Tattoo (16 page)

She straightened her eyes again and roared with laughter at her own joke, all the while picking shreds of meat from between her teeth with a toothpick.

‘Never mind that, tell him how you got on this morning.’

‘Oh yes, Pepe, I had a real laugh. Don’t you need an assistant more often?’

She lowered her voice to a stage whisper.

‘I was spying on them the whole morning. Look at what they did to my hair. Not bad, is it? I thought it was going to be worse. I got them to do the whole works: I was in there from nine in the morning till two this afternoon.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So what did you find out?’

‘They’re very busy. Very. The four girls and Queta can hardly cope. If only I’d listened to my mother! You know, Pepe, I’m from Bilbao really, but in our line of business you have to say you’re Andalusian if you want to keep your client happy. I’ve no idea why. So I soon started speaking with an accent and swaying my hips like a flamenco dancer, and I half believe I’m from Seville myself.’

Carvalho had always thought that prostitutes from the Basque country, Catalonia or even Madrid pretended they were Andalusians out of pure racism. They transferred their shame about how they earned their living on to Spain’s least developed region, in this way somehow preserving the ethnic purity of the Basques, the noble lineage of Castille, and Catalan industrial prowess. But Charo’s friend insisted it was all down to the clients.

‘It’s what they want. If you tell them you’re from Bilbao they look at you disappointed. As if you’re not going to give them a good time.’

It was her turn to give them a lecture. She demonstrated that even in whoring theory is the inseparable companion of practice, and that the division of labour has produced disasters splitting the two apart not only in almost every area of art and the professions, but also in philosophy, sociology and even whorology. The authors of the vast majority of books written about prostitution are therapists who know nothing about what really goes on, and the Basque-Andalusian girl’s critical capacities knocked all their theories into a cocked hat.

‘As soon as they see a client, lots of the girls start with their Andalusian lovey-dovey stuff and lisping about what a good time they’re going to give them. Some clients like it, but there are others who don’t. It all depends.’

Carvalho tried to bring her spaceship back into the earth’s atmosphere, and in particular to Queta’s hair salon.

‘Oh yes, that. They work so hard! It reminded me of my poor mother who wanted me to be a hairdresser. If I had listened to her I’d be set up for life and earning a fortune by now.’

‘You’re not doing so badly. You can’t complain.’

‘This isn’t the moment to tell me that, Pepe. I’ve been in hiding for more than a week and haven’t earned a cent. Not like your friend here. She’s been clever, thanks to you. There’s not many men who would have done what you did for Charo, Pepe. A lot of them would have just exploited her. You told her to choose her clients carefully and to wait for them to come to her. Not to go out on to the streets looking for them. She’s almost respectable.’

Eyes moist with tears, Charo put her hand on Pepe’s and
squeezed it affectionately. One day I’ll marry her, he thought. The wine really must be stronger than it seemed. He would marry Charo, but only when they were old and grey.

‘Very old,’ he blurted out without meaning to.

After two coffees they returned to business. It was a warm, star-filled night. They went out into the square opposite San Cugat monastery, and strolled along while the Andalusian girl told them what she had seen. Carvalho was walking in shirtsleeves between the two women, his arms round their shoulders.

‘There are four girls as well as Queta. Her husband is always in the upstairs office, except when he comes down and goes for a drink in the bar on the corner. Otherwise he gets Fat Nuria to bring him something. The four assistants are very young and friendly. Fat Nuria is the most recent, but she’s almost more in charge than Queta is. She’s very full of herself. The others start at nine in the morning and have no fixed time to leave. Well, they’ve all gone by nine in the evening, except on Saturdays when they can be there as late as ten, working behind closed doors. Two of the girls live together. They’re sisters, from Andalusia. Real Andalusians, Pepe. They’re hard workers: they started in Jaen. And Queta shows a lot of patience training them. They’re not very talented, but they’re learning. The third assistant has a proper fiancé. He comes to meet her every day from work, even though sometimes he has to wait for hours in the bar for her to finish. She’s Catalan, from Barceloneta. Her father and brothers work in the port. Fat Nuria is the only one who has lunch in the salon because she does the shopping for Queta, and often buys the food. She always leaves at eight because she lives in Badalona and her brother comes for her in a delivery van.’

