A Not So Perfect Crime (19 page)

The truth was I'd not given it a thought, but obviously we'd find time to buy a few presents in Paris, although it isn't as simple as it sounds. It used to be easy when you travelled abroad to find a little present that would go down well. Now, you buy something with high hopes it will please, cart it around in your suitcase only to find it's on sale at half the price next door to where you live. Luckily, I was going with Borja, who loved shopping.

The tickets bought today to travel tomorrow cost us the earth. However, thanks to our MP's generosity money was no longer a problem, and we booked two rooms in a small hotel near the Opéra. Paris is enormous, and it's better to go for somewhere central than to bankrupt yourself on taxis. Because the plane would be departing at the crack of dawn, Borja and I left for our respective homes. We still had to pack our bags and I wanted to get to bed early because I'd had a backlog of sleep owing ever since Christmas Day. That night my brother had arranged to have dinner with Merche, whom he'd not seen for days, and I advised him to disconnect his mobile.

“Lola will probably give you a call ...” I said casually.

I didn't dare tell him about the comment I'd made to Montse. It was stupid, but I knew Borja would lose his temper with me, and then eventually take it on board. I was getting desperate for a zoo where I could hide this elephant that was getting bigger by the second.

14

“
Mésépamafótsivúnevusavépabian'xpliqué, mesié
!” rattled the taxi-driver at Borja's third remark about the route we were taking.

We'd taken the taxi at the Gare du Nord and were now embarked on a rough-and-ready tour of the most historic sights in Paris. When the driver saw our luggage and heard that our destination was a hotel, he'd deduced quickly and correctly we were foreigners and we ended up paying fifty euros for a journey that should have cost twelve. Despite my brother's excellent French, the guy took us on the classic sight-seeing route, and not content with that, he got very angry when Borja pointed out most politely it was the third time we'd passed that same
église
. Of course, the wiles of Parisian taxi drivers are something you have to anticipate when travelling to the city, as my brother explained. No need to kick up a fuss or tear one's hair out.

I'd always told Montse I'd never been to Paris. It's one of those stupid lies one makes up on the spur of the moment and then have to sustain for a lifetime so as not to look silly or like a liar. What happened was that one afternoon soon after we'd started going out, after making love in the tiny flat I used to rent in Sants, Montse asked me if I'd been to Paris. She'd just confessed that she'd never set foot in the city and really looked forward to the day we would discover it together. Faced by such blossoming tenderness, I didn't have the guts to tell her the truth.

“No, no, I've never been,” I said quietly as I caressed her hair. “I was leaving it till I met you.”

That little white lie was meant more as a romantic aside, but the consequences have haunted me ever since. In fact, I was twenty when I first went to Paris with a girlfriend by the name of Olga who lasted six months. With hindsight I can see she was quite crazy and I thank God things never turned serious, but all the same I was mad about her at the time.

We went to Paris together over a long All Saints Day weekend, in one of those awful trains that left the estación de Francia and took three decades to arrive, at the time our passion had reached its culminating peak. Days I shall never forget, that's for sure. It was autumn, and the golden leaves on the trees in Paris rustled and fell on the pavements to form a carpet that crackled under our feet. Postcard skies, of unimaginable colours, framed some of old Europe's most emblematic buildings while Olga and I crossed, one by one, the bridges of the river that has surely witnessed the most lovers' suicides throughout history. I also remember the small, cheap, unheated hotel where we stayed just over four days, and a passion driven by youthful hormones that steamed up the windows and prevented the bright moon beams shining in.

I felt guilty about staying in Paris with a girl who wasn't Montse. The intensity of my memories made me feel uneasy, as if I'd been unfaithful to my wife, even though it was a fling from years before I met her. The truth is that both Paris and Olga had captivated me in my early twenties. It had been only my second excursion abroad (I'd been to Italy with some friends before that, but it wasn't the same), and my brief stay in that paradise of freedom, hedonism and
philosophie
brought me back to Barcelona thinking I lived in a small, boring provincial capital. Franco hadn't been dead long, the first democratic elections had been held, and in my eyes and those of all my generation Paris possessed the magic the Generalíssimo had snatched from us.

Our plane had left and arrived on time, and Borja and I were in our hotel by mid-morning. We unpacked, changed our clothes and prepared to visit the gallery where Pau Ferrer had exhibited the portrait purchased by our client just over a month ago. Borja forced me to put on my Armani suit and the tie Mariona Castany had given me, and he lent me one of his overcoats – black, in fact – to round off the image. I had to pass myself off as a Spanish art collector who spoke no French, and my brother had given me very precise instructions about how I should perform.

“While I talk to the person in charge and try to get the painter's address,” Borja told me, “You look at everything as if you're interested in buying. When you find the most expensive painting in the exhibition, come over to me and say you'll be back in the morning with your wife. Don't smile, look as if you're suffering from a stomach ulcer and look at your watch now and then. Leave the rest to me,” he added with a smile.

The gallery was near the Jardins de Luxembourg, so we caught a taxi. This time, with no luggage and Borja's impeccable French, the taxi-driver spared us the roundabout route and we were there in a few minutes. It was a modern outfit in an old building, and stuffed with quite abstract pictures at a price to cure your hiccups. First, a young West Indian woman attended to us, and then the man who must have been the gallery owner, a middle-aged Frenchman, snooty, precious, heavily scented and as charming as pie. I performed to prior instructions, and while acting the
indecisive buyer I tried to decipher what the shop manager was explaining to my brother in French.

“Well, then?” I eagerly asked Borja as we left. “What did he tell you? Have you got the address?”

“We're out of luck again.” He shook his head. “Pau Ferrer had a stroke a week ago and is in a coma in hospital.”

“Fuck! What a coincidence! Wonder if he's been poisoned as well ...”

