Outlaws

Chapter 1

‘Do you remember when you next saw Zarco?’

‘At the end of 1999, here in Gerona.’

‘He was no longer the same then.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I mean that he’d had time to create and destroy his own myth.’

‘In a manner of speaking. In any case it’s true that, for Zarco, everything went very fast. In fact, my impression is that when I knew him, in the late seventies, Zarco was a sort of precursor, and when I saw him again, in the late nineties, he was almost an anachronism, if not a posthumous persona.’

‘From precursor to anachronism in just twenty years.’

‘That’s right. When I knew him he was a forerunner in a way of the masses of juvenile delinquents who filled the jails, the newspapers, radio, television and cinema screens in the eighties.’

‘I’d say he not only announced the phenomenon: he played the part better than anybody.’

‘Could be.’

‘Tell me the name of a delinquent from back then better known than Zarco.’

‘OK, you’re right. But, be that as it may, by the end of the nineties it was over; that’s why I say that by then Zarco was a posthumous persona, a sort of castaway from another era: at that time there was no longer the slightest media interest in juvenile delinquents, there were no longer films about juvenile delinquents, or hardly any juvenile delinquents. All that was passé: the country had completely changed by then, the hard years of juvenile delinquency were considered the last throes of the economic misery, repression and lack of liberties of the Franco years and, after twenty years of democracy, the dictatorship seemed to have been left very far behind and we were all living in an apparently interminable intoxication of optimism and money.

‘The city had also completely changed. By that time Gerona was no longer the post-war city it still had been at the end of the seventies but had become a post-modern city, a picture postcard, cheerful, interchangeable, touristy and ridiculously pleased with itself. Actually, little remained of the Gerona of my adolescence. The charnegos had disappeared, annihilated by deprivation and heroin or dissolved into the country’s economic wellbeing, with secure jobs and children and grandchildren who went to private schools and spoke Catalan, because with democracy Catalan had become an official, or co-official, language. The ring of charnego neighbourhoods that used to menace the city centre had also disappeared, of course; or rather had transformed into something else: some neighbourhoods, like Germans Sàbat, Vilarroja or Pont Major, were now prosperous neighbourhoods; others, like Salt, had become independent from the city and were flooded with African immigrants; only Font de la Pòlvora, the last bastion of the final inhabitants of the prefabs, had degenerated into a ghetto of delinquency and drugs. I don’t know if I told you that the prefabs themselves were demolished: now the ground where they had stood was a park in the middle of Fontajau, a newly built neighbourhood of small duplexes with garages, gardens and backyard barbecues.

‘Over here, on this side of the Ter, La Devesa was still more or less the same, but La Devesa was no longer an outlying suburban neighbourhood; the city had absorbed it: it had grown to both sides of the river and the fields and orchards that surrounded the tower blocks of Caterina Albert in my childhood had been developed. The Marist Brothers were still in their place, though not the Vilaró arcade, which closed not long after I stopped going there and Señor Tomàs retired. As for the red-light district, it had not survived the city’s changes; but, unlike La Devesa, which had turned into a middle-class neighbourhood, the district had become an elite neighbourhood: where twenty years earlier the narrow stinking streets swarmed with the city’s riffraff, grimy bars, decadent brothels, dark poky little rooms, now there are cute little plazas, terrace bars, chic restaurants and lofts done up by trendy architects for visiting artists, foreign millionaires and successful professionals.’

‘Like yourself.’

‘More or less.’

‘Do you consider yourself a successful professional?’

‘It’s not that I consider myself: I am. Fourteen people work for my firm, among them six lawyers; we deal with around one hundred significant cases a year. I call that success. How about you?’

‘Me too. Although, if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t talk like a successful professional.’

‘And how do successful professionals talk?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s say you don’t seem to have a killer instinct.’

‘Because I put it away in a drawer, as Calamaro’s song says. But I did have it, no doubt about it. Who knows, maybe I’m getting old.’

‘Don’t be cute. You’re not even fifty.’

‘What’s that got to do with it? At my age, not long ago, people were already old, or almost. My father died at fifty-seven; my mother didn’t live much longer. Now everybody wants to be young; I understand, but it’s a bit stupid. It seems to me the fun in all this is being young when you’re young and being old when you’re old; in other words: you’re young when you don’t have memories and you’re old when behind every memory you find a bad memory. I’ve been finding them for a while now.’

‘Yeah. Well. Let’s go on then. Tell me about your life after you lost sight of Zarco until you saw him again.’

‘There’s not much to tell. When I finished high school with the Marist Brothers I went to Barcelona. I spent five years there studying law at the Autónoma and living in student flats. I lived in three different flats; the last was on Jovellanos Street, near the Rambla, and I shared it with two classmates: Albert Cortés and Juanjo Gubau. Cortés was from Gerona, like me, but he’d studied at the Vicens Vives Institute, like my sister; Gubau was from Figueras, and his father was a court solicitor. We studied hard, didn’t do drugs and went home on weekends, except during exams. At the beginning of my time in Barcelona I was still going out with Montse Roura, but after a year we split up and that ended up disconnecting me from my group of friends from the Marist school, who by then had otherwise all pretty much gone their separate ways. Then I went out with a few girls, until in third year I met Irene, who was also studying law but at the Central University. Three years later we got married, moved to Gerona and had Helena, my only child. By then I had started working in Higinio Redondo’s firm. I told you about Redondo before, I don’t know if you remember him.’

‘Of course: the man who lent your father the house in Colera to hide you, no?’

‘Exactly. And also the one who convinced my father that afternoon not to take me to the police station; or at least that’s what I’ve always believed. . He was an important person in my life. I mean Redondo; so important that, if it hadn’t been for him, I most likely would not have become a lawyer: after all I never had any lawyerly vocation. Redondo was from my parents’ hometown and had set up a criminal-law practice, and at some stage of my adolescence I admired him a lot, maybe because he was the opposite of my father, or because he seemed like it to me: my father didn’t have money and he did; my father didn’t have a degree and he did; my father didn’t go out at night and he went out almost every night; my father was a political moderate and voted for the centre parties and he was a radical: in fact for years I believed he was a Communist or an anarchist, until I discovered he was a Falangist. In any case he was a good lawyer and a good person and, although he was also a frivolous, irascible kerb-crawler, drinker and gambler, he loved my family and he loved me. He encouraged me to study law and, as I said, when I graduated he took me on to do articles in his practice, taught me what he knew and after a few years made me his partner. A little while later something happened that changed both our lives completely. What happened was that Redondo fell in love with the wife of a bankrupt client; he fell in love for real, like a teenager, left his wife and four children and went to live with her. The problem was that when the client got out of jail thanks to Redondo’s efforts, the woman left him and went back to her husband. Then Redondo went crazy, attempted suicide, finally disappeared and we had no news of him until four years later we learned that he’d been killed while crossing a street in downtown Asunción, Paraguay, run over by a delivery truck.

‘That’s how I became the senior partner of Redondo’s firm. By then Irene and I were getting divorced and she moved back to Barcelona and I began to see my daughter only every second weekend and on holidays. But professionally it was the height of my career. Redondo, as I told you before, had taught me many things — among them that a lawyer can’t be a good lawyer if he’s not able to set aside his moral scruples every once in a while — although I learned others on my own — including how to manage the press. I also learned that, if I wanted to grow, I needed to delegate, and I was able to hire good people: I contracted Cortés and Gubau, who were then working for a firm in Barcelona, and later made them partners, though I remained the senior partner. Anyway, I had my killer instinct intact, I was obsessed with being the best and I was, to such an extent that, as Cortés started to say, not a punch was thrown in Gerona without the thrower or receiver passing through our office.

‘Then suddenly everything changed. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know. The thing is that precisely at that moment, when I had achieved the money and position I’d been fighting to achieve for years, I was overcome by a sense of futility, the feeling of having already done all that I needed to do, that what I had left to live wasn’t exactly life but rather life’s residue, a sort of insipid deferral, or perhaps the feeling was that, more than insipid or bad or deferred, the life I was leading was an error, a life on loan, as if at some moment I’d taken a wrong turn or as if all that was a small but terrible misunderstanding. . That’s how bad or muddled I was seeing things just before Zarco reappeared, or maybe that explains in part — a small part — what happened with him.’

‘As well as a successful lawyer you’re an unusual lawyer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before becoming a lawyer you were a delinquent, which means knowing first hand both sides of the law. That’s not so common, is it?’

‘I don’t know. What I do know is that a lawyer and a delinquent are not on two different sides of the law, because a lawyer is not a representative of the law but an intermediary between the law and the delinquent. That converts us into equivocal, morally dubious types: we spend our lives with thieves, murderers and psychopaths and, since human beings function by osmosis, it’s normal that the morals of thieves, murderers and psychopaths end up rubbing off on us.’

‘How is it that you became a lawyer if you have this opinion of lawyers?’

‘Because before I became a lawyer I had absolutely no idea what it meant to be a lawyer. Well, I’ve told you my life story.’

‘Yes. I’d like you to tell me now what your relationship was with Zarco during the years you didn’t see him; that is: how did you follow the creation and destruction of the Zarco myth?’

‘First you tell me exactly what you understand by the word myth.’

‘A popular story that is true in part and false in part and that tells a truth that cannot be told only with the truth.’

‘You’ve obviously given it some thought. But tell me: whose truth?’

‘Everyone’s truth, one that concerns us all. Look, these kinds of stories have always existed, people invent them, can’t live without them. What makes Zarco’s a little different (one of the things that makes it a little different) is that the people didn’t invent it, or not only people, but most of all the media: the radio, the newspapers, TV; also songs and movies.’

‘Well, that’s how I followed the creation and destruction of the Zarco myth: through the press, books, songs and films. Like everyone. Well, not like everyone: after all I’d known Zarco as a kid; or rather: not only had I known him but I’d been one of his guys. Of course that was a secret. Apart from my father and Inspector Cuenca, no one who hadn’t hung out in the district back then knew that at the age of sixteen I’d belonged to Zarco’s gang. But my father had never made the slightest mention of the matter and, as far as I know, neither had Inspector Cuenca, at least until I said you should talk to him. The thing is that during those years I assiduously followed everything that appeared about Zarco, clipped out and saved articles from the newspapers and magazines, watched the films based on his life, recorded the reports and interviews they showed on television, read his various memoirs and the books others wrote about him. That’s how I put together the archive I lent you.’

‘It’s magnificent. It’s making my job much easier.’

‘It’s not magnificent. There are things missing, but nothing important is missing. Besides, a lot of things I didn’t get hold of when they appeared, but years later, in newspaper libraries and street markets. I’m sure my wife and friends thought my passion for Zarco and for everything that had anything to do with quinquis odd and sometimes irritating, but not much worse than a childish fixation with stamp collecting or model railways.

‘I remember, for example, the day I went with Irene to see Wild Boys, the first of the four movies about Zarco that Fernando Bermúdez made. I knew more or less what it was about because I’d read about it in the papers, but, as the story advanced and I realized that it was in part a re-creation of some of the things that had happened to us in the summer of ’78, I started to get palpitations and to sweat so much that after a quarter of an hour we had to rush out of the cinema. The next day I went back on my own to see the movie. I actually saw it three or four times, obsessively searching for the reality hidden behind the fiction, as if the film contained a coded message that only I could decipher. As you can imagine, I was mostly interested in the Gafitas character: I wondered if that was how Zarco saw me or had seen me in the summer of ’78, as a faint-hearted middle-class teenager who toughened up when he joined the gang and seems ready to betray him to contest his leadership and his girlfriend, and at the end of the story he does, he betrays him and on top of that he’s the only one to escape from the police in that unexplained finale that disconcerted so many people and I thought was the best thing in the film.

‘I also remember how I saw on television the press conference that Zarco gave in Barcelona’s Modelo Prison, in the spring or summer of 1983, when he managed to convert a frustrated escape into the most famous prison riot in the history of Spain. The night of the day that happened was the first time I went to Irene’s family’s house, so I remember very well that she’d introduced me to her parents and we’d been having an aperitif with them for quite a while when suddenly I saw on the other side of the dining room, on a television with the sound turned down, the image of Zarco. It was a confusing image: Zarco’s hair was very long and he was wearing a tight, short-sleeved T-shirt that accentuated his pectoral muscles, and he was lit by television lights and flashbulbs, surrounded by journalists and prisoners, he seemed to be requesting silence, with the bicep of one arm squeezed by a rubber band he held in his mouth and a syringe in his hand, about to inject himself with a shot of heroin with which he apparently meant to denounce the massive presence of drugs in the prisons. At that moment I was talking with Irene’s father and, as she told me later, without giving the least explanation I stood up, leaving the good man in the middle of a sentence, walked over to the TV, turned up the volume while behind me Irene was trying to save face by making a joke. I never said he was perfect, she said, or says she said, because I didn’t hear her. He has a weakness for quinquis; but, if the quinqui is Zarco he goes off the deep end. Would have been worse if he’d gone in for wine, don’t you think? (Later, when we separated, Irene was less generous and less jovial, and often threw my obsession with quinquis in my face as a symptom of my incurable immaturity.) I also remember having seen on the television at Xaica, a self-service restaurant on Jovellanos Street where Cortés, Gubau and I used to go for lunch, the final images of the escape from the high-security prison Lérida II, the images of Zarco lying facedown on the asphalt of a suburban street corner in Barcelona, beside two of his accomplices, all three of them with their hands cuffed behind their backs, the three surrounded by plainclothes cops walking among them brandishing their pistols, perhaps waiting to take complete control of a situation they seemed to have completely under control, perhaps waiting for an order to remove the fugitives, perhaps simply savouring the minute of glory they were due for having caught, after a 24-hour search by land, sea and air, the most famous and most wanted criminal in Spain who in spite of being on the ground and facedown did not stop talking or screaming or protesting for an instant between the furious screeching of the sirens, according to him complaining to the police that he had a bullet in his back and needed a doctor, according to the police threatening them and cursing their families and their dead, according to some witnesses alternating between the two. And of course, I remember very well that because of Zarco I lost a possible client for Redondo — who moreover was an acquaintance of his or of his wife’s — shortly after starting to work at his firm. What happened was that, while the lady in question was almost in tears telling me something about an inheritance, on the television in the café bar in Banyoles where we were having the meeting the incredible and chaotic images appeared of Zarco’s escape from the Ocaña penitentiary during the cocktail party for the press screening of The Real Life of Zarco, Bermúdez’s last film, when, in the presence of a group of journalists, Zarco and three other inmates in cahoots with him took Bermúdez, the prison superintendent and two guards hostage and walked out of the prison without anyone being able to do anything to prevent their escape. I forgot Redondo’s acquaintance’s tears and her inheritance and stood up to see the footage and listen to the news standing in front of the television in the midst of a circle of seated people, open-mouthed and in silence, totally oblivious to the drama and incredulity of my client, who had left by the time I returned to our table, which resulted in Redondo coming down on me like a ton of bricks that same afternoon.

‘Anyway, I could tell you lots of similar anecdotes, but they’re not worth waiting for. The thing is that part of me was ashamed of having belonged to Zarco’s gang, and that’s why I kept it secret and was almost frightened at the idea that it might come to be known; but another part of me was proud of it, and almost wanted to publicize it. I don’t know: I suppose it was like having a chest buried in my own garden not knowing whether it contained treasure or a bomb. Otherwise, another possible reason that might explain why my interest in Zarco and other quinquis lasted so many years was a kind of gratitude or relief, the certainty of the implausible luck of having belonged to Zarco’s gang and having survived it: after all, from the end of the seventies until the end of the eighties Spain had swarmed with hundreds of gangs of rootless kids from the outskirts like Zarco’s, and the immense majority of those kids, thousands, tens of thousands of them, had died due to heroin, AIDS or violence, or were simply in jail. Not me. The same thing could have happened to me, but it hadn’t. Things had gone well for me. I hadn’t been locked up in jail. I hadn’t tried heroin. I hadn’t contracted AIDS. I hadn’t been arrested, not even after the bank robbery at the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular. Inspector Cuenca had left me in liberty instead of arresting me. I’d had, in short, a more or less normal life, something that for someone who’d belonged to Zarco’s gang was perhaps the most abnormal life possible.

‘Until I dug up the chest buried in the garden and realized that it contained both treasure and a bomb. That was at the end of 1999. One day in November Cortés burst into my office announcing at the top of his voice: News flash! Your idol has just landed in the city. My idol, naturally, was Zarco. Cortés was just coming back from the prison at that moment, and told me that, according to what the inmates he’d been to visit had told him, Zarco had been there since the night before; as was to be expected, his arrival had caused a certain stir, because it was a very small prison and he was still a very notorious character. Cortés had also found out that the prison board had assigned Zarco to a cell where he had a personal computer and television at his disposal, and for the moment he had almost no contact with the rest of the inmates. I listened to my partner with a slightly melancholic astonishment: ten, even five years earlier, each of Zarco’s movements was as complicated as those of the top football players or rock stars, so that, when he was transferred to a prison in one of the provinces or when he passed through one of them on his way to trial or to another prison, the directors of the centres would find themselves overwhelmed with petitions for interviews, and his court appearances were held under strict security measures to prevent the harassment of photographers, television cameramen, journalists and admirers and busybodies who pressed up against the police cordons and shouted encouragement to him, blew him kisses, said they wanted to bear his child or clapped rumbas that sang the story of his invented life; now, instead, not even the two local newspapers had devoted a miserable line in the Society section to his arrival. It was one of the differences that marked the gulf between a myth at its height and a myth that’s outlived its usefulness.

When Cortés finished giving me news about Zarco he asked: Well, what do you plan to do? I didn’t have to think before answering. Tomorrow I’ll go see him, I said. Cortés made an affectedly polite gesture and asked, lowering his voice: Should I take this to mean that you plan to offer him our services? What do you think? I answered. Cortés laughed. You’re going to get us into one hell of a shitstorm, he said, going back to his normal voice. But if you didn’t I’d kill you.

‘Although my partner knew nothing about the relationship I’d had with Zarco, what he said was not contradictory: all Zarco’s relationships with his lawyers had ended badly (and some of them very badly); in spite of that, Zarco was still Zarco and, if the matter was handled skilfully, defending him could still be very lucrative for a legal firm. Besides, I’d often felt tempted to offer to defend Zarco, but, for one reason or another, I’d always resisted; now, when Zarco had just returned to Gerona almost like an archaeological relic or a forgotten wretch, when for everyone else he was little less than a hopeless or closed case after having spent his life in prison and having wasted several opportunities for rehabilitation, I thought it was the moment to give in to temptation.

‘I wasn’t the only one to think so. That very afternoon, while I was working on my submissions for a court appearance the following day, my secretary told me two women were waiting to see me. A little annoyed, I asked her if the two women had an appointment and she said no, but added that they’d insisted on seeing me to talk about a certain Antonio Gamallo; even more annoyed, I told her to make an appointment for the two women for another day, and then asked her not to disturb me again. But I still hadn’t gone back to concentrating on my papers when I looked up from my desk and heard myself repeat out loud the name my secretary had just uttered; I stood up and rushed out to the waiting room. There were the two women, still seated. They turned towards me and I recognized them immediately: one I’d seen in photos recently, alone or with Zarco; the other was Tere.’

‘Our Tere?’

‘Who else? Over those last twenty years I had thought of her sometimes, but it had never occurred to me to look for her or ask about her whereabouts; nor would I have known where to look or who to ask. And now, suddenly, there she was. An intense silence settled on the waiting room while Tere and I stared at each other without moving; or almost without moving: I quickly noticed that her left leg was going up and down like a piston, just as it did when she was sixteen. After a couple of very long seconds, Tere stood up from her chair and said: Hiya, Gafitas. At first I thought she’d hardly changed, perhaps because her lean body and jeans and worn leather jacket and handbag strap across her chest gave her a youthful air; but I soon spied the ravages of age: the tired skin, crow’s feet, circles under her eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down, a sprinkling of grey hairs; only her eyes were just as green and intense as they were twenty years ago, as if the Tere I’d known had taken refuge there, indifferent to the passage of time. I held out my hand mumbling exclamations of surprise and meaningless questions; Tere answered cheerfully, ignored my hand and kissed me on the cheek. Then she introduced me to the woman with her. She said she was called María Vela and that she was Zarco’s girlfriend, although she didn’t say girlfriend she said partner and she didn’t say Zarco but Antonio. I did shake María’s hand. And only then did I actually notice her, a somewhat younger woman than Tere, skinny and plain, short, chestnut-coloured hair, very pale skin, wearing a heavy, poor-quality, black coat over a pink tracksuit zipped up to the neck.

Once the introductions were done, the two women went into my office. I offered them a seat, coffee and water (they only accepted the seat and the water) and Tere and I began to talk. She told me she was living in Vilarroja, working at a cork factory in Cassà de la Selva and studying nursing by correspondence. Really? I asked. Does that surprise you? she answered. I found it very surprising, but I pretended it didn’t surprise me. Tere seemed very happy to see me. María listened to us without taking part, but without missing a word of the conversation; I didn’t know if Tere had told her about my former friendship with Zarco and with her, and at some point I pretended that Cortés hadn’t told me of Zarco’s arrival that morning and asked how he was. He’s here, answered Tere. That’s why we’ve come to see you.

