Tattoo (8 page)

‘Which part of the province?’ asked the shy Galician, at last finding something he felt he could comment on.

‘From Souto, near San Juan de Muro.’

‘That’s poor land. It’s all very poor round there.’

Carvalho could barely remember how poor the land or the people were, but nodded energetically. He asked how they were getting along in Holland. Whether they didn’t have any problems. The two men glanced at each other.

‘We’re not interested in politics. We’re here to save a bit of money and return to Spain.’

‘But are you treated all right? Does the Spanish embassy look after you?’

The two men exchanged looks once more, and when the one from León faced Carvalho again, he had the expression of a man being questioned in a police station. Carvalho guessed they thought he must be a Spanish cop trying to work out their political affiliation.

‘I’m only asking because I used to have a friend in The Hague who worked in the same factory as you, but he said it was awful. We called him the Tattoo Man: he had a huge one on his back with the motto
Born to raise hell in hell
.

The two men were listening closely as they walked on.

‘Was he here a long time ago?’

‘Two or three years.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I don’t really remember. We used to call him the Tattoo Man, so we never bothered about what his real name might be.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Tall, blond, good looking. He sounded like a foreigner.’

The Galician dug his elbow into his mate’s side.

‘That’s the American.’

‘Could be. A tall blond kid used to work here. We called him the American.’

‘And he had a tattoo.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Now this gentleman has mentioned it, I remember it well. We once played a football match against the Spaniards from the Philips factory at Eindhoven. The American played for us, and I saw his tattoo in the changing rooms. I remember the bit about hell. I can’t remember the rest, but I do recall that word.’

T
hey reached the social centre, which was back close to the factory. It was not managed by Spaniards, and there was no sight of any Spanish food. Carvalho was served a strange sort of aubergine stew, which he recognised as a pale imitation of the Turkish
eman bayildi
. The waiter was Turkish, but he spoke a few Spanish words with an Italian accent, enough for him to communicate with both the Spanish and Italian workers. The man from León insisted on paying for a round of beers, brushing aside the timid, hesitant offer made by the Galician. Then the three of them ate what was put before them.

‘I can’t remember the name of my friend the Tattoo Man. Or the American, as you used to call him. Could it have been Luis?’

‘No, sir.’

The Galician knew what he was talking about, and began to speak with the authority of an expert.

‘His name was Julio Chesma. He was from Puertollano, in Ciudad Real province.’

The man from León was not so sure about his family name.

‘Julio, yes. But I wouldn’t swear it was Chesma.’

‘Chesma. Ches-ma. Believe me. When I damaged this hand here I spent three months in the office, and saw
the records of half the company. Julio Chesma. From Puertollano. He was twenty-seven.’

‘Listen to him, will you? He sits there quietly as though he isn’t taking in a thing, then all of a sudden he’s a real encyclopedia.’

‘Did he quit here a long time ago?’

‘He didn’t stay long. He was one of those who soon get tired of it and look for something easier. Some people don’t know they’re born.’

‘He went off to Amsterdam.’

Carvalho began to look at his fellow Galician like Robinson Crusoe gazing at the washed-up boat promising him his life back. The man had the memory of a great masturbator. He was aware he had won the battle over the man from León’s senseless chatter and that he knew things of interest to this half-Catalan gentleman. The price of his knowledge was to have it praised. Carvalho paid the price.

‘You’re the twenty-four-volume Espasa. What a memory you have!’

‘He lived in Amsterdam at number sixteen, Rokin Street.’

He was overwhelmed by his success. He could not help laughing proudly at his own prowess, at the way he had impressed not only the workers’ leader from León but this city slicker.

‘How on earth do you know all this?’

The man from León was annoyed as much as astonished. The Galician explained that they had become friends through football, and that they had met up some Sunday afternoons in Amsterdam. He sensed that the other man was upset at not being the centre of attention any more, and threw him a lifeline: he questioned Julio Chesma’s character, making him a scapegoat on the altar of morality.

‘He was a lazy bastard.’

‘You’re right there,’ agreed the other, catching the line.

‘A scatterbrain,’ the Galician went on, sacrificing an absent friend in order to keep in with the one sitting next to him.

‘In Amsterdam he shacked up with a woman and found money from somewhere, though I’ve no idea where. He lived in a very nice boarding house in that street I mentioned. He had a room to himself with a bathroom and all mod cons.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He lived off women.’

The man from León saw an opportunity to refocus attention on him.

