A Not So Perfect Crime (20 page)

“But here in Paris, everyone knows ... the way Pau Ferrer works.”

“But, obviously we don't in Barcelona,” Borja retorted.

“I bet this woman is a complete stranger to Pau. He must have taken her photo when she wasn't looking. I'm sorry,” said Camille. “I can't help you.”

It had its funny side. With all the women there are in the world Pau Ferrer had to choose to paint a woman he didn't know, whose husband was an art-collector and a politician in Barcelona who feared for his reputation.

“You say he takes photos ...” Borja had had a brainwave. “Do you think we could talk to his wife or a friend of his? Perhaps we could get hold of one ... You know, this is more important than you think.”

I imagine Borja wanted material proof to take to the MP. Camille looked intrigued.

“I don't know what you're up to ... but one of Pau Ferrer's friends is a good friend of mine. I think they split up about a year ago, but they're still friends. I don't know whether she might be able to help you,” and she jotted a name and telephone number on very elegant notepaper. “She's Cécile Blanchart. Tell her I told you to phone her.”

“You don't know how grateful I am,” said Borja.

Camille beamed at Borja. She started playing with one of her necklaces with one hand while with the other she stroked the hair around the nape of her neck.

“I hope, after all these years, you won't leave just like that, Pep? You must have lots to tell me ... You've changed so much! You're a real gentleman now!”

“My business is going well. I can't complain,” my brother replied contentedly. “How is Fabien?”

From my brother's smile that tailed off in a grimace, I deduced that this Fabien must be Camille's husband.

“Oh! He hardly ever comes to the gallery these days. He's in a delicate state.” And added in a seductive, honeyed tone, “You have forgiven me, haven't you, Pep?”

“There was really nothing to forgive. We were youngsters ...” Borja replied condescendingly.

“Why don't we have dinner tonight? Like two old friends.”

“Such a pity! I've got a prior engagement.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Fine,” agreed Borja. “Let's have dinner tomorrow. At eight in the usual place. All right?”

“Heavens! It's years since I've been there ... It might have closed down ...”

“It's not changed a bit,” said Borja. “I'll book a table. At eight o'clock sharp.”

One of the things I've learned as I've followed my brother throughout the world is never to contradict him in public because I always put my foot in it. However, as soon as we left the gallery I reminded him that our return flight took off at the same time as his dinner-date.

“Quite,” he smiled sulkily, signalling our conversation was at an end.

We took a taxi back to our hotel. It had got dark and, although it wasn't raining, an icy wind was blowing. Moreover, we had to talk to Camille's friend and try to fix a meeting with her as soon as possible. It wasn't the end of the world if we didn't get a photograph, because Camille's explanation seemed persuasive enough and we could certainly document it elsewhere. The art catalogue Lluís Font had given us didn't supply us with that information – there's all manner of things in that kind of publication except for info that is useful. Most catalogues seem to be written at the height of an attack of delirium tremens, but I suppose art critics have a right to earn their daily crust.

While Borja rang Pau Ferrer's friend and agreed a time to meet the following day, I spoke to Montse, who seemed more than busy. That night Borja and I decided we deserved a slap-up meal and he took me to one of those restaurants tourists never see the inside of. We ate and drank like lords, none of your
nouvelle
rubbish, traditional French cuisine, and we managed to let our hair down for awhile. Two bottles of Bordeaux bit the dust, and dishes with such complicated names that I can't remember them, just that we started on
foie
cooked four different ways and Borja ate fish and I ate some kind of meat done in a really delicious purple sauce.

“So, dear partner, case closed!” I said as I decided whether to dunk my bread in that sauce. “Poor Pau Ferrer clearly wasn't involved in the mysterious murder of Lídia Font. He didn't even know her.”

“So it would seem.”

“In other words, as far as we're concerned, we've done our bit,” I insisted.

“Aren't you curious to know what really happened?”

Borja was starting to worry me.

“You mean about finding out who gave her a push?”