‘Then Tere got to the point. She told me they wanted me to defend Zarco at a trial to be held in Barcelona in a few months’ time, a trial in which Zarco would be accused of assaulting two guards at the Brians prison. Of course, Tere took it for granted that I knew, as everyone did, who Zarco had turned into over the years, so she skipped straight to putting me in the picture and backing up her proposal drawing an exultant panorama of Zarco’s situation: she told me that three years earlier they’d managed to get him back to a Catalan prison, specifically the Quatre Camins, and that, after three years of good behaviour and the Catalan government’s new director-general of prisons, Señor Pere Prada, taking an interest in his case, he had just been transferred to the Gerona prison, a perfect prison because María also lived in the city and because it was a small, secure prison with a high rate of rehabilitation; she also explained that Zarco was innocent of the offence with which he’d been charged, handed me a copy of the indictment and his prison record in a cardboard file folder, assured me that his physical condition and his morale were excellent, that he’d stopped using heroin, that he was very keen to get out of prison and that she and María were doing everything they could to get him out as soon as possible. Up till that moment Tere spoke without looking at me, setting out the case as if she had set it out before, or as if she were reciting it; for my part I listened to her while feigning to read through the documents she’d handed me and looking back and forth from her to María. Right, Tere concluded, and we finally looked at each other. We know you have a lot of work, but if you could give us a hand we’d be grateful.

‘She fell silent. I sighed. Tere had beat me to the proposal I was planning to put to Zarco the next day; so, in theory, it was all very easy: both sides wanted the same thing. But instinct told me it wasn’t in my interest to let my visitors know, that what suited me would be to offer a little resistance before accepting, to earn their gratitude letting them think I was making a sacrifice accepting Zarco’s defence, that I was only accepting reluctantly and in any case they should consider it a privilege that I might want to be their lawyer. I put the folder with the indictment in it down on the coffee table and began by asking: Does Zarco know about this? I was about to explain what I meant when María intervened. We would prefer you not call him Zarco, she reproached me in a timid voice with a pained expression on her face. His name is Antonio. He doesn’t like to be called that; and we don’t like it either. Zarco was another person: none of us want anything to do with him. Surprised by María’s reprimand, I nodded, apologized and looked to Tere, but couldn’t catch her eye; she was concentrating on lighting a cigarette. I cleared my throat and carried on, directing my question to María: What I was asking is whether Antonio knows that you two have come to ask me to defend him. Of course he knows, said María, scandalized. I never do anything behind Antonio’s back. Besides, the idea that you should be his lawyer was his. Antonio’s? I asked. Yes, said María. And since when does Antonio know that I’m a lawyer? I asked. María looked at me as though she didn’t understand the question; then she looked at Tere, who rubbed the mole beside her nose with the same hand that held her cigarette before answering: I told him. She smiled and said: You’re famous, Gafitas. The papers talk about you all the time. On TV too.

‘That was all I wanted to know: just as I was aware of who Zarco had become, Tere was aware of who I’d become. I don’t know if she read my mind, but she added as if to downplay her words: Besides, there are only three criminal lawyers in Gerona; so we didn’t have a lot of choice. The other two are good, I said, now feeling confident enough to joke with her. Yeah, Tere conceded. But you’re the best. The flattery meant that this time it was me who smiled. Besides, Tere went on, we don’t know them, and we do know you. Not to mention that I’m sure they’re more expensive than you. They don’t interest us. Us knowing each other is not an advantage, I lied. And don’t worry: no lawyer’s going to charge you anything, much less in Gerona. I clarified: At the moment defending Zarco is still good for business. Tere insisted: That’s precisely why we’re not interested in your colleagues. We’re interested in you. And please don’t call him Zarco again: María told you already. Tere’s words were sharp, but not the tone in which she said them; even so, I couldn’t help but wonder if, whether or not María knew that I’d belonged to Zarco’s gang in my youth, Tere and Zarco were thinking they could blackmail me with the threat of revealing that secret past. Tere stubbed out her cigarette, took a sip of water and, opening her arms a little in an interrogative gesture, looked at me, looked at María and looked back at me. Well, Gafitas, will you or not?

‘I don’t know if I thought that I’d got what I was looking for (or that I couldn’t aspire to more), but the thing is I stopped pretending and accepted.’

‘Tell me something: were you scared that Zarco and Tere might reveal that you’d been part of their gang?’

‘Of course not. I might not have liked the idea of them telling, because I didn’t know what consequences it might have, but nothing more. It was one of the risks of defending Zarco; the rest were advantages. They already were before Tere had shown up, for the free advertising for my practice and because I was enormously curious to see Zarco again after more than twenty years (and perhaps also because, at a moment when almost everything bored me and the feeling of misunderstanding and that I was living someone else’s life I was telling you about earlier, I sensed that this unexpected novelty could be an incentive, the change I was waiting for); in any case, Tere showing up, and her being so happy at us seeing each other again, made it all much better. And of course, defending Zarco was risking unearthing a dangerous past, but wasn’t it better to dig it up once and for all, now that I had the opportunity to do so? Wasn’t it less dangerous to unearth it than to leave it buried? Wasn’t I obliged to a certain extent to unearth it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, that in some way I felt in debt to Zarco. I always suspected that before the heist of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular I had run my mouth off to Córdoba, and that was the cause of the disaster, the reason that Zarco, Gordo and Jou got caught. I told you before. I always suspected that and I always suspected that Zarco suspected it too.’

‘You wouldn’t be thinking of the Gafitas in the first part of Wild Boys, would you? Although that character reflects in part how you saw Zarco, it’s a fictional character. And he doesn’t shoot his mouth off, of course: he informs on Zarco, betrays them all. That Gafitas has almost nothing to do with you.’

‘Almost: you said it. In any case, the Gafitas of his memoirs does have something to do with me, he isn’t a fictional character and he does shoot his mouth off. You’ll remember that too.’

‘Perfectly. Only that in the memoirs it’s not clear either that Gafitas shoots his mouth off.’

‘That’s true, it’s not clear. But most likely he did, most likely the Gafitas of the book did shoot his mouth off, and was responsible for the bank job going wrong. At least that’s what Zarco thinks, or that’s what he seems to think. And even if he hadn’t thought so. Even if it wasn’t true that I’d shot my mouth off to Córdoba. Maybe I didn’t. Even so, I felt that Zarco had lent me a hand when I most needed it: the least I could do was lend him a hand now that he was the one in need, right? Especially since by lending him a hand I would also be lending myself one.’

‘Zarco lent you a hand? I would say rather that he used you and turned you into a delinquent. Is that what you call lending a hand? You yourself recognize that he was on the verge of forcing you to share the fate of all the members of his gang.’

‘If that’s what you understood, I explained it badly: Zarco didn’t force me into anything; I chose it all. The truth is the truth. And don’t forget that he saved me, at the last moment but he saved me, or that having come so close to catastrophe was good for me: before meeting Zarco I was weak, and knowing Zarco made me strong; before meeting Zarco I was a boy, and knowing Zarco turned me into an adult. That’s what I meant when I said he lent me a hand.’

‘I understand. But let’s get back to the story, if it’s OK with you. Did you go to see Zarco after Tere and María left?’

‘No. I saw him the next day, in the afternoon. During those twenty-four hours I studied his prison record in detail and verified unsurprisingly that his official résumé was in the same league as his legend. Zarco had spent more than twenty-five years in prison or as the subject of manhunts and recapture and had been on trial fourteen times and accused of having committed almost six hundred crimes, among them no fewer than forty bank robberies and no fewer than two hundred robberies of gas stations, garages, jewellery stores, bars, restaurants, tobacconist’s and other shops, as well as a multitude of muggings and car thefts and break-ins. He’d been wounded six times in confrontations with the police and Civil Guards and another ten times in street or prison fights. Only twice had he been tried for homicide, and both times he was acquitted: the first time he was accused of having shot dead at the door of his house a Santa María prison guard with whom he’d long been in confrontation and who he’d denounced for persecution and torture; the second time he was accused of stabbing a fellow inmate during a riot at the Carabanchel prison in Madrid. Apart from that, he’d been to seven different reformatories, including all the elite ones, and sixteen different prisons, including all the maximum-security ones; moreover, he had escaped from all the reformatories and many of the prisons where they’d locked him up and, in spite of the number of altercations he’d had with the prison guards and the number of fines, punishments and disciplinary sanctions they’d imposed on him, he’d lived in permanent rebellion against his confinement and the conditions of his confinement, in a sort of permanent denunciation of the Spanish prison system: he’d participated in a multitude of riots, had organized several, had initiated two hunger strikes, had presented an infinity of complaints against his jailers and had inflicted injuries on himself as a sign of protest (several times he’d cut open his veins, several times he’d sewn his lips shut with twine). All this was more or less known, or more or less known by me. What I didn’t know and discovered then is that, from the point of view of defending him, Zarco’s story wasn’t as bad as I’d feared: to begin with, Zarco didn’t have to answer for any violent crimes, and the hundred and fifty years he had yet to serve in theory were not the result of a long sentence but a series of shorter consecutive ones, which could facilitate their conversion to concurrent sentences and the granting of special leaves and other penitentiary perks; moreover, it was easy to argue that Zarco had now paid his debt to society and then some, among other reasons because he’d barely lived in liberty since, at the age of sixteen, just after the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular, he’d gone to prison to serve a six-year sentence, so most of the crimes he’d been accused of had been committed in prison. During those twenty-four hours I also revised my archive on Zarco, watched bits of Fernando Bermúdez’s four films inspired by him, reread passages from his two volumes of memoirs and revisited my memories of adolescence; what I didn’t do was speak to Tere again (or, indeed, with María): I didn’t want to do so until having spoken with Zarco.

‘I remember very well the first conversation I had with him. It was in the prison interview room, a minuscule little room where lawyers met with their clients, something I did frequently (“You visit the clients at least once a week,” Higinio Redondo used to repeat when I first started working for him. “Remember we’re the only hope these rogues have.”). The interview room was to the left of the entrance; two rows of bars with a pane of glass between them divided it down the middle: on this side, up against the wall, was a desk and chair; on the other side there was an identical space, the only difference being the prisoner didn’t have a desk and that, instead of sitting facing the wall, he sat facing the lawyer, looking towards the double bars and glass. I didn’t have to wait long before Zarco appeared. As had happened the previous afternoon with Tere, I recognized him straight away, but I wasn’t recognizing the quinqui I’d last seen on the way into La Devesa Park, rolling about with a couple of cops, but the one who since then had illustrated the comings and goings of Zarco in newspaper photos and on cinema and television screens.

‘When he saw me, Zarco gave the hint of a tired smile and, as he sat down he urged me to do the same with a gesture. I did. What’s up, Gafitas? he said in greeting. Long time no see. His voice was husky, almost unrecognizable; his breathing was gravelly. I answered: Twenty years. Zarco smiled fully and gave me a glimpse of his blackened teeth. Fuck, he said. Twenty years? Twenty-one, I specified. He shook his head seeming somewhat amused and a bit overwhelmed. Then he asked: How are you? Fine, I answered. Yeah, I can see that, he said, and, like in the old days, his eyes narrowed until they became a couple of inquisitive slits. He’d put on weight. He seemed to have shrunk. The flesh of his cheeks and chin looked soft and old, though his arms and torso gave the impression of conserving, beneath the shirt and sweater that covered them, some of their old vigour; he had much less hair and it was almost grey and badly cropped, but still parted in the middle; his skin looked rough, unhealthy, mouse-coloured; his eyes were still very blue, but they were dull and reddened, as if he had conjunctivitis. I asked: How are you doing? Fucking great, he answered. Especially now that I know you’re going to get me out of here. Is the prison so bad? I asked to keep the dialogue going. Zarco made a face that looked bored or indifferent, pushing his shirt and sweater sleeves up to his biceps inadvertently showing me — my first impression had been false — the soft and old flesh of his arms and forearms, covered in scars; actually, his whole body as far as I could see was covered in scars: his hands, wrists, the edges of his lips. The prison’s not bad, he answered. But it’s a prison: the sooner you get me out of here, the better. I don’t know if it’s going to be that easy, I warned him; I continued: For the moment Tere told me about a trial for something that happened in the Brians prison. Yeah, he said. But that’s just for the moment; then comes all the rest. Be patient, Gafitas: you’re going to end up sick to death of me.

‘That’s how our re-encounter began. Zarco soon started talking about himself, as if he urgently needed to bring me up to date. He told me that over a year ago he’d fallen out with his last lawyer and with his family or with what was left of his family, and since then he hadn’t had a lawyer and hadn’t spoken to his family, even though some of them lived in Gerona, including his mother and two of his brothers. He also talked about Tere and María. What he said about Tere mustn’t have been relevant, because I don’t remember it; however I well remember something he said about María. Don’t pay much attention to her, he advised me, in a tone somewhere between ironic and disdainful. María just wants to be in the magazines. That’s what he said, and I was surprised — and not just because I was there precisely because I’d paid attention to María — but I didn’t say anything. As if to compensate him for his confidences I told him a couple of things about me, in which he didn’t even pretend to show interest, and then asked him about our mutual friends. I was surprised that he had news of all of them, but not that they were all dead, with the exception of Lina — who Tere apparently saw every once in a while — and Tío — who was still living with his mother in Germans Sàbat and still in his quadriplegic’s wheelchair. Jou and Gordo, he said, had overdosed on heroin, Jou just after he got out of prison, where he had spent a couple of years for the bank robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular, and Gordo three or four years later, when he seemed to have cleaned up and was about to marry Lina. Chino had also died of an overdose, in the washroom of the Babydoll, an Ampurdán brothel, a relatively short time ago, and Drácula had died of AIDS not too long ago either. Colilla’s death, however, had never been entirely cleared up: according to some he’d fallen down the stairs of the building where he lived in Badalona one night; according to others he’d tried to get out of a drug debt and his creditors had beaten him to death and then made it look like he’d fallen down the stairs by accident.

‘That, more or less, was that for personal matters; from that point on Zarco changed his tone and the subject. He began by summing up his prison record in his own way: although he still had more than two decades’ worth of sentences hanging over his head, Zarco considered that within a year he could be eligible for conditional release, which would allow him to spend his days outside the prison, and within two or three at the outside he could be free. I was optimistic about his future (more optimistic at least than I had been before studying his prison record), but not that optimistic; even so, I didn’t raise any objections to his predictions or make the slightest commentary. It’s true that Zarco didn’t ask for my opinion either: he just went on talking about the first trial pending, the trial for which Tere and María had asked for my help. From the start he flatly denied having assaulted the Brians prison guards who had reported him. I didn’t beat them, he said. They beat me. Are there any witnesses to that? I asked. Witnesses? he asked. What witnesses? Some other inmate, I answered. Zarco laughed. Are you crazy, Gafitas? he said. You think they’re going to beat me up in front of another inmate? They beat me up in my cell, behind everybody’s back; I just tried to defend myself. That’s what happened. How many were there? I asked. Four, he answered, and listed their names by memory; pointing to the papers I had on the desk, he added: They’re the same ones who filed the complaint. I nodded. And the others? I asked. I mean the other guards. Did they see their colleagues beat you up? Would they be prepared to testify in your defence? Now Zarco stared at me, clicked his tongue, looked away and seemed to think it over for a moment, stroking his hollow, badly shaven cheeks; then he looked back at me, this time with an air of superiority. When have you ever seen one jailer testify against another? he asked. Look, Gafitas, if you’re going to be my lawyer you have to know a couple of things. And the first one is that everyone in jail wants to fuck me over, but the ones who most want to fuck me over are the guards. All the fucking guards in every fucking jail. Got that? I kept quiet; he went on: And you know what? Maybe they’re right: if I were them I’d want to fuck me over too. I interrupted him, feigning innocence I asked him why they would want to fuck him over. Because I fuck with them, he answered. And because they know I plan to keep fucking with them, so they don’t fuck me over. That’s why. And that’s why they make up stories like the one from Brians, except that this time it’s not going to do them any good because we’re going to take it apart. Yes or no, Gafitas?

‘I kept my mouth shut, but I knew that, in part, what he said was true. Zarco’s reputation in the prisons was terrible, and not only due to the resentment his fame and the privileges his fame brought with it caused: for years he had devoted himself to denouncing or insulting prison guards in books, documentaries and declarations to the press, branding them fascists and torturers and, in many of the incidents he’d been involved in, he’d attacked and taken many of them hostage; moreover, wherever he might be, Zarco meant a headache for the guards: they had to keep an eye on him, guarding him at all hours and treating him with the utmost consideration, which didn’t prevent him from constantly demanding his rights and constantly filing complaints against them. The result of all this was that, as soon as Zarco was sent to a new prison, all the guards who worked there plotted against him to make his life impossible. Yes or no, Gafitas? Zarco repeated. I answered with a gesture that meant: I’ll do what I can. This seemed to suffice; as if granting his consent he added: OK, now tell me how you plan to do it.

‘We devoted the rest of the interview to discussing the matter. I explained the defence strategy I’d sketched out over the past twenty-four hours. Zarco didn’t like it; we argued. I won’t go into details: they don’t matter. But there is one detail that does matter, a detail I intuited in a confusing way when we started arguing and by the time we finished seemed obvious. The detail is that there was something very contradictory in Zarco’s attitude. On the one hand, just as Tere had in my office, he had sought my complicity from the beginning and had treated me like a friend: just like Tere, he called me Gafitas, reclaiming in this way our old camaraderie; just like Tere, he corrected me each time I called him Zarco and asked me to call him Antonio, as if declaring that he was a man of flesh and blood and not a legend, a person and not a persona.

‘That, as I said, on the one hand. But on the other Zarco seemed to wish to establish distance, to put up a barrier of vanity between us. I mean that, at a certain moment — when we started to talk about his next trial and play the roles of a lawyer and his client — things changed, I noticed that he wasn’t prepared to let me forget that he was not just any old inmate, I felt that he wanted subtly to make me aware that I had never had nor would I ever have a client like him, who, although he was a man of flesh and blood, he was still a legend, and who, although he was a person, was still a persona. It’s not just that he tried to examine my knowledge of the law and argued with me over judicial particulars, even quoting the penal code a couple of times (both, by the way, incorrectly); this amused me and, to be honest, didn’t entirely surprise me: Zarco was famous for doing this kind of thing to his lawyers. What really shocked me was his arrogance, his haughtiness, the condescending impatience with which he listened to me, the tense conceit of some of his comments; I didn’t remember Zarco as stuck-up or self-important and, as I’ve always thought arrogance hid a feeling of inferiority, I soon interpreted this change as the clearest sign of Zarco’s helplessness. That’s also how I interpreted — as an indication of his private weakness, or his fragility — the way he displayed, in an almost high-handed way, his awareness of being a special inmate, of enjoying a special status in prison and of that being backed up by the prison authorities, because after all someone who knows himself to be strong doesn’t need to display his strength, don’t you think? Have you spoken with my friend Pere Prada yet? Zarco asked as soon as we started arguing about his defence. With whom? I asked. With my friend Pere Prada! he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t know who he was. I soon remembered: Prada was the Catalan government’s director-general of prisons, the same man who, according to what Tere had told me the previous day, had taken an interest in Zarco’s case and facilitated his transfer to Gerona. No, I confessed, a little perplexed. Shit, what are you waiting for! Zarco urged me. Pere doesn’t know anything, but he’s in charge, I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger, he’s eating out of my hand now. Call him and he’ll tell you what you have to do. . Anyway. This was the essential contradiction that jumped out at me that first afternoon: Zarco both wanted and didn’t want to go on being Zarco, he wanted and didn’t want to bear the weight of his legend, his myth and his nickname, he wanted to be a person rather than a persona at the same time as wanting to be, as well as a person, a persona. None of what I heard Zarco say or saw him do from that day on refuted that contradiction or made me think he’d resolved it. Sometimes I think that’s what killed him.

‘When we finished talking that day, Zarco and I stood up to go — he back to his cell, me back to my office, or home — but I hadn’t left the visiting room when I heard: Hey, Gafitas. I turned around. Zarco was looking at me from the opposite corner of the room, with one hand on the knob of the half-open door. Have I said thanks yet? he asked. I smiled. No, I answered. But there’s no need. And I added: You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Zarco stared at me for a couple of seconds; then he smiled too.’

Chapter 2

‘Let me make one thing clear from the start. I don’t like talking to journalists, I don’t like talking about Antonio Gamallo, and what I like least of all is talking to journalists about Antonio Gamallo; in fact, this is the first time I’ve spoken of the matter with a journalist.’

‘I’m not a journalist.’

‘Aren’t you writing a book about Zarco?’

‘Yes, but. .’

‘Then it’s as if you were a journalist. I’ll tell you the truth: I wouldn’t have agreed to talk to you if it hadn’t been the daughter of a good friend of mine who asked me to, and because she promised my name would not appear in the book. I understand you’ll respect that promise.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t be offended: I don’t have anything against you personally; but I do have quite a bit against journalists. They’re a bunch of tricksters. They make things up. They lie. And, since they tell lies disguised as truths, people live in tremendous confusion. You take what they did to Gamallo, to Gamallo’s wife, to Ignacio Cañas; journalism is a meat-grinder: everyone gets crushed, and they’ll crush everything you put in front of them. They get nothing from me. Well. Now that we’ve got that clear, I’m at your disposal, although I have to warn you I spoke very little with Gamallo. There are lots of people who knew him much better than I did. By the way, have you already spoken with his wife?’

‘María Vela? She charges for interviews. Besides, everyone already knows her version, she’s told it a thousand times.’

‘True. And the other woman? Have you talked to her?’

‘You mean Tere?’

‘Yes. She could tell you lots of things; they say she’s known Gamallo all her life.’

‘I know. But she’s dead. She died a couple of weeks ago, near here, in Font de la Pòlvora.’

‘Ah.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘By sight.’

