Off Side (16 page)

‘Indeed …’

‘ … Pearson, in as much as he works within a linear framework, uses
filum
in both a conjunctive and a linear sense … In fact possibly more conjunctive than linear …’

‘It depends, actually.’

‘Of course. Everything depends on the context and one’s frame of reference. The point of reference seen as a privileged viewer — the observer observed, to use Morin’s image — and the context as an otherness, which, of course, is never static. Otherness is never static …’ Here he fell silent, blinked for a moment and tried to recover the thread of his argument. ‘So, where do we go from here …?’

He wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Well …’

‘Perhaps you’d like to ask a few questions?’

‘Absolutely … There was something I was wanting to ask you …’

‘About morality being the negation of itself, perhaps?’

‘Something along those lines. I see that our friend Basté is
a philosopher, among other things, and that he is familiar with Hegel.’

‘Not as well-read as you, though, Germán.’

All public speakers are basically the same, thought Carvalho. Mainly interested in projecting their own egos and screwing everyone in sight, male and female alike.

‘In other words, if I might sum up the complexity of the proposition, because our audience deserves the courtesy of clarity: you are perhaps saying that when we confront the problems of Barcelona’s growth, we have to be democratic but daring at the same time?’

‘Yes, yes, exactly. Very well put. Faced with an opportunity like this, a democratic approach that was over-cautious would simply not be up to the job in hand. People say that this city originally grew in the interests of its upper classes, but that what it has become is now of benefit to all. In a similar spirit, Barcelona is going to have to put its trust in those who have the ability, the will and the knowledge to engineer the changes that the city needs.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hand the speaker over to you. Might I suggest that his last statement provides us with a good vantage point from which to begin.’

‘Do you think that we ought to complete the Sagrada Familia?’ ‘I’m all in favour of Barcelona hosting the Olympics, but what about the traffic problem?’ ‘Do you agree with the way they’ve cleaned up Gaudi’s Pedrera?’ Basté was good-humoured and relaxed as he answered the questions one by one. But he tensed visibly when a progressive who was either before or past his prime stood up and asked aggressively: ‘What role do you think should be played by our tenants’ committees and neighbourhood associations in overseeing this growth? Who is going to undertake the task of identifying and naming the crooks and speculators who are planning to make a killing out of all this development?’

There were murmurs of disapproval at the word ‘crook’. A few years previously it would have been accepted as an amusing
sub-cultural diversion, but now it appeared as radically destabilizing — precisely as Basté went on to observe: ‘When democracies become stabilized, people’s language should moderate too.’

They applauded.

‘But don’t think that I’m trying to duck the question. The role of our neighbourhood associations must be ethical, in the sense that we have been trying to give the word. They must be capable of taking action, but also of allowing other people to take action, putting their trust in those who are capable and willing to take initiatives.’

‘Capable and willing of getting rich quick, you mean.’

‘So far as I know, there’s nothing in the Spanish constitution that says that people aren’t allowed to get rich. On the contrary. And in fact, if there had been, I would have voted against it, and so would a lot of other people. If being rich had been against the law, then probably you and I would not have been able to hold this civilized dialogue today.’

‘Well now that you’re all going round pretending to be so very educated and civilized, I’ll tell you what I think of what you’ve just said: every age finds the words that it needs in order to conceal its real motives.’

‘That is a normal condition of human life. It happens among all peoples, at all times.’

The audience was getting bored with the level of abstraction, and a lady stood up and brought things down to earth again: ‘Would you say that we have made enough of an effort to give our Catalan sportswomen a chance to win an Olympic medal?’ Basté was courteous in proclaiming that all of Catalonia’s women deserved an Olympic medal, and he was also sufficiently well documented to reveal a precise knowledge of the poor state of our, I stress
our
sports environment at all levels. But, he said, a country which, without any particular liking for music, had managed to produce a Pablo Casals, could equally well surprise the world by suddenly producing champions.

This was the moment that Carvalho chose to extricate himself from the audience. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to take the left exit or the right — a delay that was sufficiently long for Basté to recognize him, and for his eyes to narrow momentarily. However Carvalho didn’t return the recognition, and as he headed for the exit he crossed paths with the ageing radical.

‘I gather he didn’t convince you.’

‘They might not look it, but they’re the same as ever.’

‘And so are you.’

‘Unfortunately not. And that’s the way they like it. We will never again be the people that we used to be. As far as I’m concerned, they can stick the city up their arses, and much good may it do them.’

Basté had not succeeded in convincing him, but neither had he had the opposite effect. Having had the opportunity to assess him in a civic environment where people treated him like a patrician, Carvalho now needed to see how he operated in his other scenario of creator of heroes. He transferred himself to the football ground, to see the effect on Basté of having to switch between so many roles in the course of one day. As a patrician orator he had struck Carvalho as a cynic, and when the detective reached the ground and showed his ‘Social Psychologist’ pass, he thought to himself that surely Basté could not really take the rituals of the football world seriously, for all that this powerful club was built more like a cathedral than a football ground. The players were sitting on the grass absorbing a theory lesson from the manager, who was expounding the principles of ball control, with his back to the fans with time on their hands who regularly attended the club’s afternoon training sessions.

‘According to Charles Hughes, to create openings, you have to apply the following principles: you have to scatter the opposition across the pitch in all directions; you have to change direction frequently, either by suddenly changing the trajectory of the ball or by connecting the trajectory with another team member;
you have to pass the ball quickly, and not hog it; you have to be able to conceal your own intentions; you should not dribble the ball longer than is strictly necessary; and when you’ve got control of the ball, there are four other principles that you have to bear in mind …’ And so he went on, elucidating his principles, until Carvalho finally got bored, and was confirmed in his conviction that human beings are divided into two basic categories: those who lecture, and those who are lectured.

