“Are you armed? You carrying a bazooka?”
“No, we smoke Camel Lights,” replied Borja, taking a packet from his pocket.
“That’s right… My partner is a real joker… Ha, ha, ha…. No, we’re not carrying guns,” I said after he noticed how red I’d gone. “Times have changed, what with computers and all that…” I continued apologetically. “As my partner said, we’re not detectives, but in exceptional circumstances…”
“No need to tell me your life story,” he cut me off in full flow. “I could make a couple of calls. I still have friends in the force who owe me a few favours. What’s in it for me?”
“Say five hundred euros?” my brother suggested timidly.
“Make it a grand. Three hundred in advance,” he went on, giving us no chance to bargain. “Come here on Tuesday, same time. I’ll be here. And if you need to hire a man with a bazooka…” he concluded, tapping his jacket pocket.
“Thanks. We hope it won’t come to that,” I responded, hoping he didn’t decide to show us his pistol. Just then a couple of mossos on their beat were briskly wandering our way.
We dug deep into our pockets and came up with two hundred and eighty euros between us. When we left home that morning, we’d never imagined we’d end up doing a deal with a low-life Barcelona detective and weren’t carrying any more cash. Lluís Arquer carefully pocketed the notes and coins while giving us a withering look. It was clear that neither our dress sense nor my brother’s courteous manners cut any ice with him. He gulped down what was left of his beer and stood up.
“I have to hit the road. This is on you.” And he was gone.
Lluís Arquer had pulled a good trick: he’d cleaned us out completely at the Ambos Mundos and left us with a bill on the table of seven euros ninety. That was the cost of the three glasses of draught beer we’d drunk, although Borja, who was on a diet because according to him (and him alone) he was developing a paunch, hadn’t even sipped his. We’d been forced to give the detective all the money we were carrying, and now needed to get money from a cash point. My brother had mislaid his wallet, which was par for the course (particularly when he’s dining with Merche), but luckily I had mine. Relatively lucky, that’s to say, because on the short walk between the terrace of the Ambos Mundos, where Borja was waiting under the steely gaze of the waiters, and the cash point on the Ramblas where I was heading to extract money, my wallet mysteriously disappeared from my pocket.
I won’t deny that it was my fault, because I had been daydreaming for a few seconds, hypnotized by the perfectly synchronized movement of a pair of round, tanned breasts coming my way braless under a low-cut, tight-fitting tank top. There wasn’t a cent in my wallet, but unfortunately it did contain my credit card as well as my ID, and that was a real nuisance. Luckily, as it was a few minutes to two, the bank was still open. I went in and explained my problem, but it was a complete waste of time. However hard I worked at telling them my wallet had just been stolen, I couldn’t budge a single bank clerk, let alone get to see the manager. They were very sorry, they said, but they couldn’t give me a single euro if I didn’t have my ID. I persisted but finally had to give up. I knew the bank employees had their hands tied and could do nothing: I’d spent twenty years of my life behind a bank counter and knew how those places functioned. I did manage to block my card, but then had to return to the Ambos Mundos more skint than before and with my self-image shattered.
Borja, who was waiting impatiently for me, couldn’t believe it when, shame-faced and feeling pathetic, I confessed my wallet had been stolen. We were stymied, because we were suddenly completely stuck in the Plaça Reial on a Friday lunchtime, without a cent in our pockets and a bill for three beers. Quite naturally, the waiters at the Ambos Mundos were beginning to seethe. They wouldn’t swallow the story of the stolen wallet, or perhaps they did, but couldn’t care less. I suppose it wasn’t the first time somebody had tried this excuse to avoid paying the bill and they weren’t impressed. A swarm of tourists were trying to take our table and hinting we should get up and go. Borja and I decided to sit this one out and stay calm.
