A Shortcut to Paradise

by Teresa Solana

  To tell the truth, both his age, on the cusp of thirty-seven, and his outfit would jar in that club, but the three doormen who were busy fending off the vulgar middle classes let him in without even making him pay. Perhaps the fact he was dressed all in black led them to think he was one of them, so they’d ignored him completely.

  By now the place was in full swing, and most denizens were high on alcohol, hormones or pills. Amadeu sought out the area dedicated to smokers that was in the basement and jam-packed. He made his way gingerly to the bar through the crowd of youngsters and ordered a whisky. The average age was very early twenties and, unlike Amadeu, guys and girls were wearing jeans. Most of the guys had sleek, combed-back hair, immaculately ironed shirts tucked into their trousers and white or seablue jerseys buttoned to the neck. Others, the slightly more daring kind, sported two-day-old stubble and lurid sweatshirts. As for the girls, those brazen hussies wore torn jeans and high-heeled sandals and were baring breast. Nearly all flaunted fake tans and long hair dyed blonde.

  That crowd, Amadeu quickly concluded, belonged to a generation and social class that were not his own. It struck him yet again that nobody recognized him or took the least interest in him, though that was hardly headline news. Amadeu Cabestany had the peculiar virtue of passing unnoticed wherever he went and his regrettable anonymity was only too familiar. However, possibly because his liver was working overtime that night while his neurons aimlessly sloshed in a sea of disappointment, Amadeu couldn’t but wonder – surely relishing this self-inflicted torture – how on earth none of these young people had read a single one of his books or recognized his face. He had participated to no avail in three or four cultural programmes on Catalan television, and often wrote literary reviews in local newspapers and magazines. Amadeu had never understood why, but since his days at primary school he’d possessed that curious ability to pass unnoticed. On this occasion, his little black outfit made him almost invisible in the din and the darkness.

  And that was despite the fact Amadeu had changed his style – his hairdresser and wife called it his “look” – a number of times in the hope he might gain more charisma. At the beginning of his career he’d let his hair grow long and tied it in a ponytail. Particularly when he was into poetry. Later, in his experimental novelist phase, he opted for a crew-cut and a little earring, but that risqué option only lasted till the night a complete stranger tried to stroke his bum, while whispering that his earring was a badge of gayness and that he shouldn’t take it amiss if some hunk of muscle made rude suggestions in his ear-hole. Amadeu ditched his earring the next morning, and decided to let his hair grow again in attempt to reassert his own masculinity. Unfortunately, he now discovered he had bald patches and was forced to drop the idea.

  Resigned to the indifference of his contemporaries in general and those enjoying themselves in that disco in particular, Amadeu Cabestany gulped down a second whisky and smoked half a packet of Camel Lights, realizing that, as his psychoanalyst would remind him in the emergency session he’d book as soon as he was back in Vic, his negative outlook and pose as a writer manqué only deepened a depression that he’d diagnosed as chronic years ago. Amadeu stood and observed the strutting, canoodling or gyrating couples around him and concluded that disco wasn’t for him, but, rather than simply walking out (which is what his psychoanalyst would have advised), he vigorously ordered a third whisky, dead set on getting drunk. The strobe lights and thunderous din helped to numb him, which was what he was craving, although the music was hardly what he was used to and sounded dreadful. When a rumba blared out, boisterously sung by Rosario, the daughter of Lola Flores, Amadeu Cabestany tried to hear in his head the aria ‘Sola, perduta, abandonata’ from Manon Lescaut, one of his favourites from his teenage years. Amadeu had always thought that Abbé Prévost’s hapless character and himself had lots in common, although he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. In any case, he had to deal with this fresh failure in the great metropolis and right then whisky seemed the best antidote.