‘Look, I understand your reservations. I understand that you don’t want to make statements to the press. And that you don’t like talking about Zarco. But, as I said, I’m not a journalist, I don’t work for a radio or television station or write in a newspaper, and I’m not even sure I’m going to write about Zarco.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No. That was the idea at first, yes: to write a book about Zarco that denounced all the lies that have been told about him and tell the truth or a portion of the truth. But a person doesn’t write the books he wants to write, but those he can or those he finds, and the book I’ve found both is and isn’t that one.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know when I finish writing it. At the moment all I know is that the book will be about Zarco, of course, but also about Zarco’s relationship with Ignacio Cañas, or about Zarco’s relationship with Ignacio Cañas and with Tere, or about Ignacio Cañas’ relationship with Tere and with Zarco. Anyhow: as I said I still have to find that out.’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with the girl, but I had more to do with Cañas than with Gamallo.’

‘I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Actually it was Cañas who suggested I should. It seemed like a good idea: after all, apart from Tere and María you’re the only person who was in contact with both of them at that time. Cañas also says that he has the impression that you understood things that no one else understood, not even him.’

‘He says that?’

‘Yes.’

‘It might be true: I’ve had the same impression myself sometimes. You see, it always seemed to me that, deep down, Cañas always thought that Gamallo was a victim. You know: the good thief in his youth, the perpetual rebel, the Billy the Kid or Robin Hood of his day, and then — it turns out to be the same thing except in reverse — the villain who comes to understand the evil he’s done and turns into the repentant delinquent; anyway, that story the journalists invented to sell papers, and then so many people bought it, starting with Gamallo himself. How could he not buy it, pretty as it was and with him coming out of it so well in the articles, in the songs, in the books and films about him? And I’m not saying that the story didn’t have some truth to it, albeit a small part; what I say is that Cañas was a victim of that myth, or that legend, of that great invention. Cañas believed that Gamallo was a victim of society, but Cañas turned out to be the victim himself: a victim of the legend of Zarco. That’s the reality. That he’d known Gamallo when he was young, as we discovered later, mustn’t have helped him at all, but I don’t think it was the main thing either: for me the main thing is that Cañas had grown up with the myth of Zarco, that it was the myth of his generation, and that, like so many people of his generation, he thought he could redeem him. Of course, he also thought that by redeeming him he’d make money and become famous; one thing doesn’t rule out the other: Cañas was no charitable nun. But the truth is at that moment he believed he could help Gamallo, or rather that he could save him and score a bit along the way. And believing that hurt him. And perhaps this is what Cañas has the impression that I and no one else understand, not even him, but actually I think it’s not that he doesn’t understand it but that he doesn’t want to understand.

‘But, well, if I have to tell you the story it would be best to start at the beginning. Cañas and I didn’t meet when Gamallo arrived in Gerona: we knew each other before; not well, but we knew each other. He always had clients in the prison and he visited them regularly, so our paths had crossed in the entrance foyer and we’d chatted for a moment or two. That was the extent of my relationship with him: the normal relationship of the superintendent of a prison and a lawyer with several clients incarcerated there. Anyway, although I barely knew him I didn’t have a very good impression of him; I don’t know why: we’d never had any friction, and everybody knew he was the most competent criminal lawyer in the province; or maybe I do know: because Cañas had the unmistakable vanity of guys who triumph too young; and because hardly a morning would go by without his face appearing in the papers: it was obvious the journalists adored him and he adored the journalists and, as you’ve realized, I distrust people who adore journalists. In spite of that, from the moment Gamallo arrived in my prison and I learned that Cañas was going to defend him, I wanted to talk to him.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ll explain. At the end of 1999, when he arrived in Gerona, Gamallo was no longer the most famous prisoner in Spain, but he was still Zarco, a legend of juvenile delinquency; and although physically he was in bad shape, he still had a lot of fight in him. On the other hand I was sure that Cañas had agreed to defend him to profit from his renown, among other reasons because Zarco was an inmate who couldn’t pay him and who had a tremendous history of conflicts with his lawyers. So I wanted to speak to him before Gamallo started causing the troubles he’d caused in every prison he’d been incarcerated in: I wanted him to convince Gamallo not to cause them, I wanted to arrive at an agreement with him and turn him into my ally and not my rival and enemy and, since I thought this could only benefit both of us (or rather all three of us), I was sure that it would be easy for me to achieve it.

‘I was wrong, and that was the first surprise I had from Cañas.’

Chapter 3

‘When I finished my interview with Zarco in the prison I had made two commitments: to be his lawyer in a trial for the incident at the Brians prison and to set up a strategy to get him released. Along with the happiness produced by the reappearance of Tere and Zarco, this event worked like a catalyst on me. Suddenly everything changed. Suddenly I had, in the misunderstanding of the anodyne life I was leading, the flavour of a goal and the passion of a challenge: defending Zarco and getting him out on the street as soon as possible.

‘That’s what I immediately started to do. The morning following the interview with Zarco I handed my two partners two copies of his prison record and the Brians indictment, asked them to study those papers and buried myself back in them. As soon as I did I began to think that Zarco’s predictions about his future were less unrealistic than I’d initially thought; two days later, meeting with Cortés and Gubau again, I realized that they both shared my opinion: none of us were as optimistic as Zarco, but all three thought that, if we took the correct steps, Zarco could be out of prison in three or four years, and that was in spite of having firm sentences adding up to more than twenty. Of course, none of the three of us wondered whether Zarco was prepared to leave prison so soon and, when I left Cortés and Gubau, we still hadn’t decided what the steps were that we had to take to get him out, and how to take them (actually, it wasn’t urgent that we decide: we couldn’t tackle the subject until the Brians trial was over). Be that as it may, over the following days I suspected that, in our case, taking the adequate steps would probably include trying to resuscitate Zarco’s media image, because that was the only way to get political support, through popular support, and prison perks and benefits through political support, until we could get a pardon. The problem, I then said to myself, was how to achieve Zarco’s media resurrection; that is: how to focus the media’s attention on a figure already so overexposed?; how to convince the media that a person from the past could be of some interest in the present?; and most of all, and in light of the more or less serious but failed attempts to rehabilitate him, how to convince the media again and get the media to convince the public that Zarco deserved one final chance, that he’d learned from his past errors, that he no longer had anything to do with the legend or myth of Zarco but only with the reality of Antonio Gamallo, a man approaching his forties with a turbulent past of poverty, prison and violence seeking to construct an honest future for himself in freedom and thereby needing the support of public opinion and the politicians in power?

‘Those were some of the questions I asked myself over the days that followed my re-encounter with Zarco. That week of surprises ended with another surprise. Friday evening, as we often did, Cortés, Gubau and I had a few beers at the Royal, a café in Sant Agustí Plaza. When we left the Royal night had fallen. It was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella with me, but Cortés and Gubau both did, so Gubau lent me his as he and Cortés were both heading towards the newer part of the city. In a Middle Eastern restaurant on Ballesteries Street I stopped to buy a plate of falafels with yogurt sauce and pitta bread and a couple of cans of beer; then I carried on home. The streets of the old quarter were deserted and the paving stones shiny with rain under the streetlights, and as I reached the door to my building I had to do a balancing act: holding the umbrella, my briefcase and my dinner in one hand and trying to open the door with the other. I hadn’t yet managed to get it open when I heard: Fuck, Gafitas, you practically live in La Font. It was Tere. She was a few metres away from me, having just emerged from the doorway across the street, with her hair wet and jacket collar turned up and hands in her pockets; what she said about La Font, by the way, was true: I have a loft in the same block where La Font was thirty years ago. What are you doing here? I asked her. I was waiting for you, she answered. She pointed at my umbrella, briefcase and the bag with my dinner in it and said: Can I lend you a hand? She lent me a hand, I opened the door, she handed me back what I’d given her to hold. Do you want to come up? I asked.

‘We went up. When we got inside my flat I left my things on the counter and then went to the bathroom to find a clean towel so she could dry off; as I handed her the towel I asked her if she’d had dinner. No, she said. But I’m not hungry. I ignored that. While I made a salad and opened a bottle of wine and she set the table in the dining room, we talked about my place, a loft I’d bought a few years earlier from a Brazilian couple, he an architect and she a film director, or, to be precise, a director of documentaries and things like that. It wasn’t until I’d served her a bit of salad and a couple of falafels that I mentioned to Tere that I’d been to see Zarco. How did he seem to you? she asked. Fine, I lied. Older and heavier, but fine. He told me he’s fed up with prison. He asked me to get him out of there whatever it takes. Tere smiled. As if it were that easy, right? she said. He thinks it’s easy, I said, then added: Maybe it’s not so hard. Do you think so? she asked. I pulled a dubious face and answered: We’ll see.

‘Tere didn’t go on about the matter, and I thought it was premature to discuss my impressions and conjectures with her. While we were eating, Tere asked me about my life; I told her vaguely about my daughter, my ex-wife, my partners, my firm. Then I asked her; to my surprise, Tere replied with such an ordered account of events that it almost seemed prepared in advance. I learned that she’d lived in Gerona until she was seventeen, when the police arrested her after she participated in a bank robbery in Blanes, the summer after we met. That after her arrest she was tried and sentenced to five years in prison, of which she served two, at the Wad-Ras women’s prison. That in prison she got hooked on heroin and when she got out she stayed in Barcelona for almost a decade, living most of the time in La Verneda, earning a living with occasional jobs and occasional robberies that occasionally sent her back to prison. That in the second half of the nineties she spent several days in the Vall d’Hebron hospital on the brink of death due to a heroin overdose, and when she was discharged from hospital she agreed to be admitted to the Proyecto Hombre detox and rehabilitation centre. That she spent a good long while there. That she came out clean. That when she came out she tried to start a new life or what tends to be called a new life, and to do so she left Barcelona and returned to Gerona. That since then she had not had a drop or a speck of heroin or cocaine or any pills (except in the odd relapse). That she’d had lots of jobs and lots of men but no children. That she’d been working at the factory in Cassà for two years. That she’d started to study nursing that very year. That she didn’t like her job but she did like her course. That she was happy with the life she was leading.’

‘Didn’t you ask about Zarco?’

‘As soon as she stopped talking about herself. At first she seemed disinclined to answer, but I got out a second bottle of wine and she was soon talking about the relationship she’d had with him over those past twenty years.’

‘Had she gone on seeing him?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s odd. As far as I recall, Zarco doesn’t even mention her in his memoirs.’

‘Your recollection is right, but his not mentioning her is more revealing than if he had mentioned her, because it means he took her for granted. Of course that’s what I say now, because now I know things I didn’t know then. . In any case, yes: although sometimes sporadically, they had gone on seeing each other. What Tere told me that night was that, during Zarco’s first years in prison, she visited him every once in a while and he turned to her when he was out on parole, when he escaped or when he had no one else to turn to. Later, for a long spell, the two of them stopped seeing each other. The reason is that in the middle of 1987, after Zarco escaped from the Ocaña penitentiary by taking advantage of the cocktail party after the press screening of The Real Life of Zarco, Bermúdez’s final film based on his life, Tere got mad at him and, although in the end she was the one who found him refuge in a friend’s house during his days on the run, she refused to visit him after he’d been recaptured. But what separated them completely, still according to Tere’s version, was that, once he was back in prison, Zarco began his great change: he went on being a famous delinquent but he tried to no longer be the implacable juvenile delinquent to become the mature repentant delinquent, a change in which he had no need of Tere or in which Tere was simply superfluous, because she was a hindrance from the past that he wanted to overcome. Still, years later Zarco called her again. It was after holding up a Barcelona jewellery store in the city centre and thus violating his third-stage release, one level before getting out on probation that he’d been granted for the first time in his life and which allowed him to spend the days outside and return to the prison to sleep; the absurd stupidity of the robbery meant this privilege was revoked and Zarco was put back on trial again and had many years added to his sentence of many already accumulated years, not to mention the disappointment it provoked in public opinion in general, which had believed in his rehabilitation, and among the politicians, journalists, writers, film-makers, singers, athletes and the rest of the people who’d supported the cause of his release: they all wrote him off as an incorrigible quinqui, as a persona with no future from the blackest days of Spain. Again he was defeated and dismissed and with no support from anybody, and again he turned to Tere, who at first told him to go to hell and finally ended up giving in, agreeing to see him and help him and help María to help him, who by then had appeared on the scene. She’d been working with her on Zarco’s behalf lately, until they came to see me.

‘That’s more or less what Tere told me that night, while we had dinner, or perhaps what she told me that night added to what she told me on other nights. Whatever the case, when we finished dinner and Tere finished telling me about Zarco, or she tired of doing so, we were a bit drunk. At that moment there was a rather long silence, which I was about to fill in by praising Tere’s loyalty and patience with Zarco or asking after Lina — who Zarco had told me Tere saw once in a while — but, before I could do so, she stood up from the table, went over to the stereo, crouched down and started looking through my few CDs. You still don’t like music, Gafitas, she said then. My daughter says something similar, I answered. But it’s not true. It’s just that I don’t listen to it much. Why’s that? asked Tere. I was going to say I didn’t have time to listen to it but kept quiet. Looking at the CD covers, Tere added, half-amused half-disappointed: And I don’t even know any of them. I got up from the table, crouched down beside Tere, pulled out a Chet Baker CD and put on a song called “I Fall in Love Too Easily”. When the music started to play, Tere stood up and said: Sounds old, but nice. Then she started to dance on her own, with the wine glass in her hand and eyes closed, as if searching for the hidden rhythm of the song; when she seemed to have found it she set her glass down on top of the stereo, came over to me, put her arms around my neck and said: You can’t live without music, Gafitas. I put my arms around her waist and tried to follow her. I felt her thighs against my thighs, her chest on my chest and her eyes on my eyes. I’ve missed you, Gafitas, whispered Tere. Thinking it was incredible that I hadn’t missed her, I said: Bullshit! Tere laughed. We kept dancing in silence, looking in each other’s eyes, concentrating on Chet Baker’s trumpet. Seconds or minutes later she asked: Do you fancy a shag? I took a moment to answer. Do you? I asked. Tere’s first reply was to kiss me; the second seemed redundant — I do, yeah, she said — although she immediately added: But on one condition. What condition? I asked. Tere also took a moment to reply. No ties, she finally said. She soon noticed that I hadn’t entirely understood. No ties, she repeated. No mess. No commitments. No demands. Each to his own. I would have liked to ask Tere why she said that, but it seemed like a way of looking for useless complications and a distraction from the essential, so I didn’t. It was Tere who asked: Yes or no, Gafitas?

‘Those are the last words I remember from that night, the second in my life that I slept with Tere. The following months were unforgettable. Tere and I started to see each other at least once a week. We saw each other in the evening or at night, at my place. There were no fixed days for these encounters. Tere called me in the morning at my office, we arranged to see each other later, at seven or seven-thirty or eight, that day I’d finish work earlier than usual, buy something for dinner in some shop in the old quarter or in Santa Clara or Mercadal and wait for her at home until she arrived, which I never knew when might happen — she was often late and more than once took two or three hours to get there, and more than once I thought she wasn’t coming — although she always did eventually arrive. She’d arrive and, especially the first times, as soon as she was through the door we’d be screwing, sometimes right in the front hallway with most of our clothes still on, with the fury of people not making love but war. Later, once we calmed down, we’d have a glass of wine, listen to music, dance, have something to eat and then drink some more and listen to music and dance until we’d go to bed and have sex until late.

‘They were clandestine dates. At first I understood this confidentiality as part of the conditions Tere had imposed — part of the no ties and no commitments or demands and each to our own of the first night — so I accepted it without protest, although I sometimes wondered who might be bothered about she and I going out together. Me, answered Tere, when I finally asked her. And you’d be bothered too. It was a categorical reply, that did not allow a rejoinder, and I didn’t have one. Otherwise, as far as I recall that was one of the few times, in those early days, that Tere and I talked about our relationship; we never did, as if we both felt that happiness is for living, not for talking about, or that mentioning it might be enough to make it disappear. This is odd, when you think about it: after all there is no subject of greater interest to new lovers than their own love.

‘What did Tere and I talk about then? Once in a while we talked about Zarco, about Zarco’s situation in prison and about what I was doing to get him out of there, although after a certain point we only talked about that in the presence of María, who in theory was the main interested party. Sometimes we talked about María, about her relationship with Zarco, about how she’d come to be Zarco’s girlfriend. Tere liked to talk about her studies and ask me about things at my office, my partners, my sister — who I didn’t see more than once or twice a year, because she’d been working in Madrid for many years where she was married and had kids — about my ex-wife and most of all about my daughter, although, as soon as I suggested to Tere the idea of meeting her, she refused without a second thought. Are you crazy? she asked. What’s she going to think of her father hooked up with a quinqui? Quinqui, what quinqui? I answered. There are no quinquis left any more! Zarco’s the last one, and I’m about to turn him into a normal person. Tere laughed. Getting him out of jail would be enough! she said.

‘We often talked about the summer of ’78. I remembered pretty well what had happened back then, but on a few points Tere’s memory was more precise than mine. She, for example, remembered better than I the two times I’d stood her up after our last two encounters: the first, when I didn’t show up at La Font, and the second three months later, when I didn’t show up at Rufus. Tere mentioned those episodes without resentment, making fun of herself and the scant attention I seemed to have paid her twenty years earlier; and when I tried to deny it with the evidence that in reality it was her who paid no attention to me, or who’d paid me intermittent and very partial attention, she asked: Oh yeah? Then why did you stand me up? I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I laughed and didn’t answer; but, at least on this point, my memory of that summer was crystal clear: I had joined Zarco’s gang mainly for Tere and my impression was that, leaving aside the incidents in the washrooms of the Vilaró arcade and on Montgó beach, during those three months Tere had done nothing but avoid me and sleep with Zarco and others. All this shows, now that I think of it, that it’s not true that Tere and I didn’t talk about our love — at least we talked about our frustrated love from two decades before — but I was telling you for another reason and it’s that, after Tere brought up those two episodes a couple of times, more than once I wondered if her insistence was due to some hidden reason, if she wouldn’t be provoking me to catch me in a lie, if at some moment the repeated slight of standing her up twice hadn’t put her on a wrong track and hadn’t led her to the mistaken conclusion that, after the failure of the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular, I had disappeared and hadn’t returned to the district not because I didn’t like her any more or because I didn’t want to be with her and considered her just a fleeting summer fling, but because I was the snitch who’d tipped off the police. And I wondered whether Zarco had arrived at the same conclusion on his own or if Tere had told him and convinced him it was true and that explained in part the role of traitor that Gafitas played in Wild Boys, or at least why he was portrayed as untrustworthy or possibly untrustworthy in The Music of Freedom, the second volume of Zarco’s memoirs. And, if the reply to this wondering was affirmative, perhaps there was another reason why Zarco wanted me to be his lawyer: not just because he knew me and because I lived in Gerona and was known to be a competent lawyer nor only because our former friendship might make me more manageable and more tolerant with him and might save him fights like the ones he’d faced with his previous lawyers; but also so I could pay for my betrayal or snitching or untrustworthiness, so that it would be me, who twenty years earlier had put him behind bars, who would now get him out.

‘But I don’t want to give you a mistaken impression: the truth is that I was not very worried about that old story; and it’s also true that what Tere and I talked about at my place was far and away not the most important thing that happened on those nights of surreptitious love. The most important is that, as I said, they were happy nights, although of a strange and fragile happiness, as if separate from real life, as if every time Tere and I got together at my place we segregated ourselves inside a hermetic bubble that isolated us from the outside world. The secret nature of our dates and the fact that at first Tere and I only ever saw each other within the perpetual penumbra and four walls of my home contributed to this sensation. Music also played a part.’

‘Music?’

‘You can’t live without music, Tere had said to me the first time she came up to my place. Remember? Well, I decided that Tere was right and that up till then I’d lived without music or almost without music and now I was going to correct that mistake. And the first thing that occurred to me was to get hold of the music that used to play at Rufus when Tere and I used to go there and she would spend the nights on the dance floor and I would spend them propping up the bar watching her dance.

‘The day after Tere’s first visit to my place was a Saturday, and that afternoon I went to a record shop on the Plaça del Vi, called Moby Disc, and bought five CDs of late-seventies artists with songs I remembered hearing at Rufus or that I associated with the time we used to go to Rufus — one CD by Peret, one by the Police, one by Bob Marley, one by the Bee Gees, one by Boney M. — and that Tuesday night, when Tere came back to my place, I had “Roxanne” playing at full volume as she arrived. Fuck, Gafitas! said Tere as she walked into the dining room, starting to dance as she pulled her handbag strap over her shoulder. This one’s old too, but it’s something else! From then on I devoted many hours of my weekends to looking for records from the second half of the seventies and first half of the eighties. At first I always bought them at Moby Disc, until an acquaintance recommended two shops in Barcelona — Revólver and Discos Castelló, both on Tallers Street — and I started going to them almost every Saturday. I took great pains over what music to play for my midweek encounters with Tere and tried to follow her taste, although the truth is she liked everything or almost everything: rock and roll as much as disco or rumba, Rod Stewart or Dire Straits or Status Quo as much as Tom Jones or Cliff Richard or Donna Summer, as much as Los Chichos or Las Grecas or Los Amaya. We both loved to listen to the corny Italian and Spanish hits from back in the day every once in a while, the songs of Franco Battiato and Gianni Bella and José Luis Perales and Pablo Abraira we had heard for the first time in Rufus. I’ll never forget the night we screwed up against the dining-room table, listening to Umberto Tozzi singing “Te amo”.

