The Angst-Ridden Executive (12 page)

‘He was an orderly man, who had a passionate and dangerous hobby—gambling. I, on the other hand, am a disorderly man, but I have a hobby which is soothing and relaxed, almost decadent.’

‘You play the violin?’

‘No. Art. I’m a specialist in second-rank artists. Do you know what separates a second-rank artist from a first-rank artist in the majority of cases?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The history of art, and I suppose the history of literature too, is full of bitter injustices. A given era creates sacrosanct values and transmits them to the next. Nobody ever questions whether the original classification was fair in the first place. In Velazquez’s studio there were at least two students who painted as well as he did. Look.’

He got up slowly and went over to a cupboard. It opened to reveal an interior filled with identical metal boxes that contained rows of slides. He took several slides from one of them and placed a viewer on the table.

‘Look at these. What do you see?’

‘A painting. Girls paddling in a stream.’

‘Who would you say painted it?’

‘It looks Dutch.’

‘Well done. Carry on.’

‘Rembrandt?’

‘Not at all!’

With evident satisfaction that his theory had been proved, Biedma came round the table and settled down with a view to expounding his theories.

‘It’s by Lucas Paulus, one of Rembrandt’s students. You should see the original. You won’t find it in any gallery. It’s part of the treasures of a tenth-rate Flemish church in Holland. If it had Rembrandt’s signature on it, it would feature in every art history book in the world. Look—here’s another one. . .’

‘I’m sorry, señor Biedma. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me meeting all your friends. I’m on my way to see Vilaseca now. You’ve still not answered the question that interests me, though. When you last saw him, did Jauma show signs of being especially worried about anything?’

‘He wanted to give up his job. Find another job before he reached fifty. He was very dramatic about it at first. That was during the last time we dined together. Then the conversation took a lighter turn, and by the end he was laughing at himself, and quoting Saint Teresa: “I live in myself without living in myself, etc, etc.” Then he ended with his favourite phrase.’

‘What phrase?’

‘The angst of the senior executive.’

Compared with the youthful, parsimonious neatness of Marcos Nuñez, Vilaseca cultivated a provocative image of marginalization. Long unruly hair, a moustache, an unkempt beard, an ex-army combat jacket that probably once belonged to some hero of the Sierra Maestra, a pair of jeans that looked as if they had been rescued from a dustbin and then ironed by a steamroller, a post-war military haversack and soldiers’ boots darkened with dubbin. He arrived at their rendezvous with a girl who was slim as a bamboo cane, with willowy hands, brown hair worn in an Afro, and two breasts that seemed to apologize for their smallness beneath a camisette that looked as if it had been stolen from some Museum of Slavery.

‘Three people can eat as well as two, and anyone who’s paying for two might as well pay for three.’

‘Who’s paying?!’

‘You are. Goes without saying that I’m not. I’ve got two hundred pesetas on me, and they’ve got to last till tomorrow. In exchange you will have the pleasure of lunching with two celebrities—myself, and this young lady. Anna Marx. She’s not related to Karl Marx. Or the Marx Brothers either. I gave her the name three months ago as a screen name. She’s a muse of the silver screen.’

‘You’re crazy, crazy. . .’ the girl said, with a hint of irritation at the end of her little wrinkled nose.

‘You can choose the restaurant. . . what did you say your name was. . . Carvalho? Stand next to me. Let’s say that north is over there, south is down this street, and this is east and that’s west. To the north, behind the church of Santa Maria del Mar, we have El Borne, a restaurant run by another Barcelona film director. Self-service, with halfway decent food. French cooking and cheeses ditto. Not bad. To the south, behind this portico, we have a Gallcian restaurant. A bit of a dive. You know what we can expect there, and at this time of day it’s bound to be packed. Continuing round to the east, we have El Raim, home cooking, local recipes, good food. Limited seating, though. To the west, they’ve just opened. . .’

‘I do know the area!’

‘You choose, then.’

‘EI Raim will be full. Let’s go to EI Borne.’

‘Up to you. Don’t complain when they bring the bill, though.’

He gave him a wink and set off in front of him with his arm round his girlfriend’s angular shoulders.

‘You’re crazy, crazy. . .’

Vilaseca was wearing the same clothes that Stanley Kubrick might have worn ten or fifteen years previously when he was shooting
Space Odyssey
. There was a certain physical resemblance too.

