Behind Emilia and her entourage he caught sight of Esperanza, his neighbour. She may have been made homeless, but the old beata wasn’t going to give up a chance like this to meet Christ’s representative on Earth in the flesh.
Doubtless Esperanza would be promised a beautiful home in the next life in exchange for the cramped, rotting one she’d had to put up with in this. That would make her happy, probably speed her up a bit in her sad shuffle towards death.
The hullabaloo at the other end was reaching a crescendo. Cámara found a corner from which he had a relatively clear view of the street and the ceremony that was about to take place in front of his old home. So much had happened in the past few days that he struggled to remember his former life in the space up there that had once been his. Not that he could ever have imagined that one day some old man with a stiff walk, wearing a white frock and bright red shoes, would come strolling down here and pray in front of it while millions watched from around the globe.
He took a deep breath and looked up into the cloudless sky. The humming inside his skull hadn’t abated, although the coffee he’d swallowed hot and whole on his way over was helping to bring back a certain sharpness. He still felt dislocated from himself in some way.
A flash from the other side of the street caught his eye and he looked up. Someone was opening a window from Vicent’s bar, and it had reflected the sun on him for a second. But a breeze blew the window wider open than intended and it swung out until it rested almost flat against the outside wall of the building. The reflection of a group of people came into focus: a middle-aged woman with a cloth hat and sunglasses staring down the street with open mouth in anticipation of the Pope’s imminent arrival; a tall thin young man wearing a white-and-yellow T-shirt over sunburnt skin speaking into a phone, watching the television cameras closely to see if he could appear in one; a man in his forties, the only one not concentrating on events further down the street, with a knotted, angry look in his eye. The glass in the window wasn’t entirely flat, so the image was distorted slightly, but it seemed as if the man were staring back at him with a cynical sneer, his shoulders rounded with self-imposed stress, a shadow around his chin where he hadn’t shaved that morning, grey-brown bags under his eyes. He looked as though he were there under duress; not a believer, but someone who had come simply to leer arrogantly, as though searching for confirmation of his superiority by watching others forget themselves in the emotion of some meaningless ritual.
The Pope arrived, and all attention was directed on to him. Emilia, at the head of the welcoming committee, took a step towards him and curtseyed, kissing the holy hand, then backed away, beckoning the Pope to come forward and see for himself the scene of the collapsed block of flats. They exchanged a few words, a few other councillors bowed and kissed before him, and then the man in white was introduced to Esperanza. Even from where he was standing, thirty or forty metres away, Cámara could see the tears forming in her eyes. This made it worth it, this made losing her home and neighbours worth every moment. She would have eaten her own tit just to be here.
Neither the Pope nor the Town Hall people were keen for this to go on for too long. A few words were said in the direction of the rubble, the Pope held up his hands as though in supplication, a couple of priests on either side of him waved some incense burners, and that was pretty much it. With a smile the Pope turned around to face the thousands of people crammed into the street to see him. The ritual cleansing was over: no more tears; they could get back to the job of adoring his person now.
Cheers went up and Cámara was jostled as a middle-aged woman on one side and a young boy with a T-shirt in the Vatican colours on the other jumped up and down for joy, crashing into him as they lost their balance. They were so happy.
From the corner of his eye, Cámara could see that the cynic reflected in the window opposite was also being buffeted by the crowds around him.
Gradually, however, as the initial excitement abated, and the bodies stopped jostling so much, he began to see. And the sense of dislocation within him simultaneously both intensified and faded.
How could he not have recognised his own reflection?
He stood stock still, staring in disbelief at the form he had been so dismissive of only moments before. Everything he had seen was true. That was who he had become: a snarling, judgemental, unforgiving shape, so wrapped up in his own distress that it had cut him off both from people around him and from himself–his truer self. For this wasn’t him, this wasn’t the person he knew he could be. It was a monster that had taken control.
He looked down at the ground, gathering himself, breathing slowly and calmly, feeling the air inside him as though for the first time, and then looked up again at the window. Someone had moved it, and now, instead of seeing himself, he saw a man further down the street. A tall man wearing a light grey suit, gazing out with a devoted stare at the Pope as the pontiff moved away from the empty space where Cámara’s home had once been, and started to walk over to greet members of the crowd.
The man in the suit smiled.
Cámara smiled.
It was time he spoke to Rafael Mezquita.
Twenty-Four
But for his crooked nose, Rafael Mezquita, head of urban development at the Town Hall, would have made a handsome man. He was striking enough, with his tall frame, and shining, almost tearful eyes, but the near pin-up looks were spoilt by the slight disfigurement, a bend at the centre of his face where nature demanded rectitude. There were those who touted him as someone to watch, a future mayor himself, perhaps, or president of the Valencian regional government. But closer political observers tended to rule out such heights. Voters, they argued, would never vote en masse for a man with such a facial flaw, even if it was only minor. Things like that went deep, were instinctive.
