A Shortcut to Paradise (23 page)

After Friday's debauchery, Borja and I spent Saturday resting and recovering, but on Sunday Montse had parked the twins and Arnau at my mother-in-law's and, at Lola's insistence, we'd agreed to dine out as a foursome in the Barceloneta. It was strange because, if I thought about it, my brother and I had never before gone out for a night on the town with our girls. We'd hardly had the time when we were young, because Borja went abroad at the age of nineteen and, at the time, we were both young radicals more into politics than gastronomy. And we hardly ever went out with girls, I mean, properly, or at least as far as I was concerned. Twenty-five years on, my twin brother and I were now sitting in the Barceloneta with our respective partners, as if we'd been doing it all our lives, in animated conversation while we waited for our shellfish paella to be served on a terrace near the beach.

The surrounding cityscape had changed enormously over the last fifteen years and had little in common with my memories of going to the Sant Sebastià baths in the summer with my mother and having a ten-peseta lunch at one of the beach-cafés. All that had disappeared, together with the long line of shops and docks stretching down the coast that acted as an architectural barrier between the city and the sea. There was something fascinating about those huge, ugly buildings that only allowed glimpses of the sea that lurked behind those cheap brick-and-cement constructions, like an invisible, raucous giant protecting its secrets from our curious gaze. Now we had a Port Olímpic, a beach permanently packed with men in tangas and topless women and a promenade where people roller-bladed in summer clothes, listening to earphones, imagining they were in California. The city had reclaimed the sea, said architects and politicians, but amid so many designer shops, yachts and ridiculously dressed people, both sea and port had lost a good slice of their mystery.

While we drank our aperitifs and waited for lunch to arrive, I ranted against all the trashy modernity introduced by the Olympic Games which had destroyed that old neighbourhood of smugglers and fishermen. Borja, on the other hand, vehemently defended the need to adapt to modern times and abandon unproductive nostalgia, to the applause of Lola and her over-the-top designer earrings. Montse, who knows me well, realizes how sick I get whenever a traditional old shop is closed or rented out to make way for a fake tan centre or one of those pseudo-retro cafés with identical decors that
are part of a chain. Perhaps it's because I'm getting old, but whenever the scenarios of my childhood alter, or, even worse, disappear, I feel increasingly despondent. And I know progress and change are part of life's rich pattern, and that no doubt the twins will feel the same nostalgia one day when they shut the McDonald's on the corner. My brother has other views, but I can tell you I will never forgive them for what they did to the Barceloneta.

“If everybody thought like you, Eduard, we'd still be living in caves…” was Borja's sarcastic comment.

“That's exactly where we're heading!” I answered, rising to his bait. “How do you think it's all going to end when there's no oil and the glaciers melt?” My wife, who was wearing a lilac, low-necked cotton dress, nodded in agreement.

“The world was also supposed to come to an end when the Pope died and look…” he joked.

I was about to return tit for tat when his mobile rang. Merche had gone yachting with her husband, but as she didn't suspect he was having an affair with Lola, it might very well be her. Lola scowled and Montse frowned at me, as if my partner's dalliances were in some way my fault. I tried to act dumb and Borja hesitated about whether to answer the call. Finally he did, and the expression on his face changed all of a sudden. He gestured to us all to shut up, which we did, and then extracted pen and paper from his pocket.

“I need to know what you look like. And what clothes you were wearing?…” I heard my brother say, as he wrinkled his eyebrows.

And then, “Listen though. You must tell me who you are. We must meet up,” he continued solemnly.

Someone was in full flood at the other end of the line and Borja said little. He made only the occasional comment.

“No, no other witness has come forward… I don't know.”

The call lasted four or five minutes. My brother simply listened. He finally said, “Wait a minute, no need to get in a stew. There'll always be time to go to the police… Look, give me time to think it over and call me back tonight… Yes, at about eight. Did you get that?”

That was the end of the conversation. Montse, Lola and I looked at him, intrigued, expecting him to tell us all. Either Borja was a very good actor or it was evident he'd not just been speaking to Merche.

