B0040702LQ EBOK (47 page)

`Take my advice, as a friend,' said the baron as he got to his
feet, `and sell me your house.'

And then he clapped me hard on the back and disappeared
into the night. My agent was at my side and could not believe
what he had seen.

`Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,' he said. `Did you see the wit
and elegance with which he crushed his monocle? Underneath, the baron is a high-voltage comedian. If you could go
back to being as thin as you used to be, though alas, I fear you
never will, you could be one of the most successful double
acts the cinema has ever seen.'

`You're not saying ...'

`Why not? I'm talking about those odd pairings of actors
who only gave of their best because, how can I put it, because
there was something odd in each of them that triggered the
growth or the emergence into the light of the hidden electricity lurking deep inside the other. An electrifying double
act.'

`I see,' I said, coolly saying goodbye to two former lovers
who had become firm friends, `do you mean like Laurel and
Hardy?'

`Exactly, and Abbot and Costello too.Your thinness and the
baron's extravagant fatness could have made you into a very
successful double act. Unfortunately, the partner you need
now would have to look very different from the baron. That
was what I wanted to talk to you about.'

He led me to a bench in one corner of the garden, near
the swimming pool. And there, while I watched the painful
parade of ex-girlfriends bidding me farewell with the most
wounding and taunting of smiles, he showed me an album full
of photographs of thin actors who might be able to save my
career if I joined forces with them to form a double act.

`Wouldn't a better solution be to ask the baron to slim down until he's reed-thin?' I said, joking, depressed by the
parade of mocking girlfriends and by the fatigue brought on
by the lateness of the hour.

`Well, it's your funeral,' he said threateningly, saying goodbye with a look that told me he would take no further interest
in my career.

But the following morning, apparently recovered and as if
wanting to give me one last chance, he turned up again at
Villa Nemo with his album of photos of thin actors.

`Look at this one,' he would say, pointing to one.

`And look at that one,' I would reply, taking it all as a joke.
But the joke did not last long. In the days that followed, I
ended up doing try-outs with many of those thin actors, tryouts that always ended in utter disaster. Seeing that there was
not a single actor in the whole country with whom I could
form an electrifying double act, we put advertisements in the
papers. But that didn't work either. Then my agent suggested
that perhaps the actor I was looking for lived abroad and that
perhaps (and here began my downfall) he wasn't an actor at
all, in which case, I would have to seek him in the street, or
rather, in the streets of the world.

`You must exhaust every possibility,' he said. And that
reasoning carried me far off, it even took me to the streets of
Hong Kong, in pursuit of a thin man who turned out to be a
complete non-starter. Just when I was despairing of ever finding a partner and was already in deep financial trouble, my
mother, may she rest in peace, came to my aid:

`In Calle Rendel,' she said, `in the bookshop with the same
name as the street, there's a skeletal assistant with a most
unpleasant face and a name that would be more at home in a
cakeshop. He's called Juan Lionesa and he might just be the
man you're looking for.'

Some hours later, Juan Lionesa stood before me - his dark
hair, cut pudding-basin fashion, framing ruddy cheeks and an
expression of mingled tedium and mystery. I had just asked
him for a copy of The Divine Comedy and I found myself
studying him from head to toe. He, instead of looking for the
book, did exactly the same, that is, he subjected me to a close visual inspection that verged on the embarrassing, then he
said:

`Didn't you used to be Brandy Mostaza?'

That `used to be' rather shook me.

`And you,' I replied, `never used to be anyone, which is
much worse.'

`Oh, come on! You're not going to tell me my little
observation offended you?'

I hate the word `observation' and that pedantic, impertinent bookseller's ugly face. I gave him a rather angry look
and silently, roundly cursed him, but he barely batted an eyelid. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. When he
did finally get round to attempting to locate a copy of The
Divine Comedy, he glanced over at a (rather empty) shelf and
stood for a moment in profile to me. I saw then, that in that
position, Lionesa's features, his left profile, were curiously like
mine in the days when I was thin and successful. His left
profile, reminiscent of a heron on heat, was enough to make
the most serious-minded of mortals laugh. Unwittingly,
Lionesa possessed the essence of the comic quality that I had
lost, the secret of my former success, a real gold mine. My
mother had been absolutely right.

