The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  The scene had a truly pictorial quality, like one of those Renaissance paintings where everyone seems as if they’ve been frozen around the centre of the composition. At the most, someone would dare to move an arm to take a drag off a cigarette, or change their focus from one to another of the revellers. The most unbearable thing, though, was the awful tension that hung in the air – it was as if everyone was waiting for the spectacle to end so that they could finally applaud. This gave me an especially nasty vibe and so I turned to my Havana for solace, but the momentary clinking of the ice cubes broke the blue-eyed babe’s concentration and almost provoked a major cataclysm, a fatal imbalance in this sublime show. Various disapproving looks were shot in my direction, and I began to feel ridiculous – yes, me – with my loud shirt and my neophyte interruptions. I looked over at Beatrice, hoping for some sign of complicity in her eyes and fortunately I was not rebuffed: me and my reaction were as important to her as the scene we were witnessing. I made an I’ve-had-about-enough-of-this-one face and we continued our tour round to the other side of the square.

  ‘Ugh. This rug is giving me a headache,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  She seemed amused by my discomfort. We lightened up the little stroll, but she did make a point to stop in front of a series of three tiny rooms separated from us by a glass wall; each room was almost entirely occupied by a massive bed in the centre. The first two rooms featured empty beds, but in the third we saw a young couple, completely nude – I think they were the only people I saw completely nude, everyone else was always in some half-undressed state – and copulating with the kind of gymnastic effervescence you see in those porno flicks with techno-pound sound-track – chump, chunga-bum, chump, chunga-bum.

  ‘This is what I call the Department Store Window,’ said Beatrice, pointing to that aquarium-like room.

  ‘Those two look like professionals.’

  ‘They may be. I once saw Rocco Sifredi mixed up in one of these numbers. He was in Barcelona for the Erotic Film Festival.’

  ‘Right. So you’re familiar with all of the Inferno?’

  ‘Well … there are areas that I can’t really take, areas that offend my sensibilities. I despise unpleasant smells, for example, and I can’t bear the sight of blood. Would you like to go down one more level? The next floor is still tolerable.’

  ‘I’d rather get some air.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go upstairs, then.’

  We were far away from the central gallery by now and as we walked way back toward the elevators we made a pit-stop for another line of coke. Naturally the previous banknote I had provided wouldn’t do this time around, and she asked me for another.

  ‘What’s on the upper floors?’

  ‘Heaven.’

  ‘Right, but what’s there?’

  ‘If Hell is the earth, matter, flesh, you can just imagine it … Heaven is air, the mind, the spirit. Downstairs is for satisfying the body, upstairs is for comforting the soul. There is physical contact up to the second floor, but after that people don’t touch at all. They just speak.’

  ‘And on the seventh floor there’s group therapy and a confessional.’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘So what floor are we going to, then?’

  ‘The top floor.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited, everything comes full circle. Both the highest and lowest floors offer direct communication with the city – the view up top and the car park down below. Reality is comprised of both Heaven and Hell. Pure allegory, as you can see.’

  The top floor, in fact, was occupied by a kind of central snack bar surrounded by a solarium from which you could see the city once again. It was still dark, probably somewhere between five and six in the morning. The air felt pure and clean, and Beatrice and I both took deep breaths as we sat down at a table on the rather desolate terrace and waited for a waiter to come by. Beatrice ordered another Campari and I opted for a bottle of ice-cold vodka and a glass with ice. I poured myself a glass and in a single breath I just about drained it, down to the tips of the ice cubes. As my body shivered from the effect, I continued taking little sips. Beatrice, meanwhile, began theorising. Bosch, Goya, Golem, Guy de Maupassant, Pío Baroja’s witches, Nietszche, the songs of Maldoror … a hodgepodge of references with a common denominator that attempted to theorize, in a rather convoluted fashion, on the basis of ideas that invariably led to another universe of thought: Faust, Freddy Kreuger, Dorian Gray and then back again.

  ‘So – are you a hooker?’ I asked her when I started getting sick of all the deep thought.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you a hooker … a prostitute …?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Suddenly a slightly mad idea entered my head.

  ‘Nothing. Just curious. I thought this was a whorehouse.’

  ‘Umm, not exactly.’

