A Not So Perfect Crime (23 page)

“I think you've miscounted,” I told Montse as I was laying the table. “There's a plate too many.”

Borja, obviously. Lola had invited him. Merche would be eating grapes with her husband, to keep up appearances, so Borja was free. On the one hand, I was happy to see in the New Year at home with my brother, but on the other I worried about my sister-in-law's reaction. Borja didn't know, but Lola had renewed hopes regarding the feelings she aroused in my brother.

The two appeared, very elegantly dressed, at nine-thirty sharp. Borja seemed rather tense and had brought a bouquet for Montse; Lola was also on edge although there was a big smile on her face. She was less made up than usual and looked really pretty.

“At least take off your slippers and put your shoes on! ...” whispered Montse, who'd also dressed up for the occasion, while we headed to the kitchen to prepare the drinks.

I took off my cords and checked shirt and put on something more stylish – though still no tie – in order to please my wife. The dinner was delicious and we had a wonderful time. Thanks to the good offices of the cava I managed to forget the complicated tangle embroiling my brother and me, even with him sat there opposite me and next to Lola. After choking on our grapes as we watched the clock strike twelve on Channel 3, we all rehearsed our New Year good intentions: I was set to give up smoking and Montse (who doesn't smoke, or so she says) was going to be more patient and take life more philosophically. Borja declared that he would read the newspapers from time to time to find out what was going on in the world, and Lola promised she'd finally get round to throwing away all the clutter she'd accumulated at home (I don't know whether Borja realized, but I saw this as her way of insinuating she was making room for the new clutter about to arrive).

We enjoyed a peaceful soirée, the only moment of tension arising at four minutes past twelve when my brother's mobile rang and he got up and went into the lobby to answer the call discreetly. Lola tried to ignore him, and Montse gave me the evil eye, as if I were to blame. Borja came back after a couple of minutes and explained quite naturally that it was his aunt from Santander who always called to wish him a Happy New Year. Neither Lola nor Montse nor I believed a word of it, but it was thoughtful of him to invent an excuse so Lola would feel less upset. Merche's untimely call was all forgotten when Borja put his hand around her waist and said something to her that made her smile.

Lola and Borja disappeared around half past one. Montse's friends soon followed them. My mother-in-law was already asleep, and my wife and I went straight to bed. I slept like a log and the next day, when I woke up, it was gone twelve. Montse had been thoughtful enough not to wake me up.

I heard nothing from Borja or Lola for the whole day. It seemed like a welcome burst of normality after a month beset by sudden surprises. We listened to the usual New Year Vienna waltzes on television – while I breakfasted, Montse and my mother-in-law ironed and folded clothes – and, just before two we all put our coats on to go out for lunch (thanks to the generous payments courtesy of Lluís Font we could allow ourselves that luxury this year). Later in the afternoon, the twins, keen to stake their independence, went to a friend's house, while we accompanied my mother-in-law home and took Arnau to the cinema. On our return, Arnau soon fell asleep, and Montse and I frolicked on the sofa while we made plans for the Easter holidays, now that our finances seemed to be in a better state and the bills weren't piling up.

Only one episode with my mother-in-law slightly upset the New Year's Day peace. It was just before we went out to eat, when the issue of the painting in the passage re-entered our conversation (the previous day we'd told her the frame had broken and it was being repaired). Joana hadn't swallowed this and I could hear her fussing as she walked by the empty wall on her way to the kitchen. Hoping to avoid any awkwardness I mentioned casually the way her initials, J.M., happened to coincide with the famous painter's. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.

“Of course I knew!” she said, raising her voice in a mildly surprised tone. “Why do you think I sign my paintings like that?”

“What do you mean?” I asked not sure where this was all heading.

“Well, you know, I imitate Joaquim Mir's signature!” she said, as if it were obvious.

My heart almost gave up on me. I don't know if I went white or red, but I was baffled for a moment trying to pretend I'd not heard what I'd just heard. I had no desire to deal with the consequences of what my mother-in-law was insinuating, but finally I took a deep breath and asked her: “What do you mean ‘I imitate Joaquim Mir's signature'? You aren't suggesting ...”

