The Barcelona Brothers (21 page)

“Jamelia! Jamelia!”

Allawi and Alex try to follow her, but before long, they give up. The girl doesn’t pause in her excited, headlong dash to the supermarket. Alex isn’t sorry. It was hard enough to talk to her this morning, and he can do without a second edition.

“She’s carrying a message for her sister,” Allawi says, expressing the thought forming in Alex’s mind. “When she saw us, she decided she doesn’t want to see us.”

“You’re a real Sherlock Holmes.”

“A who?”

“Forget it. A detective. Like Harry Potter.”

“Right, Harry Pothead.”

They both laugh. Alex still doesn’t know what to do. He hopes Allawi has a plan and leaves him no alternative, because they’re almost at their destination, and Alex hasn’t been able to concentrate, not even a little. All he’s got in his head is a catalog of intentions.

TIFFANY’S ON THE MATTRESS, LYING ON HER STOMACH
with her head turned to one side. Percy’s not two feet from her. She stretches out one arm and places her hand on the small face. His breath tickles her palm. Using two fingers, she gives the little nose an affectionate pinch. The boy protests. Good sign. On her other side, Epi begins to breathe even more deeply. She’ll wait a bit longer. After doing it with him, she decided she’d try to persuade him to let her leave. She’d make him feel like the unquestioned master of the situation, the hero who murdered the monster and set her free; she’d persuade him that being suspicious of her makes no sense. She’d leave with the child, and then tonight she and Epi could meet and have a nice, calm chat about what’s happened and—especially—about what’s going to happen.

But after lying down on the mattress, Epi couldn’t help falling asleep. The fatigue of pleasure, combined with the number
of hours he’d been awake, laid him low; the last lines of coke he’d done had long since evaporated from his bloodstream. Faced with this new situation—that is, with Epi passed out on the bed—Tiffany has radically changed her plan: she’s going to leave right now.

Should she be in such a hurry? She should, she knows she should, but suddenly her haste subsides. She savors the moment, which she recognizes as something special, as the precursor of even greater moments to come. Her open mouth presses against the dirty fabric of the bare mattress. She could shut her jaws, but she doesn’t even want to do that now. She likes the feel of her tongue against the coarse material, as rough as a cat’s tongue. She’s not going to run, she’s not going to close her mouth. She might even fall asleep. A few minutes would be enough, a few more minutes of lying here, curled up against her little boy. When you most need it, time shows you that it doesn’t exist.

But the girl’s indolence vanishes as soon as she spots the keys. They’re sticking out of a pocket in Epi’s pants, and since this article of clothing remains attached to its owner at only one ankle, it would be a simple matter for her to snatch them. She stretches out her arm and thrusts her fingers into the pocket. She doesn’t even look at Epi, because she’s proud, because she can’t be bothered, because she considers that particular precaution beneath her, as she has considered all others. She extracts the keys from the pocket and lets them fall on the bed, gazing at them with the incomplete vision that results from the position of her head on the mattress. The fabric is wet with her saliva.

The midday sun makes the room stiflingly hot. Except for an occasional, unusually loud vehicle, no sound of any kind can be heard. Tanveer’s friends chose this apartment precisely because it’s so quiet. The neighbors are deaf, old, or dead, and cars go down Granada Street only if their drivers are lost. The windows have no curtains. Tiffany looks around for the violet ones she bought for this room some time ago. They may still be in the wardrobe, along with the mountain climbing equipment left by that nutcase friend of Tanveer’s. The stolen hangers must be in there, too, and the bags of unwashed clothes, filthy and paint-stained and smelling of turpentine.

But did he really kill him?
she wonders. Something happened. She was sure of that. Epi wouldn’t have put on this whole performance if Tanveer were still around. But if he’s dead, she ought to feel something she doesn’t. If it turns out to be true, people are going to look her in the eyes to find out what she’s got inside. And Tiffany’s afraid they’ll see nothing. For now, at least, she has no tears. No grief. Nor does she know if that will come later. But she ought to feel
something
. Something more than vanity, shouldn’t she?