‘This idyll lasted for several months, more or less until the summer. At first I must have had satisfaction written all over my face, because everyone noticed something strange, starting with my daughter, who arrived home the day after Tere’s first visit and spent the weekend joking with lethal marksmanship (I don’t recognize you, Dad, she sprung on me several times, laughing. Anyone would think you got laid this week), and ending with Cortés, Gubau and the rest of the people at my office, who benefited from my good mood though they also suffered from my absenteeism, or my inattention. I mean that I began to deal almost exclusively with Zarco’s case and to delegate the rest of the work to Cortés and Gubau, provoking consternation in the office and complaints from some clients, accustomed to being looked after by the senior partner in the firm. But I was too absorbed by my happiness and paid no attention to the complaints or the disconcertion. That doesn’t mean I didn’t work. I was reading, studying, collecting information, arguing details of Zarco’s case with Cortés, with Gubau, sometimes with other lawyers. I often went to see Zarco. On those visits we mostly talked about judicial and prison matters, about his situation in prison and how to improve it; but neither Zarco nor I evaded talking about the past, not even the summer of ’78, especially if we considered some detail or concrete episode from back then could serve to clarify some detail or concrete episode from his later life, and in this way he was able to give me tools with which to defend him. Anyway, our relationship was strictly professional, or almost. I would say we were weighing each other up. In his case I don’t know what the initial balance was in that weighing up; in mine it was that, in spite of his visible physical deterioration and secret moral vulnerability, Zarco was all there: he thought clearly, his behaviour was reasonable, he had a real desire to get out of prison and begin a different kind of life and he seemed capable of doing it.

‘During that time I also saw María Vela with some frequency. We always or almost always saw each other at her flat on Marfà Street, in Santa Eugènia, where she lived with her daughter, a precocious and graceless teenager who was the spitting image of her mother. Seeing her — seeing María, I mean — many must have asked how it was possible that such a woman had become Zarco’s woman. When she and Tere showed up at my office I already knew the story from the press; what I didn’t know was that that story wasn’t the whole story.’

‘I only know what I’ve read in your archive.’

‘The whole story is more interesting; I pieced it together in those first weeks, thanks to María herself, and also thanks to Zarco and Tere. As far as I now understand, the story goes more or less like this. María had started off being one of the many admirers Zarco corresponded with from prison when his media profile was at its peak; there were all sorts among those women: compulsive liars, opportunists, Samaritans, naive women, thick ones, adventurers, I don’t know. In general, at the same time as going along with them, Zarco had known how to manage them and get them to work for him, because he understood very early that a great part of his wellbeing inside depended on help he got from the outside, getting his case moving with barristers, solicitors, officials, judges and politicians. My impression is that María must have combined ingredients of all or almost all the types of admirers, but the fact is the press chose to present her as a Samaritan in love.

‘I’m not saying that she wasn’t in part, at least at the beginning. She first got in touch with Zarco towards the end of the eighties, when he was locked up in the Huesca prison and announced in public declarations to El Periódico de Aragón his intention to start a magazine and asked for volunteers to help him. María was one of the people who offered to collaborate in the production and distribution of the magazine, and, although they didn’t manage to publish a single issue, from that moment on she began to write to him regularly. That’s how Zarco found out she was four years younger than him, that she’d been married and was separated, that she had a two-year-old daughter and had always lived in Barcelona but had just moved to Gerona, where she worked in a school cafeteria; and that’s how he found out later, as María levelled with him and her letters grew inflamed, that she had been reading everything written about him for a long time, that she’d fallen in love with him without ever meeting him, that she was willing to do anything for him, that she was sure that — as she had done years ago for her ex-husband, for whom she’d managed to get a special pardon — she could get him out of prison and begin a new life with him. Zarco didn’t pay too much attention to this offer, perhaps because María’s photos didn’t make her look too seductive, perhaps because at that time he was receiving similar offers from his epistolary harem of women who flirted with him from a distance; remember that, although he was behind bars, Zarco was then one of the guys most in demand in this country, a sort of icon of the recent democracy: they were making films about him, writing books and songs about him, publishing his memoirs, the newspapers and radio stations interviewed him on the slightest pretext, the intellectual journals dedicated special issues to him, his photograph appeared everywhere beside politicians, football players, bullfighters, actors, singers, writers, film-makers and celebrities, and the gossip magazines claimed he had romances with Socialist politicians, Andalusian aristocrats, beauty queens, high-school teachers, female prison guards and television presenters. So, although María kept writing to him, in the midst of that whirlwind Zarco tired very early of answering her letters, and didn’t do so again until, in the mid-nineties, he himself destroyed his public image with a couple of failed attempts at rehabilitation, the media’s interest in him plummeted and his harem of admirers disappeared. María did not miss her moment. No longer with any competition, she started to claim Zarco’s attention again, she won it and began to visit him and to have encounters alone with him in prison (face-to-face encounters they call them: a euphemism to avoid calling them sexual encounters); Zarco for his part went along with it. That was when María became what she was when I met her in my office: Zarco’s official girlfriend and the person on the outside who looked after his affairs.’

‘And in that capacity she visited you that day.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And Tere? In what capacity did Tere go to your office?’

‘As María’s helper or bodyguard and as someone Zarco trusted. That was the role she’d been filling for years and that she more or less carried on doing for a while. María was ideal for Zarco for tons of reasons: because she was a normal woman, with no criminal record, because she was a mother and aside from that a respectable separated mother, because she was in love with him, because she was always available, for her air of vulnerability, for everything; but even though she was ideal, Zarco didn’t think she was smart and didn’t trust her, or he thought Tere was smarter and more trustworthy, and so he started to ask her to accompany María, or Tere herself offered to do so. And that’s how that singular couple came to be.

‘But I was telling you about my conversations with María. I saw her at least once a week too, at her home on Marfà Street. That was where I began to realize her character had some duplicity and that, more than vulgar or insignificant — which is what she seemed at first — she was one of those people of such obvious ingenuousness and such total transparency that they ended up being enigmatic. One of the things that surprised me was that María still had the idealized vision of Zarco that the media had propagated for years, a vision according to which Zarco was a noble, brave and generous youth condemned by the fate of his birth to a life of delinquency; I found it even more surprising that María still had an idealized vision of her relationship with Zarco: according to her, her story was a love story of a good, simple and unlucky woman for a good, simple and unlucky man, a love story that overcomes all, a romantic love that, once Zarco had his freedom, was going to give her and her daughter the husband and father they’d lost and Zarco the family he’d never had. In those first interviews María told me the same story several times (or different stories that deep down were variations of the same one), and one afternoon, unexpectedly, as I was walking towards my car after having spent hours listening to her I seemed to understand that the story was the answer I’d been looking for, the key that could unlock the flow of media interest in Zarco and, therefore, the key also to Zarco’s freedom: he had told his life story to the press many times as a repentant and reformed delinquent, unjustly kept behind bars; but, after he himself had refuted it so many times by reoffending, it was difficult for anyone to believe it, especially if he was the one telling it; but, if that same story, corrected, improved and expanded, was told by a school cafeteria worker, a relatively young woman, on her own, decent, poor and separated, wrapped in an air of submission and disgrace and with a daughter as well (a daughter who could also allow Zarco to present himself as a future head of a household), then the possibility existed that the media might believe it or at least believe that it was credible, spreading it, reviving interest in Zarco and helping me get him out of prison. In any case I reached the conclusion that, without that help, it would take me much longer to get Zarco released, if I ever could; I also arrived at the conclusion that it was at least worth trying.’

‘So it was your idea to turn María into a media darling.’

‘Not at all. My idea was just that María should tell her story and Zarco’s to the journalists; nobody could have predicted what happened afterwards: I at least have nothing to do with that.’

‘Of course you do. You encouraged María by believing that you could use her and keep her under control; but that woman bolted and turned against you. Some people might say it serves you right: you can’t start something without knowing how it’s going to turn out.’

‘Nonsense. No one would ever start anything, if that were the case, because no one knows how anything’s ever going to turn out, no matter how it starts. Anyway, if you’re interested we can talk about this next time. I have to get going now.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You haven’t upset me.’

‘OK; I won’t keep you any longer. But before we finish for the day, let me ask you one last question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘If I’ve understood you correctly, in that first moment everyone around you was optimistic about Zarco’s future. Is that right?’

‘Yes. . Well, no. One person was not.’

‘Who?’

‘Eduardo Requena, the superintendent of the prison. A strange guy. He knew Zarco well at that time, because he saw him every day, and he had a peculiar vision of his character. I didn’t see much of him, but we ended up forging some sort of friendship. I sometimes have the impression that he understood things that no one else understood, or that I took too long to understand. You should talk to him.’

Chapter 4

‘I remember the first time Cañas and I met in my office, at my request, a few weeks after Gamallo was transferred to the prison. I’d only spoken to Gamallo a couple of times then and only in passing (I never talked much with him, I didn’t tend to talk with any of the inmates), but the group of specialists who worked under me at the prison had already examined him and made a diagnosis, so I had quite an accurate idea of his real condition.

‘That was the first thing I said to Cañas that afternoon, after shaking his hand and offering him a seat on the settee in my office. The second thing I told him was that I’d asked him to come because I wanted to share the information I had at my disposal, to simplify our work and act by mutual agreement. Cañas listened to me very attentively, his eyes looked intrigued behind the lenses of his glasses, leaning back against the sofa cushions, knees far apart and his fingers laced together in his lap; as usual he was impeccably dressed: white shirt, blue three-piece suit and shiny shoes. When I finished speaking, he raised his eyebrows and unlaced and relaced his fingers, inviting me to go on. I went on. I explained that Gamallo was a heroin addict and HIV-positive, which he must have already known as he didn’t seem surprised to hear it; I explained that he had an added problem, which was that he was not aware of how much harm heroin was doing him, as he believed he was in control when actually heroin controlled him, that he was unable to admit his drug addiction as a disease or was only able to pretend to admit it in order to take advantage of it, and without truly admitting it he could not combat it. I added that, in spite of all this, at the Quatre Camins prison they had managed to get him onto a methadone treatment programme. Then I said that Gamallo was perhaps the most institutionalized inmate I’d ever come across.’

‘Zarco! Institutionalized?’

‘Look. All prisons are different, but they’re all similar; Gamallo had spent more than half his life locked up in prison, he knew all or almost all of Spain’s prisons, knew better than anybody the tricks of prison life and knew how to manipulate them in his favour better than anybody, so he was the king of subterfuge behind bars, the champion schemer. That’s what it means to be institutionalized. Naturally, Gamallo considered that for him it was a strength, and he was right; what he didn’t know was that it was also his weakness. In any case, the specialists’ diagnosis was very clear; I summed it up for the lawyer: the report spoke of Gamallo’s manipulative character, his work-resistant temperament and his persecution complex (I remember that one of the psychologists wrote, more or less: I’m not saying that some prison guards haven’t persecuted him at times; but that’s the problem: the worst thing that can happen to someone who believes himself persecuted is to actually be persecuted); the report also alluded to his tendency to see himself as being victimized and the parallel tendency to always hold others responsible for his own misfortunes, and most of all it alluded to his inability to come to terms with the legend of his juvenile delinquency, to digest it and live with it.

‘This was the basic thrust of the report. The rest consisted of an unsurprising repertoire of news about Gamallo’s family, childhood and youth, a résumé of his criminal history and prison record and an inventory of his rehabilitation attempts. I handed Cañas the report and let him take a look through it; while he did so I explained: Look, Counsellor, I’ve been working with prison inmates for thirty-five years, I know the most complicated prisons in Spain and have been running this one for almost thirty. Forgive me for saying so but mine is quite an unusual case, mainly because the job of prison superintendent is so tough that few last for three decades and because it’s also a political appointment and that means I’ve survived the change of a dictatorship for a democracy, of one party for another and of the central government for that of the autonomous Catalan government. I’m not telling you all this to boast; I’m just trying to tell you I know what I’m talking about. I paused and then said: And what is it that I’ve learned from all this time spent among prison inmates? you’ll be wondering. The most important is something very simple: there are inmates who can live in liberty and those who cannot, there are inmates who can be rehabilitated and those who cannot; and that those who can be are a tiny minority. Well then, I can assure you of one thing, I concluded. Gamallo is not one of them.

‘I waited for Cañas’ reaction, but there was no reaction. I took it as a good sign: Cañas was an intelligent and experienced lawyer (although he was still young), so I thought that, if anything might surprise him about that encounter, it wouldn’t be what I was saying, but that I’d summoned him to say something as obvious as what I was saying. The thing is that for a second he remained silent, looking at me with the specialists’ report in his hands, as if he guessed that I hadn’t finished. I sighed and confirmed his intuition. But the authorities want him to be rehabilitated, I said. Then I went on. I said that Gamallo’s rehabilitation had become a political matter. I said that the Catalan government had decided that Gamallo gave them a chance to show up the government in Madrid, by doing well what they had done badly or hadn’t known how to do. I said that, as well as a political matter, rehabilitating Gamallo was a personal matter, or at least it was for the new Director-General of Correctional Institutions, Señor Pere Prada. . Señor Pere Prada. I had just met him, and at first he’d seemed like a good person; unfortunately, that’s not all he was: he was also a daily Mass Catholic, full of good intentions and a believer in the innate goodness of human nature. In short, a dangerous character. I told Cañas that Prada had taken an interest in Gamallo and that, after talking to him a couple of times in Quatre Camins, he’d decided to take charge, commit himself personally to his rehabilitation and commit the entire Justice Ministry, beginning with the minister himself. I said that because of that, among other reasons, Gamallo had been transferred to Gerona: because the director-general thought that in a small prison like Gerona Gamallo could receive more individualized and better attention. Finally I went on to describe to Cañas the regime that would be guiding Gamallo’s life from that moment on, a regime in which all his steps would be regulated and where, at Prada’s express suggestion, he would enjoy all comforts.’

‘In other words you were working towards Gamallo’s rehabilitation without believing that Gamallo could be rehabilitated.’

‘Exactly. But I didn’t try to deceive anybody. I told Prada from the beginning and the people at Correctional Institutions. And I repeated it to Cañas that afternoon, in my office: I did not believe Gamallo could be rehabilitated. And much less did I believe he could be rehabilitated in that way. To begin with, transferring him to Gerona had been a mistake: at that time Zarco was still a persona in Catalonia, not to mention in a city like Gerona, where he still had family and friends, although almost none of them had anything to do with him any more; whereas, in some distant prison in Castilla or Galicia or Extremedura, in the middle of nowhere, Zarco was no longer known, his myth was practically non-existent or it had faded and that was good for Gamallo, because until Zarco was nobody Gamallo couldn’t be anybody, or rather, because Gamallo could only survive if Zarco died. I’m not sure if I’ve explained myself.’

‘Perfectly.’

‘On the other hand, in the prison itself we did nothing but nourish that myth by not treating Gamallo like just another inmate and by granting him privileges. Those privileges were counterproductive, because Gerona Prison, like all prisons, was ruled by two laws: one was imposed by the superintendent and the other was imposed by the inmates; and I could tolerate the privileges, though they seemed wrong to me, but the inmates could not. I’ll say more: privileges are bad for prison life, because they provoke the ill-will of those who do not enjoy them, but they’re even worse for getting out, because they led people to believe that Gamallo was a special inmate and not a regular inmate like all the rest, and thus continued to fuel the legend of Zarco. Anyway: that’s more or less what I said to Cañas.’

‘And what did Cañas say to you?’

‘That’s when I was surprised. You know? I think to be a good lawyer you have to be a bit cynical, because a lawyer has the obligation to defend thieves and murderers, and on top of that, naturally, he’ll be pleased when thieves and murderers are not convicted. Justice is based on this injustice: even the worst of men has the right to have someone defend him; if not, there is no justice. This might seem disagreeable to you, and it is, but the truth is almost never agreeable. Anyway, I had Cañas down as a good lawyer, as I said, so I was sure that, in public, he would be airing the legend of Gamallo as a victim of society, the tear-jerking myth of the good, repentant thief and all that: after all, it was the best way to defend him in court; but I was also sure — that’s why I’d summoned him to my office — that deep down Cañas knew that Gamallo was not a victim of society nor a rebel from a movie but a complete bully, an unredeemable savage, and that, in private, speaking one on one to someone like me (who knew that he knew), he’d admit the truth or at least act as if he recognized it, and we could come to an understanding and spare ourselves some problems.

‘I was mistaken. The first thing Cañas said when he stopped listening to my explanations was: I’d like to know why you’ve told me all this. He’d left the stapled pages beside him, was sitting on the edge of the sofa and had his elbows resting on his knees, but he still had his fingers laced together. I told you, I answered. I think it’s my duty. I also think that, if we’re going to work together on this, it’s best if I lay my cards on the table and we come to an agreement. The lawyer murmured: I understand. But he didn’t ask me what I wanted us to come to an agreement on, and what he said after a pause made me think he didn’t understand. Tell me, Superintendent, he began. How many times have you and I been in this office, talking about one of my clients? Although I saw where the question was aimed, I didn’t dodge it. None, as far as I recall, I said; but then I added: It didn’t seem necessary. However, now it does seem necessary to me, just as it has before with some of your colleagues. This last bit was true, but Cañas nodded with a smile of magnanimous scepticism. It’s a first for me, he said. And I’ve been coming to this prison every week for almost fifteen years. Which could mean something, don’t you think? He answered his own question: What it means is that, no matter what you say, Gamallo is not a normal inmate. He paused, unlaced his fingers, raised his elbows off his knees and straightened up to look me in the face. Look, he went on, in a different tone, I’m grateful you had me come here, and I’m especially grateful for your frankness; let me be frank with you too. Whether you like it or not, Gamallo is a special inmate, and it’s logical that he’s treated as a special inmate. But his being a special inmate doesn’t mean that he can’t be rehabilitated; quite the contrary: he’s a special inmate precisely because he belongs to the tiny minority you spoke of, because he already is rehabilitated and for some time now he should no longer have been an inmate in any prison. That’s the reality. Of course, it looks as if it will be difficult for you and I to come to an agreement on this. No matter. What matters is that your bosses think as I do and you’ll have to do what they tell you to. I’m glad: I repeat that I believe Gamallo has paid his debt to society and is ready to be a free man. For my part I can only say that I’m going to use my best efforts to help him get out of here as soon as possible.

‘That was basically what Cañas had to say. And it surprised me. They didn’t seem to be the words of the reasonable or reasonably cynical lawyer I thought he was, but those of a deluded dreamer: a completely deluded dreamer, who had been led down the garden path by the Zarco myth and believed what he was saying because he’d lived his whole life under the shadow of that myth, or a dreamer but also an unscrupulous individual, or rather a shameless swindler, who needed me to believe what he was saying (although he himself did not believe it) because he didn’t only want to benefit from Zarco’s fame by defending him in court, but also wanted to achieve a great media triumph by getting him out of prison even knowing that he should not, or that it was premature or dangerous to do so.’

‘I imagine that back then you had no idea of the real relationship between Gamallo and Cañas.’

‘Of course not, I told you: nobody had any idea of that. I knew that when he was young Gamallo had lived in Gerona and that he had family here, but I didn’t know anything else; that Cañas had been part of his gang I learned much later. In any case, that afternoon I realized that Cañas was right on at least one score: given that my bosses supported him, I was bound hand and foot and I couldn’t do anything or I could only carry on doing what I’d already begun to do, which was work towards Gamallo’s rehabilitation without believing that Gamallo could be rehabilitated, as you said. And I also realized I’d stuck my foot in it with Cañas and that for the moment I would not come to any agreement with him and it would have been best to leave things as they were. So I wrapped up the conversation as fast as I could that day by saying that perhaps I was the one who was mistaken, and in any case I had no choice but to follow Correctional Institutions’ guidelines, as he had said, and that meant that we’d both be pulling in the same direction after all; finally I told him he could count on me for whatever he might need, he thanked me with his victorious air intact (a gentlemanly winner, who didn’t need to draw blood or flaunt his victory) and that was that.’

‘Tell me just one more thing: were you really so convinced then that Cañas was wrong?’

‘Yes.’

Chapter 5

‘The trial over the accusations from the Brians prison guards was in March or April of 2000, when Zarco had been incarcerated in Gerona Prison for several months. The hearing was held in a Barcelona court. There I discovered something important: at least in Catalonia, at least in Barcelona, Zarco’s myth had not disintegrated, and Zarco was still Zarco. It’s true that his public appearance didn’t arouse the kind of expectation it would have done ten years earlier, when he was a celebrity, but it attracted enough journalists and spectators so that, in order to avoid interruptions or disturbances, the judge ordered the courtroom cleared and wouldn’t allow anyone in who didn’t have something to do with the trial. The fact that Zarco still enjoyed considerable pulling power with the media was, for me, a first success; the second was the outcome of the trial: Zarco was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, much less than we’d anticipated, so we were all satisfied and didn’t even have to appeal the judgment. Tere and I toasted the triumph with French champagne, one night at my place, and Zarco and María thanked me and congratulated me though not effusively; none of the three asked how much they owed me, but that victory made me decide to set out for them the plan I’d been secretly thinking through — secretly from everybody, including Tere — since I’d taken over Zarco’s defence and in that first interview he had asked me to look after not just this initial trial, but all those he had pending.

‘My plan’s objective was to get Zarco out of jail in two years. To achieve this I had to begin presenting, in the Barcelona court that had ruled on the Brians matter, an appeal for commutation or accumulation of sentences, so that the many convictions and the hundred and fifty years of prison time he had pending would be reduced to a single thirty-year sentence, the maximum time an inmate can spend in a Spanish prison. This was as far as the judicial phase of the operation went. Success was guaranteed this far; or almost: it was very improbable that the court would not grant what we were requesting, but if it did not, it was always possible to present an appeal for annulment before the Supreme Court. Be that as it may, once the sentence accumulation had been successful Zarco could apply for and obtain leave and, eventually day release, which would authorize him to spend the workday outside the prison and return at night to sleep there.