‘I’d paint it lilac and put an Arab souk inside it,’ he said, pointing at the church. They walked round it and saw the prospect of the Paseo del Borne opening before them, a broad, tree-lined avenue that contrasted with the dark, artisanal alleyways of the old mediaeval barrio.

‘Poor Jauma.’

And his eyelids drooped like coffin lids.

‘This gives me an idea for a film. How about this? A top executive gets obsessed with the myth of Gauguin and decides to leave his family and run off to Tahiti. The title could be Gauguin 2, or Tahiti. He takes the tube during the rush hour and reaches a working-class area of town. He decides to adopt the lifestyle of the Tahitians. He takes up with a girl from one of the factories, a tasty number from the industrial suburbs of Barcelona. Nobody knows his real identity. To begin with, he’s happy. But then he comes up against a set of insuperable mental class barriers. The unhappiness that catches up with him also infects the people he’s with. He has introduced a restlessness previously unknown to these Tahitians, and so as not to bring more unhappiness to himself and to them, he decides to commit suicide. Anna will play the young factory girl.’

He removed his arm from her shoulders and put her at arm’s length as if to see her in perspective.

‘I know she looks like just what she is—the daughter of a money-bags who was once a Barcelona councilor. But she plays a very good critical role on film. As for you, I’d say you’d make a good murderer. A sort of Richard Widmark ala espagnole. Hunch your shoulders a bit. That’s the way! Now turn your hands outwards a touch. That’s right. Now walk. Come on. Don’t go all stiff. The trouble with Spaniards is that we all seem to be made of quick-setting concrete. We don’t know how to move. It’s as if we’re incapable of establishing a relationship with the space surrounding us and altering it through movement. The part’s yours if you want it. . .’

‘What part?’

‘The part of Jauma’s murderer.’

‘How do you know he didn’t commit suicide?’

‘Both are equally possible.’

Various people greeted Vilaseca from behind the bar, and Carvalho followed him up the narrow spiral staircase to the two upper rooms that comprised the restaurant proper. On the counter stood several pans full of wonderful looking food, and a serving tray piled high with Basmati rice. Vilaseca dumped his haversack on a table as an indication that it was occupied, and invited Carvalho to accompany him over to the food counter. He loaded a ton of rice and civet of hare onto his plate. Carvalho went for the same, and when they returned to the table they found the girl hunched in her seat, anxiously contemplating her plate, which had on it only a teaspoon of rice and a few bits of goulash..

‘I’m not at all hungry. . . really.’

‘She never eats a thing all day! Breakfast, lunch, or supper, it’s always the same—‘I’m not at all hungry. . . really”!’

Vilaseca had assumed the curious tone of an intransigent father dealing with a recalcitrant daughter, and the girl exploded.

‘So what?! I’m the one who’s eating, and I eat how I like.’

‘Next thing, you’ll be staggering down the street groping at the walls—not in imitation of Monica Vitti, but because you’ll be fainting with hunger. Hey, this food is good. What wine are you offering? I’ll choose—Mumieta, red.’

‘What relationship did you have with Jauma?’

With his mouth full of meat and rice, Vilaseca was unable to say anything, so he gesticulated instead. As the food commenced its downward journey, he declared:

‘Paternal. It was a paternal relationship. He used to tell me off as if I was a little boy. “You ought to make a man of yourself, Vilaseca!” Or words to that effect. I used to irritate him, you see. The total freedom of my lifestyle used to irritate him, because he envied it.’

‘This food makes me feel sick,’ the girl said, looking at her lunch as if it was a plateful of garbage.

‘Why don’t you go for a walk? It’s bad luck to eat next to people with no appetite. Go on—go take a walk!’

The girl left the restaurant sullenly with all the cheap dignity of a slighted character leaving a stage.

‘She’s horribly spoilt. But she’s got a terrific temperament. Especially in front of the camera. She’s ever so sexy. She might not be much to look at, but she’s got that special something. And those two little tits that look like currant buns, when they’re on film, they’re as captivating as the breasts of Manet’s Olympia. As soon as I get some money I’m going to start filming, and this kid’s going to go a long way. Not in the bourgeois sense. I don’t want to make a star of her. I want to create new icons for a new cinema, in tune with the times we live in.’

‘Did you see Jauma often?’

‘Not a lot, recently. I can’t abide paternalism. I wouldn’t tolerate it from my father, so I’m damned if I’d tolerate it from him. He was sort of nervous when I last saw him. Tetchy. Critical. More envious. He was always chatting up the chicks that I go round with, but they’re women for the high seas, and every time I saw him it seemed like his life was on the rocks. Beached, run aground.’