‘Lots of them do that. The women here think we’re dying for it, so when they get together with a Spaniard or a Turk it’s a serious business. It’s easy to get into it, but you need to use your brain. Which is what your friend never did.’

‘He wasn’t really a friend. I knew him from football and he was good fun. You can’t deny that.’

‘His sort are always good fun. They don’t make any demands on themselves, so they demand nothing of anyone else either.’

Carvalho couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for the man from León. He obviously had the ideology he needed to prevent him thinking his own life was shit. And by now he had the bit between his teeth.

‘That’s why they never feel under any obligation to anyone. So they don’t make any demands, and they always seem wonderful. You, for example, are not married, but you help keep your mother, and you send money back so they can improve the house. If they need a cow, or a sister gets married, or someone falls ill, you chip in, however hard it might be for you.’

At this, the Galician’s eyes turned misty. He nodded in agreement. Carvalho caught himself agreeing as well,
remembering how he had contributed to his own family home in Galicia thanks to the two five-thousand-peseta money orders he had sent his aunt and uncle. But soon he was cursing himself and the other two as he reflected how pathetic it was for the three of them to be sitting in Holland, so pleased with themselves for having helped buy a cow or pay for a daughter’s typing lessons.

‘It’s not easy being Spanish,’ said Carvalho, to see what would happen. And something did happen. The man from León stared at him, and thrust his face forward. He put a hand on Carvalho’s arm as though to get his point across more effectively or to convince him of his error. He said emphatically:

‘But it’s the best thing in the world. Right now if there was a war between Holland and Spain, I’d go back and fight to defend my country.’

He turned to the Galician, who still seemed to be lost in his evocation of cows bought and sisters married.

‘I don’t know about you, but that’s what I’d do.’

‘So would I, of course,’ the Galician assured him. At the same time, he looked at Carvalho as if hoping that this knowledgeable gentleman would deny all possibility of war being declared between Spain and Holland in the next thirty years, give or take a few, that the three of them had left to live.

‘There’s not much chance of a war,’ said Carvalho, coming to his aid.

‘Of course not, it was just an example.’

The man from León glanced at his watch, and told his companion it was time they were getting back to work. Carvalho accompanied them to the factory gate and shook hands with a warmth that took him by surprise.

‘Are you spending Christmas in León this year?’

The married man from León shook his head.

‘No, it’ll have to wait until next year.’

With that, he turned his back on Carvalho, followed by his friend. The only trips those two would be taking were to nightclub windows where their cheap thrills were purely visual and did not even offer any human contact. Some are born to make history, others to suffer it. Some are winners, others are losers. Carvalho felt a rush of blind anger towards his own countrymen. After a while, though, he began to feel angrier still at the phlegmatic Dutch cycling past: they had no need to go and work in the cane fields of Murcia or in the Cartagena refineries. He muttered, ‘What an easy life you have!’ so loudly it caught the attention of a gentleman with briefcase and tie, who gave him a look of smiling condescension. Carvalho felt depressed, but realised his body had not betrayed him, and was pointing him in the right direction. It was taking him unerringly towards The House of Lords, determined to allow his stomach to make up for the fake Turkish stew.

The burgundy cost an arm and a leg, but Carvalho would have torn off both if he had missed the opportunity to anoint the roast lamb with it. He had reached the restaurant just as the waiters were relaxing their professional demeanour and seeking refuge in that strange no man’s land where waiters and cooks go between sessions. Carvalho’s sudden appearance brought them flocking to his table. The only other customers were an Indonesian family. The woman had the dark beauty of a Gauguin portrait, and the two daughters held the promise of womanly charms to come. The paterfamilias looked like a badly worn Sukarno weighing five hundred kilos too much. As they were leaving, they all bowed to Carvalho, who tried not to make it too obvious he was avidly watching the splendid woman’s exit from the
restaurant. He watched as she swished her way between the tables, and then turned ninety degrees towards the doorway. This angle allowed Carvalho to ascertain that her profile was as pleasing as her back view. She narrowed her slanted eyes in order to hasten this minute examination from a foreigner. On similar occasions, Carvalho had often regretted not carrying with him a stock of those business cards where you can scrawl a passionate declaration of love and slip it into the apparently unconcerned hand of a woman restrained by the chains of erotic convention. He must try it some day. A shame he could not start today.