I could always call Montse and ask her for help, but I knew my wife was very busy that day at her Alternative Centre. One of her partners was ill and she’d had to take responsibility for the yoga classes. If I forced her to stand up a dozen pre- and post-menopausal women with hot flushes and sugar- and nicotine-abstinence syndrome, my wife would be angry and quite rightly so. It’s OK if pickpockets snaffle the wallets of flabby tourists idly strolling down the Ramblas, but I’m from Barcelona and I know you have to watch it on the Ramblas. Dodging the artful dodgers is one of the attractions of the territory, I suppose, and I’d acted the fool and been caught out. On the other hand, I imagine Borja was embarrassed about ringing Merche to ask for small change, and Lola’s mobile was switched off or she’d left it at home. And we couldn’t have recourse to Lluís Arquer, although we knew he lived nearby. We had no desire to confirm his suspicions that Borja and I were a couple of well-dressed dolts. The waiters at the Ambos Mundos didn’t seem inclined to let us slip off, and, besides, there was the minor detail that we’d have to walk back to my house, which meant a good hour sweating under a blistering sun. I didn’t want to be the one to renege on our agreement about keeping calm, but things were starting to look bleak. Finally, as usual, my brother had one of his brainwaves.
“Listen, Eduard,” he sounded me out, “you could go to the Ramblas and act like a statue for a while. I bet you’d get the money in under an hour. I reckon twelve euros would do to pay for the beers and our metro tickets.”
“What? Are you mad?” I roared. “Do you think I’m going to act like a statue in front of everyone! Forget it!” I wasn’t going to let him bamboozle me into that one.
“All right! All right! So I’ll have to come to the rescue, as usual,” he said angrily. And he picked up the brown plastic saucer where they’d left the bill and headed for the Ramblas.
Human statues had been the fashion on the Ramblas for years. They stood still and when someone threw them a coin, they changed position or performed. Some were trite and some were sophisticated, from characters smeared with coppery make-up to look like GIs from the Second World War to a girl spectacularly bedecked in flowers and foliage trying to be an allegory of spring. Some were amusing and some were scary, like the guy doing a bloody, decapitated head routine served up on a silver platter on a white tablecoth. I can’t think why tourists like being photographed next to that. There were so many statues that it had to be a good way to earn one’s living, even if the competition was tough. For that very reason I wasn’t at all clear that the sudden appearance from nowhere of an amateur dressed up like a yuppie would be welcomed by the mime professionals who suffered under thick face-packs from the early morning. I hoped my brother wouldn’t return from his artistic debut with a black eye or his elegant Armani suit in tatters.
Nothing of the sort. Borja was back after half an hour, sweating and out of breath, but apparently safe and sound. He’d collected twelve euros and thirty cents and that meant we had enough to pay for the drinks and our metro tickets and spare ourselves a long walk which I really didn’t fancy. We paid for the beers, left a fortycent tip and headed for the Liceu station. It was almost three o’clock and my stomach was rumbling.
“You won’t believe this, but I bumped into a golfing acquaintance while I was playing the fool,” an amused Borja told me.
“Heavens, I’m so sorry!…” I replied sincerely. “You don’t say you played the fool dressed up like that? Maybe you didn’t need to go that far…”
“No, of course not, I simply acted myself. As I was the only one not wearing a disguise and not doing anything silly, the tourists were really fascinated by my character. But, even so, standing still is exhausting! At least I found a shady corner!…”
“So what did you do when they threw you a coin?” I asked, intrigued. “Because I suppose that’s the fun bit, perform and…”
; “Well, I bent down, picked it up and pocketed it, naturally. What did you expect me to do? A couple of fat cows in miniskirts had their photos taken with me and gave me two euros. And an American woman pinched my bum. A moustachioed guy in a tank top also tried it on, but I stopped him in his tracks.”
“God, Borja, how desperate! And you met someone you know as well!… What did you tell him? Did you ask him for money?”
“You must be joking! We’ve not sunk that low!” he erupted in disbelief. “You know, when I ask for cash, it’s always for five hundred euros or more… I made light of the situation and told him it was a bet and that I had to stay a statue until I’d collected twelve euros. He thought it was a hoot and gave me two euros. He said he wouldn’t give me more or I wouldn’t be playing straight. The bastard!…”
“And did he swallow the bet business?”
“Naturally. It was the most reasonable explanation, given the circumstances…” he smiled. “Besides, I told him that the blonde who’d laid the bet was out of this world and was waiting for me with a bottle of Moët and Chandon behind the curtains of a bedroom at the Oriente,” he added, pleased by his little joke.