Cámara pushed his way through the people watching the Pope, slowly taking his steps towards the crowd. Mezquita was standing still, not having to strain as much as the others to see over their heads. What he hadn’t noticed, however, was that a white plastic cup dropped by someone in the crowd had blown over and got stuck on the end of his foot; the orange liquid that it had once contained now oozed out over his black leather shoes. It had a slightly comic effect, like some cartoon toecap, or a scene from an old slapstick comedy.
Mezquita cocked his head slightly to the side and gazed down as Cámara introduced himself.
‘Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘A pleasure. What can I do for you?’
His eyes glanced back towards the Pope as he spoke, anxious that his attention should not be distracted for too long.
‘I used to live there myself,’ Cámara said, nodding at the rubble pile.
Mezquita’s eyes widened in sympathy.
‘Oh, I’m so very sorry to hear that,’ he said, looking at him more closely. ‘This must be a very emotional time for you.’
Cámara shrugged.
‘It’s been a shock,’ he said. ‘For everyone. Especially losing neighbours like that.’
‘Susana and Tomás,’ Mezquita said. ‘Yes, I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s been a tragic time. For the city as a whole. I think we’re all in mourning in one way or another. But particularly for you, their neighbours. Their family.’
‘Did you go to the funeral?’ Cámara asked.
‘I did,’ Mezquita said. ‘I represented the Town Hall. Very sad.’
‘I couldn’t make it.’
‘No, of course. Listen, you must let me know if there are any hold-ups in getting you rehoused, or the compensation process. I know these things can take longer than we’d all like. But you can call my office any time.’
His eyes resumed their flicker between Cámara and the Pope as he spoke, not wanting to lose sight of his important visitor.
‘I appreciate that,’ Cámara said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about something else.’
Mezquita gave him a quizzical look.
‘I’m investigating the murder of Pep Roures,’ Cámara said.<
br />
‘I used to know him,’ Mezquita said. ‘Years back. You’re talking about Pep Roures who ran La Mar restaurant, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Another tragic story. We used to play pelota together, when we were teenagers.’
‘I’ve just come from the El Cabanyal sports centre,’ Cámara said. ‘I saw the photo of the two of you.’
‘Oh, is that still there?’ Mezquita said with a smile. ‘Yes, that was some time back.’
He placed his hand to his crooked nose.
‘That was just before this happened.’
‘Your…’ Cámara hesitated.
‘My nose was as straight as an arrow back then,’ Mezquita said. ‘As I’m sure you’ll have noticed. But it got broken shortly after. It was Pep himself, actually. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it was a mis-hit from him one day. It went straight into the side of my nose and broke it pretty badly. The doctors were never able to get it right again.’
He chuckled to himself.
‘I was devastated at the time. You get over these things, but I thought I’d had it. No girl would ever look at me after that.’
He grinned.
‘By the way,’ he said, suddenly changing his tone. ‘Is this a formal interview? If so, perhaps it could wait for another time.’
And he nodded his head in the direction of the Pope, who was now walking towards them, reaching out to brush the hundreds of hands and fingers trying to touch him.
‘I’m just getting some background,’ Cámara said. ‘I saw you here and thought we could have a quick chat.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I suppose Roures would have felt quite bad for what he did.’
‘Pep?’ Mezquita said. ‘Did you know him?’
‘I went to his restaurant a few times, but can’t say I knew him. I’m building up a picture of the kind of man he was.’
‘Yes, that’s right. He was a noble sort, was Pep. And he was very cut up about what happened. I was young at the time, and probably didn’t spare him his blushes, if you see what I mean. I could have handled things differently, done more to make him feel less bad about it. But I think he felt he owed me something after that, as though he were indebted to me in some way.’
‘Did you ever call the favour in?’
Mezquita frowned.
‘No. No, of course not. I forgave him. It was an accident. But perhaps not until he’d bought me a couple of drinks.’
He grinned again, then turned his attention to the Pope as he walked within a few feet from where they stood.
‘It’s funny,’ he said as the cheering soared around them. ‘I hadn’t thought about Pep for years until the story came out about him being killed. And now here you are asking me about him as well. He was a tremendous cook, made some of the best paellas. This city has lost one of its greats.’
Cámara raised his voice to make himself heard.
‘Of course, La Mar was due to be demolished for the El Cabanyal building project.’
‘The price of progress. Pep would have been compensated well, but he chose to hold out. It’s a shame. That neighbourhood has been run down, and these people trying to hold on to the past are simply dragging it down even further. They need to understand that they are the problem here, that they’re stopping the rejuvenation of the area.’
Cámara remained silent as the screaming and cheering got louder around them. It was becoming more difficult to hold a conversation.
Mezquita seemed to register that their chat was coming to a natural end, and he grabbed his chance.
‘Do call my office if there’s anything else I can help you with, Chief Inspector,’ he shouted into Cámara’s ear. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
And he slapped him on the shoulder.