  The critics in his native Vic, where he lived with his wife and two daughters, had dubbed him a difficult, precious writer. A pity nobody read him, but, as an older, more experienced writer had once told him, one couldn’t expect to have talent and be read. Fortunately, a wellmeaning policy of arts grants allowed him to publish despite his distinctly low sales and a post as a secondary school literature teacher gave him time enough to keep writing. He locked and bolted his office door when it was his tutorial time (it’s ironic – he never gave tutorials!) and didn’t have to teach. Now, as he savoured that third whisky, his fifth of the night, surrounded by the smoke, noise and flashing lights, Amadeu kept thinking how humiliating it was to have been defeated by that tear-jerking, if not pornographic novelist who wrote to entertain secretaries and housewives. He was profound and bold, a writer who dared publish enigmatic poems and experimental works: he was no literary mercenary. When Amadeu wrote, he did so for the critics and never for readers, who indeed he believed to be stupid, and he never stopped to think how other mortals might value his subtleties of style. He wrote in order to enter the annals of universal history, not any old history, as many of his colleagues did: his pen would earn him a passport to immortality. Willy-nilly – a word Amadeu adored mightily – his challenge was to write the new Ulysses and earn a place in the select republic of letters, not to enjoy ephemeral success with traditionally structured novelettes. No, he never touched on the trivial, and only broached the grandest themes, like the greatest of the great. And, as he told anyone who was prepared to listen – usually the pupils he happened to be teaching – he wasn’t prepared to prostitute his art for a handful of silver or hordes of hysterical readers queuing up at the stalls in the Passeig de Gràcia on St George’s day, not that he would really have minded a bit of that. He was difficult because he was profound, and if neither he nor his literature were what one could call cheerful, it was because the intensity of his despair led him to plumb the turbid waters of existential angst. The world was a turbulent, tragic and terrible place – the three transcendental “ts” that constituted the key to his oeuvre – and existence was a perilous burden dominated by servitude to sex and lucidity in the face of death. Amadeu Cabestany had many virtues, but, as the director of studies once told him when they went for a beer after an evaluation session, light-hearted he wasn’t.

  Besides, that night he’d been robbed of a prestigious prize that had been earmarked for him. Well, earmarked as in really earmarked; well, hardly. Clàudia Agulló, his agent and occasional lover, had assured him that, if he entered a book this year, the Golden Apple was surely his for the taking. Amadeu had believed her, thinking it was all cut and dried, and had even written a little thirty-line speech that had kept him busy for a couple of weeks. After he’d been awarded that prize, Amadeu ruminated, the crème de la crème of the Catalan literary establishment would finally be forced to embrace his literary genius and welcome him into their ranks as an equal. He had followed Clàudia’s advice and had said nothing, but everyone had noticed for days how Amadeu Cabestany seemed much more cheerful than usual. That Friday at the crack of dawn, he’d said goodbye to his wife and daughters in Vic, caught the train and reserved a room in the same hotel where the award was to be announced. He’d purchased a black summer suit, a black sweater, black socks and black lace-up shoes. That night Amadeu had even donned new underpants.

  But he was runner-up to the prize and everyone knew that meant nothing. As usual, journalists had ignored him completely. His speech of thanks, primed and rehearsed, remained in his jacket pocket and was destined for the rubbish bin. No, being runner-up wasn’t an option. Apart from the fact there was no cash reward, unlike the jackpot hit by the winner, there was the issue of public recognition. And it wasn’t that he was hungry for such fame, not at all, he kept repeating, trying to convince himself in between whiskies, but it was a lethal blow to his already battered self-pride that the fly-by-night Marina Dolç was held to be a great writer and he was
still a mere speck of dust, despite the eight audaciously avant-garde novels he had behind him. After all, Amadeu pondered, in metaphysical mode, as he propped up the bar at the Up & Down club, a little public recognition does no harm. It opens lots of doors, especially to pastures where the holy cows of Catalan literature roam, ones he aspired to share. The circles of those who don’t write to earn fame and fortune, but enjoy them all the same, of those who dispose column inches and forums where they can pontificate. At his most euphoric, Amadeu had even dreamed of the Nobel Prize. Not now, naturally, he was too young, but perhaps in fifteen or twenty years… And who was this Marina Dolç, he asked himself, whose fingers at that very second must be reaching for the sky? A writer of third-rate novelettes, as smug as she was shallow and superficial. In fact, Amadeu had no need of literature to describe what he felt tonight. He simply hated Marina Dolç and everything she stood for from the bottom of his heart.