“He's hung up. His number didn't show on the screen,” he said nervously. And added, “Well I bloody never…”

“Well I bloody never what?” I asked, dying to know. Montse and Lola also seemed on the edge of their seats.

No, it wasn't Merche, but it could have been her husband; though, from what Borja had told me, her hubby wasn't at all worried about her and her bit on the side. They belonged to another world, the world of the wealthy, where appearances were what mattered. Nevertheless Borja didn't seem scared or stressed. Simply worried.

“The guy who just rang,” he finally said, “is the man who mugged Amadeu Cabestany by the exit to the Up & Down club. It obviously pays to put ads in the newspapers.”

“You're not kidding. But what if somebody's trying it on…”

“It's to do with the case you're investigating, isn't it?” interjected Lola. “Muggers and murderers… What an exciting life you two lead!”

“You don't know the half of it!” I exclaimed, thinking that none of this was at all amusing.

Our paella arrived that very moment and we waited for the waiter to serve us our helpings before resuming the conversation. It looked really good and we were hungry, but I'm sure we'd have all been happier if the waiter had brought it ten minutes later so Borja could have finished telling us the whole story. We ordered another bottle of white wine and Lola lit a cigarette.

“It might be a friend of Amadeu or Clàudia. Someone who wants to help him get out of the Model…” I said, worried.

Borja shook his head.

“I asked him what he was wearing. If you remember, Amadeu Cabestany gave the police a detailed description of the man who mugged him, and this information hasn't been published, precisely to avoid that kind of thing happening. According to Amadeu, the mugger was on the short side and wearing jeans, a white shirt, a dark, possibly brown blouson, a cloth cap that hid his hair and sunglasses. Oh, and according to Cabestany, he spoke in Catalan. The man who rang also spoke in Catalan and the description he gave of himself matches. It
was
him.”

“If that's the case, it means Amadeu Cabestany is innocent.”

“Yes, my boy! And I was beginning to think Clàudia was wrong in the head!”

“So case solved! We should inform the police.”

“Yes, right, but there is one slight problem,” answered a deadpan Borja.

“A problem? What problem?”

Montse and Lola looked at us admiringly and hung on our every word. Instead of talking about football or engaging in boring gossip about boring colleagues in the office, their men conversed quite naturally about crimes and murders like two professional detectives. Our lives might have lots of drawbacks, but you couldn't deny there were attractions, as that phone call had just shown. The wine was beginning to flow to Montse's head, because she kept refilling her glass, and Lola's hand had been lingering on Borja's thigh for some time.

“The man who rang – let's call him ‘Mr X' – isn't a professional criminal,” my brother asserted. “He rambled on about a car accident, a bank that was going to repossess his flat and that he couldn't get hold of the money he urgently needed so he'd decided to go to Up & Down and mug someone. He said he used a toy pistol.”

“I expect all criminals tell a similar story…” I said, unconvinced.

“Yes, but he rang. We thought we'd get answers from the taxi drivers, or perhaps someone who went to the club that night, don't you remember? But it's the thief who rang, and it turns out he speaks in a very educated manner and doesn't swear. I mean he didn't say ‘Hey, guy, I'm the guy who robbed that shit!' or ‘Mate, what's in it for me if I sing?' He never even asked if there was any kind of financial reward. In fact, he sounded very nervous. Polite, cultured and nervous. What we have to ask is why.”

“Why he speaks in an educated manner? Why he's polite?” I responded, taken aback.

“I mean” – Borja was beginning to lose his patience – “why he rang. I think he wanted to find out if any other witnesses had come forward. He told me he was ready to tell all to the police, but that if he did so his life would fall apart.”

“You know, if he hasn't got a record, he'll only get a few months. The judges are lenient towards people who give themselves up.”

“You said it. And what does that mean?” Borja was acting up for his audience, a Montse and a Lola who were all agog. “Mr X is someone who is not part of the crime scene, someone who has not involved a lawyer to do a deal with us, someone who has not tried to blackmail us. No, I reckon he's simply a guy down on his luck.”