Tiffany knows intuitively that her feelings for Tanveer Hussein are deeper than she’ll ever acknowledge. She remembers how she used to feel in the presence of that big son of a bitch with his bad-dog eyes. She felt helpless as a child. Simultaneously protected and exposed. Not knowing where he was would worry her, his lies would alert her, his defeats made her conceited. But when she had him, when she took him inside her, she knew that everything made sense; whether she could
interpret it or not didn’t matter. But why did that happen only with him, and why in that way?

She can’t get used to the idea that she won’t see him anymore. For them, “never again” always meant “in a few days.” There were so many breakups, so many times when she wished him out of her life forever, when she wished he’d get killed or go back to his own country, if indeed he had any country other than these streets. She’s had the feeling it was all over so often she can’t take in the idea that it is, that it’s come to a sudden, unexpected end. What’s left for her now?

Epi’s still breathing deeply—snoring, in fact—with his mouth open. What’s she waiting for?
Pick up the keys and get out of here
, an inner voice commands her. Her hand closes over the key ring. She gives Epi a look of farewell. His last hours of freedom. His last fuck. His first and last act of heroism. He killed the dragon and came looking for the girl. But he was a foolish Saint George and didn’t ask first. He saw things the way he wanted to see them. He never suspected that without the beast, there’s no princess.

Why couldn’t she fall in love with someone like Epi? What if she made a real effort? Someone who’d ruin his life for her sake. Someone who’d kill, who’d blow everything to hell just to have her to himself. To have her love. To make a private world for the two of them. Is anyone going to love her more than Epi does?

Tiffany’s hand closes over the keys. She slithers across the mattress and over her son. No problem with Epi—he keeps on sleeping. She slips both arms under Percy and summons all
her strength. She has to choose her moment so she won’t make the slightest mistake. She raises the child with her hands and forearms and slowly straightens up. She turns toward the door but has the bad luck to catch her foot in some bedclothes on the floor. She trips and goes flying in the direction of the wardrobe, crashing into it and striking her head hard against the wood. The blow is painful and the noise quite loud. Tiffany stands paralyzed, waiting for Epi to come at her and ask her where she’s going in such a hurry. But the moments pass, and there’s no reaction from Epi. Tiffany hears only what sounds like a groan issuing from Percy’s lips and the creaking of the still-vibrating wardrobe, which she eventually manages to stop with her head.

She leaves the room, heading for the apartment door. As she stands before it, she’s aware for the first time that she’s frightened. Her hands perspire as she tries to insert the key in the lock without making any more noise. With the child in her arms, the operation turns out to be difficult. Her heart accelerates wildly. She raises Percy higher on her chest, puts his arms around her neck, and presses the little face against her own, thus freeing one of her hands.

When she inserts the key, the doorbell shatters the silence.

Allawi’s downstairs, leaning decisively on the intercom button. The sound freezes Tiffany in her tracks; her head feels like it’s inside a big metal bell. The ringing continues insistently, stopping briefly only to start again. At last Tiffany reacts, turning the key once to the left and then again, just as her father taught her. “The right tightens, the left loosens,”
he’d say. Then she hears Epi in the bedroom, falling several times in his attempt to get up. The doorbell keeps on ringing. Somebody knows they’re there, and whoever it is isn’t about to give up. Maybe it’s that idiot Jamelia, Tiffany thinks. Maybe it’s the cops. Maybe it’s Tanveer Hussein, come to rescue her from this retard.

The lock turns, and the young woman yanks the door open with all her strength, ready to charge down the stairs, dash into the street, and run and run until her heart bursts. Until she gets home, or better yet, until she runs right out of this city, past buildings, over oceans, and back to her country, where her father was good to her and carried her on his shoulders and the sky was bright and blue, back to her grandparents and her Uncle Valle—all of them now in heaven, poor things—who loved her so much and smudged her little nose and taught her to dance and sing songs she barely remembers now. She wants to do the whole thing all over again and do it better.

But reality interrupts the course of her fantasy when a sharp jolt informs her that she’s forgotten to remove the chain fastening the door to the jamb. She tries to free the chain with the door ajar, because she’s convinced that if she recloses the door now, she’ll never be able to open it again. But there’s no way. Percy feels heavier and heavier. She closes the door and with the same hand that’s holding the keys manages to remove the chain. The key ring falls to the floor, but that doesn’t matter. She pulls on the doorknob. Her body’s almost outside the apartment when Epi grabs her by the hair and furiously jerks her back in. If Percy were awake, she could let him run down
the stairs and at least he’d be saved. If she could do that, then she knows she could deal with Epi, one on one. Or at least she’d have a chance. But having to lug the kid around makes everything harder for her.