‘Is he a driver, then?’

‘No, it’s his own van. The family has a salted and frozen fish business down by the shore at Badalona. Fat Nuria’s father used to be a ship’s carpenter, but he got a bad problem with his eyes. He couldn’t stand the paint, the sawdust or anything else in the carpentry shop. Strange, isn’t it? The smell of fish from the warehouse doesn’t affect him in the slightest.’

‘How do the girls get on with Queta?’

‘Well, there’s a bit of friction with Fat Nuria, because she’s got a really high opinion of herself. The boss thinks a lot of her. You can tell because sometimes he asks for things it would be easier for Queta to bring, but that minx always gets in first. Queta doesn’t like that, it’s obvious.’

She tapped her nostril.

‘But she’s a pussycat really. She’s so fat you think she could eat everything in sight, but she’s not so bad underneath.’

‘What’s Queta like physically?’

‘Don’t tell him, you’ll only arouse his imagination.’

‘Aren’t we two enough for you, Pepe, darling?’

‘What do you mean, “we two”? I’m his girlfriend, remember.’

Pepe squeezed the two hens’ necks and prevented them taking it any farther.

‘What do they say about Señor Ramón and Queta?’

‘Well, apparently he was happily married. He has grownup children with his wife. Queta was her manicurist, and he fell for her. Things became serious, and in the end he left his wife and children. He set Queta up in the hair salon, and ever since he’s been there too, up in the office looking after the accounts. There’s no talk of either of them having anyone else. He’s getting on a bit, he must be around sixty, but Queta has just turned forty and her body is still young. Weren’t you asking what she was like? Well, she has a young
body. She looks good for her age. She hasn’t had any children or brought any up, and that shows. There’s twenty years between them, and that shows too. They got together fifteen years ago, when he was in his second adolescence and she was still a child. But now … a woman has her needs, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, you’re right. What about Señor Ramón? Does he have any regular visitors?’

‘Yes, there are salesmen, people selling perfumes, hair products, that kind of thing. He’s in charge of all that side of the business. They can’t be doing too badly, because Queta told me they’ve bought land out by Mollet. It’s a very good area because that’s where they’re going to put all the factories. Which is a good idea, because factories in a city like Barcelona only pollute the air we breathe. You almost have to wear a gas mask as it is. Just take a breath up here. It’s wonderful. Come on, I’ll buy you both an
horchata
.’

They drank it standing up next to a stall lit up by a chain of coloured lights, yellow and red streamers and blue paper cloths. The man selling
horchata
was dressed in white and had a navy beret on. Around his neck he wore a polka-dot scarf. He looked the two women up and down, but when his eyes caught Carvalho’s he soon stopped his inspection. Charo and her friend were giggling at everything, pushing and nudging each other. Carvalho was trying to stay aloof, enjoying the cold
horchata
, which tickled his tastebuds with a thousand tiny pinpricks of creamy flavour.

‘Listen, sweetheart. How did Fat Nuria come to have so many privileges at the hairdresser’s?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘How did she get to be so important there? She can’t be more than sixteen.’

‘She’s fifteen, but seeing she’s as fat as a pig she looks older.
She’s got more up here than I have,’ she said, squeezing her own breasts. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve no idea. I think her father and Señor Ramón know each other. It was her father who got her into the salon. She wants to spend three more years there, then set up on her own in Badalona. She knows what she wants. For example, she’s got the boss to let her have Monday afternoons off so she can go to see famous hairdressers put on special styling shows for others in the business. That’s the best way to learn. Hairdressers come from all over Catalonia, as well as apprentices and even some city officials. The two sisters asked Señor Ramón if they could do the same, even if it came out of their wages. One each on alternate Mondays. But he refused. Yet he lets Fat Nuria go. She disappears every Monday and he doesn’t even take it out of her wages. I reckon Queta must be really fed up with it. I don’t blame her.’

They walked back to their cars. Charo’s friend insisted she lent her the car and stayed with Carvalho up in Vallvidrera.