He tucked into the lamb without any mental reservations. Well-cooked meat is first and foremost a tactile pleasure for the roof of the mouth. Roast gigot of lamb is the least elaborate way of preparing the meat. It does not have the fake comradeliness of gigot country-style, with potatoes and beans, or the all too often flat fanfare of a leg of lamb, or the purely visual pleasures of gigot with spinach. Lamb roasted this way is above all well-cooked and well-condimented meat. When the aroma of the burgundy hit the delicate skin of his palate and rose to fill his nostrils with the heady perfume of red wine, it was like having a velvet fluid wipe away the tiny wounds that the pieces of meat had caused.

Carvalho ate with the calm enthusiasm of all real, unhistrionic gourmets. His imagination was on fire, but his lips and face moved only to the slow chewing of the morsels he was consuming. Carvalho kept his emotions to himself partly because he had always felt that solitary pleasures could not be communicated. A pleasure shared can become a spectacle, but never one enjoyed in private. But there was another reason: showing too plainly how much enjoyment a meal is giving you has a direct influence on the size of the tip you leave. Waiters are subtle psychoanalysts. As soon
as they see from your expression that you are approaching ecstasy, they ask you to confirm it out loud, and peer into the recesses of your mind and your wallet with the intensity of a soulmate who will not achieve their own orgasm unless you leave at least fifteen per cent tip on the bill.

Carvalho ended his lunch with a piece of unripe Brie, but then could not resist the temptation of crêpes with marmalade. He had two coffees and two genevers to wipe away the last traces of flavours that by now were more engraved in his memory than on his palate. He could not get this after-dinner moment of truth out of his mind.

‘The best pleasures are always those of memory.’

He said this out loud, with the result that the waiter came over to see whether he required something more. Carvalho translated his witticism, but could tell from the waiter’s condescending smile and the way he hastily beat a retreat that either he did not agree with Carvalho’s philosophy, or he was fed up to the back teeth with this drawn-out meal, or had not really understood the ultimate meaning of the words. While the waiter offered this plethora of reasons for the lack of communication, Carvalho realised he must be rather drunk, because in normal circumstances he would never have dreamt of trying to intellectually seduce a waiter.

He left the restaurant without feeling he could ask whether his compatriot was still in the kitchen, even though on the previous occasion he had almost kissed him in gratitude for the turkey with pomegranate stuffing. As he strolled back in the general direction of the station, he glanced at the department store windows. It occurred to him to buy something Chinese for Charo. He walked down the arcaded streets of the centre of the commercial district and bought her a Chinese jacket imported from Hong Kong. After that, he headed straight for the regal quarter. A Dutch flag was
flying from the town hall balcony, showing that a member of the royal family was in The Hague. He gawped like a tourist at the imposing International Tribunal palace. Some animal with copious intestines had shat on the lawn in front of the iron gate. Carvalho’s attention was drawn from the striking pile of dirt to the sight of a parrot on the shoulder of an old Dutch lady who had obviously been imaginative enough to exchange the habitual transistor radio for a real flesh-and-blood creature. Carvalho decided it was time to head for the station. As he walked, he realised that the day had been useful not only because he had learnt about the sexual problems of migrant workers, but also for something more than his excellent lunch. The body given up by the sea at Vilasar de Mar might not have a proper face as yet, but he did have a name and a few details on his curriculum vitae. In fact, Carvalho already knew the only thing Señor Ramón had asked him to find out: the man’s name. All he had to add to the name for a face devoured by the fishes of the Mediterranean was the information he had gleaned from the Murcian tattooist and his workmate in The Hague. He could return to Spain with nothing more than this, but he felt he still owed something to this young man as bold and blond as beer. Something that drove him to continue his investigation in Holland as far as it would take him. A young man whose imagination could not accept the reality around him. The reality was that he was an immigrant worker. His imagination created another world beyond work, freed from the constraints of having to clock in and out at the factory every day. To escape the system he had no problem relying on women to earn money for him. Carvalho was scornful of pimps. He knew from experience they were the worst of the underworld. Just once he had met one with some feelings, a prisoner who was expert at using toothpicks to bind up the
legs of sparrow chicks which each May were found dashed against the paving stones in the yard at Aridel. Carvalho remembered the ponce’s gentleness and patience as he whispered words of encouragement into the supposed ear of the tiny, terrified bird, while his clumsy fingers danced with all the skill of a surgeon round the bits of toothpick he used as splints, and the fine thread he bound them up with. That huge pimp was in jail for having beaten his whore to death.