`Listen,' I said in a very confidential tone of voice, `I
need to talk to you alone, outside the bookshop, do you
understand? It's about a matter that might interest you.
And since you obviously don't have a copy of The Divine
Comedy, give me something else, something by Jules Verne,
for example.'

He arched his eyebrows and the expression on his face
changed radically, as if the reference to Jules Verne contained
some transcendental message. And then, slowly and very
respectfully, he said in a low voice:

`The cake will travel by balloon.'

I could merely have assumed that he was mad or that he
was simply making fun of me, but for some reason I had a
sudden hunch that those words might be a form of password
(and they were, but not the kind I imagined). At first, I
thought that Lionesa had sensed in me a being who, in many respects, complemented him and, because of that, he had
invented a secret language just for the two of us, words that
allowed us to understand each other, but prevented anyone
else from understanding what we were talking about.

`The cake will travel by balloon,' I said, thinking that by my
reply I was doing no more than recognise the strange electrical current that seemed to unite us, thinking too that with
those words I was acknowledging the status of the secret
language that had just sprung into being between us.

`The cake will travel by balloon, and I'll be at Jacob's Bar at
half past eight,' he said. Shortly afterwards, I left the bookshop
with a copy of Five Weeks in a Balloon under my arm. I read
the first few chapters while I was waiting at Jacob's Bar for
Lionesa, who arrived punctually. He was wearing dark glasses
and had his coat collar slightly turned up. He greeted me from
a distance, with a lift of his eyebrows, but when he came over
to me, he acted as if he didn't know me. He sat down on my
left, at the bar, presenting me with his anodyne right profile.
He ordered a beer and just when I was thinking he was about
to ask me about the matter that had brought him there, he
acted as if he expected nothing at all from me, except the cake
that was supposed to be travelling by balloon.

'OK,' he said, still not looking at me, addressing me as `tu'
and keeping his head absolutely still, `when I finish my beer,
pass me the cake, and good luck, comrade. Ali, one piece of
advice. Next time, try to be a bit cleverer and more discreet
and make sure you get the password right.'

So it was a password, but not the kind of password I had
expected. I had stepped right into the eye of a hurricane,
doubtless a plot or some sort of espionage ring. I cursed
myself for not having simply disappeared before, when I left
the bookshop. I was angry with myself for not guessing that
Lionesa was a conspirator awaiting some secret message about
Jules Verne or about a balloon.

While he was slowly drinking his beer, which I would have
to pay for, I was weighing up how best to extricate myself
from that particular mess and I finally decided that I would
simply say that, for reasons beyond everyone's control, the cake would be delayed for twenty-four hours. And, bold
as you like, I told him; no one has ever looked at me like
that, with a look, first, of utter astonishment, immediately
superseded by one of terror.

`There's no need to look at me like that, just because there
won't be any cake until tomorrow,' I said loudly, out of sheer
nervousness.

That was how I talked when I found myself in difficulties. I
would either go off at a tangent or race madly ahead. Lionesa,
however, seemed unable to believe what was happening,
while everyone else in the bar was under the impression that
drink had just brought about the birth of a friendship
between two complete strangers; one drunk even rewarded us
with a smile and a burst of loud applause. It was obvious to me
that the marked difference in our physical appearance made us
an attractive pair. Lionesa was clearly not of the same opinion,
indeed everything seemed to indicate that he saw in me
someone who, for whatever reason, had just set him a deadly
trap.

The strange electricity between us meant that suddenly,
like someone throwing out the main ballast from a balloon, I
lost all my nervousness and transferred it to him. I felt very
calm then - I would go so far as to say that I have never felt
more serene - and I decided that there was no reason to get
alarmed and that the most practical thing would be to put the
record straight and tell Lionesa the whole truth. I explained
that I had gone to the bookshop because I was looking for a
thin man to work with me in films which were guaranteed to
be a great success if only I could find the ideal partner.

`And that ideal partner is me, is that what you're trying to
say?' he asked with such a degree of aggression and distrust
that I thought he might kill me.

