The Whispering City (7 page)

Now she was writing the article for Castro to read and approve. When he returned, she was only a few lines away from finishing. She didn’t let Sevilla’s chatter distract her.

‘You should see how she types. She must have steel metacarpals!’

She wrote the last two sentences and turned.

‘Done.’

She pulled the sheet of quarto from the typewriter’s carriage and handed it to him. Castro sat at his desk and began reading the text. Sevilla hadn’t moved from the doorway. She knew that it was only her imagination, but she could feel when the policeman’s eyes were fixed on the inspector and then turned on her, at the nape of her neck. Both of them were waiting for Castro to finish reading, and she imagined that the officer was maliciously anticipating the opposite response to what she was hoping for.

‘Fine,’ the inspector said at last. ‘This can be published. You just have to take out this part here.’

Castro pointed to the sentence that described the position of the dead woman’s body.

‘Take out the part about the dress. This isn’t for the society pages.’

She accepted the deletion with the private satisfaction of knowing that he was forcing her to erase a petty detail because he hadn’t found anything he could reproach her for.

‘What are you still doing here, Sevilla?’

‘Waiting to take the typewriter back.’

‘Well, go on, take it.’

Sevilla put the typewriter on the little trolley and dragged it out of the room. Castro looked at Ana and said, ‘Don’t even think about changing a single line of the text you showed me. Even though you forgot to make me a carbon copy, I will notice any differences.’

She was sure about that.

Ten minutes later, she left the headquarters with a smile on her face, which was such an unusual sight that two women walking down the Vía Layetana stared at her in surprise.

7

Pablo Noguer liked his new office. He liked it even though the furniture had been scavenged from other parts of the firm and the various styles didn’t match. But it was his, and it was on Bruch Street at the corner of Consejo de Ciento, far enough from his father’s law practice, which was further north in the Ensanche district on Londres Street. Also, he had a huge picture window that opened on to the block’s large central courtyard. You could look out and let your gaze wander over the changing choreography of blinds and curtains.

The office was a bit remote from the firm’s reception area. His clients, or more accurately the clients Calvet, the second in command, assigned him were less important and less well off than those of the other attorneys, and he received them in the firm’s conference room. And he had many cases where he was acting as a public defender. ‘To break you in,’ Jaime Pla, the head partner of the firm, had said. ‘There is no better school for a good lawyer than daily contact with the dregs of society. Take good note of everything you see, Noguer. Get an unvarnished look at what humans are capable of.’

So Pablo learned from all sorts of conmen, pickpockets, pimps, prostitutes and murderers. If that was the idea, Pla was a good teacher.

He hung his coat in an old art deco tallboy that no one had wanted. It was time to go and see Maribel.

He found her, as always, sitting at her desk in the anteroom to Pla’s office. When she saw him, she gestured for him to come over. In her white blouse and navy jacket, she looked just like any secretary in a well-established firm: tidy and competent. She was pretty and pleasant too. Pablo smiled at her and she smiled back. He presumed that Maribel had taken a certain liking to him because she was much more friendly and gracious with him than with the other lawyers in the firm. But that morning, there wasn’t time for the usual small talk.

‘Pla wanted to talk to you as soon as you got in. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Pablo was surprised. What did Pla want? He normally worked with Calvet.

Maribel hung up and looked at him. ‘You can go on in.’

She stood and opened the door for him as she did for the head partner’s clients. She waited until he had taken a couple of steps inside and closed the door discreetly behind him.

Pla pointed to a chair in front of his desk and continued writing with his solid, robust body leaning over the table like a novice schoolboy, an impression that Pablo knew very well was deceptive. No one was less clumsy and innocent than Jaime Pla. For a while, the room was silent except for the scratch of pen on paper, the dull blows of the blotting paper he applied with vigorous movements and the rustle of the signed documents as he put them away in their folder. Finally his leather desk pad was clear. Pla lifted his head and stared at Pablo as he twirled the fountain pen between his fingers.

‘I’m pleased you came quickly, Noguer!’

