Southern Seas (24 page)

The woman went off to the kitchen looking preoccupied. He stood up. The audience was over.

Carvalho left him a couple of telephone numbers.

‘If your son drops by, tell him I’d be interested to meet him.’

‘I doubt that we’ll be seeing him. I’m almost certain of that.’

He accompanied Carvalho to the door.

‘You always think you’re doing the best for your kids, but either they turn out bad, or you find that you’ve made a mistake. I could never get anywhere with the girl. And what was I supposed to do with the boy? He was always a rebel. He was always answering me back, from when he was so-high. I’d give him a couple of good wallops, and he’d just stare at me, straight in the eye. I’d bash him again, and he’d still be staring.

‘You know what he did with Amparo one day? He threw a plugged-in iron at her, so as to electrocute her. Dirty little swine! But to look at him, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It seemed a rotten thing to do, putting him in a home, but what was the alternative? Some very decent men have come out of those places. Maybe he’ll change too, when he grows up and has
a family of his own. It’s not true that he’s rotten through and through. In his heart of hearts, he loves us, I know. When I threw him out last time, he came creeping back with toffees for the children. Maybe he’ll come to his senses one day …’

If you’re lucky enough to have a son who doesn’t flinch when you give him a wallop, then it’s possible that he’ll turn out levelheaded in the end.

‘It’s in his interest, and yours, that you tell him to contact me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go and see if you can find him.’

‘Bromide’ the shoe-black was wielding a toothpick in desultory fashion, in an attempt to extract little pieces of squid from a brownish sauce. The skin hung from his wasted face, and the speckles and blackheads on his bald patch absorbed the witless attention of the waiter as he watched Bromide’s skilful performance with the toothpick from the other side of the bar.

‘You’re not catching a lot today …’

‘What do you expect me to catch, since it’s all water? I don’t know why you call it squid in sauce. It’s more like the Mediterranean with a couple of bits of dead fish in it. Not even enough for a nibble. That’s just what I needed to restore my lost appetite! Pour me another glass of wine. At least the waterworks are still functioning. Make it real wine, not that powdered garbage you mix with water.’

Carvalho touched Bromide lightly on the shoulder.

‘Pepiño, you old son of a bitch. You’re turning into a real scruff lately. Look at the state of those shoes. Shall I clean them for you?’

‘Finish your little snack.’

‘Some snack! It looks more like the sinking of the
Titanic
. I’ve never seen so much sauce for so little squid. Hey, you, bring us the whole bottle, and a couple of glasses.’

Carvalho sat down, and Bromide bent over his shoes.

‘I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Fire away.’

‘What do you know about flick-knife gangs?’

‘Quite a lot. I know all the ones in this area. And that’s saying something, because there’s a new one every day. Any kid with two balls thinks he can set up on his own account.’

‘What about other areas? Holy Trinity, San Magín, San Ildefonso, Hospitalet, Santa Coloma …?’

‘Hold on, now. I can’t keep up with all of them! You’re behind the times, Pepiño. Every area has its autonomy these days: things aren’t like they used to be. Once I could know everything that happened in Barcelona just from the hundred square yards around here. That’s impossible now. Anyone coming from Santa Coloma is like a foreigner.’

‘Don’t you have ways of finding out?’

‘None at all. If they were the old kind of villains, like in my time or yours, I’d be able to find things out. But these knife-gangs are different. They go their own way. They have their own laws. You know what young people are like nowadays. Film stars. That’s how they see themselves. Bloody film stars.’

‘What are you wearing there?’

‘A badge againt nuclear power stations.’

‘Getting into politics at your age?’

‘I’ve been saying it for years. They’re poisoning us. We’re forced to eat and breathe shit—in fact the healthiest thing about us is probably our shit, because our body keeps the bad and gets rid of the good. People laugh at you. They call me Bromide because I’ve been saying for forty years that they’re putting bromide in our bread and water to stop us getting together and screwing all the time.’

‘What’s that got to do with nuclear energy?’

‘It’s the same thing. Now they’ve decided to
really
do us in. Not just piddling bromides. Mass murder. I don’t miss a single demonstration.’

‘So you’re an ecologist?’

‘Eco-bollocks! Drink some wine, Pepiño, and enjoy my company while I’m here, because one of these days I’m just going to get up and go. To another area. I’m feeling real bad, Pepiño. One day it’s this kidney that hurts, and the next it’s the other. Feel here. Can’t you see the swelling? I’m keeping a close watch on it, because I like to keep an eye on myself. I’m like an animal. What does a cat do when it gets ill? Does it go to the doctor? No, it goes onto the balcony and eats a geranium. And it’s the same with a dog. We should do like animals do. Anyway, I keep a close watch on myself, and this thing came up a couple of weeks ago. You don’t know what it might be, do you?’

‘No.’

‘For weeks and weeks I was feeding myself on tinned cockles. I’ve a brother-in-law who works at a canning factory in Vigo, and he sometimes sends me a few tins. I was short of cash, and said to myself: Bromide, eat the stuff, because shellfish are very good for you. So, I went on eating the stuff until this swelling started. I ate nothing but bread and tomatoes and tinned cockles. I’d always eaten bread and tomatoes before, without getting any swellings. So, what’s your conclusion?’

‘The cockles.’

‘Obviously.’

‘You’re letting me down, Bromide. I hoped you’d be able to solve my knife-gang problem.’