‘At this point the political phase of the operation began, more complex and less certain. It began with the petition for a partial reprieve and ended ideally with the granting of a pardon and conditional release, a round-the-clock freedom subject only to the condition that Zarco not commit another crime. The problem, of course, was that getting a pardon was not easy, and much less so in Zarco’s case. The application for the pardon could be submitted to the Ministry of Justice as soon as Zarco returned normally to prison after his first leave; then the Minister of Justice would have to raise it before Cabinet, which would have to approve it. The matter then consisted of how to get the Minister of Justice to approve our request. In accordance with my plan, this was only possible if three conditions were fulfilled. In the first place — and most importantly — we had to revive Zarco’s media profile; and to revive it we had to mount a press campaign that would bring back part of his lost prestige and convince public opinion that he deserved a pardon and his freedom. Although Zarco himself, Tere and I would have to participate in the campaign, most of the weight, according to my plan, had to be carried by María: she was the one who had the key to Zarco’s liberty because she was the one who could move the journalists and public opinion with her idealized vision of Zarco and her relationship with Zarco. In the second place, once the press campaign was launched we had to get personalities from public life to support the request for the pardon and we had to make sure the Catalan government would endorse the request before the central government. And, in the third place, we had to provide Zarco with a family and work situation that would make his fitting into society credible.’

‘And what did that mean?’

‘It meant that Zarco had to find a job and he had to marry María. Neither of the two things were difficult, but Zarco’s face twisted into a grimace as soon as I mentioned them, one afternoon in the prison interview room. Look, Gafitas, he huffed. I can see myself working, but do me a favour and don’t bust my balls about María. Naturally, I had foreseen this reaction: by this stage I was already aware that Zarco just considered María as the last and pathetic admirer from his glory days, and the only thing that linked him to her was a dry practical interest; and, because his reaction didn’t take me by surprise, I immediately insisted, reminded him of what he already knew: I argued that, for a judge, matrimony was a guarantee of stability and that, for our purposes, María was the ideal wife and perfect propagandist, I reminded him that if he wanted to get out of prison he had to make sacrifices, I assured him that the marriage didn’t have to be anything more than a mere formality or last any longer than strictly necessary. With no comeback to my arguments, a shadow seemed to fall over Zarco; he shrugged, said: Yeah. But then he came back to life to add: And what if María doesn’t want to? Why wouldn’t she? I asked. Well, he answered. Our thing is a circus: in prison it might be fun for her, but out there it won’t be. Don’t worry, I said, blocking that way out for him too. She’ll want to. Remember that for her it’s no circus.

‘We were sitting in our usual way in the interview room, Zarco on his chair and facing the bars and the glass, me at my desk and facing the wall, leaning over my notebook. I remember it was a Friday and as usual in those days I was elated: Tere had phoned me that morning at the office and we’d arranged to get together that night at my place; after work, I’d have a couple of beers with Cortés and Gubau at the Royal; my daughter was arriving from Barcelona at noon the next day. That afternoon my only concern was to convince Zarco to approve my plan; once he’d approved it, I’d explain it to Tere and María and put it into action.

‘I raised my eyes from my notebook, and Zarco and I looked at each other. I don’t know, he said, before I could insist again. Maybe you’re right. I leaned over my notebook again and said: I can’t see any alternative. I also said: We have to be realistic. Or something equally trite. Then, with the reckless confidence of one who thinks he’s the winner before he’s won, I added: Unless you were going to marry someone else, of course. Someone else? asked Zarco. Who else? I turned to him and joked: Anyone but Tere. Why would I want to marry Tere? replied Zarco, surprised. I regretted my recklessness. It was a joke, I reassured him. Besides, I didn’t say you wanted to marry Tere. Sure you did, he insisted. That’s what you just said. I didn’t say that, I insisted. I only said, and as a joke, that you can marry anyone you want except Tere. And why can’t I marry Tere? he asked. I was about to say: Because I’m going out with her; or worse still: Because I’m going to marry her. I didn’t say it, and I wonder if, in spite of Tere’s demands of confidentiality, she had told Zarco that we were seeing each other. I gave his question a professional answer: It would be inadvisable. She’s your lifelong accomplice, she’s been in jail, she’s been on drugs, no one would believe you’d reformed. I repeated: It would be inadvisable.

‘Zarco said nothing. Suddenly, a smile revealed his blackened teeth. What’s up? I asked. Nothing, he answered; then he contradicted himself: You’ve always thought Tere and I were hooked up, haven’t you? I wasn’t expecting the question; I asked: And weren’t you? The smile still on his face, he seemed to reflect on it. For a moment I thought of reminding him of the first part of Wild Boys, where Zarco is going out with a girl that could be Tere and with whom Gafitas falls in love; but Zarco and I had still never discussed Bermúdez’s films, and I felt there was no sense arguing against reality with fiction. Zarco asked: Do you know how long I’ve known Tere? I said no. Since we were four or five, answered Zarco. Her mother and my mother are cousins. Actually that’s why my mother and stepfather moved to Gerona. And why I came later. I waited for him to go on with the story, not knowing where he was going with it. He didn’t go on. Got to hand it to you, he said. What? I asked. He answered: You thought Tere and I were hooked up and meanwhile you hooked up with her. Zarco was referring to the night when Tere and I did it on the beach at Montgó, after coming out of Marocco. I told you about that, don’t know if you remember.’

‘Of course I remember.’

‘Zarco remembered too. I again felt tempted to tell him what was going on between Tere and me; for the second time I resisted. I defended myself, I don’t know what from: It was just one night, I said. Yeah, said Zarco. But you did screw her. Weren’t you scared I’d get pissed off, if you thought I was going out with her? He immediately forgot the question and qualified: Although, thinking about it, well, it must have been her who screwed you. Could be, I said, remembering how jealous I felt in the summer of ’78 because Tere slept with other guys. Anyhow, she did what she wanted and with whoever she wanted. Yeah, yeah, said Zarco sarcastically. But with you it was different, eh? I raised my eyes from the notebook and this time I looked at him without understanding; Zarco was looking at me the same way; after a few seconds he said: Don’t fucking tell me you never noticed. I asked him what he was talking about. Zarco laughed: openly. I can’t fucking believe it, he said. I already knew you were a fool, Gafitas, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I repeated. Seriously? Zarco insisted. Seriously, I insisted. Zarco asked: You really didn’t notice that Tere had the hots for you? I was left speechless. I told you before that, during our furtive encounters at my place, Tere had reproached me more than once saying that in the summer of ’78 I had shied away from her, but I’d always taken it as an implausible joke, or an almost cruel flirtation. How could I take it any other way when my memory of that time is completely clear and in it, as I’ve told you, Tere paid no attention to me or only did very sporadically, just as she did with so many? I avoided answering Zarco’s question, but he guessed the answer from the look on my face. Fuck, Gafitas, he repeated. What a mess you were! I don’t know how I managed to change the subject — perhaps I pretended not to be concerned about it, perhaps simply that it mattered much less than the matter that had brought me to the interview room — but the thing is I managed to get our conversation back to what we were talking about before and finally, not without having to argue for quite a while longer with him, I managed to get Zarco, although reluctantly, to agree to my plan; my complete plan: including his marriage to María.

‘The first thing I did when I left the prison was to call María from my office and suggest that we meet the next day at the Royal; by phone I told her that I wanted to talk to her and that Tere would also come to the meeting. María was a bit surprised, but she didn’t raise any objections. (She was surprised because I always saw her during the week, and I told you already the next day was a Saturday, one of the days that she went to see Zarco at the prison: unlike lawyers who could see prisoners during the week, relatives and friends could only visit on weekends.) That night, at my house, I laid out the plan for Tere and told her that Zarco had agreed. Perfect, she sounded pleased. Now we just need to get María to agree tomorrow. I asked: She’ll agree, won’t she? And then, before she could ask me why I was asking, a concern that had struck me in recent days, while I talked with María at her place, occurred to me. I said: I don’t know. Sometimes I get the impression she’s not as naive as she seems, or that she only pretends to be naive to play hard to get. What do you mean? asked Tere. I don’t know, I answered. Sometimes, especially lately, she gives me the impression that she knows it’s all a farce and that we’re using her, and that at any moment she might get fed up and tell us all to go to hell. Tere dismissed my suspicions. Don’t worry, she said, trying to calm me down. She’ll agree to your plan.

‘Later, while we were dancing in the half-light of my dining room to “Bella sin alma” by Riccardo Cocciante, I told Tere what Zarco had told me at the prison. Tere laughed without letting go of me; she was dancing with her arms around my neck, her body pressed against mine, her face close to mine. It’s a lie, isn’t it? I asked. It’s true, she answered. I’ve told you a million times. Then why were you always slipping away? I asked. Why did you ignore me? Why did you go off with other guys? I didn’t slip away, Tere answered. And the one who ignored me was you. Tere didn’t throw back in my face the two times I’d stood her up, but she did remind me of the afternoon in the washrooms of the Vilaró arcade and the night on Montgó beach, and then asked me: Who went after who? You after me, I accepted. But only those two times. Then I was after you, and you slipped away, you went off with other guys. Because you ignored me, Tere repeated. She seemed like she was going to add something but she didn’t; then, in a resigned tone, almost apologetic, she added: And because I always do what I want, Gafitas. Inevitably I remembered: No ties, no commitments, no demands, each to his own. Unnecessarily I asked: Now too? Tere winked at me. Now too, she answered. And Zarco? I carried on asking. What about Zarco? she carried on answering. I always thought you were Zarco’s girlfriend, I exaggerated. Yeah I know, she said. And you weren’t? I asked. Did anyone tell you I was? she answered. Did he tell you? Did I tell you? Who told you? Nobody, I answered. So then? she asked. Just like that afternoon in the interview room at the prison while I was talking to Zarco, I remembered the love triangle in Wild Boys, but again I didn’t dare mention it (or it simply seemed inappropriate) and I didn’t answer; besides, I felt that Tere was telling the truth. I smiled. We kissed. We carried on dancing. And, as far as I recall, we didn’t mention the matter again all night.

‘The next morning Tere and I walked over to the Royal. María showed up when we’d already had our first coffee; we each ordered a second and María ordered her first and I began to explain to her and to Tere the plan to get Zarco freed. I did so pretending that I hadn’t already explained it to Tere, of course: we didn’t want María to guess what was between us, or, since she was going to be Zarco’s wife and to play a fundamental role in my plan, as well, for her to feel relegated or undervalued or for her to get jealous if she knew I’d spoken to Tere before her. Both women listened to me as we drank our coffee, Tere pretending that it was the first time she was hearing the explanation, and, at the moment when I said that Zarco and María should get married and added that Zarco was enthusiastic about the idea, a smile lit up María’s face. Really? she asked. Really, I replied.

‘I finished speaking and asked their opinions on the plan. Tere rushed to give me hers. If you and Antonio think it’s good, it seems good to me, she said. Me too, said María. Well, she corrected herself immediately, timidly. All except for one thing. What? I asked. María seemed to reflect for a moment. She had come alone, without her daughter, and, as she’d told us as soon as she sat down, later she was going to see Zarco at the prison. Although it was a sunny day, she was wearing her black overcoat, and underneath it had on a blue skirt and a speckled sweater; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She answered: I don’t want to talk to journalists. Why not? I asked. I feel embarrassed, she answered. Embarrassed? I asked again. Yes, she answered again. It’s scary. I don’t know how to talk. I won’t do it right. Tere should talk. Or you talk. While María was talking I remembered a comment Zarco had made that at the time I thought I’d misunderstood or that I’d taken seriously what must actually have been meant ironically (“María just wants to be in the magazines”). I summoned my patience and explained: I can’t talk, María. And Tere can’t either. You have to be the one to talk to journalists, because you’re Antonio’s companion and you’re going to be his wife, and that’s why you’re the only one who can convince them. And don’t worry; it won’t be scary: Tere and I will go with you to the interviews, won’t we, Tere? Tere said yes. María insisted. But what do you want me to convince them of? she asked with an impatient whisper. What do you want me to tell them? The truth, I answered. What you’ve told me so many times. Tell them about Antonio, tell them about your love for Antonio, tell them that Antonio isn’t Zarco any more, tell them about yourself and your daughter and your future and your daughter’s future with Antonio. María listened to me shaking her head, her eyes fixed on her empty coffee cup, her ponytail moving behind her. I won’t be able to, she repeated. Sure you will, Tere chimed in. Like Gafitas said: he and I will go with you wherever we need to and, if there’s any problem, we’ll be there to lend you a hand. Exactly, I said, and then I improvised: Besides, if you want I’ll tell you what things would be good for you to say. Or I’ll discuss it with Antonio and between the two of us we’ll tell you. That’s it: if you want, we’ll give you a sort of script and you can memorize it and say it in your own way and then, as you feel more sure of yourself, you can add your own things until eventually you’ll just be talking on your own account. What do you think? María looked up from her cup and regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, as if asking: Are you sure? Before she could add another objection I persisted: Yes, that’s what we’ll do: Antonio and I will write down what you should say, which will just be what you’ve always said; and then you learn it and tell it in your own way. You’ll see, it’ll be really easy. María kept shaking her head weakly. She did so for a few more seconds, in silence, until she sighed and sat still.

‘It took still more effort, but finally, with Tere’s help, María ended up saying yes, and that very Saturday I got down to work. I had lunch with my daughter, who for weeks hadn’t stopped asking me about my new squeeze (which is what she called Tere, not knowing her name), reproaching me for not introducing her and making fun of the traces of her having been in our house (I’m not surprised you don’t want to introduce her to me, she said when she noticed the shelves in the dining room were starting to fill up with CDs of seventies and eighties music. What an old square she must be), and in the afternoon went into the office to draft a request for a cumulation of sentences and prepare a sketch of a script to discuss with Zarco and then present to María. On the Monday I asked Cortés and Gubau to read the request for the sentences to be served concurrently, finished polishing it up and had it sent to the court in Barcelona, and at about four, with my sketched-out script in hand, I went to visit Zarco. I spent almost the whole afternoon with him. I told him that María and Tere had agreed to my plan and he said he knew that already: María had told him that weekend. I explained that as I envisioned it, the campaign for his freedom would be like a piece of theatre in which María would play the starring role on the stage and we would be the directors in the wings. And Tere? asked Zarco. Tere would be the assistant director, I answered. I don’t know if Zarco knew what an assistant director did, but he seemed satisfied with my reply. Then he took a couple of folded pieces of paper out of his back pocket and told me to call the duty guard so he could give them to me. The guard appeared immediately, unlocked the little paper-passing drawer and I took the pages and had a look at them: it was a long list of names and phone numbers of journalists and personalities who’d had something to do with Zarco at some point or had been interested in his case and who, according to him, I could ask for help. Thanks, I said, putting the pages away. These are going to be very useful; but not yet. Zarco’s brow crinkled. This time things have to be done differently, I explained. We won’t start at the top but from the bottom. I reasoned that, for the national media, he practically didn’t exist; for the local media, however (as we’d seen from the hearing for the last trial), he was still someone, so first we’d have to fully reactivate his figure in the local media and turn him back into a cause, in order to later be able to claim the attention of the national media.

‘Zarco watched me curiously, a little surprised, but he didn’t protest, so I deduced that the surprise was a welcome one and that he approved my strategy, and we devoted the rest of my visit to discussing the script that should guide María’s public remarks. In the end, what we prepared was more of a sales pitch than a script, an arsenal of laments, good intentions and reasoning saturated with philanthropic and sentimental clichés, accompanied by something like an instruction manual. According to the pitch, Zarco was a generous and noble person, condemned by the chance circumstances of his birth to a life of criminality, who had spent half his life behind bars without ever having spilled any blood and who had more than paid for his missteps, had matured and learned from his mistakes; in short, Zarco was no longer Zarco but Antonio Gamallo, a man with whom María, a good, simple, unlucky woman, had fallen in love, and it was a love that had overcome all obstacles and would give her and her daughter the husband and father they deserved, and Zarco the family he’d never had and a free and decent future. That was the sales pitch; the instructions that went with it said more or less the following: so that María and Zarco could be married as soon as the prison authorities granted him leave, María should request a partial pardon from the government and, in order to achieve that, she needed to gather the maximum number of signatures in support of her request; for that reason, in all her public appearances María would request support for her cause from readers, listeners or spectators, who should send their signatures to the address that María herself would give them during the interview, an address that would be that of my office, thus converted into a sort of general headquarters of the campaign for Zarco’s freedom.

‘That was in short what Zarco and I agreed that afternoon at the prison. The next day I summoned María to my office, explained it to her and gave her some notes and an outline. I like it, she said, once she’d heard me out and had read the notes and outline. It’s the absolute truth. I’m glad, I said, knowing that at least fifty per cent was absolute lies. But what matters is not that it’s true, but that it’s convincing. And that’s where you come in. I’m going to get you a couple of interviews this week. Do you want us to rehearse what you’re going to say? No need, said María, brandishing the papers I’d just given her. If you and Tere come with me, I have enough with what it says here. Are you sure? I asked, surprised by her new self-assurance. I think so, she answered.

‘She wasn’t short of reasons to be. During that week I met separately with two journalists from two local papers: El Punt and Diari de Girona. Both owed me favours, I explained to both of them that I’d taken on Zarco’s defence and asked them to interview María who would describe Zarco’s current situation and give them a new point of view on his character; both their reactions were predictable, identical: a mixture of scepticism, pity and irritation, as if I were trying to sell them some fourth-hand merchandise. I had to do my utmost. I reminded them of the favours they owed me, promised to make it up to them, appealed to the human dimension of the matter, praising María and her efforts to get Zarco out of jail, the populist dimension, exaggerating the turnout of journalists and public at Zarco’s last trial and finally the political dimension: the Catalan government had taken over responsibility for prisons within the region years before, and I predicted that what left-wing Madrid centralism hadn’t been able to achieve in Zarco’s case conservative Catalan nationalism was going to be able to do.

‘That was enough. The two interviews took place on the Friday in my office; just as we’d promised María, Tere and I sat in on them, Tere in her capacity as María’s friend, I in my capacity as Zarco’s lawyer. And that’s when we got a surprise. The surprise was María, who not only told her story to the journalists, but she unfurled the arguments Zarco and I had prepared so naturally and with such surprising eloquence, and on top of that played with absolute conviction the role of the righteous woman in love ready to do anything to liberate her man, fulfil her love and protect her family. As I witnessed that spectacle I remembered Zarco’s phrase again, and only then did I begin to suspect that it contained, as well as a serious and not an ironic opinion, an opinion that was spot on. You can’t imagine how pleased I was.

‘Both interviews were published that Sunday and were a success: both were given a whole page; both used quotes of María’s as headlines, in which she protested against the injustice being committed against Zarco; although obviously the journalists had not agreed to describe her this way, both called María — one in a subtitle, the other in the lead-in to the article — “a woman of the people”, and neither of them hid the sympathy she inspired. These two simultaneous interviews managed to call attention to María, who the following week spoke to a couple of local radio stations and a regional magazine that put her on the cover that same month. It was just the beginning. Then came the Catalan newspapers, radio and television stations, then the newspapers, radio and television stations from the rest of Spain, so that in just a few months Zarco recovered a notoriety he hadn’t enjoyed for many years, as if instead of being forgotten he’d been asleep and the country waiting for him to wake up. It was María who achieved this remarkable feat, not Zarco. This woman is full of surprises, I’d say to Tere every time we saw each other at my place. I told you María just wanted to get into the magazines, Zarco told me every time we saw each other at the prison. For some time people racked their brains trying to figure out what turned María into what she turned into. I don’t know; I can only repeat that none of what happened later was planned in advance, and that I was the first one to be surprised by that woman, who initially seemed terrified at the thought of facing a journalist, from one day to the next turning out to be imperious and feeling right at home in front of a microphone. In the press interviews her capacity for seduction was extraordinary, but on the radio and television, where she expressed herself without intermediaries, the effect she produced was devastating: at times María spoke with the sadness of a wounded little girl, at times with the fury of a mother whose children someone was trying to take away, at others with the wisdom of an old woman who had known love, poverty and war. But it wasn’t just what she said and how she said it; on the radio and television María spoke also with her voice, her gestures, her glances, her way of dressing, and all this went into composing an irrefutable personality who began to draw the attention of many and with whom many began to identify: an average woman able to transfigure herself to the point of being invested with the greatness of an ancient heroine or a modern Pietà, and consequently able to convince anyone that such greatness was also within their reach. Furthermore, the fact of that kind of woman — a wounded, honest, valiant mother — being in love with and engaged to Antonio Gamallo allowed people to imagine that Zarco no longer existed and that Gamallo was just an ordinary man with an exceptional past who deserved an ordinary future.’

‘So that’s where it all started. I mean that’s where María’s story started.’

‘Just as I’ve told it to you. No one meant to create a new media personality. With Zarco’s celebrity we had enough: what we wanted was to get it back into circulation, back into existence, for people to remember him. The rest, I repeat, was pure coincidence.’

‘I believe you: if anyone had put forward the idea of creating a media personality like María Vela, they would have failed.’