Mezquita headed back to the nucleus of Town Hall officials concentrated around Emilia’s person, while Cámara found himself being drawn along by the crowd of security men following in the wake of the Pope as he continued his impromptu walkabout. Rather than breaking out, he went along with them, displaying his badge to a quizzical man wearing dark glasses and with a weapon-sized bulge in his ill-cut suit. The team looked nervous: the Pope, he imagined, was expected to head straight back to the Popemobile, not mingle like this. But in the few years of his pontificate, the old man had become increasingly known for his erratic behaviour.
Cámara shuffled along, curious that he should find himself close to someone who meant so much to millions. Hilario would appreciate hearing about this, he thought to himself. But would probably complain that Cámara hadn’t at least thought about assassinating the Pope while he had a chance. He looked around; it wouldn’t be that easy even if he were so inclined: the security men were packing sub-machine guns. He’d be dead before he even got his finger around the trigger.
They progressed along the street slowly as the Pope tried to make contact with as many outstretched hands as possible, stopping to talk occasionally for a few moments with the faithful. Cámara spotted a gap in the railings further on where a uniformed policeman was holding back the crowds. Once they reached the spot he’d slip away.
He turned back to watch the Pope, who was standing just a few feet from him now. He looked hot in his robes, and the skin on the back of his neck was shining with sweat, made more brilliant by the lights of the television cameras. But the smile, which Cámara could only partially see as he stood behind him, appeared to be fixed as he glanced at the ecstatic people, holding out hundreds of mobile phones to record images of the event. When this kind of thing happened to young rock stars, he thought, they usually ended up in rehab. What did Popes do to counter the corrosive effect of so much adulation?
He glanced back at the spot just in front of the slowly moving group where the policeman stood. Something had registered in the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t see now what it might have been. He looked closely at the faces: three heavily made-up teenage girls were straining to get closer, but the officer was holding them back, placing his hands on their naked shoulders as politely as he could to keep them from jumping on the Pope. As they swayed back and forth, he saw someone else there, squeezed in between them, the only person in the crowd not smiling.
He took a step forward. The security men around him sensed that something was wrong and began to twitch. One of them tried to barge his shoulder between the Pope and the crowds, but the outstretched hands got in his way. As the group reached the policeman, his hands full with the three teenage girls, a streak of colour seemed to break out. A man in a deep red T-shirt pushed his way forwards and darted towards the Pope, too quick for the policeman to stop him. Cámara was caught at the side of the group, but pushed his way around the security men to reach out. One of them was already grappling with the attacker while two others were doing their best to drag the elderly Pope away before he’d even realised what was happening.
There were screams. From smiling and cheering with joy, the teenage girls were holding their hands to their mouths, unable to utter a sound. Around them, quicker members of the crowd were already calling out in fright as others pushed in even tighter to see what was happening.
Two security men had dragged the attacker down and were pinning him on the ground as he struggled to get free. The first one was grappling to hold him still, while the second reached into his jacket for a can of pepper spray to blow into the man’s face.
Cámara clambered over and held him back.
‘Stop!’ he cried, pulling out his badge.
The security man shot him a look of anger, his wrist held tight in Cámara’s solid grasp, his finger twitching to press on the spray can.
‘I know this man,’ Cámara said.
And he lunged forward, pushing the first security man off the attacker and leaning in to pin him down himself.
‘¿Qué cojones?’ What the fuck?
The uniformed policeman was standing close by, doing his best to hold back the crowds. Cámara leaned over and pulled him down with hi
m.
‘You help me with this,’ he said to him. ‘Keep him immobilised. Otherwise these idiots will rip him apart.’
He turned to look down into the face of the attacker.
‘Señor Ballester,’ he said. ‘We’re taking you to the Jefatura.’
He hauled Ballester up on to his feet and with the help of the policeman started dragging him away. In the chaos of screams and people he overheard a voice. Mezquita was looking in to see who had attacked the Pope.
‘Es el xic de l’anti-mare eixa,’ he explained to someone next to him. The boyfriend of that anti-mother woman.
Twenty-Five
There was a queue of people outside wanting to catch a glimpse of the man who had tried to swing a punch at the Pope. Not only that: he was the partner of the missing abortionist they were now all supposed to be looking for, the reason why they had all been taken off their other duties.
Inside the interrogation room, Cesc Ballester sat with hunched shoulders, holding a bag of ice against his bruised face where the security guard had managed to hit him.
‘Fuckers,’ he swore under his breath.
Cámara stood behind him, while Maldonado stepped back and forwards in front, sleeves rolled up, his hands in his pockets, snorting through his nostrils like a beast. Near the door stood Pardo, a rare sight in interrogation sessions. But no one wanted to miss out on this.
‘You should be dead,’ Maldonado muttered to himself as he marched up and down. ‘By rights you should have been pulled to shreds by the Pope’s gorillas. God knows it would have saved us all a headache, if it hadn’t been for El Cid here stepping in to rescue you.’
He glanced up at Cámara. Pardo pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes concentrated on the floor.
‘I mean, what the fuck!’
A Death in Valencia Page 17
