Off Side (11 page)

‘Look, Dosrius, you talk with whoever you need to talk to, and just tell them to be patient. This is a complicated business. You can’t build a house from the roof down. I know that the pressure’s on, but everything’s under control. Just let me get the season under way, and when things start to go badly, that’ll be the moment to provoke a crisis.’

‘What if things go well, though?’

‘What are you saying? How can things possibly go well? I’ve got a team of cripples and an idiot for a manager; we lost a thousand members last season; and we lost three of our first four games in the League.’

‘But you’ve just signed a star player.’

‘A star player?’

‘Palacín. He’s international status.’

‘Madre de deu … Star player — that’s ridiculous! See — you’re making me so nervous that I’ve started speaking Catalan.’

‘It would do you good to speak Catalan.’

‘Stop it, Dosrius. Palacín has a plastic kneecap. I got him from Raurell, who’s one of the shadiest agents there is. I signed him against medical advice — in other words, I did a deal with the doctor. The trouble is, you don’t understand. I can’t be chairman of Centellas and start the season without signing up someone so as to show that I want the club to survive. That was what we agreed. Tell that to whoever you need to tell it to. You know perfectly well that when we met in that restaurant in Castelldefels, with those people you brought, everything was left very clear. You work at your own speed, Sánchez. That’s what they said. That’s what
you
said. And that’s what I’m doing.’

‘The Olympics are getting closer.’

‘We’ve already made our agreement. No problem. The ground will be yours.’

‘Ours.’

‘All right, ours. But don’t go getting so impatient.’

‘I want to be frank with you.’

But he delayed being frank until he had finished eating his toast and had taken a long sip at his coffee, a sip which seemed to last an age.

‘They’ve no confidence.’

‘In whom?’

‘They’ve no confidence.’

‘You mean they don’t trust me?’

‘There are too many loose ends. Imagine what’s going to happen if your club members decide to prolong Centellas’s death throes right up to the Olympics. By then land speculation will be spreading like wildfire, and any bit of ground within three miles of the Olympic Village is going to be worth its weight in gold. By
then it’ll be too late. Our group — I repeat,
our
group, as much yours as mine — won’t have the weight to compete with other buyers when it comes to buying the Centellas ground. Don’t forget, there will be foreign buyers too. Use your imagination, and you’ll tremble even to think of it.’

Zapico trembled accordingly, and mustered a feeble smile.

‘But …’

‘No buts, Juanito … Just use your imagination.’

‘But … you must think I’m stupid. It can only be a question of months. We’ll be bottom of the League within a fortnight. Even if my idiot manager doesn’t do the trick, I’ve arranged with one of my players to fix Palacín’s knee again.’

‘You don’t mean you’ve got someone else involved?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got him firmly under my thumb, and anyway, I’m not dealing with him directly. As soon as we’re bottom of the League, and Palacín’s been dealt with, I’ll call a board meeting, and an emergency meeting of the club members, and I’ll say: “Gentlemen, the time has come to call it a day”.’

‘Supposing they say no? Supposing they start collecting money in the barrio? “Centellas must be saved!” People love saving things that are at death’s door.’

‘What do you mean, barrio, Dosrius? What barrio? How many years is it since you were last in our part of town? It’s not a barrio any more, it’s not anything. People these days don’t know whether they’re in Pueblo Nuevo, Barcelona or Timbuctoo. People these days are worried about finding jobs, not about saving fossilized football clubs — particularly if it’s going to cost them money, because they’re not prepared to spend money on nostalgia, Dosrius.’

‘What happens if the local reds turn up and start campaigning about “loss of cultural identity”?’

‘What cultural identity, Dosrius? Are you telling me I’m the president of a library or something, and I never even realized it?’

‘Football is popular culture, Juanito. For the commies,
everything is culture.’

‘Football, culture?’

‘Don’t be naive, Juanito. You know how commies love to stir the shit. Commies stir the shit because they love giving the authorities a hard time — until they get into power, that is, and then they start giving everyone else a hard time.’