‘Exactly. All those theories that paint me as the genius who invented María and then María backfiring on me don’t hold water. The reality is that at most, as you say, I encouraged her; but she immediately dispensed with me and went on her way. What I really reproach myself for is not having seen earlier that María was taking control of our story, that she rather than Zarco was beginning to be the centre of the interviews, and that she’d turned into a celebrity as popular as Zarco.’

‘When did you realize that?’

‘I don’t know. Late. I should have noticed almost from the start, for example when the Catalan station aired a programme about Zarco, at peak viewing time, after years of silence. It was called Zarco: Democracy’s Forgotten Inmate. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, it’s one of the things missing in my archive.’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘Well, get a copy: you’ll be interested. I had quite a bit to do with it, among other reasons because at first the prison superintendent denied the producers of the programme permission to film inside and they appealed to me and I appealed to the Director-General of Correctional Institutions, who resolved the problem. The thing is that in theory Zarco was the protagonist of the documentary; and yes, the documentary did contain recent images of Zarco and statements he’d made, but María dominated, and one finished watching it with the sensation that it was María and not Zarco who society was punishing by keeping Zarco in prison: in the images we saw her talking of her love for Zarco, of the promise of happiness that a future at Zarco’s side represented for her; we saw her serving at the school cafeteria and doing housework in her single-mother’s flat with her daughter at her side; we saw her look directly at the camera almost defiantly and beg viewers to join the campaign for Zarco’s liberty and send their signatures to my office address, the address appeared at that moment along the bottom of the screen; wearing the same black overcoat and the same pink tracksuit as the day I’d met her in my office, and holding her daughter’s hand, we saw her go into the prison and come out again in the desolate gloom of a Sunday evening in winter. . Anyway, the programme was enormously successful, and in the days following its broadcast, messages of solidarity for Zarco and petitions for a pardon rained down on my office.

‘That triumph should have put me on my guard, but all it did was contribute to my happiness. Of course in those days there was nothing or almost nothing that didn’t contribute to my happiness. My idyll with Tere was in full swing, my work was absorbing, my life had direction and meaning and I’d put in place a strategy to free Zarco that was working even better than I’d expected it to. Of course, I would have liked to see more of Tere, spend the odd weekend with her, introduce her to my daughter and my partners, but every time I suggested it, she claimed I was breaking the rules of the game and there was no reason to change them because they were working fine so far, and I had no choice but to put up with it and admit she was right or partially right: when all was said and done I was happy, and so was she; what did it matter that we only saw each other outside my house for work and that I barely knew anything about the rest of her life or that I’d never been inside her house, in Vilarroja, in spite of having driven her to her door a couple of times. Even María was happy, or seemed to be. Not only did she seem to like playing her new role but she seemed delighted to accept her sudden fame, as if she’d always been used to being interviewed by journalists and recognized and greeted by strangers in the street; her duplicity fascinated me: in front of the microphones or cameras she was a heart-rending popular heroine, but when the cameras and microphones left she turned back into an irrelevant and grey, completely anodyne woman. Tere and I still accompanied her to her interviews for a long time, not because she needed us to, but because she asked us to or because, since it was the only way Tere and I could see each other outside of my house, I made sure she asked us to. In short: I was pleased, but Tere and María were too; the only one who wasn’t pleased was Zarco.’

‘Zarco?’

‘It doesn’t surprise me that you’re surprised; I was surprised too. I didn’t understand why, precisely when we started to glimpse a way out of his situation, his good mood of the initial days evaporated and he seemed increasingly pessimistic and complaining. Much later I understood there were two reasons for this. The first is that by that stage Zarco was mediapathic: he had spent more than half his life appearing in the papers, on radio and television on a daily basis and it was hard for him to live without being the protagonist of the film or appearing in the media; that, I’m sure, is one of the reasons he approved the campaign I proposed to reactivate the popularity of his persona. The problem was that, since he was used to being the centre of attention, he didn’t like it at all that María took over that position.’

‘But María had become the centre of attention to get him out of prison!’

‘And what’s that got to do with anything? A mediapath is a mediapath, don’t you get it? Zarco’s irritation was not rational; the proof is that, if anyone had told him he was irritated, he would have responded that he wasn’t. What was happening was simply that it wounded his self-esteem as a media star that the press had put the focus on María instead of putting it on him. Nothing more. Although that explained only one part of his disgruntlement; the other, which was perhaps fundamental, took me still more time to understand.

‘Actually, I didn’t understand it until one day towards the end of spring. That morning, more or less six months after taking charge of Zarco’s defence, much sooner than we’d imagined, the Barcelona court consolidated all of his sentences into a single thirty-year sentence. It was the news we were waiting for, great news, and, as soon as I received it, I phoned Tere and María to tell them, and in the afternoon I ran over to the prison to tell Zarco. His reaction was bad, but I’d be lying if I said I was surprised. It disappointed me, but it didn’t surprise me. By then, as I said, I had been noticing for weeks that he was tense and nervous, irritable, hearing him complain about everything and rant and rave about the prison, about the persecution a couple of the guards were subjecting him to and the passivity of the superintendent, who (according to him) allowed the persecution to go on. When I noticed his anxiety I rushed to speak to María and Tere, but María said she hadn’t noticed anything and Tere had accused me of exaggerating and, as usual, played down the matter. Don’t pay any attention to him, she said, referring to Zarco. Sometimes he gets like that. It’s natural, don’t you think? I would have gone crazy if I’d been locked up in jail for more than twenty years, almost without setting foot outside. Then she advised me: Patience. He’ll get over it.

‘I followed Tere’s advice, but Zarco’s uneasiness did not pass, at least not over the next few weeks. That’s why I said I wasn’t surprised by his reaction, that afternoon in the visiting room: when he heard the great news I’d gone to tell him, he wasn’t pleased for himself, wasn’t pleased for me, didn’t even cheer up; he just asked in a demanding tone whether the consolidation of his sentences meant he could soon get out of prison. In spite of the fact that he had asked me the same question many times over recent weeks, I answered it once again: I told him that, although we didn’t know when we could get him definitely released, in a couple of weeks we could start requesting day passes and in a few months he might be out on conditional release/probation. He reacted as if he didn’t know the answer in advance and, with a contemptuous look on his face, he snorted. That’s a long time, he said. I don’t know if I can stand it. Clicking my tongue, I smiled. What do you mean you can’t stand it, man? I asked, with an unworried air. Just a few weeks, a few months, no time at all. I don’t know, he repeated. I’m fed up with this prison. That’s natural, I said. What I don’t understand is why you haven’t escaped yet. But it’s not worth it now: in no time at all, like I said, you’ll start to get out on leave. Yeah, he answered. To go back inside the next day. I don’t want to go back inside. I don’t want to come back to this shit. I’m sick and fucking tired of it. I’ve made up my mind. What have you decided? I asked, alarmed. I’m out of here, he answered. I’m going to ask to be transferred. I’ll talk to my friend Pere Prada, tell him I’m fed up and I want to be moved. I can’t take it here any more. And then he started cursing the prison, the superintendent and the two guards who seemed to be harassing him. I tried not to let us get buried in the avalanche of complaints, but the way I did so was mistaken: interrupting him every couple of sentences, I carried on joking, I was trying to play down that list of grievances, I assured him that when he started to go out on leave everything would change; finally when he mentioned his “friend” Pere Prada again and I reminded him in a sarcastic tone, as if accusing him of self-importance, that Prada was not his friend but the Director-General of Correctional Institutions, he cut me off: Shut your fucking mouth! Between the four walls of the interview room, Zarco’s order exploded like slander. When I heard it, I thought of standing up and walking out; but, when I started to follow that impulse, I looked at Zarco and suddenly saw in his eyes something I don’t remember ever having seen and that, to tell you the truth, I never expected to see and much less at that moment, something that seemed to me to be the complete explanation of his anxiety. Do you know what it was?’

‘No.’

‘Fear. Pure and simple fear. I couldn’t believe it, and the surprise made me swallow my pride, I shut up and sat back down at my desk. I waited for Zarco’s apology, which was not forthcoming; the only thing that reached me, in the silence of the visiting room, filtered by the glass that separated the two rows of bars, was his laboured and hoarse breathing. I stood up, stretched my legs, took a deep breath, sat back down at my desk and, after a pause, tried to get Zarco to see reason. I said that I understood but that this was not the moment to think of transfers, I assured him I’d speak to the superintendent as soon as I could and demand he put a stop to the guards’ persecution, I asked him to endure it for a little longer, I reminded him that he had within reach what he’d so long been fighting for, I begged him to calm down, not to ruin everything. Zarco listened to me with his head hanging, still furious, still panting a little, although when I finished speaking he seemed to have cooled off; he let a few seconds go by, hinted at a smile that almost seemed like an apology or that I interpreted as an apology, accepted that I might be right and finally asked me to talk to the superintendent as soon as I could so that the harassment of the guards would stop and accelerate as far as possible the granting of weekend passes and conditional release. I said yes to everything, promised that as soon as I left the interview room I would go to see the superintendent and, without any more explanations, we said goodbye.

‘I did what I’d promised. And approximately three weeks later Zarco enjoyed his first weekend pass in a long time.’

‘So do you think it was a blend of jealousy and fear that made Zarco lose his initial optimism, that worried and infuriated him?’

‘Yes. Although the fear was the fundamental thing.’

‘But fear of what?’

‘That took me even longer to understand. Do you know what it’s like to want something and be afraid of it at the same time?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, that’s what was happening to Zarco: there was nothing he wanted more than to be free, and at the same time there was nothing he feared more than being free.’

‘Are you telling me that Zarco was afraid to get out of jail?’

‘Exactly.’

Chapter 6

‘Was Gamallo afraid of leaving the prison? Of course he was! How couldn’t he be? Did Cañas tell you this? And when did he figure it out? Because if he’d figured it out in time, he would have been spared a lot of unpleasantness, and would have spared the rest of us too. And the thing is if you think it through it wasn’t that difficult, eh? Gamallo had been living in prisons for decades; prison life is bad, but over the years you start to master the rules and get used to it, and it can end up seeming like a comfortable life. That’s what happened to Gamallo, who actually didn’t know any other kind of life. For him prison was his home, while liberty was the outdoors: he’d forgotten what it was like out there, what was out there, how to behave out there, maybe even who he was out there.’

‘Cañas basically said that, in theory, there was nothing Zarco desired as much as getting out of jail, but deep down there was nothing he was so frightened of.’

‘He’s right: when he was far from freedom, Zarco did what he could to get closer to getting it, whereas, when he got too close to getting freed, he did whatever he could to get away from it. I think this explains in part what happened. When he came to the Gerona prison at the end of the year, Gamallo was quite a balanced inmate without much appetite for trouble, he rather seemed to want to go unnoticed, to join in with the rest of the inmates and to co-operate with us; four or five months later, when he became eligible to start applying for weekend passes, he’d turned into a gruff, rebellious and angry inmate who was confrontational with everyone and saw enemies everywhere. The prospect of freedom unhinged him. I insist that, if Cañas had understood all this in time, perhaps he wouldn’t have proceeded in the worst possible way, which is how he proceeded: trying to get Gamallo out of prison as soon as he could and by any means possible, instead of being prudent and letting time take its course and letting him mature and letting us prepare him for freedom (supposing we could have done so, of course); and, especially, running that disastrous press campaign that put Gamallo back on the front pages.’

‘Did you tell Cañas all this?’

‘Of course. As soon as I could. As soon as it was clear to me.’

‘When was that?’

‘The second time we saw each other in my office. On that occasion it was he who requested the meeting. Or rather who improvised it. That afternoon I was negotiating with a contractor who was going to carry out some work that we’d been needing to get done at the prison for some time when my secretary interrupted me to tell me that Cañas wanted to see me urgently. I told her it was going to be a while before I finished and to fix an appointment for the lawyer for any day that week, but my secretary answered that Cañas insisted on seeing me immediately and I agreed to let him come in. I cut short my dialogue with the contractor, but as soon as I saw Cañas walk into my office I realized I’d made a mistake and should have made him wait a little longer so he could calm down. I shook his hand and offered him a seat on the sofa, but he didn’t sit down, and we both stood there beside the redundant piece of furniture. The first thing Cañas said to me was that he’d just spoken to Gamallo and had come to present a protest, and the first thing I thought when I heard him was that I wasn’t surprised he’d come to present a protest in Gamallo’s name and that, although he was probably puffed up by the triumph of the media offensive he’d launched in favour of his client and by the political and popular support he’d won with it, Gamallo had managed to infect him with his recent nervousness. I thought of saying to him: For this you kicked up a fuss with my secretary? Although in the end I only said: Tell me.

‘Without further ado Cañas threw in my face the mistreatment to which, according to him, two guards were subjecting his client. He rounded off his complaint with the threat of bringing a lawsuit against my two subordinates, of talking to the director-general of prisons and of taking the case to the newspapers. Then he concluded, emphatically: Either you stop this or I do. Cañas pointed his index finger at me, his eyes wide open behind the lenses of his glasses; the gentlemanly and proud winner of his first visit had disappeared, and in his place was an irate, high and mighty señorito, panicking that he might lose. I stood staring at him in silence. He lowered his finger. Then I asked him the names of the two guards and Cañas told me: they were two of my most trusted men (one, head of service; the other a guard who’d been working under me for twenty years). I sighed and again offered him a seat, this time in front of my desk; the lawyer again refused, but I pretended he’d accepted and sat back down. Don’t worry, I said. I’ll open an investigation. I’ll speak to both guards. I’ll find out what has been going on. In any case, I added straight away, leaning back in my armchair and making it turn, let me be honest with you: I was expecting this. Cañas asked me, impatiently, what it was that I expected. I reflected for a moment, tried to explain: I assured him that for some time all my specialists had been noticing a physical and psychological backslide in Gamallo, that for a couple of weeks at that point Gamallo had been refusing the methadone treatment he was on to combat his heroin addiction (which could only mean he’d found a way to get drugs and was using them again), that his relationship with the guards and with the rest of the inmates was getting worse by the day and that the whole prison-management team felt that an important part of the blame for the mess fell on the uproar of the propaganda campaign in favour of a pardon and especially on the unexpected new life that this uproar had given to Zarco’s personality.

‘Up to that moment, Cañas had listened to me visibly holding back his desire to interrupt, but here he could restrain himself no longer. I don’t know what you’re talking about, he said. Zarco is dead. Zarco is alive, I contradicted him gently. He was dead, but you resuscitated him. If that poor woman didn’t spend her days telling fairy stories to journalists, with you by her side, perhaps this wouldn’t be happening. I was referring to María Vela, of course, who Cañas was using as a battering ram in his campaign for Zarco’s freedom; it goes without saying that what I’d told him was what everyone knew, but Cañas did not like to hear it. He took a couple of steps forward, put his hands on my desk, leaned towards me. Tell me something, Superintendent, he spat out. Why don’t you stick to your business and leave the rest of us in peace? Cañas was breathing hard, his nostrils trembled and, rather than speaking, he’d babbled out the words, as if his fury had hobbled his tongue; as you know, I had tried to avoid a confrontation with him since the beginning, but now realized I could not back down. I answered: Because this business is also mine. As much mine as yours, Counsellor. Believe me: I wish it wasn’t, but it is. And, since it’s also mine, I have the obligation to tell you what I think, and I think you’re the one who should leave Gamallo in peace. Whatever life he has left, you are helping him fuck it up. I understood that this truth would really irritate Cañas; I understood that he would reply: The ones who have always tried to fuck up Gamallo’s life are people like you. And he added, standing back up again: Only this time you’re not going to be able to. Having said this, Cañas seemed to consider the interview finished, walked to my office door and opened it, but before going through it he stopped, spun around and again pointed his furious señorito’s index finger at me. Make sure those guards don’t bother my client again, he demanded. And another thing: we’re going to start requesting weekend-release passes; I hope you’ll grant them. I asked him if that were a threat. No, he replied. Just a piece of advice. But it’s good advice. Take it. Sure, I said, leaning back in my chair and raising my hands in a gesture both sardonic and conciliatory. What choice do I have?

‘The lawyer slammed the door on his way out and left me perplexed. I still didn’t know whether Cañas was utterly naive and believed everything Gamallo told him or if he was an utter cynic and pretended to believe him and in reality he was just after fame at the expense of Gamallo’s fame. Whatever the case, I resigned myself to receiving another phone call from the director-general, to whom Cañas had appealed a few weeks earlier to force me to authorize some television cameras to film Gamallo inside the prison. But the director-general didn’t call, no one gave me any indication of how I was to deal with Gamallo, no one filed any complaints against anyone and the issue did not come out in the papers. Not only that: although two days later I received a request for a weekend-release permit in Gamallo’s name with Cañas’ signature, that afternoon the lawyer returned to my office to apologize for his behaviour during his previous visit. That was when my opinion of Cañas changed and I began to like him, because more courage is needed to admit a mistake than to persist in it, and much more to make peace than to declare war. That afternoon I thanked Cañas, told him he had no reason to apologize, and considered the matter resolved and explained that, as I’d only received his request a few hours earlier, it was too late for Gamallo to get out that weekend, but that he’d be able to the next one.

‘Over the following days I spoke to the two guards that Gamallo had accused of harassing him and asked them to stay away from him, I spoke to members of the prison staff and asked them to use extreme caution with our man, and the next weekend Gamallo went out on leave for the first time in a long while.’

Chapter 7

‘The Saturday that Zarco got out on his first weekend release I arranged to meet Tere at noon in front of the post office, and from there we went to Marfà Street to pick up María and her daughter. When we got to the prison there was already a cloud of journalists around the door, who fell on María and her daughter as soon as they got out of the car. María dealt with them and, after answering a few questions, went inside the prison with her daughter. Tere and I remained outside, chatting a few steps away from the journalists, whom I kept at bay with jokes on the grounds that it was Zarco’s day and not mine.

‘Ten minutes later Zarco came out. His exit seemed staged by a set designer: María and her daughter each held one of his hands; the three of them smiled at the cameras. During the seconds they spent in the prison yard, Zarco answered reporters’ questions and then, still pursued by photographers’ flashes and television cameras, they walked out to the street and got in the car. Tere and I were waiting for them inside; María and her daughter sat in the back, with Tere; without saying a word of greeting to either Tere or me, Zarco got in the front, beside me. The journalists surrounded the car and for a moment all of us inside remained still and silent, as if time had stopped or we were frozen or trapped inside a glass ball, but then Zarco turned towards me with total joy in his eyes and said with a voice so deep it sounded like it was coming from his stomach: Let’s get the fuck out of here, Gafitas.

‘To celebrate Zarco’s release permit I took them all out for lunch to a restaurant in Cartellà, a nearby village. In my memory it was a very strange meal, maybe because it was the first time for almost everything: the first time Zarco was out of prison in a long time, the first time Zarco and María were together outside the prison, the first time Zarco, Tere and María were together, the first time the five of us were together, as well. The truth is that nobody knew exactly how to act, or what role they should be playing, or those of us who did know, didn’t know how to play it, starting with Zarco, who turned in a poor performance as the prisoner on weekend release and María’s future husband, and ending with me, who turned in an even worse one as the lawyer and former accomplice of the prisoner on weekend release (as well as Tere’s secret lover). But worst of all was that, as soon as I saw Zarco and María beside each other, I felt with no room for doubt that such a couple could not function, could not even do an imitation of a real couple for very long: it wasn’t just that the combination of authentic quinqui and apparent good Samaritan was entirely improbable, it was that Zarco didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to María — neither to María nor to her daughter — and spent the whole meal stuffing his face and knocking back the wine, joking around and telling Tere and I stories while I tried to make conversation with María and her daughter, who barely touched her food and spent the whole time watching everyone with terrified eyes. The consequence of that general casting error and Zarco’s terrible manners, or his inability to pretend, was that, as well as being very strange, the meal was also very uncomfortable: very uncomfortable for everyone except him, who seemed to be having a high time; it also turned out to be much shorter than anticipated, thanks to Tere and me (who quickly took charge of the situation and, without any prior decision, tried to cut short María’s distress), and that was in spite of the fact that in the end there was no way to get Zarco out of the restaurant, especially when the owner of the place committed the error of asking him to sign the visitors’ book.

‘Before four in the afternoon I parked the car in María’s street. Are we here? asked Zarco, peering out through the windscreen. María said yes, took her leave and walked towards the door to her building. Well, sighed Zarco. I guess I’m staying here too. He said it without the slightest enthusiasm, knowing it was what I was expecting him to say. He got out of the car and stood next to it, with one arm leaning on the roof, looking in at Tere and at me through the passenger window. He’d had quite a bit to drink, and he seemed more content than resigned. Take it easy this weekend, you bastards, he joked. Don’t get carried away. Then he patted the hood of the car and followed María and her daughter.’

‘Were you worried?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’

‘Well, you said Zarco and María didn’t seem like a very believable couple. Besides, with the expectation Zarco’s weekend release had raised, with all the correctional authorities counting on its success and the superintendent opposed to it, any mistake could ruin your whole half-year’s work.’

‘That’s true. But it’s also true that I trusted Zarco and was convinced that he wanted to be free and wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Although maybe you’re right: maybe I was more worried than I remember, or than I was able or willing to recognize. I don’t know. In any case I don’t remember that as a special weekend either. What I do remember is that after dropping Zarco off I suggested to Tere that we go for coffee and that she turned down my invitation alleging that she had two exams on Tuesday and she had to study, and then I drove her home; I also remember that I spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday indoors without seeing anyone but my daughter, and that on the Monday morning, after Zarco had returned to prison the previous evening, I personally wrote the request for a partial pardon. At midday I went to see Zarco to get him to sign it, and in the afternoon I sent all the documentation to the Ministry of Justice.