‘This city isn’t what it used to be. In the old days, a whore was a whore and a gangster was a gangster. Now there are whores everywhere, and everyone’s a gangster. You know what I heard one day? That you’d been caught breaking into a ham shop. And I believe it. Evil is stalking the streets, with no order and no
organization. Once you could just talk to a few guys and you’d know the whole set-up. Now you can talk to a hundred, and still not get the picture. Do you remember my gay pal Martillo de Oro, the good-looking one? Well, the other day they beat him to death. Who did it? It wasn’t the competition, or the Marseilles mob. Just four Guineans who happened to get together and declared war. That couldn’t have happened before. There was more respect. We’re all rotten, all crazy. We need a strong hand.

‘Men like Muñoz Grandes, my general in the Blue Division—that’s what we need. There was a man who could impose respect! And he was honest, too. Paquito left a widow who didn’t have to worry about making ends meet. But Grandes left the world with no more than he came in with. Anyway, what’s up with you, Pepiño? Why are you so interested in knife-gangs? You’re keeping pretty low company these days!’

‘They used a knife on the husband of one of my clients.’

‘That’s a hard one—much harder than a gun killing. Everyone’s got a knife.’

It’s a cold death. You see the eyes of death. You move closer, you stop, and you can feel death inside as you open a little icy passage in the flesh. Carvalho felt the knife he always carried in his pocket. An animal which lived by nibbling at death, until it suddenly unleashed it in a full burst of pent-up fury.

‘Steer clear of the knife-gangs, Carvalho. They’re all young and crazy … with nothing to lose.’

‘Thanks for the advice. Here, take this. Lay off the cockles and get yourself a steak!’

‘A thousand pesetas, for nothing! No, I don’t want it, Pepe.’

‘Another time you’ll give me some information.’

‘Anyway, my stomach’s fucked and I can’t take meat any more. They pump it too full of water and hormones. You can’t even breathe properly, these days. I’ll buy myself a few bottles of good wine instead—the one you drink. That keeps you going and kills the bacteria.’

‘Good luck in your fight for a world without nuclear power stations.’

‘Luck never comes the way of the likes of me. Soon we’ll have nuclear suppositories up our arses! Have you listened to these politicians? It’s them who give the green light. Yes, and then they want popular approval, so that their democratic circus stays intact. A Muñoz Grandes—that’s what we need. Even a Franco. I tell you …’

‘It was Franco who put up the nuclear power stations in the first place.’

‘Because Muñoz Grandes was dead! Otherwise …’

He rang Biscuter to say that he was going straight to Vallvidrera. Then he located Viladecans, after a telephone chase which ended in Planas’s office.

‘I need to talk to the policeman you mentioned.’

‘Don’t make too many demands on him.’

‘I won’t. It’s absolutely essential.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Stay in your office between ten and eleven tomorrow morning. If I manage to get hold of him, I’ll tell him to call round. Just a moment, Señor Planas has something to say to you.’

‘Carvalho? This is Planas. Is it absolutely necessary for you to go stirring things up in San Magín?’

‘You’ve got loyal foremen! Nobody told me not to make inquiries in San Magín.’

‘At this moment, any connection between Stuart’s death and our business affairs would be very damaging. I’d like to have a private word with you. Would tomorrow suit you? We could have lunch together. Two o’clock at the Oca Gourmet.’

Yes had climbed over the garden gate. She was sitting on the steps, tugging playfully at Bleda’s ears.

‘Don’t pull her ears. They’re very delicate, and I don’t want them falling off,’ Carvalho called through the gate as he arrived. Bleda’s tongue finished the job that Bromide had started on Carvalho’s shoes, and then tried to continue the cleaning operation up his trouser leg. But Carvalho lifted the dog, looked her in the eye, and asked what she had been doing during the day. Bleda pondered the question with her tongue sticking out.

‘I got here before you.’

‘So I see.’

‘I’ve brought some supper, too.’

‘I dread to think. What is it, vichyssoise with cocaine?’

Yes waved a wicker basket tantalizingly under his nose.

‘It’s full of special treats. Four kinds of cheese that I guarantee you’ve never tasted before; a chicken-liver pâté made by an old woman in Vic, and a wild-boar sausage from the Arán valley.’

‘Where did you get all this stuff?’

‘From a cheese shop that somebody recommended, on Calle Muntaner, near where it joins with Calle General Mitre. I’ve written down the address for you.’

Carvalho seemed to approve of the girl’s gastronomic initiative, and opened the front door for her to enter.

‘I’ve also brought a book for you to burn. I don’t know if you’ll like it.’

‘One book’s as good as the next.’

‘It’s my mother’s favourite book.’

‘It’ll burn.’

‘It’s called
The Ballad of the Sad Café
.’

‘We’ll burn the ballad, and the sadness, and the café, and even the hunchback too.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘Before you were born. You can start tearing it up.’

When Carvalho returned with an armful of firewood, he found Yes reading the book by the fireplace.

‘It’s very good. I feel a bit bad about burning it.’

‘When you get to be my age, you’ll be grateful for having read one book less. Particularly that one. The woman who wrote it is a miserable wretch who couldn’t survive even by writing.’

‘Take pity on her!’

‘No. On the fire with it.’

‘Let’s swap it for one of yours, the one you hate most. Then I promise I’ll bring ten more from home for you to burn.’

‘Do what you like.’

‘No. I’ll tear it up.’

She began piling torn pages onto the old ashes. Carvalho lit the fire, and when he turned round he noticed that Yes had laid the table.

‘What about the cocaine?’