He held up a hand to keep Pablo from replying.

‘It’s an unpleasant matter. Extremely unpleasant. And serious.’

Pablo took the precaution of saying nothing. He looked at Pla squarely, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

‘The day before yesterday you were in an…’ Pla paused briefly, ‘establishment.’

Pablo nodded.

Two days before, he had gone out with some of his young colleagues from the firm. Calvet had invited them. Pablo had understood it as some sort of initiation rite: going out for drinks together, going to a brothel and the next day toasting the occasion with Alka-Seltzer dissolved in water.

‘There, there were some…’ Pla hesitated again, ‘some excesses. Various excesses.’

That was also true. He would have preferred to forget about them, and he felt embarrassed by some of the images that came into his head.

Pla’s gaze became kindly. Pablo was familiar with the strategies his boss used in the courtroom. This expression worked to reassure reluctant witnesses so that he could then deliver a well-timed blow and destroy their credibility entirely. He prepared himself.

‘All of us, when we are young, have to let off steam. Well, later too, because a man is a man and has his needs. But’ – the kindness vanished – ‘there are limits.’

Pla opened the main drawer of his desk and pulled out an envelope.

‘Someone filed a complaint with the police. It seems that on the night in question you consumed illegal drugs, namely cocaine. It seems you also sold the drug.’

This was only partly true. That night there was plenty of everything: food, alcohol, women. Cocaine too. But he hadn’t brought it. He didn’t know where it had come from or who started spreading it around. No one sold cocaine there, only consumed it and, from what he could remember, the other three young colleagues, Miranda, Ripoll and Gómez, did too. Perhaps Pla knew as much, perhaps not. Pablo reacted as he had learned to. ‘Never admit to anything. It’s always better to counter-attack,’ his father would hammer into him.

‘That’s slander. Who filed the complaint against me?’

Pla stared at him. ‘It was anonymous.’

Before Pablo could reply, he continued, ‘Well, the complaint, due to fortunate circumstances that I don’t want to go into now, came from Vía Layetana straight into my hands. Luckily. So, give thanks to the goddess of Fortune or,’ Pla smiled, ‘light a candle to Saint Martin, the patron saint of drinkers, who must have been looking out for you.’

Stay objective, don’t show any emotion, control your body language
. Pablo struggled to do so and hoped he was more or less managing it.

‘Don Jaime, of course I am most grateful, and I appreciate your attempt to protect me, but could you tell me what it says in the accusation?’

Pablo extended a hand, but Pla didn’t give him the piece of paper. He unfolded it and smoothed it out.

‘I’m going to read it to you.’

Pla ran his hand over his thin moustache, fitted some reading glasses onto his nose and looked at Pablo once more before directing his gaze to the piece of paper in his hand.

‘It’s almost impossible to read this scribble. The handwriting is a disaster.’

He started to read. ‘
Your Excellency
…
’

He glanced up.

‘It seems that our friend doesn’t have a good grip on the whole title business.’

He continued reading. ‘
As a good citizen of new Spain I have to denounce something. The consumption of prohibitive drugs
– I guess he meant prohibited –
is rising, and they even sell them in bars. Were will we end up if solisotors do these things and skorn morality? Yesterday I was in a bar and was witness to thus. Neer eleven at night a group of posch young men, among them one named Pablo Noguer who I wanted to denounce to the proscecutor for the crime below. They all wanted champain and women. They were partying for a wile with plenty whore, as you can imagine. Round one I saw the aforesaid Pablo Noguer sell cocaine to several people. It wasnt the first time, I saw him several times sell in La Paloma Blanca, on Tapia Street, and La Gallega, on the Rambla Santa Mónica, both rough place where the poch little lord go looking for cheep women
.’

Pla looked at him.

‘That last part isn’t particularly important because it doesn’t give any precise information. But in the first accusation, there is a place, date and time. I still haven’t spoken with your colleagues. Given your name and your family’s name, Noguer, I chose to talk to you first. Which is why I am asking you: is what he says true?’