`Yes, of course. Please, you must believe me. I've got no
interest in politics whatsoever. There's been a misunderstanding, that's all. I came into the bookshop because my mother
told me that the man I was looking for worked there. I've
been all the way to Hong Kong in search of the man who
could help save my career. And now all I've got is my house, Villa Nemo, because I've lost everything else trying to
relaunch my career. I need you to join forces with me, to be
my artistic partner. Otherwise, IT have to sell Villa Nemo and
I'll be out in the street. Help me, please.'

`Take a good look at me,' he said and in his coat pocket
there appeared what might well have been a gun. `I'm pointing a gun at you, so cut the crap, pay for the beers and just
walk out of here ahead of me, and no funny business.'

It was like a nightmare. I paid for the beers and we went out
into the street. Lionesa hailed a taxi and, as he did so, we were
walking so close to each other, that our legs and overcoats
became entangled and we both tripped and fell to the ground.
I managed to trap Lionesa's tie beneath my great bulk, but he
sprang up, slightly flustered, and again pointed his gun at me.
Everyone in the street was laughing and enjoying the spectacle, which confirmed me in my view that I had found my
ideal partner and that, if only politics and that wretched gun
had not got in the way of our rise to stardom, we could have
been an electrifying double act.

When I got into the taxi, I realised how difficult it would
be to escape once the taxi was moving, since I could barely get
my body through the door and Lionesa himself had to heave
me into the cramped interior. As we were driving through the
city, past the area around Parque Rendel, I was filled by a
feeling of profound melancholy. I looked sadly out of the
window wondering if I would ever again see those trees I had
so often felt drawn to. And I wondered too if I should bid
farewell to life. Even in the most desperate situations, I have
never lost my sense of humour. I'm one of those people who
believes that life is utterly laughable and that life itself is made
up of pure laughter and that, although we may have no idea
what awaits us at the end, the best strategy is to go to it
laughing, with a tragic lack of seriousness. Perhaps that was
why I was able to look at Lionesa in a relaxed manner and say
with a broad smile:

`May one know where you are planning to kill me?'

I saw the taxi-driver trying not to laugh. It was clear, or so I
thought, that from the very first, he had found us irresistibly funny, well, not everyone hails a taxi in a twosome, rolling
around on the ground. To conceal how much he had enjoyed
our circus act and how much we had made him laugh, or
perhaps simply in order to participate in what must have
seemed to him a great festival of humour, the taxi driver
cleared his throat and said to Lionesa:

`Excuse me, it was the corner of Juarez and Verlas you
wanted, wasn't it?'

`No, it was the corner of Verlas and Juarez,' replied an
angry Lionesa, who did not seem entirely himself. His
uncertainty and the half-hearted laughter that had taken hold
of me (I kept thinking that I was about to die and I found the
idea highly amusing) encouraged me to move closer to him as
soon as we stopped at a traffic lights. I was, and still am, a great
actor. I leaned forward in a strange manner, thrusting my chin
forward and showing my teeth. I reckoned that Lionesa would
not be prepared for that. My face, normally soft and bland,
hardened into something resembling a stone mask, deathly
white to start with, but deepening to a dark red that spread
out from my cheekbones, and finally became black, as if I were
about to choke. I thought Lionesa would be unable to bear it
and would faint, but he didn't, he simply sat there looking at
me strangely.

`Such a pity, we would have made a mint,' I said and headbutted him hard. I came down on top of him with my whole
weight, stone mask included. He lost consciousness. After
some strenuous bodily manoeuvrings, I managed to get out of
the taxi and take refuge amongst the people thronging the
entrance to the metro. I glanced back and, seeing no one
following me, I gave a sigh of relief. I got into a carriage on
line 5 in the belief that I was travelling towards freedom. Poor
fool, I didn't know what still awaited me.That same night,
minutes after talking to my agent, who did not believe a single
word I said, the phone rang in Villa Nemo and a criminal
voice informed me that they had kidnapped my mother. If I
went to the police to tell them about either the kidnapping or
the plot, they would kill first my mother and then me. If I did
not pay them a million dollars in ransom money, I would never see my mother alive again. When I had paid them and
they had set her free, little would have changed, except that
my mother could be with me once more, although if I subsequently went to the police with the story, I could not be
with my mother, since, as well as being a million dollars
poorer, I would also be dead, and dead men don't live with
their mothers.