Vilaseca insisted on accompanying Carvalho to visit Argemi. The girl was waiting for them at the entrance to the restaurant, lounging against one of the cars parked in the driveway. She followed them indolently and as soon as she had got into the car and heard what their plans were she began raising objections. Discreetly at first, but when Vilaseca was evasive in his replies she ended up shouting and demanding to be let out of the car.

‘Change your role. Drop the spoilt rich-kid image and act something a bit better. How about Gloria Grahame’s dialogue with Glenn Ford in
The Big Heat
. You look like Gloria Grahame, as I’m sure I’ve told you a hundred times.

Do you remember Grahame, Carvalho? She was born with the most gorgeous expression in this world. Ambiguous, gentle, lascivious. . . She had the kind of face you need, to be able to carry on an intelligent dialogue. You look a lot like her, Anna, seriously. . .’

‘I want to go home. I can’t stand your friends. I can’t bear the thought of having to spend five hours listening to you talking about stupid things that only make you laugh, only you. You are boring, and I’m bored.’

‘Best pull up, Carvalho.’

The detective braked and began to park the car. The manoeuvre was still under way when Vilaseca got out, opened the rear door, and told the girl:

‘Get out, then. Go and do what the hell you want. You’ve got the day to yourself.’

The girl got out with all the style she could muster, passed in front of Vilaseca, and pointedly ignored him as she said:

‘I’ll be waiting for you at the Zeleste at eleven.’

‘I’ll be home within two hours.’

‘Well I won’t.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Carvalho, I’ve changed my mind. I won’t come and see Argemi. Do me a favour—ask him to ring me one of these days. I’ve got some interesting projects lined up.’ He leaned over more so that only Carvalho could hear him.

‘Forgive me if I don’t come with you. She’s like a kid. I’ve overdone it a bit. I’ve spent the whole morning in meetings that are nothing to do with her. If you need me any time, feel free to phone. You should take more care of your hair, you know! Look at that receding hairline. I was on the verge of going bald myself, and I went to see the doctor just in time. Do you know what it was? Nerves. The routine of daily life. I’d have ended up bald as a coot, and fat into the bargain. So, as you see, I’ve decided to give up having a routine. Phone me. Don’t forget.’

Vilaseca’s generous personal disposition was touching. In his rear-view mirror Carvalho watched as the film-maker decomposed the gesture of a US general bidding farewell to his troops as he sends them off on a suicide mission and adopted the style of a lover concerned for the welfare of his beloved. Carvalho explored his allegedly receding hairline with the tips of his fingers, and tugged at his hair to test its roots.

‘That’s him allover. Full of crazy ideas.’

Argemi’s assessment of Vilaseca matched the one the detective had reached as he drove back from their lunch date. Argemi was stockily-built, with wide shoulders, a good growth of hair which was showing the first signs of greyness, and a deceptively sleepy look from behind his bifocals. He was slow in expressing himself, and had a voice which could probably be frightening when he got angry. He had the air of a man perennially caught napping, who had never got over his anger at being woken up. This impression was reinforced by the way his glasses made his eyes seem smaller, and by the slowness of his movements and his style of conversation.

‘I’m only coming to sign.’ he said, and looked over the top of his glasses to see what effect these words would have on Carvalho. He laughed in order to prompt a laugh from the detective, and got a smile of solidarity. With what looked like an extremely expensive pen he signed his name to a series of documents that were handed to him by a secretary who was young, modest, neatly dressed, and a virgin, as befitted a secretary in a company producing yoghurt—a product associated with images of purity and innocence. Because it is white, because it is recommended for sick people, and because it is cheap, yoghurt is a Florence Nightingale of foods. The hand with the pen in it revealed part of the forest of hair that spread the length and breadth of Argemi’s body, which was the body of a wolf-man with the head of a sweet kid with glasses. The scene could have been a country residence for ladies of leisure in the days of roof gardens and tennis. The walls were lined with pink satin. From the delicately stuccoed ceiling hung a glass lamp engraved with a flight of opaque birds. The glass that encased the cocktail cabinet was also engraved, and all it needed was the presence of Gene Tierney offering a Manhattan to a naval officer and asking his protection as he leaves to conquer Germany and then again as he returns with the world under one arm, as if he had won it in target shooting at a funfair. Argemi’s office boasted an oak parquet floor as solid as the well-heeled English shoes that Argemi displayed, under a heavy wooden desk with two banks of drawers.