“Well,” she started, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, “I didn't know how to sign with a paint brush ... And as our initials coincide and the picture I gave you is a copy of one of his ...”

“The picture is what?!” I exclaimed.

“But I told you ...” she protested. “You never listen to me ...”

My mother-in-law sighed deeply and looked at me as if I wasn't right in the head.

“We once went to the museum in Montserrat with the people from the academy” – she was alluding to the art workshop in her neighbourhood, where she's been going twice a week ever since she was widowed – “and I bought a postcard of one of his pictures. Naturally, as the postcard was very small, I couldn't make an exact copy, but I got his signature from the big poster in the academy.” And she added, “I did practise a bit though, you know, because I wanted it to look right.”

“The last straw,” I thought as I imagined the little scene there'd be when I recounted this surreal mess to the Honourable Lluís Font MP.

Nonetheless, after the initial shock and thinking it over for a few seconds, I decided not to give too much importance to my mother-in-law's confession. I reckoned that any art expert would realize that the canvas painted by Joana was no Mir, however well she'd imitated his signature. It was absurd: completely ridiculous. As I could do nothing about it right then, I put Joana's surprise revelation to the back of my mind and concentrated on celebrating New Year's Day like a normal human being, that is, by stuffing my gut in a good restaurant with my wife, my mother-in-law and the children. The following day I'd have to go to the funeral of a woman I didn't know, and that prospect hardly thrilled me, then on Tuesday we had to meet a Mosso d'Esquadra off the record following the instructions of an important politician who had perhaps done his wife in and who'd had a painting confiscated – a painting that bore the fake signature of a famous painter. I waxed nostalgic momentarily for the uncomplicated life I'd led as a boring bank clerk, until I observed Montse humming as she got ready to go out, and thought I'd not seen her looking so happy for years, with her plait down to her waist, her long skirt and first wrinkles, about which she had no great complexes. I asked Joana to look after Arnau for a while, went into our bedroom and drew the curtains. Before Montse had time to put her tights on, I slowly locked the door and slipped them off her, giving her no time to protest.

18

The rich are even lucky with the weather, I remember musing while I was eating breakfast and looking out of the window to see what kind of day was in store and deciding what clothes to put on.

The day had dawned with a cloudy sky the morning of Lídia Font's funeral, but it was a light grey that didn't threaten to unleash a storm. It drizzled from time to time, enough to persuade people to take their umbrellas out, but not enough to spoil anyone's hair. It was a sad, tranquil day, the weather best suited to funerals, I reckon. A sunscorched day doesn't really go with this kind of ceremony and a black stormy sky can transform a burial into a much more macabre ceremony than is reasonable. The day we buried my father-in-law, may he rest in peace, it chucked it down and there was thunder, lightning and a hurricane that turned the procession to the Montjuïc cemetery into a grim queue of cars and taxis in which the mourners cowered, sheltering from the ravages of the blackened sky. The day we buried Aunt Júlia, on the other hand, fell in August, the sun shone very brightly and the ceremony was rather lacklustre because as soon as it was over we all rushed to the nearest bar for drinks to avoid dehydrating and ended up having aperitifs, with olives and tapas. That's why I reckon wintry weather is much more appropriate: a solemn image of black umbrellas being raised over dark suits, but not a violent downpour forcing people to run hither and thither,
and no bearers rushing to place the bier in the hearse as a curtain of water descended, afraid the coffin might slip from their hands and slide along the ground (which must have happened more than once).

Mass was at five sharp, the bull-fighting hour. I ate lunch at home with Montse and the children, and my brother picked me up just before four. This time he wasn't driving the Smart, as he didn't think it was the car for a funeral.