Epi’s hand, the same hand that split the
Moro
’s head open, releases her hair, yanks her arm to spin her around, seizes her throat, and slams her against the wall. She falls on her butt with the child in her arms. He still doesn’t wake up. The doorbell’s ringing again, but then suddenly it’s as though they don’t hear it. Epi’s in a rage. His eyes are red with sleep, a rude awakening, and disappointment.

“What the hell are you doing, Tiffany? Did you fuck me so I’d pass out and you could leave? You’re a filthy whore! You think I’m a fool! You think I’m some kind of puppet you can do anything you want with!”

“Let me go, Epi, let me go! I have to take the baby to the hospital! And I have to get out of here before I go crazy!”

Allawi keeps ringing the doorbell. Alex has assured him that Epi must be there, that there’s no other possibility. He’s probably catching up on his sleepless night, and getting out of bed is hard for him. The younger Dalmau brother picks up the intercom phone.

“Epi, Epi! Is that you, Epi?”

“Who is this? Alex?”

“It’s Allawi, Epi. I’m here with your brother. Let us in.”

“No, tell Alex to come up alone. I’m not talking to you.”

Almost immediately after the end of the intercom conversation, Allawi hears someone screaming out of one of the
windows in this very building. He can’t recognize the voice, but he can tell by the expression on Alex’s face that the screams have something to do with them. He runs to the middle of the street and spots Tiffany, waving her arms and shouting unintelligible words. Immediately, someone pulls her back and hauls down the shutter with a single, conclusive jerk.

A Citroën stops a few yards away from the two men. The driver gets out and wants to know what’s the address of this building. Allawi doesn’t answer. Alex, reacting swiftly, goes back to the intercom. The Citroën’s driver is making a call on his cell phone. Allawi walks over to him.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t call anybody. We’re the police. If you want, I’ll show you my badge.” As Allawi speaks, he hears a buzzing sound, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Alex enter the building and start up the stairs. Allawi has to hurry if he doesn’t want to stay outside. He hopes he’s dissuaded the man enough to keep him from complicating things even more.

REALITY INSPIRED FICTION. THEN THE LATTER INSPIRED
the former, and ever since, everything is copies of copies that don’t even remember they ever had an original. That’s what Pep, badge number 1465 in the
Mossos d’Esquadra
, is thinking about. His vehicle has been assigned to this particular part of the city, and his mind wanders as he drives the streets, accompanied by Rubén, a devoted son of the force excessively given to prolonged silences and predictable opinions on any subject. So why is he, Pep, reflecting on who copies whom and what copies what? It’s an idea that’s been recurring to him a lot lately. Looking at city streets with a cop’s eyes is like being in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times. In fact, he knows that the majority of cops—even though few would admit it—are cops because of television and film. And when you see prostitutes displaying their wares, at an appropriate distance from schools and small businesses, you ask yourself
if whores dress, speak, and move like whores because that’s all part of their job or because they’ve seen whores portrayed like that on TV programs. And it’s the same with everything else.
Moros
are slippery, police commanders have nasty tempers and wear sweat-soaked shirts, the rich snort drugs off glass tables, lawyers take fright at the slightest provocation, and all squatters have eyebrow rings, a German friend, and a big, gentle, collarless dog. Would all this be the same if there were no previously viewed images? Too many shift changes, Pep thinks. He’s still not used to alternating shifts. Starting with today, he’s got six days of alternating afternoon and night duty. Then one week of mornings. Then it starts over again. It’s crazy-making. And it entails a lot of general chaos. So many late-shift Coca-Colas that keep you awake after you get home, so much coffee that your mouth feels like you’ve been chewing rope and your heart’s going a thousand miles an hour, so much nibbling and renibbling of junk food, all those nights turned into days—it ends up killing you. You’re dead with sleep, but you suffer from insomnia. You’re constipated, and then a few hours later your bowels turn to water.