  I couldn’t tell if the “not exactly” referred to the whorehouse bit or the prostitute bit, but it didn’t much matter.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to be honest with you … I’m a private detective. I’ve been hired by a family to look for someone and it’s possible that you might be able to give me some information. You’d be compensated, of course.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you were a detective. As soon as I spotted you that’s what I thought.’

  Was that a touch of irony I noted in her voice?

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it was so apparent.’

  ‘You fit the bill. Plus, I’m a good psychologist.’

  ‘Excellent, yeah, I can see that … Listen, you said something before about knowing the regulars here …’

  ‘Almost all of the people who show up at the bar. But I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘No, I’m not trying to get you mixed up in anything. Does the name Sebastian Miralles mean anything to you?’

  Her face didn’t move.

  ‘Has something happened to Sebastian?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes. Has something happened?’

  ‘We don’t know. He disappeared a few days ago and his family has hired me to do a bit of investigating.’

  ‘Did Gloria hire you?’

  Shit: the family that plays together, stays together.

  ‘You know Gloria, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Lali, Eulalia Robles?’

  ‘As well.’

  What was it that I found strange about the way she said ‘as well’?

  ‘Have you seen them here recently?’

  ‘No, not for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Do they come together?’

  ‘Sometimes …’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that his disappearance may have something to do with the fact that they are clients here. Does this make any sense to you?’

  She looked at me with a poker face.

  ‘Listen, I think I’ve told you too much already.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know.’

  ‘Discretion is extremely important in a place like this.’

  ‘Look, I don’t give out the details of my investigations to anyone. I look for the guy, and if I find him, great. If not, I present a general report and charge the minimum fee. That’s all.’

  ‘And who did you say hired you?’

  Why did I get the feeling she was making fun of me and didn’t believe for a second that I was a detective?

  ‘Gloria. She gave me this address,’ I said, and then repeated my initial question, which was still unanswered. ‘Do you think his disappearance has something to do with this place?’

  ‘This place has the reputation of being one of the safest in the city.’

  At that point the roles changed, and suddenly she was the one asking all sorts of questions about the case: how, when, why, what for, etc. That was about when I realised I had exhausted her as a possible source of information, an
d that from here on in she would be the one running the inquiry. To think that after all I had learned, nothing was new except for the fact that the Lalala trio frequented this building as a group, which didn’t seem so strange at this stage in the game.

  By then the last day of spring had dawned, although the brisk air of the previous evening still prevailed, as well as a bit of darkness which was punctuated by the street lights outside. About a quarter of the ice-cold vodka bottle still remained untouched, and I started to feel like going home. I told my guide that I hadn’t slept for three nights, and that was enough to convince her to let me go without hassling me with more questions. She even offered to walk me down to the entrance hall.

  Once we were alone in the lift I rummaged a bit in my pockets and took out two more fifty-euro bills.

  ‘This is for you. In case you want to do a couple more lines.’

  She took them with ease, said thank you and offered me her hand as a farewell gesture.

  The whole joke, totalled by the executive babe at the reception desk, came out to more than seven hundred euros – including cover charge, drinks and extras – which explained the reason for my Magnificent Brother’s high-octane credit card. Of course, they did call me a taxi, which appeared on the double just outside the entrance gate, and they didn’t charge me for the call.

  It was a relief to get into the taxi and head down to Les Corts. The radio announced the World Cup football games on tap for the afternoon and I was overjoyed to see that the human race still watched football games, that television, radio announcers, and tabloid magazines continued to exist. Once the newsagent at Carlos III came into view and I saw that he was already open for business, I actually felt like buying a newspaper, to grab hold of something familiar, anything.

  I asked the taxi driver to stop for a moment and quickly returned with three newspapers: La Vanguardia, El País, and El Periódico. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me to actually open the papers and read what was inside, not in the taxi and not when I got home, either. That was a good thing, though, because otherwise I might not have ever gotten into bed and slept a little.