Yet again I was amazed by the sang-froid with which my brother faced up to the most ridiculous situations. You had to take your hat off to him. If I’d been in his shoes, I think I’d have died of embarrassment. Obviously, in the first place, I’d never have had the nous to do what he’d just done. Our sense of the ridiculous is really so very personal.
“You know, with that imagination of yours, you could get by writing novels,” I said in admiration as we went down to the platform in the metro. “Perhaps it might be worth your while…”
“Well, I don’t deny that if I tried my…” he responded, puckering his eyebrows, jutting out his chin and halfclosing his eyes.
“Hey, hurry up, it’s late and I’m hungry,” I shouted, tugging on his sleeve when I heard a train approaching. “Watch out you don’t knock into someone!”
My brother can decipher the complicated names that appear on menus in the most expensive restaurants and choose the right wine for each course, but he’s totally bewildered by the Barcelona metro grid.
“Wow, there’s even air-conditioning! Do you know how long it is since I travelled by metro?” he asked as we pushed our way into one of the compartments. “Though… what can I say! This may be quicker and cheaper, but frankly, I think taxis are much more comfortable, traffic jams and all. This is quite dreadful… What a stink in here! I’ll have to take my suit to the drycleaners in the morning!”
I didn’t bother to respond. A middle-aged woman, modestly dressed, her hair dyed aubergine, stood opposite us staring icily at Borja. You couldn’t blame her. It was written on that good lady’s face that she sweated out four lengthy trips on the metro every day in the rush hour, and I’d been a daily user of this mode of public transport for twenty years and perfectly understood how she felt. Fortunately, we soon reached Fontana and left the metro. The escalator wasn’t working and we had to walk up. Outside the sun was still burning down but luckily we were only two minutes from home.
Our plan was to go and have a bite to eat and rest for a while. Montse wasn’t around, Arnau was with his grandparents and the twins were on the rampage with friends. I’d promised Montse I would help her that evening to prepare for the party by taking chairs up to the terrace and going to buy the fireworks and cava. However, before complying with my domestic duties, I had to accompany Borja to buy a summer suit in the centre. My brother chose a beige item and bought me a couple of short-sleeved shirts – one dark, the other lightish – a belt, three pairs of black socks, one pair of brown shoes and a tie that went well with the suit and shirts. The sales were on, but even so, I had a shock when I saw the receipt I had to sign.
“Don’t grumble!” remarked Borja, hearing me muttering as we left the shop. “If you’d gone for an Armani or Hermès, it would have been a good deal more expensive.”
“Then perhaps we’d both have had to stand like statues in the Ramblas, for what’s left of the summer!” I retorted angrily. “Frankly, Borja, I am quite unable to see the difference. There’s a little shop round the corner from home…”
“Maybe you can’t,” he cut me off, “but I assure you other people can.” I suppose he was referring to our rich, sophisticated clients. “And that’s the whole point.”
“What it is to be in the know…” I thought to myself while deciding not to contradict him. Borja’s philosophy had worked wonders today and I wouldn’t be the one to question it. The fact I personally believe it is scandalous that people take more notice of our appearance than of our CV makes not a jot of difference. On the other hand, we don’t have much of a CV, appearance is the only card we can play, and Borja is right there. It’s also true we’re not the only ones to do these things, although we may do them more consciously. Montse’s radical customers also like the fact that the woman helping them to give up smoking and enjoy the secrets of karma and the virtues of yoga wears that half-hippy half-ethnic look she’s worn lately. If our rich customers are dazzled by the make of the clothes we wear, that’s their problem, not ours, as my brother liked to say.
After giving him money for a taxi to the Passeig de Gràcia, I took a bus home, six hundred euros the poorer and loaded down with bags. Montse, who was back, wrinkled her nose when she saw them, but said nothing. She must assume it was Borja’s doing, because she knows I hate shopping and that I prefer old jeans and the feel of cotton shirts when it comes to clothes, and preferably on the worn side. Luckily, my brother has yet to insist I spray myself with one of those eaude-Cologne fragrances he likes so much. No guarantees though.
“The demands of work, love,” I commented resignedly, as I put my purchases in the wardrobe, rather shame-faced after telling her about the theft on the Ramblas.