‘What commies? What are you talking about, for God’s sake? I wouldn’t give you tuppence for communists today. You can buy them with a handful of sweets. Real communists are a thing of the past. The people who used to shout their mouths off have all ended up as city councillors, or directors of this and that. The architects who used to measure the height of houses by the centimetre are now building skyscrapers, Dosrius. You’re a man of culture, of course you are, you know how things are going …’

Dosrius had finished his breakfast, and was keeping his thoughts to himself. He remained silent while Sánchez Zapico began talking himself round in circles.

‘Everything’s under control. Really, Dosrius, believe me.’

‘I believe you, partly because I know you, partly because I’m involved in all this, and partly because there are a lot of interests at stake in this. You should think the worst about the business with the lift. Do you really think I knew about it, Juanito? Hand on your heart, do you really think that I would do anything to harm you?’

‘The thought never even crossed my mind.’

‘I should hope not. It must have been some lone operator, just as it was with the fire in the warehouse. But you have earned a lot of money from the bits of subcontracting that we’ve passed your way, and now these people are wanting results. You’re going to earn a lot of money when they start building on the Centellas pitch.’

‘My cousin’s going to earn a lot, and my brother-in-law.’

‘And you, Juanito.’

‘Sure, and me. So obviously I’ve got a personal interest in
everything turning out right.’

Dosrius looked sad for a moment and reached across to look Sánchez Zapico in the eye as he grasped him firmly by the arm.

‘You’re a man after my own heart, Juanito. But don’t go playing tricks on them, and don’t try to fool yourself either. Today it was the lift. The other day it was the warehouse. What about yourself? And your family? There are some very honest people involved in this operation, professional investors, and so on, but there are also criminal elements, and let’s not kid ourselves. I’m sure you know what I mean. I can answer for the honest people, but I can’t answer for the criminals.’

Sánchez Zapico looked as pale as the morning and as overcast as the sky overhead.

There was something not quite right about his room. Somebody was in it. Even before he opened his eyes he knew he wasn’t going to like what he saw. He was surprised to find Bromide standing by his bed with his eyes fixed on the floor, and behind him a tall, thin man who looked like an expensively dressed Andalusian from the hills, or an equally expensively dressed Moroccan from the city. And on the other side of the bed, another character, of more ambiguous appearance, perhaps a mixture of an Andalusian from the hills and a Moroccan from the city, but also dressed expensively. This was his bed. This was his house. This was Vallvidrera. An October morning in 1988, one thousand years of Catalonia, two thousand years of Barcelona, four hundred and ninety six years since the defeat of the Arabs, the expulsion of the Jews and the discovery of America. And he was he, Pepe Carvalho.

‘Make yourselves at home. Are these friends of yours, Bromide?’

Bromide looked as if he’d been turned to stone.

‘Do you mind … I sleep with no clothes on.’

They made no concessions to this fact, so he was forced to emerge naked from under the sheets and go in search of a half-forgotten dressing gown which he found hanging behind the door. He was preoccupied with how he looked. He wasn’t exactly fat but he was certainly putting on weight. He needed to go into training. Something not too strenuous, of course. The two Arabs followed Carvalho’s movements. Now that he had the dressing gown as a second skin, Carvalho felt surer of himself and went to put his hands into his pockets, to wait for further instructions. But he barely got his fingertips in before the Arab closest to him suddenly showed great interest in the movement, and leaned over to grab his wrists and force him to take his hands out of his
pockets again. The Arab searched the pockets to make sure that they were empty, and then resumed his initial static position.

‘You speak English?’

They didn’t find this amusing, and Bromide shot him a warning glance. It arrived too late. A heavy sideways swipe struck Carvalho on the cheek and knocked his head to one side. As he tried to tense his body, a kick sent him flying against the wall, where he froze, so as not to provoke his assailant further. There was a gun in the hand of the man standing behind Bromide, and he waved the gun to indicate that Carvalho should leave the room first. They followed him to the front room, and Carvalho went and sat on a chair in the corner, to be able to keep a clear view of the proceedings. His personal guard took up a position behind him, and the other Arab shoved Bromide forward. When everyone was in place, the man with the gun said: ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ Carvalho replied, with a slight bow of his head.

‘You wanted to see us.’

‘I don’t even know who you are, so how should I know if I wanted to see you?’