At four thirty, the square was a mass of umbrellas waiting for the priest to open the church doors. I'd followed Borja's advice and wore a black tie. My suit was the usual dark grey Armani that I'd worn so much of late it needed dry-cleaning, and I had on some new shoes. My brother also wore a dark suit, a white shirt and black tie, a little over the top if you ask me. My sky blue shirt was quite restrained enough and thankfully didn't jar with the sober dress of the mourners. Nonetheless, I did notice the quite extreme black numbers some bejewelled ladies were flaunting under their half unbuttoned mink coats.

As it was Monday and the Christmas holidays, there was hardly any traffic for that time of day. My brother and I had opened our umbrellas, not so much to fend off the fine drizzle as to shield us from the curious gazes of the people there. At this kind of funeral, which involves a famous or public figure, one diversion people enjoy is watching and commenting on who has come and who hasn't. That final farewell, in certain echelons of society, still indicates the relative importance of the deceased and the social position occupied by their nearest and dearest.

Obviously it wasn't a good day because it fell in the middle of the holidays, but I'm sure more than one person had driven down to Barcelona from a ski resort to be present at Lídia Font's final rites. Our client was sufficiently important for some individuals to feel obliged to attend. The President of the Generalitat and the Mayor of the city, however, were not in the funeral cortège. They had sent apologies claiming they hadn't wanted their institutional presence to disrupt the family nature of the ceremony, likewise the national leader of the MP's party. This was clearly an excuse, because there were some three hundred people crowded into the square, and, as far as I know, only kings and sultans have that many relatives. I imagine that none of the distinguished absentees wanted to be in a photograph that might connect him, albeit indirectly, to the unresolved matter of the murder. Logically enough, there were lots of journalists.

The ceremony, mass included, was moving, but above all it was drawn-out. As not everyone could find a seat in church, the ladies sat and the men stood. My new shoes were hurting and the funeral felt like an eternity. At the end, those in attendance filed past to give their condolences to the family, who stood in a row by the altar: the MP was first in the retinue with his daughter on his right. Next to her stood a cohort of relatives in mourning who all looked on impassively. I recognized Sílvia Vilalta, and didn't think she looked exactly grief-stricken.

I stayed the course rather well until I had to offer my hand to Núria Font, the daughter of the deceased. She was a fairhaired, scrawny fifteen year-old who kept drying her tears. She seemed very upset and leaned on her father, who was holding her arm. She was as pallid as her mother must have been, and although she wasn't crying when I gave her my hand, her eyes and nose were red and sore. Her hand was icy, and when I offered her my condolences quite timidly
she thanked me like a robot. She seemed about to faint and the sudden memory of my own parents' death hit me like a lumbar punch and made my eyes moisten.

I was thirteen years old and I didn't go to the funeral. Borja was still in hospital recovering from concussion. Although I'd only a broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs, I was forced to stay at home with my relatives from Soria. Aunt Teresa, Uncle Faustino and I, dressed in obligatory black, waited sorrowfully for the other relatives who'd gone to the cemetery. My aunt sobbed silently and dried her tears on a cotton handkerchief, muttering from time to time between sobs: “It was God's will.”

He could stick his will you know where, I'd have retorted now, but at the time, obviously, I said nothing. Uncle Faustino, sturdy and taciturn, simply looked at his watch, stared at the ground and said nothing. He was my father's brother and was completely distraught. I swallowed my tears, devastated and in a rage because I'd not been allowed to go to the cemetery and bid farewell to my parents. The hospitalized Borja was still unaware of what had happened.

Uncle Faustino suddenly got up: “Fuck bloody God! ... If I catch the bastard driving that car, I'll kill him!” he exclaimed in his Aragonese accent.

He hid his head in his hands and began to cry disconsolately. After a while, he got up again and said: “It's much better if things don't stay pent up here,” he said tapping his chest. “You've got to get over these blows, what ever it takes ...” And he went straight to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of cognac and three small glasses.

It was the first time I'd tasted real alcohol (wine and fizzy pop and the half a glass of champagne we were allowed to drink on special occasions hardly counted). I felt queasy and started to cry as disconsolately as Uncle Faustino had a few moments earlier. It was the first time I'd managed to cry like that from the time they told me in hospital that both parents had died instantaneously in the accident.