“Well, get changed, because you’ve got to help me to take things up to the terrace for tonight’s party,” she instructed me as she undid her plait and combed her hair. “We’ll have a good crowd and as the neighbours have given us permission to hold it on the roof terrace, I’ve been forced to invite them too. But not to worry, they won’t all come.”
“I hope the Rottweiler doesn’t show up,” I said anxiously.
The Rottweiler is the chair of the flat-owners’ association. No one can stand her, Montse in particular, who’s had several rows with her.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll stick her nose in,” Montse smiled. “In fact, she’s dying to put in a complaint and says she’ll ring the police if we play music or make too much noise. It seems she’s bought one of those little gadgets that measure decibels.”
“She just has to be a witch!”
“I’m sure Carmen will come, the one on the first floor, with her two children. Her husband is away.”
“They seem like nice people,” I added as I changed my shirt. “He’s a translator, isn’t he?”
“Something of the sort. Hey, hurry up. And try not to knock the lift about when you’re taking the chairs up.”
“Yes, sir!” I answered, acting as if I was giving a military salute, and resigned to carrying out her orders without protesting in the slightest.
Those who wear the trousers are in charge, and that’s Montse chez nous. Luckily, no one talks about hen-pecked husbands any more.
PART THREE
11
Josefina Peña was sad and distraught. She couldn’t rid herself of the image of her friend sprawled out on the floor in her room at the Ritz with her head smashed open, and since she’d found Marina’s corpse, the police had questioned her several times, as if they were still none the wiser. She had held on to the pearl-and-diamond earring she’d found quite by chance under a chair at the hotel, and didn’t know what to do with it. Give it to the police? Keep it as a souvenir? It wasn’t the piece’s value that led her not to declare it, but the feeling that, by preserving the earring as a kind of relic, she would be preserving her friend whom she’d
never see again. Josefina was a widow, her only son lived in London and she’d found in Marina the friend she’d never had. With no Marina at the other end of the line, she’d be alone again and would relapse into depression.
Unlike Marina, Josefina was a wealthy woman who came from a good family. And, also unlike Marina, her life had followed the hackneyed, random pattern of many young people of her generation and economic and social status: a difficult, well-heeled adolescence, an initiatory trip to India at eighteen and, on her return, nine years in Ibiza living in a commune, practising free love between one joint and the next. Josefina had spent ten years searching for her soul, bedding whomever, making and selling plastic necklaces she reckoned were arty and tripping on LSD. Unfortunately, the only thing she’d discovered in her hippy years were a number of sexually transmitted diseases and the growing feeling she was occasionally beginning to lose her memory. She was thirty when she returned to Barcelona, alone, pregnant and slightly unhinged. Her parents quickly found her a husband and opened a boutique for her in Sarrià. Josefina met Marina in that shop, which was called The Oracle, where she sold radical chic clothes from Ibiza. The novelist soon became one of her best customers and, in the process, her best and only friend.
However, Marina was a secret person. She never talked about her past. Josefina only knew that she was from Sant Feliu de Codines, where she owned a house, and had an ex she never saw and an Italian lover who never came to Barcelona. When Marina travelled down to the city, they’d both meet up for dinner or to go to the theatre or the Liceo. Josefina didn’t really like opera but ever since her last boyfriend jilted her after helping himself to her current account, she found her eccentric friend’s cheerful, disinterested company even more appealing. Marina was an optimist by nature, and her conversation worked better for Josefina than any anti-depressant.
That Friday her son and daughter-in-law were arriving from London and she’d bought cake and cava to celebrate St John’s Eve at home with them. She wasn’t at all keen on her daughter-in-law, a starchy Young Conservative who looked down on her ex-hippy mother-in-law. Her son was only twenty-five but he was a financial whizz-kid and earned a fortune in the City, where he’d met that young lawyer on the road to success whom he’d finally bedded and wedded. Josefina knew they’d both try yet again to persuade her to close her boutique and do something more respectable, like being a lady of leisure or looking after her grandchildren, if she could put her mind to it. Four years had gone by since her husband had died – her son didn’t know he wasn’t his biological father – and her child was intent on taking her to live with them to salve his conscience and, in the process, ensure his mother didn’t fritter away the family inheritance. He knew nothing about her past or present boyfriends, and Josefina always played the role of the resigned widow to avoid disappointing him.
A Shortcut to Paradise Page 8