‘The shoe man said you wanted to see us. We don’t like people wanting to see us. Everyone mind their own business. That’s best.’

‘Insha’ Allah …’

He expected another slap from behind, but the man with the gun glanced at his partner, and the expected attack didn’t materialize.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Somebody is planning to kill someone. He’s started sending anonymous letters, to say so.’

‘Anonymous letters?’

‘Letters without a signature. Letters with no name, where he says: “I’m going to kill Mr So-and-so.” ’

‘So and so?’

‘Another way of saying someone particular.’

‘Very stupid, all this. Don’t you think it’s stupid? These letters, nothing to do with us … We aren’t stupid.’

‘Somebody has written letters threatening the life of a football player, a centre forward.’

‘Meier? Hassan?’

He seemed alarmed.

‘I don’t know those two. No. It seems it’s an English centre forward, who’s just been signed.’

‘Mortimer. Very good. Very good, Mortimer.’

The man standing behind him also said that Mortimer was very good. So they obviously knew something about football.

‘Why come to us? We know nothing about it. We don’t go round killing English people. This stupid old man came bothering us for nothing, and you were stupid to send him.’

Any minute now they’d end up talking like Indians in some cowboy film. But the one with the gun was in a talkative mood, and he continued: ‘We keep out of trouble with the law. We don’t get involved with stupid things. We don’t write letters. We have nothing against Mortimer.’

‘But we know that something’s brewing, and seeing you’ve got so many contacts, I’m sure you could find out something.’

‘And supposing we find out something, what’s in it for us?’

There was no answering a question like that. He could hardly give them a thousand pesetas, like he gave Bromide, or even five thousand, when the information he required was obviously worth a lot more. Carvalho was walking on shifting sands, and he began to feel restless and irritated. The price of information these days was a price he couldn’t afford. He would have to ask Charo to find him a job in her boarding house when she set up — making beds, cleaning toilets, maybe. A frugal, peaceful old age; who knows, maybe even happy …?

‘We don’t get involved in stupid things. Get that straight. Stupid. And this old man is stupid too. One stupid person plus another stupid person makes two stupid people. You have come
bothering us. We get on with our work and don’t poke our noses in where they don’t belong. Why did you send the old man? Look.’ He cocked the pistol and pointed it at Bromide’s head. ‘If I kill this stupid man, nothing will happen to me. And if I kill you too, nothing will happen to me. I kill one stupid person, and then another stupid person. What happens?’

There was a moment’s silence as he waited for the answer to this conundrum.

‘What happens is you’ve killed two stupid people.’

He gave the man behind him a charming smile, and in return the speaker gave out a hint of a laugh, but then immediately restrained it.

‘This old man is good for nothing. Just brings problems. We don’t like problems. What about you?’

‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You give me information today, and maybe tomorrow you’ll be needing information from me …’

‘We don’t need information. We know everything we need to know. So why don’t you stop bothering us? You made us come here and waste time. This is a warning to you. Remember, you’re not even safe in your own house.’

‘I’ll have to report this conversation to Inspector Contreras.’

‘Report it to anyone you want. Contreras doesn’t want trouble, and we don’t make trouble. You make trouble. And this stupid old man makes trouble. When nobody makes trouble, then everyone’s OK. Everyone sticks to their job. Contreras is a clever man. Only stupid people make life complicated.’

He poked his gun against Bromide’s head to force it over to one side, and gestured to the man behind Carvalho to come round and take up a position by the door. The one with the gun took a look round the room and noted what he saw. As he was leaving he said: ‘You have many books. What do you do with so many books?’

‘I burn them.’

‘That is why you are stupid. If you read more, you would not be so stupid. You have been warned.’

And off they went. He heard them opening doors but not shutting them, and then the sound of a departing car, down on the street. He went to the window, and saw the city spread out below him. Then he looked to find the car, and saw it disappearing off towards Rabassada. It was a big car. Powerful. German. Bromide had not shifted position, and stood there looking like he had a broken neck. He had a scratch on one cheek, and a bruise over one eye. There were tears in his eyes. Carvalho went off to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine for Bromide and a glass of chilled aqua vitae for himself. By the time he returned to the front room, Bromide had sat down.