  Depressed, misunderstood and disillusioned, as he had felt so often in his lifetime, Amadeu decided to abandon that disco, the haunt of beardless youngsters who reminded him too readily of his pupils. Too true, he was every inch a writer, but day in day out he had to devote part of his precious time to giving classes to a bunch of punky, apathetic teenagers in order to earn his shekels. If he’d won that prize, it would have meant a year’s freedom in the form of a sabbatical and a new novel with which to harvest fresh successes. Amadeu had planned it all. Now, on the contrary, he’d be forced to go home, tail between legs, and go back to being a laughing stock for pupils and teachers alike. It was a cool, balmy night that invited one to go for a stroll, especially after the whiskies he’d added to the liquor he’d downed during the dinner. He needed to clear his head before going back to his hotel. He was in no hurry because he knew that in his condition he’d struggle to get to sleep. Although it was a dark and deserted area, the number of luxury cars parked in the street reassured him that it was safe.

  When Amadeu began staggering along the streets around Up & Down, Ernest was still crouching in the shadows in an improvised lair between a white Mercedes and a black Audi. He’d been yawning for some time. When he saw the smartly dressed man tottering towards him, he thought here was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Without giving it a second thought, he put on his hat and sunglasses and, imagining he was the hardest Clint Eastwood ever, he gripped the pistol and prayed his voice wouldn’t waver.

  “I’m very sorry, but this is a hold-up…” he found the strength to say.

  At first Amadeu didn’t hear and Ernesto had to repeat himself.

  “This is a hold-up, I’m holding you up…” and he made sure his shocked victim could see the pistol. “In other words, I’d like your wallet please.”

  Amadeu was terrified. These things didn’t happen in Vic. Imagine, attacking him like that, at pistol-point, in such a well-off part of the city… His thoughts were of his wife and two daughters, of what would become of them and his literary career if that individual who seemed quite peculiar and was no doubt on drugs had an attack of nerves and shot him there and then. He recalled that he hadn’t a clue where he was and didn’t know which direction he should run, so he decided to do as he was told and not play the hero. Besides, courage wasn’t one of Amadeu’s many virtues.

  “By the way,” added the would-be mugger, who was clearly nervous, “I only want cash, so we’d better find a cash point. How much are you carrying on you?”

  Amadeu was carrying exactly two thousand euros in his wallet and a few coins in his pocket. Given the circumstances, thinking he’d won such a prestigious prize, he’d felt it better not to leave himself short. He always panicked that his credit card would let him down at the most inopportune moment and leave him looking a fool, something that had happened more than once. As he wasn’t rich and they hardly paid their way at home, his Visa card had been over the limit for months, and when it wasn’t the Visa people, it was the Town Hall embargoing their account because they hadn’t paid their traffic fines in time, or some tax, or an unexpected charge levied by the flat-owners’ committee that shot their account into the red. Just in case, he’d decided to go to the bank and travel to Barcelona in old-fashioned style, with a bundle of banknotes in his pocket. That evening, what with his disgust at not getting the prize and the whiskies he’d drunk, he’d not thought to leave the money at the hotel before going out.

  “I beg you…” muttered Amadeu, handing his wallet over. “I have a wife and daughter…”

  “So do I, that’s my problem. Don’t worry. I only want your money,” said Ernest, who couldn’t believe that the guy was carrying exactly what he needed to stop their flat being repossessed. “I know it’s a real nuisance when you have to cancel your credit cards and renew your ID and driving licence, I know because I was mugged once…”

  However, Ernest realized this wasn’t the moment to fraternize, and shut up. His nerviness had made him forget to distort his voice slightly, something he was regretting now. Better finish this off fast. He had thought he might have to hold up two or three people before he got the two grand he needed, but tonight Lady Luck had sided with him, perhaps wanting to atone for all his misfortunes. He put the money in his pocket, and assumed the matter was closed.

  “I am really sorry. In other circumstances… take this,” he added, handing him a ten-euro note, “for the taxi.”

  And before the man he had just mugged could say a word, Ernest saw someone was approaching, and ran off, leaving his victim flabbergasted in the dark. The writer went off to track down a taxi and go back to his hotel, gripping the ten-euro note, not wanting to be mugged a second time. He stopped one on the Diagonal and asked the driver to drive straight to the Ritz, his voice shaking from the effects of fear and alcohol.

