calambazuli. When he said it he would pronounce every syllable, very clearly. Ca-lam-ba-zu-li, as if he was dead tired of the phone company sending him bills with his name misspelled. After that, nobody ever bothered to ask him for his passport. Of course, he actually ended up a whole lot worse off, but that’s another story.’

  ‘Why worse?’

  ‘Because one day he decided to take advantage of the newfound impunity afforded him by his new name, and he smuggled in a hundred grams of coke. He forgot about the fact that those police dogs aren’t exactly housepets. Six years. It could have been even worse, though,’ I said.

  The very thought of all this seemed to horrify Lady First, but she did seem intrigued. Writer stuff.

  ‘And how on earth did you ever meet that kind of person?’

  ‘I met Calambazuli 150 kilometres off the Norwegian coast. He had just gotten hold of a bottle of ninety-six-proof alcohol and he came knocking on my door one night, looking for some sugar.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  The waiter arrived with our coffee. I took the sugar packet and shook it in front of Lady First’s eyes.

  ‘You can’t drink ninety-six-proof alcohol just like that. You need to dilute it in water and add sugar until it tastes like cognac. It’s not Remy Martin, but it does get you good and wasted.’

  ‘And may I ask what made him think that you would be able to supply him with sugar, 150 kilometres off the coast of Norway?’

  ‘I was a kitchen prep.’

  ‘On a ship?’

  ‘On an oil tanker. Alcoholic beverages were prohibited, but it was a pretty boring place to be, so the boys did what they had to to get by.’

  ‘No library on board, hmm?’

  ‘Yeah, though I do think I once saw a couple of Simenon novels in Norwegian, somewhere on the ship. There were movies, too, though the programming wasn’t exactly top-notch. If you like Kurosawa I wouldn’t recommend you look for work on an oil tanker.’

  ‘Right. And you like Kurosawa …’

  ‘I get by on a bit of 96 proof with a dash of sugar.’

  Lady First looked at me with very strange eyes, as if she was trying to turn me into a three-hundred-page Hemingway novel. They say that two tits have a hell of a lot more pull than two trailer trucks, but I know the real weapon, the secret weapon that women use for trapping men: the weapon of overt and obvious signs of admiration. Fortunately I am aware of this particular trick and I try to focus on the tits when I can.

  ‘I didn’t know that you had worked on an oil tanker.’

  ‘Just that once. Three months.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I went to Dublin to spend the seven thousand five hundred dollars I’d earned.’

  ‘Why Dublin?’

  ‘Because I met a guy, John, on the tanker. He invited me to visit his country so I took off with him.’

  ‘You don’t seem
like the type that makes friends so fast.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘John had started work in the kitchen a few days after the rest of the preps. Some joker thought it would be a real gas to piss in his coffee cup and he thought I had done it. He called me a goddamn sonofabitch in Gaelic, I told him he was a shit-eating cocksucker in Spanish. In order to bring our words to life we gesticulated a bunch until we were finally mano a mano. He was pretty scrawny, but had that proverbial Irish spirit, and so he gave me a black eye as fast as he could. Which meant I had to use my sure-fire weapon against him.’

  ‘You have a sure-fire weapon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And may I ask what it is, or is that top secret?’

  ‘The Obelix Method. You’ll find the reference in any respectable library. It basically consists of butting against your enemy at high speed.’

  ‘And it works?’

  ‘As long as the buttee is not much bigger than you. The one drawback is that you never know exactly what you’re going to butt against, nor how you’re going to land, so you run the risk of ending up as knocked-out as your opponent. That time we both ended up in the infirmary, in traction. And for two weeks we had no other choice but to talk. We started off insulting each other and we ended up revising the pillars of analytic thought.’

  ‘Do you still see each other?’

  ‘Not much. He’s a professor of Ontological Thought at the University of Dublin now, but we founded the Metaphysical Club together and we stay in touch over the net.’

  ‘The Metaphysical …’

  ‘Club.’

  ‘Philosophy?’

  ‘Top-level philosophy. Cutting edge.’

  Once again she looked at me as though I was a 300-page Hemingway novel.

  ‘You are a very odd person, you know that?’

  ‘I think you’ve expressed that idea at some other moment.’

  ‘Obviously, but the more I get to know you, the odder you seem to me. There’s something very radical in you and at the same time something extraordinarily conventional. A bit like Ignacio but another style entirely.’