“Well, you can't deny it, this case is far too similar to the novels we read when we were kids. And we did promise the MP we'd talk to that policeman.”

“You mean the case isn't over!” I acquiesced forlornly.

After polishing off the desserts – wonderful home-made cakes, mine a bitter chocolate and Borja's an apple tart – we lit up and ordered a couple of cognacs. We were surely the last generation of privileged sybarites to enjoy that kind of dinner, because smoking would be soon be banned in restaurants and no doubt alcohol would follow suit. And then maybe they'd decide to prohibit sugar and fats, if our local feminists hadn't already sentenced us all to being alcohol-free, Catholic and vegetarian.

“And tomorrow you're going to stand Camille up, I presume ...” I jibed.

“Well, she did give it to me on a plate. It's the least I owe her.”

“She'll probably not show up.”

“Possibly not. But if she does, and I think she will, she'll dine alone,” and in that confidential tone he only uses when the alcohol's flowing, he added, “I spent many an hour waiting for her in that place. It was our favourite restaurant. When we had any money, that is, which wasn't very often.”

“Is that why you turned into Borja?” I plucked up the courage to ask.

It was the first time I'd openly touched on the reason for his change of identity.

“It's late. We should get back to the hotel.”

And with a half smile he curtailed our conversation.

We walked back to the hotel, despite the intense cold and the threatening clouds looming overhead. I was tired, but my intake of alcohol and coffee meant I didn't fall asleep immediately. That night I dreamed of Olga, and also of Camille, and the following morning I woke up dead tired and furry-mouthed. Borja, on the other hand, beat me down to breakfast and was as fresh as a daisy.

As agreed, we turned up at Cécile Blanchard's house at eleven sharp. She was about the same age as Pau Ferrer and seemed very affected by his illness. She was an intriguing woman with a house stuffed with books, paintings and cats. Her long curly hair was dyed saffron and she wore a bunch of necklaces over a blue tunic of sorts. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she spoke in a warm, gravelly voice while puffing on a pipe. She offered us a cup of tea.

Cécile confirmed everything Camille had said about Pau Ferrer's method of working. We tried to make her understand it was very important for us to get one of the photos his friend had taken of Lídia Font. We explained what the problem was, without divulging any names: the model had died and her husband, who'd discovered the painting by chance, suspected the two must have been having an affair. That amused her no end and she burst out laughing.

“I remember when Pau painted that portrait ...” she drawled in a French that was easily understood. “At the time, over two years ago, we saw a lot of each other ...”

Apparently, there were several photos of Mrs Font around, and Cécile promised to have a good look for them in her ex's study. Although they were no longer lovers, as she explained quite unashamedly, she still had keys to his studio. She also remembered that the woman in the photo was asleep.

“But Pau decided to paint her as if she were awake, he did that kind of thing sometimes,” she said as she accompanied us to the door. I could see she was making an effort to hold her tears in check.

We thanked her and said our farewells, wishing her friend the very best. Before returning to the hotel, we went present shopping, and then, as the weather was good, decided to go for a stroll and enjoy the city for a few hours.

So far my reunion with the Paris of my youth had been a deeply disappointing experience. At no time had I managed to relive any of the emotions that had swept me off my feet the first time I'd visited. I felt unmoved by the sight of the Seine, the Notre Dame and even the Jardins de Luxembourg, which twenty years earlier had been the scenario of my youthful passionate love for Olga. On the trip with my brother, none of those emblematic places had succeeded in arousing the same sensations. I was terrified by the thought that, if I did come back one day with Montse, I'd have to feign emotions I was no longer able to experience in order to make my wife happy, and that prospect made me feel empty and despondent. I said nothing of this to Borja, but Paris was no longer my Paris. I could only see a huge metropolis full of frantic cars and people, imposing enough but stripped of the unrepeatable magic that had enchanted me twenty-five years ago when he was in his twenties. Borja and I strolled silently, laden with bags of presents, when my brother stumbled and saw one of his shoelaces had come undone.