“I doubt it. Apparently, he's a glutton for punishment,” he explained. “He wouldn't give me the name or address of the hospital, but I did get his dealer's number. It's a woman.”

“Well, every little helps. Perhaps she can.”

“Don't get too hopeful. She's out of Paris, abroad, and won't be back before the end of the year.”

A pointless trip, I thought, because we couldn't stay that long in Paris. We'd have to go back empty-handed and perhaps return later on.

“We've still got one card to play,” my brother said mysteriously. “Let's go for a bite to eat.”

Borja seemed withdrawn and I could tell he was in no mood to talk. I know him and realized he was plotting something. We went into a café and ordered a couple of
croque-monsieurs
and two beers. While we downed our frugal repast, Borja revealed the ace up his sleeve.

“I know someone in Paris,” he said finally. “I'd have preferred not to have recourse to her, but as we've come this far ... Obviously, she's probably on holiday. It's not a good time ...”

“It's worth a try. We've nothing to lose,” I encouraged him.

“I need a cognac first.”

Without going into great detail, he explained that the woman he was thinking of contacting was, as I worked out, the woman who'd broken his heart in a previous life. It was a typical, clichéd story, one to inspire the screenplay for a profound film or a tear-jerking melodrama. Since our reuniting, Borja had told me very little about his life, except for a few disparate, entertaining anecdotes I could never quite believe. I'd got wind of the fact that it hadn't been a path strewn with roses, since, as Montse says, when somebody refuses to talk about their past it's because they have something to hide or a painful wound that has yet to heal.

She was a penniless art student dreaming of becoming an artist. Borja was working as a waiter in a café and both survived on the wage and tips he earned. They lived in one of those tiny attics that have made Paris so famous, without heating or bathroom, and for a couple of years Borja acted as her patron, for want of a better word, while she painted and strove to become that great artist. Apparently, at the same time my brother also wanted to be a writer (you see, we are twins!), but what with his work in the café and the devotion he showed her, he never managed to write a single worthwhile word.

The upshot was that the girl, who was very pretty according to Borja, met a gallery owner thirty years older than herself and thirty million times richer than he was. She married the gallery owner and dropped Borja, who for another couple of years at least paraded his depression and drunken habits around the bars of Paris without writing a line. My broken-hearted brother finally left, and the girl, who was called Camille, stopped painting to devote herself body and soul to her rich spouse's prosperous business. According to Borja, the married couple owned one of Paris's most famous contemporary art galleries.

“It must be fifteen years since I last saw her,” he said after he'd ordered his second cognac. “Even so, it's still a kick in the teeth.”

“You still feel ...” I hinted gently.

“I feel I acted like an idiot for five years of my life,” he said angrily. “But as things stand, going to see her is all that comes to mind.”

I asked him if he preferred to go alone, but he said he'd prefer if we both went. It wasn't too far away and we walked, although it was drizzling and quite cold. Protected by our umbrellas, we reached this particular Parisian temple of art just as tiny snowflakes began to fall.

“Pep, good heavens, I wouldn't have recognized you!” said my brother's ex looking surprised. “I mean ...”

“You're as beautiful as ever,” said Borja giving her three big kisses with a broad smile I knew wasn't genuine.

I'd not had the pleasure of meeting Camille when she was my brother's girlfriend, but knowing his tastes I reckoned she'd not worn very well. She was a very short, incredibly thin woman, skin and bones to be precise. She wore her hair short, dyed various colours and thousands of tiny wrinkles furrowed her face, which was caked in make-up as if she were going to a party. Her patterned dress was hideous. She wore big earrings and rings on every finger. I suddenly realized her over-the-top appearance reminded me of Lola, and things then clicked.

“I suppose you feel peculiar seeing me after so much time ...” Borja began rather nervously.

“Let's say I wasn't expecting you,” she replied curiously, with a big smile.

“You look great. Really,” lied Borja.

“I'm older.
Caramba
, Pep, what are you doing here in Paris?” she asked looking him up and down, “Have you been here long?”

“We've just arrived, you might say. Perhaps you can do a favour for my friend. It's the Christmas holidays and so many people have gone away, I could only think of coming to you for help ...”

Camille smiled at me and Borja did the introductions, “Camille, meet Eduard ... Eduard Másdeu.”

As that woman knew him as Pep Martínez, he'd decided to change my name. He added: “He's a collector.”

“
Enchantée
,” she said offering me a hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” I responded.

“The thing is,” Borja cut to the quick, “my friend would like to contact a painter who's famous here in Paris: Pau Ferrer, but we were told he's in a coma in hospital.”

“That's right, poor chap! And by all accounts he's done for this time.” She shook her head. “It's the second attack he's had ... Apparently,” she said confidentially, “his nose is wrecked on the inside ...”

“Our problem is that his dealer is away from Paris and won't be back till after the holidays,” explained Borja.

“And?”

“He painted a picture my friend bought not long ago, the portrait of a woman. He requires some information about the model used and we were hoping to talk to him. But since he's ill and his dealer isn't here ... I thought perhaps you might know him, the model or might know someone who knows her.” Borja showed her the photograph that was printed in the catalogue.

“Is this the painting he bought?” she asked. “I know it well. He's made a good investment.”

But suddenly she burst out laughing and said: “But
don't you know? Don't you know how Pau paints these portraits?”

Borja and I looked at each other dismayed.

“Pau takes photos of people behind their backs and then uses the photos as the basis for his portraits. He says that what excites him is painting people, but also that people who commission painters to paint their portrait in oils are vain in the extreme and don't deserve the efforts an artist has to make. What's more, Pau thinks studio models are too stagey. Apparently,” she added playfully, “on one occasion
le roi
himself wanted to commission a portrait and he said no.”

“The guy's got balls,” I said.