A Shortcut to Paradise (22 page)

“You're only attacking her because she was a woman!” retorted Amàlia Vidal. “And because you'd like to have her sales figures!”

“No, thank you very much. I would never want to prostitute myself to the rabble like she did.”

“Well, fuck you, kid.”

I couldn't believe my ears, and instinctively rubbed them. How was it possible that well-mannered, cultured people could use such language at a soirée of posthumous homage to Marina? However, I soon realized that was only the beginning.

“The problem today is that publishers publish lots of books but very little genuine literature.” Ferran Fontserè was now holding forth. “Literature is now the preserve of us poets. The novel is dead.”

“My sentiments entirely, but it all depends on the novel. The reviews of my last effort were first-rate…” Llibert Celoni said in self-defence.

“An unreadable brick!” erupted Eudald Suñol, turning a deep red. He was the only writer in that little huddle who really sold. “How do you expect people to read the shite you write?”

“Your books are the real shite! They're only good for wiping your arse on. It's you people who queer the pitch for us true writers!”

“And you're just one big mental wank!… Don't you ever read what you write? At least I'm not into abusing my readers…”

“Absolutely! You and your ilk refuse to take risks, you don't want to create a style, subvert… You write for the publishing industry and mass-produce literature as if you were processing hamburgers, you're not real writers.”

“Hole in one!” waxed the poet as he gulped down the contents of his glass.

“
We
” – Llibert Celoni was waxing eloquent now – “are the heirs to the avant-garde and have turned literature into a lifestyle, not a
modus vivendi
.”

“Oh, you are
so
clever. But the avant-garde is a corpse that stinks to high heaven.” Eudald Suñol put his hand over his nose. “You know, the problem with you folks is that you've no story to tell. That's why you write such
recherché
bullshit.”

“‘
We
', as you say, are moved to write about the important things in existence!” interjected the poet.

“You bet you are! The colour of your defecations is surely of universal transcendence.”

“You're so thick you can't handle a metaphor!”

“Me and a million other readers!”

“I don't care a piss about your readers.”

“Well, you should know, you're the piss-artist…”

I couldn't think what to do. The argument had clearly entered a critical stage and if one or other of the parties didn't back off they were heading for a punch-up. Borja was loitering suspiciously with Cláudia, seemingly oblivious. It struck me as very strange that nobody around seemed to be interested in the shouting match, now that insults were raining down from all sides. Upping the ante, Amàlia Vidal had decided to get in on the act.

“Marina was a woman and that's what's getting you lot hot under the collar.”

“Look, darling, we're talking serious talk here. You women are all sugar and sweetness. What you write has the stench of hormones.”

“Know what? That's something I can agree with,” chortled Eudald Suñol, slapping him on the back.

“Well, in case you didn't know it, kid, you write with your cock,” Amàlia spat back, appearing to be rather the worse for wear.

“And you can't wait for me to stick it between your thighs for a bit…”

“And wouldn't it be a very short bit…”

“We are the bold creators of literature, the explorers of virgin territories…” pontificated Llibert Celoni, deciding to ignore Amàlia. “We're not book-making machines.”

“But you
are
a bunch of decadent ponces who think talent means being clever-clever.”

“‘Talent' being writing about conspiracies and magic potions, I suppose?” responded the poet sarcastically.

“At least we use our imaginations and get people reading.”

“Reading rubbish. Soon nobody will know who the hell Shakespeare was.”

“A chauvinist and an emotional bully!” shouted Amàlia, not knowing what to say to get them to take any notice of her.

“Shakespeare was also a popular author and wrote about historical subjects. And I seem to remember potions and ghosts make an appearance in his work,” argued Eudald Suñol.

“You's gone barmy!”

“You are mad, speak properly, if you don't mind,” responded Eudald.

“My God, have we sunk so low!…” groaned Agustí Planer, head in hands.

“We have lost this war…” Llibert Celoni seemed despondent. “This is the end… The end of literature…”

“Will
nobody
listen to me?” Nobody was taking any notice of Amàlia and she was furious. “I've had my cuntful of men!”