‘Zarco began to enjoy regular outings like that, at first every three weeks, then every two weeks, then once a week. Naturally, I hoped that these increasing tastes of freedom would improve his mood and his situation in the prison; what happened was exactly the opposite: instead of diminishing or dying down, Zarco’s anxiety did nothing but grow, increasingly uncontrollable and increasingly absurd. One example: I managed to get the superintendent to keep the two guards who according to him were making his life impossible away from him, but he immediately began to complain about two other guards. Another example: each time I visited him I begged him to avoid any kind of conflict, but he answered as if he hadn’t heard me or as if I’d said the opposite of what I’d said, talking to me about complaints that his insubordination and protests provoked among the prison personnel, and making him feel increasingly proud of them. I still didn’t entirely understand the way Zarco worked, or I didn’t want to understand it: since our first encounter at the prison I was aware of the duplicity or internal contradiction that was tearing him up — the contradiction between the legend, or the myth, and the reality, between the persona and the person; but, in spite of this precise intuition, I didn’t accept that, as the prison superintendent had told me very early, the press campaign that I’d initiated to achieve Zarco’s freedom accentuated instead of attenuating that contradiction, because it resuscitated, unfortunately for the person, the legend and the myth of a persona by then almost redundant.

‘I suppose that the petulant exhibitionism with which Zarco kept me informed at the time, just when he began to start getting out, of his outrages and the degradation of his life in prison, has in part to be attributed to this resurrection. But being informed of it didn’t mean I was able to stop it. When Zarco was out on release we didn’t see each other, and, no matter how much I asked him later, he didn’t talk to me about those free weekends (only prison matters seemed to loosen his tongue). During the week I couldn’t do much to fix things either: in our conversations in the visiting room I could only listen to him, put up with his unpleasantness, swaggering and rudeness and try to calm him down and keep his spirits up and give him encouraging news, and outside the prison all I could do was keep the campaign in favour of getting him pardoned alive and carry on accompanying María (with or without Tere) on her promotional interviews. By then, I also had to go back to taking serious care of things at the office. I’d spent over half a year not doing so, working almost exclusively on Zarco’s case, and in that time a certain amount of chaos had been generated that neither Cortés nor Gubau had managed to sort out and that had led to us losing some clients (“I knew this thing with Zarco was going to get us in shit,” Cortés used to say as we had our Friday evening beers at the Royal. “But I didn’t think it would be this bad”). So I went back to handling the important cases, back to travelling frequently, back to staying late working at the office. These changes affected my relationship with Tere. Not that we stopped seeing each other, but we saw less of each other, and so I started insisting that we move our midweek dates to the weekends, which was when I could have more free time available; but Tere always flatly refused: she said that weekends were the only time she had to study and besides, if we moved our dates to the weekends, they wouldn’t be secret any more. That’s silly, I replied. And your daughter? Tere argued. She doesn’t come every weekend, I answered. Besides, she wasn’t born yesterday, don’t you think she already knows I’m seeing someone. . Not to mention that we could go to your house or anywhere else. Tere wouldn’t give in: she would not let me go to her house, or see me on the weekends, or meet my daughter or my friends. Anyone would say you’re ashamed of me, I said to her once, exasperated by her intransigence. Tere looked surprised and then smiled an enigmatic smile (or that’s what it seemed like to me), but didn’t say anything.

‘All this — Zarco’s personal degradation, my return to proper work at the office and a slight cooling off of my relationship with Tere — explains what happened one night at the end of May or beginning of June, when Zarco had had several consecutive weekend releases. It was an important night for Zarco and for me. I’d gone to bed early and had been asleep for a while when the phone rang. I answered. Cañas? I heard. Speaking, I answered. It’s Eduardo Requena, said the prison superintendent. Sorry for calling so late. Still lying in bed and in the dark, I suddenly came back to reality: it was Sunday night and very late; I immediately thought something had happened with Zarco. Not to worry, I said. What’s happened? I’m calling about Gamallo, the superintendent answered. It’s midnight and he’s not back. He’s supposed to be in his cell by nine. If he doesn’t show up before breakfast we’ll be in trouble.

‘Requena and I barely exchanged another phrase or two; there was nothing else to say: Zarco hadn’t returned from his weekend release and, unless I found out where he’d gone and managed to get him back to the prison, the campaign for his liberty would go down the drain. I hung up the phone, turned on the light, sat up in bed, thought for a moment, picked up the phone and called María, who said when she answered that she wasn’t sleeping but watching TV. I told her what Requena had told me and, with a voice that revealed neither surprise nor alarm, she explained that she didn’t understand and that it wasn’t yet nine o’clock when she dropped Zarco off two hundred metres from the prison door. He said he wanted to go for a walk before going in, María told me. I asked her if anything abnormal had happened that weekend and María said that it would depend what I considered abnormal and for her the question wasn’t if anything abnormal had happened but if anything normal had happened. I asked her what she meant by that and María answered, sounding irritated, that she’d meant exactly what she’d said. Not understanding her irritation, I asked her if she had any idea where Zarco could be and María answered, sounding even more irritated, that I should ask Tere. He spent the weekend with Tere? I asked incredulously. You can ask her that too, she answered.

‘I didn’t want to argue any more or ask her any more questions, nor was there time, so I asked María to stay home, in case Zarco called her or showed up there. Then I hung up, picked the phone back up and started dialling Tere’s number, but I hadn’t finished when I changed my mind and hung up again. I got up, tidied myself up a little, got in the car and drove towards Vilarroja. To get to Tere’s house you had to go past the neighbourhood church and down three deserted, steep and badly-lit streets, which that night seemed straight out of an Andalusian village in the 1960s. When I got to the place I was looking for — a two-storey building that looked like a garage or a warehouse — I stopped the car, got out and rang the intercom for the second floor. No one answered. I rang the first floor. Tere answered. I told her who it was and without buzzing me in she asked what I wanted and I told her what the prison superintendent had told me. She asked if I’d talked to María and I told her what María had told me and asked her the question María told me to ask her. Tere didn’t answer; she asked me to wait. After a few minutes she appeared and, without a word of greeting, pointed to my car. Let’s go, she said. Where? I asked, following her: she was wearing jeans, a white shirt, sneakers and her handbag strap across her chest, like twenty years ago when we’d meet up in La Font to go out and steal cars, snatch old ladies’ handbags and rob banks on the coast. To look for Antonio, she answered. Do you know where he is? I asked. No, she answered. But we’ll find out.

‘Following Tere’s instructions I drove out of Vilarroja and towards Font de la Polvora. On the way there I asked her again if she’d been with Zarco that weekend and this time she answered: she said no. Then I asked her if she knew who Zarco had been with that weekend and she said she had an idea. Then I remembered the last time I’d spoken to the prison superintendent, in his office, and I asked her if she knew that Zarco was using heroin again. Of course, she said. And why didn’t you tell me? I asked. Because it wouldn’t have done any good, she answered. Besides, when did you want me to tell you? We haven’t seen each other for weeks. Not through any fault of mine, I reproached her. She returned the reproach: Don’t start with me on what’s whose fault, Gafitas. I thought Tere was blaming me for Zarco’s bolting, but it seemed so unfair an accusation that I didn’t even try to defend myself. After a silence I insisted: Do you know where Zarco scores his heroin? No, said Tere and, I don’t know why, but I felt she was lying; then I wondered whether she was lying when she said she hadn’t spent the weekend with Zarco; then I wondered whether she didn’t spend the weekends with me so she could spend them with Zarco. Tere went on: Anyway, it’s easy to get it in prison. And outside prison as well. At least it is for him.

‘We’d arrived in Font de la Pòlvora. While we drove into the neighbourhood I asked again: Does María know? About the smack? she asked, and she answered herself: She pretends not to know, but she knows. What she can’t pretend not to know is that she barely sees Zarco on the weekends and when he does go to her place, he robs her. Stop here. I noticed that she’d said Zarco and not Antonio and I stopped on a dirt road without streetlights, between two identical tower blocks or between two blocks of flats that the night made almost identical. Tere got out and told me to wait for her. I watched her go in one of the blocks that looked like a massive shadow dotted with windows of light, I saw her come out a little while later and point to the other building, saw her go in, saw her come out almost immediately. They don’t know anything here, she said, as she got back in the car. Let’s try in Sant Gregori.

‘We tried a bungalow in a housing development in Sant Gregori and a house in the old quarter of Salt. Finally, in a farmhouse near Aiguaviva they assured Tere they’d seen Zarco that evening and directed her to a place in La Creueta, a district in the outskirts, south-east of Gerona. We crossed the city again and, somewhere around four or five in the morning, I stopped in an empty field, beside the roundabout of a bypass, opposite a block of flats that in the darkness of that desolate place looked like a spaceship stranded in the small hours. Tere got out of the car, went into the building, came out a while later, opened my door, and leaning on it announced: He’s upstairs. I asked: Did you speak to him? Yes, she answered. I told him that he has to be at the prison before dawn. I don’t think he even heard me. I asked: How is he? Tere shrugged and half-closed her eyes in a gesture that meant: You can imagine. Who’s he with? Two guys; I don’t know them. Have you told him I’m here? No. We looked at each other in silence for a second. Go on up, please, said Tere. He’ll listen to you.

‘I was surprised by Tere’s confidence (also by that “please”: she didn’t normally ask for favours or say please), but I understood that I at least had to try. So I got out of the car and, walking behind her, entered the block of flats and walked up a narrow and dark stairway, although its darkness dissolved bit by bit as we approached a door left ajar on the landing of the top floor, out of which sprang a strip of light. We opened the door the rest of the way, walked into the flat, down a short hallway and there was Zarco, sitting on a burst sofa, twisting up the end of a joint under the sickly light of a fluorescent tube. Beside him was a redheaded guy sleeping, in a tracksuit, and to his left, legs splayed in an armchair, a barefoot black man in his underwear was watching TV with the remote control lying on one of his thighs; behind him, a big picture window looked out into the night. The room was a shithole: the floor was strewn with ash and bits of food, empty beer cans, empty cigarette packets, unidentifiable substances; also on the floor, in front of the sofa, there was a table made from two upside-down beer cases: at a glimpse I saw, on top of it, a bottle of whisky with barely any whisky in it, three dirty glasses, a crumpled Fortuna packet, a couple of hypodermic syringes, the remains of a bit of cocaine in a piece of tinfoil and a lump of hash.

‘Zarco seemed exaggeratedly glad to see me: he said the word fuck several times as he finished rolling the joint with an expert twist of his fingers and then stood up and opened his arms wide in a welcoming gesture and asked Tere why she hadn’t told him I was with her. Tere didn’t answer the question; I didn’t answer the welcome: summoning all my patience I recognized the arrogant thug he could be turned into by the combination of alcohol and drugs, but especially by the combination of alcohol and drugs with the resurrection of his own myth, with the triumph of the persona over the person. Zarco approached me smiling, halfway between smug and somnambulant, threw an arm over my shoulders and turned towards his party pals like an actor addressing the stalls. Hey, guys! he said, demanding their attention; he got part of it: although the redhead went on sleeping, the black guy looked over, pointing at us with the remote control. Zarco acted as if they were both listening. Believe it or not, he announced, this is my lawyer. A son of a bitch with three sets of balls, badder than a toothache. He laughed loudly revealing two rows of rotted teeth and patted me on the back. The black guy didn’t laugh; he turned back to the TV indifferently setting the remote control back down on his thigh. Zarco looked like a vagrant: he stank of sweat, tobacco and alcohol, his eyes were extremely red, his hair was dirty and his clothes dirty and wrinkled; on his feet he only had a pair of socks with holes in them out of which poked enormous and dirty toenails. He urged me to light the joint, but I refused his offer and he lit it himself; then he gestured to the whole room like a drunken host. Well, he said to us recent arrivals. Are you going to have a seat? If you feel like a beer, there should be one left somewhere. Tere and I stood still, in silence, and Zarco sat down and almost at the same moment the redhead woke up and looked at us with fear on his face; Zarco calmed him down: he patted his knee and said something that made him half-smile. Then the redhead sat up and stretched and started to prepare a couple of lines of coke while Zarco watched him, smoking.

‘I turned to Tere and interrogated her wordlessly. I don’t know if Tere understood the question (she was standing, looking very serious, her left leg moving faster than ever), but I understood that she was asking me wordlessly to try. I tried. I have to talk to you, I said to Zarco, who seemed suddenly to remember I was there and took a last hit off the joint and offered it to me. Great, he said. Tell me. He looked at his companions. Don’t worry about these two, Zarco reassured me, pointing at the black guy and the redhead. They don’t understand shit. Zarco shook the joint in the air, insisting that I take it; I kept not taking it and finally it was Tere who took it, with an impatient gesture. Zarco stared at me. There’s not much to say, I said. Just that you have to go back. He smiled. Feigning terrible disappointment he clicked his tongue, moved his head to the left and right, asked: To the nick? I didn’t answer. Zarco added still smiling: I’m not going back. Why not? I asked. Because I don’t feel like it, he answered. I’m fine here. Aren’t you? Turning to Tere, he patted the sofa next to him a couple of times and said: Come on, Tere, sit down and tell this guy to take a toke and get over it all. For once we’re all partying together. . Tere didn’t say anything, but she didn’t sit down beside Zarco or pass me the joint either. You have to go back, I repeated. The superintendent called me and told me he’s expecting you: if you go back he’ll pretend nothing’s happened. Mentioning the superintendent didn’t help. Suddenly tense, Zarco replied: Well, you can tell him from me that he can keep waiting. He sat forward on the sofa, poured what was left of the whisky in a glass, knocked it back in one and, after a silence, began to complain, getting more and more upset: he grumbled about the conditions of prison life, he assured us that since he’d begun to get weekend-release passes things had continued to get worse for him inside and several guards and several inmates had decided to make his life impossible with the consent or at the urging of the superintendent, he finished up by announcing that the next day he’d call his friend Pere Prada and then he’d hold a press conference to denounce his situation in the prison.

‘I listened to Zarco’s complaints with the weary feeling of having heard them all many times already, but I didn’t feel like interrupting him. When he finished talking he seemed exhausted and saddened and a little confused. I felt that I should take advantage of that slump to return to the attack and try to convince him, but just then the redheaded guy snorted the first line of coke and, pointing at the last one with a rolled-up thousand-peseta note, invited Zarco to have it; I understood that if Zarco snorted the line it would not be humanly possible to get him back to the prison that night, so, without a second thought, I grabbed the note out of the redhead’s hand, stuck one end in my nose and inhaled the line through the other. The redhead and Zarco were astonished. Then, as my brain coped with the hit of coke, Zarco looked at the redhead, still perplexed he looked back at me, his eyes narrow like slits, and finally laughed joylessly. You’re something else, Gafitas, he said.

‘I snorted the rest of the coke and handed the thousand pesetas back to the redhead. Zarco stopped laughing abruptly, but seemed to relax again straight away, seemed to be back in a good mood; he lit a cigarette and leaned back on the sofa; he said: So you’ve come to rescue me, eh? This time I didn’t answer either. He scrutinized me for a couple of seconds and continued in a relaxed tone: I’m curious about something, Gafitas. I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while and I always forget. What’s that? I asked. Why did you agree to defend me? he asked. Why have you set up this whole scene with the journalists and the brainless María? And why are you so compelled to get me out of jail? You know why, I said. No, said Zarco. I know what you told me, but I don’t know the truth. What’s the truth, Gafitas? Why are you doing this? Are you trying to be sanctimonious, because you want to go to heaven? Or is it that you want me to go to heaven so you take my coke right out from under my nose? It wouldn’t be just that you want to screw Tere, would it? Because if it’s that. . He looked at Tere and shut up. I hadn’t heard her move, but she had moved, silently as a cat: now she was sitting on top of a beer case, with her back against the wall, with her legs crossed and the almost extinguished roach between her fingers, witnessing the scene at a distance, without showing much interest. Zarco stopped looking at Tere and looked at me, intrigued. During those months I had wondered more than once whether he knew that Tere and I were sleeping together; now I thought I sensed that he didn’t even suspect it. I answered: I told you: You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. In Zarco’s eyes curiosity turned to sarcasm, so, before he could say anything, I jumped the gun. And don’t forget it’s my job, I said as well. This is how I make a living. Fuck off, Zarco replied. People get paid to do their jobs. And you haven’t charged me a fucking cent. You haven’t asked how much you owe me either, I answered. Besides, I don’t charge you money, but that doesn’t mean I’m not earning; maybe I should pay you: you’re making me famous. Zarco looked like he was about to burst out laughing again, but limited himself to simply tightening his lips sardonically, and making a gesture with his hands as if pushing me away and repeating as his gaze wandered to the TV: Fuck off, Gafitas!

‘The TV was showing a car chase across a desert and, for a moment, Zarco became completely absorbed by it, just as the redhead and the black guy were; in the picture window, behind him, the night was turning into dawn. I noticed the coke was starting to speed up my brain. Then, nodding without taking his eyes off the screen, Zarco mumbled something unintelligible several times. Until he suddenly turned to me and asked: You’re doing it because of the day of the bank job in Bordils, aren’t you?’

‘He said that?’

‘More or less: I don’t remember his exact words, but that’s more or less what he said, yeah.’

‘What was your answer?’

‘None. I didn’t know what to answer. It was the worst possible timing to talk about that, or the most unexpected, and the only thing that occurred to me was to wait and see what he did.’

‘And what did he do?’

‘The same as me but in reverse: waited for my reaction. Then, since I wasn’t saying anything, he looked at Tere, looked back at me and, pointing at me, looked back at Tere: Has he ever told you what happened the day they caught us? Well, he corrected himself. The day they caught the rest of us and he escaped. Has he told you? I bet he hasn’t, has he? That was when I interrupted. I didn’t give you away, I said unthinkingly. If you think I informed on you, it’s not true. How was I going to give you away? I was with you, they just about caught me. . I know it wasn’t you, Zarco interrupted me. If it had been you I would have got even by now. I didn’t run my mouth off either, I insisted. That I’m not so sure about, said Zarco. And I don’t know how you can be so sure. Because I am, I lied. Absolutely. Careful, Gafitas, he warned me. The more you say it wasn’t you, the more it seems like it was you and you’re trying to hide that.

‘He shut up. I shut up. Tere also remained silent. Then Zarco added, in a different tone of voice, Anyway that’s not what I meant, or not only that. I was about to ask him what he meant when suddenly I knew; I also knew that he knew that I knew. Then he turned to Tere and kept talking as if I weren’t there, as if he were alone with her. Didn’t I tell you? he asked. He’s ashamed. He feels guilty. This dickhead has been feeling guilty for more than twenty years. Un-fucking-believable, no? He thinks he left me lying there and I stopped the cops so he could get away. That’s what Zarco said. He was talking about what happened in La Devesa after the bank robbery of the Bordils branch, of course.’

‘And was he right? Did you feel guilty?’

‘No. And that’s why I was surprised that Zarco thought I did. Sure, I felt that what had happened that morning in La Devesa had been important, that I’d gambled everything and that I’d come out all right by a miracle. And of course I knew, whether he meant to or not, Zarco had saved me, and I was grateful to him for that. But nothing else. I didn’t feel guilty: if Zarco had helped me then it was because he’d been able to help me, and if I hadn’t helped him it was because I couldn’t help him. That was it, as I already told you. As far as I was concerned no one was to blame.’

‘But Zarco didn’t believe you; I mean: he didn’t believe that you didn’t think it was your fault.’

‘Evidently not. He kept on about it. He kept talking and gesticulating, puffed-up and scornful, increasingly heated, only now apparently sober. He said: Come on, tell the truth, Gafitas. You think I saved you, don’t you? And I said: The only thing I think is that tonight you’re fucking everything up, and you’re going to regret it. Zarco laughed again. Sure you do, he said. You take me for an idiot, or what? You think I didn’t know? That’s what you think and you feel you owe me and that’s why you’re a wanker and you’ll always be a wanker. There’s no hope for you: mister big-shit shyster and you’ve never understood nothing about nothing. Look at yourself, dickhead, look at you coming here to save your little friend. Aren’t you embarrassed to be such a wanker? But, don’t you realize me and you aren’t friends? Shut up now, Tere interrupted him. I don’t feel like it, replied Zarco, without taking his eyes off me. You and me aren’t friends, he went on. We’re not friends now and we never have been. Stop being so holier than thou, for fuck’s sake; stop making a fool of yourself. Don’t you realize that we’ve been using you because I knew that you had to wash away your guilt and nobody was going to do more for me than you? I told you to shut up, Tere interrupted again. And I told you I don’t feel like shutting up, replied Zarco. Let’s see if this guy can figure out that he thinks he’s real smart but he’s a wanker and he’s making a fool of himself. See if you can figure out the truth for fucking once, man. . And you know what the truth is? He stared at me, breathing hard; then he looked at Tere, looked back at me and seemed to start to cool down. The truth is that we don’t know who ran their mouth off that day, he said, more calmly. Maybe it was you, maybe it was someone else; we don’t know, and that’s what saves you. But what we do know is that I didn’t stop anybody or defend anybody; the only thing I did was defend myself: if I’d had to fuck you over to defend myself, I would have fucked you over. Of that you can be sure. Is that clear? I didn’t say anything, and the question hung in the room’s foul air for a few seconds. During the silence that followed, Zarco tilted a beer can to his lips and, finding it was empty, threw it furiously on the floor. God, he muttered, leaning back in the sofa. That happened a fuck of a long time ago. Can’t you leave me alone, at least for tonight. Forget me, man. You don’t owe me nothing. And, if you did owe me, you’ve paid me back already. It’s over. End of story. Debt cleared. You can go now.