The cashier referred him to a senior clerk, who, having listened in an unctuous bank-managerial style, lapsed into meditation for a moment and decided that this was a job for the bank’s manager. Palacín waited for the manager to finish a meeting with a man who looked a lot more nervous coming out than when he had gone in. The manager was patting him on the back as he went: ‘Cheer up, young man.’

And he shook his hand in order to transmit to him the vibrations of confidence that were appropriate for what was the sixth- or seventh-largest bank in the country. Then he dissolved his smile and assumed an air of gravity as he came across to usher Palacín into the office.

‘I don’t think we need to …’

‘There is no conversation which deserves to be had not sitting down.’

So they sat down. The manager listened to his brief explanation of how he was trying to trace his wife through her bank account. He asked for his identity card, and then called an assistant to bring him the file for that particular account. He studied it with all the seriousness that he would give to the bank’s annual report, until finally he offered Palacín a smile and a ray of hope.

‘I don’t foresee any problems in providing the information you’re looking for.’

He called over his assistant, and they didn’t even need to finish
their conversation for Palacín to feel the anxiety suddenly swelling in his chest like a ball of wet dough. His son and his ex-wife were no longer in Spain. They had left an address for the money he deposited to be sent on. The address was in Bogotá. The manager communicated this information to Palacín, and handed him a piece of paper on which was written an address so far distant that for Palacín it was as good as extra-terrestrial. He stared at this more or less useless piece of paper, and something like a desire to cry seemed to box off his soul. It was a moment before he heard the manager saying: ‘Do you need anything, señor Palacín? Hello, señor Palacín …?’

He stammered his thanks and rose to his feet with the note in his hand.

‘I hope you will continue to honour us with your business.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I can assure you that we have a very good team of people in this bank, and they are here to work for your interests and those of your family. Have you heard about our new issue of bonds that can be converted into shares? They can be converted at any moment that you decide the market is right. Would you be interested …?’

‘No. Not for the moment, thanks.’

‘If you have second thoughts, you know where to find us.’

Palacín found himself standing outside the bank, torn between two directions, neither of which made much sense. He could either go and do the recovery exercises which the manager had prescribed for him, or he could go and hide in his room and allow himself to sink into the depression that was flooding over him. He called a taxi, and took a moment or two deciding on his route. Finally he plumped for the depression, and asked the cabbie to drop him at the corner of calle de la Cadena and Hospital. He sleepwalked towards the entrance of the
pension
, and as he arrived he noticed that something was stopping him from going up. He was hungry, or at least he ought to have been hungry. At
any rate, it was lunchtime, and he headed off down calle de San Olegario in search of a place to eat. He went into one that looked less dirty than the others, probably because it was better lit, and settled himself at a plastic table which a waiter promptly draped with a paper tablecloth. The words on the menu swam before his eyes, but he already knew what he was going to order — a rare steak and a salad. He picked up his fork and toyed with the lettuce leaves, searching out the two slices of cold meat where they sat in the vinegar dressing, and it was the girl’s smell that he noticed before her voice, a smell of sweat and cheap cologne, as she inquired: ‘Do you have a light?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Good for you.’

There was something familiar about her thin body, and particularly about its subdued way of being, as if she was waiting for something, which, whatever it was, would hold no interest for her when it finally arrived. She interpreted his attempt to decide who she was as an invitation to sit down at his table.

‘Am I bothering you?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve seen you around,’ she said, as if, by saying it, she had somehow regained possession of a part of him after a long absence. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere.’

‘I know you from somewhere, too,’

‘There’s something very familiar about you, you know.’ She leaned back in her chair in order to get an even firmer grip on his perplexity.

Palacín had a curious sensation of being in the presence of a female invertebrate whose skeleton wasn’t even up to bearing the weight of her skinny body.

‘I know! You’re the footballer!’

‘You’re too young to remember me. It’s been years since I was last in the news.’

‘You’re the footballer from señora Conchi’s.’

Now he remembered her. Her profile at the end of the kitchen, a coffee in her hand, and the air of bored resignation as she endured the landlady’s chit-chat.

‘Are you staying there too?’

‘No. Señora Conchi invites me up for a coffee sometimes. As a matter of fact, yours truly is a prostitute.’

He twitched momentarily as he took in this piece of information. His brain took a moment registering what she had said, and when it did he suddenly felt tense, both with himself, and with the vibrations that were coming across from this unnerving presence.

‘Would you fancy a literary screw with me?’

‘A what?’

‘I was forgetting, you’re a footballer. Literary screws wouldn’t do a lot for you. How would you fancy scoring a goal between my thighs?’

‘No.’ He said this so abruptly that he felt the need to qualify it in case she felt offended. ‘Not today.’

‘This is the best time. Just after you’ve eaten. A little siesta. Footballers need a bit of relaxation. So you just relax, and I’ll do the business. My clients don’t even have to move. A thousand pesetas, plus the price of the room. Clean and decent … I might not be pretty, but I screw with a lot of imagination. You just score the goal, and I’ll do the rest.’

‘Maybe I can get you something to eat?’

She was expecting this, because she raised one arm and called the waiter over to ask for a coffee and brandy.

‘You can have something to eat too, if you want.’

‘I know I’m skinny, but I’m not starving. I save eating for when I go to see that crazy old woman. She enjoys mothering me. Tough shit on her.’

The harshness of her words were matched by the electric brightness of the gaze which she fixed on him from the depths of her dark-ringed eyes. All of a sudden she smiled and placed a
hand on his arm.

‘I don’t need anything to eat, but if you fancied getting me a line of coke, you’d be doing me a favour, and you could have a good time too.’

‘I’m not into cocaine.’