“Well, a pity you cut your bollocks off then.”

To tell the truth, I can't say I've been to many literary soirées in my lifetime, but I'd always imagined them quite differently. You know, cultured, polite people conversing in measured tones, and, naturally enough, disagreeing courteously and never raising their voices. Everybody here was screaming insults. The scene around me was disconcerting, to put it mildly. I'd been so hooked by the row I'd been listening to that I'd failed to notice some ladies had stripped their blouses off and were displaying their bras, and most of the men, Borja included, were down to their underpants. There was a flurry of hairy legs under the piano and the pianist was no more to be seen. This posthumous homage was more like a triple-X adult movie, and even my brother seemed to have completely lost it.

“Oh, Eduard, my kid brother… See what makes the world go round!…” he shouted while trying to unzip Clàudia's dress.

“Shssh! Borja, what do you think you're saying? Or
doing
for that matter? You gone crazy or what?”

“Borja? What do you mean ‘Borja'? I'm Josep… Josep Martínez, at your disposition, missie… She's a bit of all right, don't you think, Eduard?”

“Please, Borja, behave yourself.”

“Oh my kid brother, the big…”

“Shut up!”

Luckily there was such pandemonium that nobody was paying him any attention, not even Clàudia, who didn't seem all there. Marina Dolç's publisher, also down to his underpants, was standing on the piano brandishing the microphone and trying to make a speech while his wife was attempting to snatch it from him, thinking to put his crotch to better uses. Joining in the fray, a halfnaked woman, about my mother-in-law's age, threw herself upon me and tried to pull my trousers down. I managed to escape by a whisker.

Something was definitely amiss. Mariona was sitting in a corner of the room, eyes rolling, apparently in ecstasy. The floor around her was a sea of cast-off clothing and everyone was naked. Dancing like dervishes, if not copulating like crazy. Borja was busy groping a Clàudia much improved by her lack of garments and she was letting him get on with it. This homage to a prematurely deceased novelist had turned into an orgy.

I was scared and made my way as best I could to Marcelo, who seemed to be intact and contemplating the spectacle in a rage from another corner of the room.

“I told madam I didn't think stramonium canapés were a good idea. I did warn her, sir,” he whispered in his Argentine lilt.

“What do you mean, stramonium canapés? What are you raving about, Marcelo?”

“It's one of Mr Adrià's concoctions, using a hallucinogen. I reckon he overdid the dosage. The menu says ‘a hint of stramonium' but I think it was more like an overload…”

“Stramonium? Are you sure? I think that what's my grandmother called ‘hell's fig tree' or ‘angel's
strumpet'…” Then I saw the light. “Good heavens, Marcelo! Stramonium is devil's weed, the plant witches used. These people have been poisoned!”

“That is clear enough, sir. But you don't seem affected…”

“I've got tummy problems, you know, so I kept clear of the canapés. We must do something, Marcelo! They've all gone completely mad!”

“I agree, sir. What do you suggest?”

“What do
you
suggest?” I responded timidly.

“You know, there aren't that many options. This is going to hit the headlines,
che
.”

 

 

And that was when the free-for-all started. Llibert Celoni hit Eudald Suñol with a fist and things went from bad to worse. Eudald returned the blow and had the misfortune to strike Amàlia, who at the time was naked but for a black tanga that highlighted her cellulitis and spare tyres. Amàlia lashed out right and left, and very soon everyone stopped shafting the man or woman next to them (or both at once) and started pummelling the first person they laid their hands on. It was a battleground. Whatever item that could be flung – glasses, bottles, ashtrays – was hurled through the air. The pianist, who'd hidden behind the curtains to avoid being raped, had a bloody nose, and the waiters, who must have tasted a few canapés in the kitchen, had cheerfully joined in the debauchery. They were in the nude and busy throwing trays of food through the air like Greek athletes.