“Christ! Let's sit down for a moment,” he suggested.

We were near the river and walked over to one of the seats next to the bank, between the old
bouquiniste
stalls. While Borja did up his shoe, I put my bags on the floor and
enjoyed a few moments' rest. We'd been walking for almost two hours and my feet were beginning to hurt.

Suddenly the wind started to blow in gusts and the heavens opened and turned black. Drops of rain fell on our heads from the clouds gathered above and were the size of walnuts when they splattered on the ground. The unexpected storm changed the smell of the city that was now filled with the perfume from the trees and the rainwater and the river. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and, as if the guy up there had been listening to my thoughts, Paris was transformed once again, magically, into the mythical place it used to be for me. Sitting there, while Borja tied his shoelaces and cursed the downpour, I was stirred by the disturbing emotions from my early twenties. For a few moments, it was as if no time had elapsed between that first trip and now. Finally Paris was Paris again.

“You look spellbound!” I heard Borja shout as he tried to make himself heard above the gale. “Come on, hurry up. This is one hell of a downpour!”

I could have stayed there transfixed under the rain, savouring that part of me that had been fading away over the years and that I'd suddenly recovered. I knew it was an ephemeral feeling sentenced to disappear, and that however long I sat on that bench on the banks of the Seine I could only hold on to it as long as the spirited, surprise shower lasted. I got up disconsolately and walked after Borja, who was running towards a taxi rank as if the devil were at his heels. As I got into the car, soaked, in emotional turmoil but happy, I bid farewell to the Paris of my twenties and the memory of the girl who finally ensured those days of my youth were what they ought to have been.

15

“We're late ...” said Borja as we tried to park the Smart in the blue zone, which was no easy feat at that time of day.

We'd agreed to see our client in his office on the Diagonal. Our appointment was at twelve and Borja was right. We were late. All the parking lots in the vicinity had posted the red “FULL” signs and we'd been driving around for twenty minutes. As on any 30 December, the city centre was a chaotic, seething mass. It was Friday and everybody seemed to have rushed out to do their last-minute shopping. The weather had inspired people because the sun shone brightly and few people were wearing coats. Women of all ages were desperately combing this shoppers' paradise for that party dress to show off on New Year's Eve.

“Thank God the plane arrived on time!” I said in a foul temper. “I don't understand why we couldn't see him this afternoon ... Montse was pretty angry when I told her I wasn't going home. You know she's not used to being by herself. And she's been coping with the children for the past three days ...”

“Don't worry. Lola will have kept her company.”

“Sure, that's part of the problem.”

One of the things nagging me was the fact Montse and Lola had enjoyed three days to devote to the single topic of Borja. I bet they'd plotted something and would try to involve me on my return. I was also worried about the possible fallout from the comments I'd made to Montse
before going to Paris, my rash statement to the effect that Borja really fancied Lola. I just prayed that, after a brief tête-à-tête and a few glasses of wine, Montse hadn't told her about the little matter of the painting. I expect my sister-in-law hadn't noticed that her mother's landscape had vanished from the passage in our flat.

“You know the MP was in a hurry to talk to us,” said Borja justifying himself. “He wants to see us in person.”

“Fine, but we've only just arrived from Paris ...”

They cancelled the flight we should have flown on at eight o'clock the evening before, the exact time Borja had agreed to meet his old flame for dinner fully intending to stand her up in honour of the good old days. We never discovered why. We were kept waiting hours inside the plane without anyone bothering to offer the slightest bloody excuse as to why we weren't taking off, until finally the loudspeakers announced that we couldn't fly till the following morning because of technical problems. It was a really mean trick but fear of terrorist attacks meant no one protested. We had to leave the plane and were ushered to a hotel next to the airport. What with the noise from planes, the late hour and the stress caused by the knowledge we'd have to get up at six in order not to miss our new flight, I barely got a wink. The following morning I was a wreck.