Pablo swallowed hard. If he denied having taken cocaine and any of the other three admitted it, he could lose his credibility with Pla. He had no choice but to lower his eyes and say, ‘Only one of the points is true, Don Jaime; I think I tried the cocaine. I admit it was foolish, but…’

Pablo trusted that Pla would see it as a minor infraction. The fact was, cocaine could be bought in the pharmacy on prescription. Although it had to be registered. But not everyone had a doctor who would prescribe it. Which was why the black market flourished. Those who did business in it ran the risk of a long sentence. The repercussions that an accusation such as this one could have on a career in the law were obvious.

‘… But I assure you that I was not the one who passed it round, much less sold it.’

Pla nodded gravely. Did he believe him? Pablo continued his counter-attack, trying to deflect attention away from himself. ‘Besides, the declaration doesn’t hold much weight. An anonymous eyewitness who surely wouldn’t be willing to testify under oath.’

‘You already know, Noguer, that anonymous accusations are taken very seriously in this country.’

He knew it well. An anonymous denunciation was enough to get you called into the police station. It was enough to make you the victim of interrogations that some people came back from with broken arms or legs. When they came back. But that couldn’t happen to him, could it? If it did, perhaps his father could pull strings. He would have to write pleas, pay large sums of money or perhaps call in a favour to stop the process. His shame turned to mortification as he thought of what his father would say, the disdain in his voice when he spoke to him, his mother’s aggrieved face.

Yes, he would get him out of the jam, but there’d be no end to his reproaches. And his father wouldn’t be able to stop everyone in Barcelona from finding out about it, and his career would be ruined.

Then Pla asked him, ‘Do you have any idea who could have written this letter?’

‘No. I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe someone from the brothel? One of the girls? One of the pimps?’

‘One of the girls? Did you treat them… did you treat them badly?’

Pablo blushed.

‘No. For the love of God! It was just the regular,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the services we agreed upon and the corresponding remuneration.’

Pla started to twirl the fountain pen around again. It was a German model, a Pelikan with green and black stripes that blended together as the lawyer spun it fast.

‘But the man or woman who accused you knew your name,’ he said finally.

‘That’s not hard. We were all calling each other by our names.’

He remembered that when Calvet had ordered the champagne, he had egged him on: ‘Come on, Noguer, let’s see what you’re really made of. In court you act like an altar boy.’ Pablo held the bottle between his legs. They all shouted when the foam started to emerge in a spout and chanted his name when Calvet held the bottle to his mouth for him to drink. He didn’t want to remember anything from that point on. That night wasn’t one of the proudest moments of his life.

Pla’s voice took on a strict tone. ‘I can’t say that I’m pleased about this matter. I expect model behaviour from my lawyers. I expect that, in every situation, they know where the permitted and tolerated limits are. On the other hand, I value your work highly and I would like to continue to employ you. I am going to have to reflect on how to proceed in this case.’

He got up from his chair. The conversation was over.

Pablo managed to mumble a few words of gratitude and exited the office.

He passed by Maribel’s desk. She called to him, ‘The minutes from the Molina case. You have to draw up the buying contract.’

He turned and took the papers she held out to him.

‘Forgive me, Maribel. I was distracted.’

Maribel smiled at him.

He returned the smile mechanically and went to his office with the minutes under his arm.

8

Once a week Ana offered her services as a scrivener in one of the stalls near the Boquería market. Seated inside one of the wooden booths, she wrote and read letters for people who were illiterate or who wanted to ensure a standard of writing. Letters to family members, to friends, to institutions; to give news, communicate births and deaths, marriages, First Communions; having got work, having lost it, asking for money or demanding the payment of debts. And love letters.

One of her regular customers was Carmiña Orozco, a young woman from Galicia who worked as a chambermaid at the Hotel Majestic, a luxury hotel on the Paseo de Gracia. Carmiña wasn’t illiterate: she knew how to read, albeit slowly, and how to write, but she preferred the letters she sent her boyfriend, Hernán, in prison, to be ‘in nice handwriting’.