  Things could definitely not get any worse, thought Amadeu, who was making an effort not to throw up. He hadn’t won that generous prize that would have catapulted him to the heights of fame and fortune, but he had been mugged outside a disco and was rather tipsy into the bargain. But how wrong he was. A new surprise awaited him at the Ritz.

  There was a huge commotion with people and police cars by the main entrance and Amadeu thought he saw an ambulance as well. However, his taxi driver decided to drive past and stop a street further on, on a deserted corner, far from all that hullabaloo. Oblivious to what all that might be about, Amadeu paid the amount on the meter and, feeling slightly queasy, walked the two hundred metres back to the hotel. Angry, and in a drunken haze, the writer wondered what the hell could have happened as he zigzagged along and contained his retching.

  When he tried to go in the main entrance, three solemn-looking mossos d’esquadra strode over. They asked for his ID and, after scrutinizing it by the light from their torches, they asked him to wait, and started talking to someone over a kind of radio. Then, in front of everyone, the mossos stood him up against a wall, legs apart and hands in the air. More police came over and, when they’d finished frisking him, they put his hands behind him and handcuffed him.

  “You are under arrest for possible involvement in a murder. You have the right not to make any statement that might possibly be incriminating…” he heard them drone as he fainted.

  No, reflected Amadeu Cabestany, understanding fuck all as he recovered consciousness inside the patrol car, these things definitely didn’t happen in Vic.

  5

  Ernest Fabià was back home by around four. He opened the door quietly, didn’t switch on the light and took his shoes off in the hall so as not to make a noise. However, his wife still opened her eyes when he got into bed. Though physically and mentally exhausted, Carmen had programmed herself to wake up at whatever time he appeared. She wasn’t intending to nag him, she was simply worried and wanted to find out how he’d got on with his friend.

  “Couldn’t have gone better. Ernest let me have all we needed,” Ernest whispered, who’d decided on this name for his friend to avoid getting into a muddle. “I’m dead tired. I need to rest now.”

 
; “That’s a relief! We’ll go to the bank on Monday.” Carmen hugged him tenderly and kissed him on the cheek. “You see, Ernest, we’ll survive. You get some sleep now.”

  Ernest did just that and didn’t put in an appearance on Saturday until well past midday. He was exhausted, and not only physically. He felt he’d crossed a frontier that had changed something in his life for ever, and not necessarily for the better. He’d threatened another human being with violence, a wealthy soul, to be sure, but a human when all’s said and done. And sure, it was a toy pistol and he was incapable of hurting a fly, but he knew that the man he’d robbed in the early hours couldn’t possibly have known he had a kind heart. He’d seen the panic on the wretched man’s face through his sunglasses, and the sight had fazed him. That victim he’d selected at random had suffered a big shock that he might never get over, and Ernest was wracked by guilt and felt like a pathetic coward. He couldn’t let on to his wife or his friends, and, as he wasn’t a believer, he couldn’t find relief from a distant deity or ask for absolution from the up above via priestly mediation. Ernest Fabià had always defended the anti-Machiavellian principle that the end didn’t justify the means and, consequently, once he’d solved the problem that had driven him to commit a crime, he felt repelled by what he’d done.

  His bones ached and he had a splitting headache. The first thing he did when he got up, against all his instincts, was to take a couple of aspirins and linger under the shower. His wife was alarmed by that sudden change in her husband’s behaviour, because the first thing Ernest always did in the morning after going to the lavatory was to drink a cup of strong coffee in the kitchen. Carmen attributed his unlikely behaviour to an excess of alcohol and nicotine – it was impossible not to smell the stench of cigarettes given off by his clothes and hair – but she said nothing. She’d noticed how her husband had been tossing and turning all night, trying to get to sleep. Ernest had had one nightmare after another, and, once awake, the memory of those nightmares he couldn’t disclose to anyone had generated another attack of stress. Unable to share his wife’s bubbly optimism, Ernest breakfasted in silence while the kids watched a cartoon film on the TV.