  STRESSED THE FUCK OUT

  Since I don’t have anywhere to sleep, Miquel Barceló (the painter) comes around and lets me crash at his studio. It’s a ground-floor affair, very pleasant, with a whitewashed patio teeming with potted planters overflowing with flowering geraniums that fill the room with their pungent aroma. It is a warm spring morning, and the sun bathes the studio in light, illuminating unfinished canvases, paint cans, pieces of old, paint-stained furniture. It would all be perfect, and I would be able to sleep like a baby if it weren’t for the animals. They’re everywhere: fowl, dogs, cats, as well as other more exotic types – mandrills, parrots, etcetera … most specifically, it is a family of gorillas and a pride of hyenas that are causing the greatest nuisance. They prefer to squabble amongst themselves out on the patio, but I still find them annoying: the hyenas laugh like a bunch of idiots and the gorillas explode in loud roars to free themselves from the harassment to which they are being subjected. The gorillas are much stronger, but there are only three adults among them; the rest are kids. There are about a dozen hyenas, on the other hand, and they’re an excitable bunch. The altercation grows louder, so much so that I stick my head out to see what’s going on. Various hyenas have pounced on the gorillas, who have been forced to take serious action to repel the attack. Some of the hyenas are already out of commission, rendered helpless and useless by a giant gorilla wallop that has slammed them against the wall, while other hyenas are turned into mincemeat by the ever-powerful gorilla embrace. The offensive team, however, has managed to destabilise the family-based gorilla defence and the full pack starts chasing the two little baby gorillas that are now on the run. One of them narrowly escapes getting chewed to bits by ducking into a hallway, and in one big sigh of relief, moves toward the inside of the studio. Given that I naturally side with the gorillas, I run after the little gorilla baby to see if I can help him by shutting a door behind him or something like that. But by then a group of hyenas has broken into the studio, hot on the trail of the baby gorilla. They growl as if possessed by the devil himself – they’re enraged, so enraged that they even lunge toward me, flashing their bloody fangs, and I freak out and jump up to safety via a ladder that I find leaning against a huge bookcase. From that vantage point I can observe the hyenas in their chaotic, hot pursuit of the gorilla, who howls for help like an innocent, vulnerable child. I scream out to him to come back to me and climb the ladder, but by the time he reaches my outstretched hand, it’s too late, he doesn’t have time to climb up. They pounce on him. They’ve got him. Several sets of jaws nibble away at him, though rather indecisively because they know that this piece of flesh is the property of another hyena – the most frightening one – and that they’d better beat it and go look for another victim. At this point the only ones left in the room are the little baby gorilla, now paralysed with fear, the massive hyena sniffing about him, and me, fascinated by the imminence of something I sense will be shocking and terrible. I see the baby gorilla, tummy up, at the mercy of his executioner. I see the hyena rising up like a satanic serpent to the point of actually achieving a certain level of anthropomorphism. I see how he brandishes the handle of an axe in his front claws. He raises it up high and releases it downward in a clean slice that amputates the little gorilla’s hand, just above his wrist. The hyena, indifferent to the spurt of blood that wets the hair of his back paws, raises the axe and cuts off the gorilla’s other hand. The little gorilla is completely out of it, caught in a series of tremors that have his little baby stumps shaking, and I want to think that at this point he is unable to even suffer, given the enormity of his wounds. Finally satisfied, the hyena retreats, bearing his two trophies, with which they will create a series of macabre ashtrays. And now that I look around, I realise that these ashtrays are everywhere, filled to the brim with stubbed-out cigarettes. I am horrified, but suddenly the phone rings and I have to climb down. It must be Miquel Barceló; I have to tell him what happened so that he can get those motherfucking hyenas to behave themselves. I pick up the phone, yet it continues to ring: some goddamn phone is ringing somewhere, though I have no idea where.

  Ah. In my living room. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. I jump up to answer it, still not fully emerged from my dream state.

  ‘Pablo.’

  ‘Gloria. What’s going on?’

  ‘Have you seen the newspaper?’

  ‘What newspaper?’

  ‘They’ve killed Robellades’ son.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Robellades, the detective.’

  ‘Whaat?’

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘Give me a second, will you? And start at the beginning.’

  By the time Lady First had calmed down enough to slowly explain what she was talking about, I had already figured out the basic gist of things but I let her talk anyway.

  ‘I just read it in the Periódico de Cataluña, on page twenty-two, it’s got a photo and everything. He and his car careened off into the pit of some construction site, last night, right here, in this neighbourhood. And it’s not clear whether it was an accident. They’ve started an investigation because there was another car involved.’