A brimfull glass of cava shattered on the Fortuny over the fireplace, at which point Marcelo decided enough was enough. He dragged Mariona into her bedroom, locked the door and rang the police. He asked me to accompany him and we both stood guard in front of the entrance to the mansion. As well as impatiently waiting for the security forces to arrive, we were ready to keep out the press, if necessary. As I saw Borja was still working on Clàudia and she didn't seem to be protesting, I let them be.

A dozen vans of
mossos
and an ambulance drove up in less than five minutes. An army of health-workers, carrying medicine chests, were now distributing atropine and sedatives at their discretion. I narrowly missed being injected, although I did accept a sedative because the recent spectacle had left me feeling groggy. Shortly after men in plain clothes, presumably secret police, arrived and took control of the house. Silently and systematically, they requisitioned film and photo cameras from journalists who were tripping with the guests, and discreetly took a few individuals away after they'd wrapped them in blankets. After a couple of hours, the effects of the stramonium began to wear off and the guests started to come round. They embarrassedly looked for their clothes and personal effects so they could leave. Fortunately only a dozen or so had to be taken to hospital, mostly with slight injuries.

When the
mossos
finally let us leave, it was almost 2 a.m. I took Borja home in a taxi, gave him another tranquillizer and put him to bed. He was in a poorly state and went to sleep immediately. I decided to return home, praying Montse wouldn't be waiting up for me. When I finally opened our front door, it was five o'clock and I felt like a rag.

Luckily Montse was snoring. The morning after, after grasping that the incidents on the previous evening hadn't been a nightmare, I decided not to say anything to my wife, for the moment. I wanted to speak to Borja first. I was convinced she wouldn't swallow the story about Ferran Adrià accidentally poisoning us with stramonium canapés, let alone about me not joining in the subsequent orgy, whether half- or whole-heartedly. When she told me she was going to get
ensaimades
for breakfast and that, en route, would buy the newspaper, I was expecting all hell to be let loose on the home front. It was impossible the débacle at Mariona's house wouldn't be headline news, but that was precisely what didn't happen. The papers inexplicably didn't devote a single line to that episode. They didn't publish anything on Sunday, or the day after. I'm not sure whether it was because too many well-known politicians and pillars of society were present or because Mariona is very wealthy and the tentacles of her influence stretch far. In any case, the night's events were silenced. Everyone agreed to say nothing and none of the guests mentioned that unfortunate soirée ever again, Mariona included. It had simply never happened.

I do know, however, that more than one person has never eaten a canapé again.

21

The first of July fell on a Saturday that year, and even though many people had gone on holiday the previous day as soon as they finished work, it was likely to be a difficult weekend on the road and a scrum at the airports. Barcelona was disgorging its inhabitants and restocking with packaged tourists, but we still had a long month ahead. If everything went well, Montse, the children, my mother-in-law and I would spend August in a flat in Roses that we'd committed to, but I couldn't see when we could start packing our bags. For his part, Borja had planned a week with Merche in Greece and was intending a second bite of the cherry in Menorca with Lola. He couldn't complain, although I thought it curious how we humans adapt to the most absurd situations. In all my brother's romantic intrigues, Merche, who lived with her head in the clouds, played the role of Borja's official wife, while Lola, who was inevitably aware of their relationship, had assumed the tragic role of mistress. From what Montse had told me (because my brother and I only talked about such things when it was absolutely unavoidable), Borja had assured Lola he was waiting for a propitious moment to break with Merche, when she wouldn't fall into deep
depression. At least that was the classic cliché my brother trotted out to my sister-in-law, who in her secondary role as a clandestine lover was continually harassing Borja to get her the star role in the Broadway vaudeville they were staging.

An investigation can't be extended for ever; at least that was what Borja said. We were confident we would resolve the case, one way or the other, before the end of July: we would either find Marina Dolç's killer or the witness who would corroborate our client's alibi. Lunacy aside, Friday's soirée at Mariona's had been most instructive in terms of the bad blood existing between writers and we were starting to think the police were right and that Amadeu Cabestany was guilty. Besides, there was the cannibal business; although denied by police and the dailies, nobody could put it out of their mind. Even Clàudia was beginning to have her doubts, and that was a really bad sign.