“So?”

“So we must make a move before his conscience drives him to the police.”

“But, Borja, he's a criminal. He's committed a crime…” I objected.

“I don't know who it was who said that murderers don't exist, only people who commit murders, but I suppose the same can be said of thieves and muggers. Besides, Eduard, one swallow doesn't make a summer. We've all done something foolish in our time,” he added magnanimously.

“Heavens, Borja, you never cease to surprise me,” said Montse, impressed. “If your friends could hear you…”

In principle my brother is right-wing or, to be more precise, a member of an idealized aristocratic right characterized by its refinement and nobility of spirit, and which only exists, I fear, in his batty brain.

“Well, well… so it turns out you are a right-on fellow after all…” said Lola, pecking him on the cheek. We'd finished the paella and polished off two bottles of Viña Sol.

Before the situation degenerated any further, our waiter made a providential appearance, removed our plates and brought the dessert menu. As summer and a baring of bodies on the beach was at hand, Lola, Montse and Borja were on diets and went straight on to coffee and liqueurs, but I couldn't resist a generous helping of ice cream.

“So what now?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Borja replied frankly.

“Boysh, me thinksh youves no opshun but to catch the moiderrer and forsh him to confesh…” slurred Lola.

“The problem is that it's not that easy, my love,” my brother replied. “Let's just suppose Lluís Arquer is right and we can reduce the list of suspects to some fifteen or twenty people drinking in the bar. That's still a lot of people.”

“We could make a list of possible motives,” I suggested. “With a little bit of luck…”

“We could also consult the stars…” suggested Montse, who was beginning to sprawl over her chair.

Astrology, Tarot and I Ching are some of the complementary activities Montse's Alternative Centre puts on. I presumed she was joking.

“I know!” exclaimed an excited Lola, pouring out a drop more fire-water. “Yous should do a reconstrushion of the sheet… sheen of the crime, like Agatha Chrishtie in her novelsh.”

“Dearie, that would be a great idea if we knew who the murderer was and if they hadn't buried her,” I objected.
“Because there were only two people in the room where Marina Dolç was killed: the lady in question and whoever sent her over to the other side.”

“Nooooguynooo!” laughed Lola. “I wash meaning the bar in the Ritsch. You musht find out where people were and who wash shatting with who… The moiderer musht have left the bar at shome shtage, right? You jush find the pershon who shlipped out. There were lotsh of witneshes. Eashy peashy.”

“That's a great idea! I don't know why I didn't think of it!” shouted Borja enthusiastically. “You're brilliant, Lola!”

“And we'll unmask the murderer in front of the other guests, right? You've been reading too many novels.” I couldn't think they were serious.

“Why not? It might work, Eduard,” Borja's eyes were sparkling excitedly. “And if not, we can always have recourse to horoscopes and tarot cards.”

Monste and Lola purred contentedly and looked on in agreement, delighted Borja wasn't as sceptical of alternative methods of knowledge as I am. A reconstruction of the events on the night would be right up the street of Elsa, the expert in matters esoteric at the Alternative Centre, who spends her time making astral charts for a load of strangers.

“We'll organize it for next Wednesday,” decreed my brother, as happy as a sand-boy as he put the money to pay half the bill on the table. “We'll ask Mariona to help us.” And he added, extremely confidently, “We'll catch them, Eduard, just you see if we don't.”

I nodded and smiled sceptically. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

22

That same day, at 8 p.m., Amadeu Cabestany's would-be mugger rang Borja again. We'd gone to my place to wait for our providential witness to call and, as the lift was out of order, we'd had to walk up the stairs, half in the dark: some bulbs had fused and there seemed to be no way to clarify whose responsibility it was to replace them. Borja kept moaning about the legwork and because he'd stepped on something slimy that was better left unidentified. While we were walking upstairs, we passed our neighbour on the second floor and Borja looked startled.