‘I’ll put it in the car park and everything. Give me the keys and I’ll see to it.’

‘No and no. Pepe doesn’t want me to stay with him, and I don’t either.’

‘You want her to stay, don’t you, Pepe?’

Carvalho shrugged his shoulders.

‘Let me have the car, Charo, then you can go with him and have another supper.’

That set them both off laughing again, but Carvalho was wondering whether he could face cooking the cappelletti at that time of night. He did not want them to dry out in his fridge, but he really did not feel like spending any time in the kitchen now.

‘I’m not going to let you have the car.’

‘I really don’t mind taking it for you.’

‘But I mind.’

‘Don’t you trust me to drive it properly?’

‘Yes, that must be the reason.’

‘Did you hear her? She let’s you roam freely in her apartment and her fridge, but won’t let you have her car. Charo, don’t be like one of those men who won’t lend you their precious fountain pen, their car or their wife.’

‘Well, that’s what I am like.’

‘So you won’t lend me your car?’

‘No.’

‘Your fountain pen?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Pepito here?’

‘Forget it.’

The Bilbao-Andalusian turned to Pepe, her eyes completely crossed.

‘She’s a real spoilsport, isn’t she?’

E
very day in the newspapers Bromuro found confirmation of his suspicions about what people are given to eat and drink. He was a stalwart champion of ecological and consumers’ problems who was so ahead of his time that his views went unrecognised by theoreticians who had jumped on the bandwagon more recently. He had already broadened his attacks far beyond what he saw as the anti-erotic plot to introduce bromide into drinking water, soft drinks bottles and mass-produced bread.

‘Can’t you smell it?’

‘All I can smell is your polish.’

‘I wish that’s all it was. That’s a healthy smell. I’ve been breathing it all my life, and I’m still alive and kicking. But is that what causes my bronchitis? Or my ulcer? Of course not. It’s the air in this city. Can’t you smell it? Completely polluted.’

Bromuro ended his dire pronouncement with a stealthy look all round his client to convince him that within a twenty-metre radius there were evil forces at work that could damage his body’s most delicate fibres.

‘Shoeshine?’

Carvalho accepted his offer. As Bromuro knelt in front of him, it was as though his voice were coming out of the top of his bald head.

‘Have you got another five hundred pesetas?’

‘Have you got something for me?’

‘No, but I just thought that as you’ve been so generous lately …’

‘Are you sure you haven’t found out anything?’

‘Nothing. There’s nobody left to ask. Anyone who isn’t in the clink has left the country. It looks as though quite a few have been rounded up. They’ve gone right to the top this time. Of course, nothing will happen to the big fish, but for the moment they’re like rabbits in headlights: not making a move. What I can tell you is that your drowned man had a record, and a long one at that. And all the rest was due to him. Frenchy was the first to be picked up. She won’t be out in a long while. The dead guy didn’t say a word, but she landed everyone else in it.’

‘What’s this Frenchy like?’

‘She’s blonde. Fat, but solid. Young. A great arse. She pretended she was French. You’ve probably seen her street-walking on the Rambla, near Calle Fernando. Then she struck lucky and moved up to the Sarriá highway. She had lost weight recently. They like them a bit thinner up there. Like film stars, like that dry stick of a woman in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. Did you like her?’

Carvalho knew he had to be careful not to offend Bromuro.

‘She wasn’t bad.’

‘But she had nothing in front and even less behind! When that guy drew his revolver and told her to take all her clothes off, I said to myself, what, are you some kind of idiot, with a gun and a half like that you could get yourself something far juicier than her. Poor clown. I’m not saying I’d kick her out of bed: there’s no woman who doesn’t deserve having a favour done. And there’s the problem: there are so many of them, and we’ve got so little to keep them happy with.’

‘Don’t get started.’

‘Well, it’s good to have a philosophy in life. And this is mine.’

Bromuro stood up, and took Pepe by surprise. He was tense and alert as though waiting to leap on stage for his big moment:

‘The philosophy of the hand’s vital triangle.’

He put his thumb down near his trouser pocket, and his little finger over his fly. Then he flicked his thumb up and down across the trouser front.