‘But I didn’t go. How strange, I thought. The more I say I wasn’t the snitch, the more Zarco thinks it was me and, the more Zarco says he did nothing to stop the police, the easier it is for me to accept that he did. How strange, I also thought. Zarco thinks I’ve done what I’ve done to repay him a favour; he doesn’t know I’ve done it to have Tere. While I was thinking these things, Zarco had found a twisted cigarette in the Fortuna packet, had straightened it out, lit it and was smoking it while staring with ferocity at the TV, where at that moment two bikers and a woman were sitting on stools in a roadside bar talking. The coke had accelerated my heart as well as my brain; I was fed up with Zarco and the situation I’d got myself into. I looked at Tere and, although I felt no confidence or strength to convince anyone of anything, I decided to make one last attempt. You’re going to ruin everything, I told Zarco’s profile: his eyes remained on what was happening on the TV. This is your last chance, and you’re going to fuck it up. It’s up to you; there won’t be another one: if you don’t go back, forget about any releases, forget about parole, forget about a pardon, forget it all. And get ready for everyone to forget about you and to spend the rest of your life behind bars. I stopped, struck by the certainty that, in a bolt of lucidity, I’d just come to completely understand Zarco. Of course, now that I think of it, I went on, with ill-considered audacity, maybe that’s what you want. I left the phrase suspended and waited for Zarco to look at me, or ask. He did neither. Then, as if taking revenge for his bragging and insults, I said: I might be a dickhead, but you’re a coward: you’re not afraid of spending the rest of your life behind bars; what scares you is spending it on the outside. I hadn’t finished the sentence when Zarco jumped up from the sofa, kicked the improvised table out of the way, grabbed me by my shirt collar and nearly picked me up off the floor. The next time you say that I’ll break your neck, he threatened as I inhaled his homicidal breath, with his face a centimetre from mine. Is that clear, Gafitas? I was so frightened that I didn’t even nod; after a few seconds Zarco let me go and stood staring at me with a grimace of disgust, panting. It seemed as though he was going to say something else or go back to the sofa, but he turned to Tere, who was watching us unmoved, sitting on her beer case, leaning against the wall. And what are you looking at? he said to her. Nothing, answered Tere, stroking the mole next to her nose. I was thinking about what Gafitas said. Then she stood up, started walking towards the door and added: We’ll wait for you in the car.

‘While we went down the stairs in the semi-darkness, I murmured: I’ve had it with that fucking bastard. Did you see that? He was about to strangle me. Don’t be silly, Gafitas, said Tere, walking ahead of me. You were great. Yeah, fucking great, I said sarcastically. So were you. By the way, thanks for lending me a hand: if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Dawn was breaking. We got in the car and I started the engine. Putting her hand on top of mine on the gearshift, Tere said: Wait. He’s going to come down. I looked at her hand and then I looked at her. Are you crazy or what? I said, still very pissed off. He’s not coming down, don’t you realize? Then I lost it and started shouting and cursing Zarco. I don’t remember what I said, or I’d rather not remember. But what I remember very well is that Tere stopped my stream of insults with a slap. And only then did I shut up, stunned. A few seconds later, Tere said: Sorry. I didn’t answer. I turned off the engine and we sat there beside each other in silence, watching the first cars of the day on the roundabout that gave onto the ring road, watching the ash-coloured light of dawn growing on the windscreen. After five or ten minutes I heard Tere say: There he is. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Zarco walking away from the tower block on the outskirts that half an hour earlier had looked like a spaceship and now just looked like a tower block on the outskirts of town, I saw him walk unsteadily to my car, I saw him get in and sit in the back seat, I saw him look me in the eye in the rear-view mirror, I heard him say: Let’s go, dickhead.’

Chapter 8

‘He showed up about seven, shortly before breakfast. By then I was starting to come to terms with the idea that Gamallo was not coming back and I was waiting for the moment to call the director-general to give him the news and then go home to get a little sleep. I’d spent the whole night in my office. I’d gone out into the yard to kill time, stretch my legs and get a bit of air when a car pulled up at the front gates. It wasn’t completely light yet, but before the car stopped I recognized Cañas in the front seat and that girl. What did you say her name was?’

‘Tere.’

‘Tere, yes: I always forget her name.’

‘You already knew her?’

‘Of course. I’d only seen her a couple of times in the prison, but I knew she went to see Gamallo every weekend. And I knew she was working with Cañas and María Vela to get Gamallo out of there.’

‘Did you know what her relationship was with Gamallo and with Cañas?’

‘Someone told me she was a friend or relative of Gamallo’s or of Gamallo’s family. As far as I recall that was all I knew then; I found out the rest later.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s not much to tell. Gamallo got out of the car, rang the bell, they opened the gate and, before he went into the prison, he walked past me with his head hanging and his hands in his pockets, without looking at me or saying a word. I didn’t say anything to him either. What I did do was walk across the yard to the entry gate and stand there for a moment, in front of Cañas’ car, waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Maybe that Cañas would get out of his car and give me some explanation; maybe not. The fact is he neither got out of the car nor gave me any explanation. I mean Cañas. He just sat there looking at me through the windscreen for a few seconds, in the dirty dawn light; then he started his car, turned around and drove away.’

‘And you looked the other way with Gamallo.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? By not showing up at the prison on Sunday night, Gamallo had violated the conditions of his release permit. Why didn’t you report the violation? Why didn’t you inform the director-general? Why instead of reporting it or informing him did you call Cañas so he could try to solve the problem by finding Gamallo and bringing him back to the prison?’

‘Because it was the most sensible thing to do. Rules are not there just to be observed. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I did it; I mean it wasn’t the first time I phoned the lawyer of an inmate who had violated a weekend release, so they could try to right the wrong before it was too late and beyond repair. OK, Cañas was right, Gamallo was not just any prisoner, but at least in this respect I behaved towards him the way I would have towards any other prisoner. Or almost. Look, I think there’s something that you haven’t entirely understood. I didn’t have anything against Gamallo, and much less against Cañas; leaving aside questions of principle, we disagreed on the means, but not on the ends: Gamallo’s failure to reintegrate into society would not have just been a personal failure for Gamallo, for Cañas and for the director-general; it would also have been a failure for me, because Gamallo was in my charge. Don’t forget that: Gamallo’s failure was my failure, but his success was my success. I was also interested in everything turning out well.’

‘Even though you didn’t believe it could turn out well.’

‘Even not believing it. That’s what I meant by a question of principles. Of course I would almost say that, more than a question of principles, it was a question of character. We might say that I am a pre-emptive pessimist: I always expect the worst. That’s why I enjoy the best more. Or that’s what I believe.’

Chapter 9

‘After dropping off Zarco at the prison, Tere asked me to take her home. I agreed without a word and we crossed the city one last time that Monday from one edge to the other, in silence, while the sun came up and people started going to work. It was daytime when I stopped the car in front of the building where Tere lived, and an almost summery light blazed against the white façades of the houses of Vilarroja. It must have been seven-thirty or eight o’clock. I had barely spoken a word since the slap Tere had given me in La Creueta to make me shut up and convince me to wait for Zarco, and his insults and threats were still stinging; besides, I didn’t like the idea that Tere might ask me about what Zarco had said about my participation in the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular. So I don’t know if what I said to Tere next was a way of alleviating the sting or of avoiding uncomfortable questions (or both at once). Turning to face her I asked: How did you know where to look for Zarco? Tere didn’t answer; she was pale and ravaged by the sleepless night. I asked: Is it true you hadn’t seen him this weekend? Tere continued not answering and, increasingly furious and fired-up (perhaps still under the effects of the line of coke I’d snorted in La Creueta), I took the opportunity to let off steam. And another thing, I said, do you think I’m a dickhead and a wanker, too? You think I’m a sanctimonious git and that I’ve been making a fool of myself? Are you using me too? Tere listened to this string of questions without batting an eyelid and, when I finished posing them, she sighed and opened the car door. You’re not going to answer? I asked. With one foot already on the pavement, Tere turned to look at me. I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this, she said. Because I’ve had it up to here, I said sincerely; and I added: Look, Tere, I don’t know if you’ve been with Zarco this weekend or not, and I don’t know what kind of things you’ve got going on: that’s between you and him. Now, if you want what’s between you and me to carry on, that’s going to have to be the way everybody does it; if not, I’d rather we didn’t see each other. Tere thought for a moment, nodded and murmured something, which I didn’t catch. What did you say? I said. Nothing, she answered as she got out of the car. Just that I knew this was going to happen.

‘During that week we didn’t see each other or speak on the phone, but I was reconsidering; on the Saturday I went to Barcelona and spent the afternoon in Revólver and Discos Castelló buying CDs — it had been a while since I’d bought any — and the following week I called her and suggested she come over to my place. I have some new music, I said, and then tried to tempt her by listing what I’d bought. When I finished, Tere said she couldn’t accept the invitation. Are you still angry? I asked. I didn’t get angry, she answered. You were the one who was angry. Well I’m not angry any more, I said; then I added: Have you given any thought to what we talked about? She didn’t ask me what I meant. There’s nothing to give any thought to, she said. Look, Gafitas, this is a mess, and I don’t want any mess. No ties, no commitment. I told you. You were right: we can’t go out like everybody else does, so it’s best that we stop seeing each other. Why can’t we go out like everybody else? I asked. Because we can’t, she answered. Because you’re what you are and I’m what I am. Well then we’ll see each other as we’ve been seeing each other up till now, I conceded. Come over to my place. We’ll have dinner and dance. Like we did before. We had a good time, didn’t we? Yeah, said Tere. But that’s over; I didn’t want it to end, but it’s over. And what’s done is done. Although we carried on arguing for quite a while, Tere had made a decision and I could not get her to change her mind; the decision didn’t mean a break-up, or at least I didn’t take it to mean a break-up: Tere just asked me for time to think, to clarify her ideas, to find out, she said, what she wanted to do with her life. All this sounded a bit hollow to me, or rhetorical, like something you hear in movies, but I had no choice but to accept it.

‘Tere and I stopped seeing each other that summer, just like that. I phoned her at least once a week, but our conversations were brief, distant and functional (mostly we talked about Zarco and María), and, when I tried to guide them onto a more personal terrain, Tere cut me off or listened in silence and then found a reason to hang up straight away. Towards the beginning of August she stopped answering the phone and I imagined she’d gone away on holiday, but I didn’t go up to Vilarroja to find out. Actually I didn’t see her again until Zarco’s wedding day.’

‘Zarco’s wedding?’

‘Zarco and María’s wedding. It was in September, three months after the frustrated escape in La Creueta, and it was the good result of that episode, or the culmination of its good results; so good that for months I could allow myself to think that, for Zarco, that night had been like an alcoholic’s last tumble off the wagon or like the last performance of a dying persona. The fact is that the episode had an immediate therapeutic effect, and in a way revolutionized Zarco’s life. I myself noticed an improvement in his attitude straight away, his mood and even his appearance, but I wasn’t the only one to notice it; the prison reports changed from one week to the next: the guards stopped complaining about him, he went back on the methadone to combat his heroin addiction, started exercising again. This personal readjustment contributed perhaps to the fact that, in spite of the shock of the night of La Creueta, the prison superintendent did not rescind his weekend-release privileges. It’s true that I spent Sunday nights on edge, always hanging by the phone, although it’s also true that Zarco did not return late back to prison again and I did not receive another distressing phone call from the superintendent.

‘But the unmistakable sign that Zarco was another person — a more reasonable and less stuck-up and deranged person, more independent of his own myth, more person and less persona, more suitable for living in liberty — was his wedding to María. At least that’s how I interpreted it. That wedding meant as well that the campaign for his freedom that had been running for nine months was still moving forward. Of course by then, when he was on the verge of getting married, Zarco no longer even bothered to hide the fact that the marriage was a farce; strange as it might seem, this was not for me a proof of Zarco’s cynicism, but rather of his honesty (and, by extension, of mine): according to my clever interpretation, Zarco was using María to get free, but not at the price of deceiving her, or not at the price of entirely deceiving her. As for María, it’s almost as sure that she was still in love with Zarco as it is that deep down she knew her marriage to him was a fraud; although knowing this could sometimes make her uncomfortable, it never managed to calm her impatience to get married: perhaps she thought that in the long run she could make Zarco love her; without a doubt she had become hooked on the drug of celebrity and knew that she couldn’t dispense with Zarco because dispensing with Zarco would be dispensing with fame. In spite of all this, at least a couple of times that summer María told me the doubts she was having about her imminent marriage; my reaction was always the same: cutting her off by playing them down or clearing away her uncertainties at a stroke. A logical reaction, after all, because I knew that marriage to María was not only an indispensable prerequisite for Zarco getting his third-level parole, but also for us to successfully conclude the campaign in favour of his getting a definitive pardon, and I trusted that Zarco’s freedom would represent the end of Zarco’s problems.’

‘The end of Zarco’s problems and the end of your problems with Zarco.’

‘Sure: at least I would have carried out the job of getting him his freedom back. In any case, as well as a farce Zarco and María’s marriage turned out to be quite the media event. It was held at the Gerona courthouse. Tere was the maid of honour and I was the best man. During the ceremony we could barely exchange any words other than formalities and practicalities, and afterwards not even that: a crowd of photographers was waiting outside who bombarded Zarco with flashes as he walked down the building’s steps carrying María in his arms. There was no wedding reception or celebration of any kind and, before I knew it, Tere had left. Over the following days the image of the bride coming out of the courthouse in the bridegroom’s arms monopolized the front pages of the newspapers and magazines, and the television stations were lavish in their attention on the news, magazine and gossip programmes that followed the newlyweds on their honeymoon in a hotel on the Costa del Sol, paid for by an Andalusian builder who had often proclaimed his juvenile admiration for Zarco to the press and in his main office had a portrait of Zarco hanging next to one of Marlon Brando as the Godfather.

‘After the commotion of the wedding and honeymoon, everything went back to normal for Zarco. A few weeks later, towards the middle of October, Correctional Institutions issued him his third-stage parole. This entailed two important changes for Zarco: on the one hand he no longer had to sleep in a cell and moved to a building adjacent to the yard, where he and other inmates at the same stage of incarceration had their own individual apartments with a kitchen and bathroom; on the other hand, from that moment on Zarco lived his own life outside of prison, which he left every morning at eight and where he had to return each evening at nine. By then I had got him a contract to work at a carton factory in Vidreres, not far from the city, thanks to a businessman who years earlier I’d exculpated from a fraud conviction, so theoretically, Zarco spent most of his day in the carton factory, which he went to and from by bus for eight-hour work days: from nine in the morning until six in the evening, with an hour lunch break; from six until he had to go back inside at night, Zarco was free.

‘That was his life from then on. When he embarked on it we had to give up our conversations in the interview room, we stopped seeing each other and I tried to wash my hands of what he was doing or not doing. For a time I thought the story was over, or was coming to an end, and that I’d only find out what Zarco was up to again from the press and when the various stages of his parole expired and I had to intervene to settle the final routines. Or maybe through Tere. Because, although she and I were still not seeing each other and, to spare myself futile brush-offs, I’d even stopped phoning her, now Tere called me. She called me at the office, once or twice a week, to chat for a while. These conversations weren’t as cold and utilitarian as those that followed our peaceable split, when it was still me who called her at home, but they were very brief, fairly trivial, as far as I recall we never mentioned the night in La Creueta or the uncomfortable things Zarco said there, or even the limbo that Tere had left our relationship frozen in; but, perhaps for that reason, I always hung up the phone convinced that the wait was about to end happily. Why did Tere keep phoning me? Whatever her reasons, it was in those conversations that she sometimes mentioned Zarco, always in a superficial way and sort of in passing, always to make some comment or give me some bit of news that I never knew where she got, nor did I want to find out.

‘All this lasted a short time. I soon understood that the story was not over, nor was it on the verge of being over, and soon it was me who was giving Tere news of Zarco, and not vice versa. One evening, two or three months after he’d started his part-time free-man’s life, Zarco showed up unannounced at my office. It was seven or seven-thirty and he was coming from Vidreres; he looked good, he’d lost a bit of weight, was dressed like a person and not like a perpetual convict: corduroy trousers, red sweater and a leather jacket. His presence agitated the whole firm: it was the first time he’d been there and everybody dropped whatever they were working on to see him, say hello, congratulate and welcome him. He smiled and looked happy and joked non-stop with my partners and the secretaries and the rest of the staff until, after a few minutes, he suggested we go out for a drink. I agreed with pleasure. I took him to the Royal and, although the clientele recognized him and were watching us and whispering to each other, they left us alone to talk and drink at the bar for a while. He told me about his new life; we talked about his job, the people he worked with, and especially about his boss, whom he praised to the skies and about whom I told a couple of anecdotes. My impression was that he was at ease with the new state of things, much more at least than with the old one. Before nine I gave him a lift back to the prison.

‘Zarco’s appearance at my office turned into a habit over the following months. At least a couple of times a week he’d show up there at seven or seven-thirty and we’d go and finish off the work day with a drink. At first those visits cheered me up, I enjoyed Zarco’s company and conversation, I felt proud that people saw me with him at the bar at the Royal or walking along Jaume I or under the arcades of Sant Agustí: he was Zarco — hence the pride — but also — and hence even greater pride — he was a free and reformed man, and his reform and freedom were a triumph that was in part down to me. That was when, perhaps thanks to the optimism Zarco seemed to be radiating, the two of us began to share something resembling closeness; and that was when an event occurred that I’m going to tell you about on the condition that it not appear in the book.’

‘I repeat that you can read the manuscript before I submit it to the publisher and I’ll cut anything you don’t like.’

‘Yeah, I know: I just wanted to hear you say it again. Now listen to my story. It’s about Batista. Do you remember him?’

‘Sure: your high-school bully.’

‘Exactly. I’d lost track of most of my friends from Caterina Albert a long time ago, although once in a while I crossed paths with one of them in the street and I knew that they all still lived in the city or at the very least in the province, except for Canales, who was a forestry specialist and lived in a village in Ávila, and Matías, who’d been working in Brussels for many years, as a bureaucrat in the European Parliament. Batista was a case apart. His track had been easier to follow as he’d turned into a relatively popular guy, at least in Gerona, and his story was one of those stories of individual success that newspapers love and that seem to proliferate in times of limitless prosperity like that one. I think I already told you that Batista was from a rich family with deep roots in the city; I must have also told you that his father was for years my father’s boss, he’d been chairman of the county council: in fact, he was the last council chair of the Franco era. But, with the arrival of democracy, things began to go less well for the family, and a few years later Batista’s father died leaving his family ruined or what a family like that considered ruined. The thing is that Batista, who by then would have been in his twenties, took charge of a small pig farm that had belonged to one of his grandfathers, in Monells, transformed the small pig farm into a larger pig farm, the larger farm into a small sausage factory, the small factory into a large factory and finally ended up transforming himself into one of the main sausage manufacturers in Catalonia, as well as a model young entrepreneur for the Catalan nationalists in power, which transformed the ferocious Españolista of my adolescence into a ferocious Catalanista (and the Narciso of back then into Narcís). That’s what had become of Batista over those twenty or twenty-odd years. And one evening, while I was waiting for Zarco at the bar of the Royal — sometimes we met there — I saw a photo of him in a newspaper and, when Zarco arrived at my side, the first thing that occurred to me was to tell him, point blank: I bet you don’t know why I joined your gang, why I went to La Font each afternoon, do you?

‘Zarco laughed heartily and ordered a beer. What for? he answered. To sniff Tere’s tail, what else? I laughed too. Apart from that, I said. To give us a hand, he added. Because I tricked you. You tricked me? I asked with curiosity. Sure, he answered happily. You thought we were going to do a job on the old man from Vilaró. And you thought if we didn’t it was to do you a favour and that I had to stop Guille and all that. They served his beer, he drank it down in one and burped. You were a dupe, Gafitas, he said. I ordered two more glasses of beer and replied: And you were a son of a bitch. You only just noticed? Zarco laughed again. Anyway it was Tere’s idea. She said it would be better if you came with us of your own free will rather than against it. By the way, he added, have you seen her? Not lately, I said. How about you? Me neither, he said, and it sounded like the truth. And María? I asked. Sure, he said, and it sounded like a lie.

‘Our beer arrived. Zarco took a sip and reminded me of the double question I’d asked him at the start: what I’d joined his gang for, why I’d gone to La Font every afternoon. So I picked up the newspaper and handed it to him, folded open to the page with Batista’s photo on it. To get away from this guy, I said, pointing at the photo. While Zarco looked at Batista’s face and took sips of his beer, I tried to summarize the story. Fuck, man, he interrupted me halfway through. This guy really is a son of a bitch. I went on with the story. Finally I told him that I sometimes thought that deep down I’d never forgiven Batista, that sometimes, at weak moments, when I saw Batista so smug in the newspapers or on television, the memory of what had happened humiliated me and I sometimes regretted never having taken revenge on him, and at moments like that I felt that, if I could have got rid of him by pressing a button, I would have done it without a doubt.

‘That evening we didn’t talk about anything else and I ended up pretty drunk, but I didn’t mention it again over the following days; for his part, Zarco seemed to forget Batista. Then, two weeks later, it happened. That day a very agitated Gubau came into my office, saying he’d heard on the radio that Batista had just been stabbed at the door of his house in Montjuïc, a neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city. Over the course of the morning more news of the incident came in — Batista had been admitted to the Trueta hospital, where he was fighting for his life, he’d been stabbed seven times, nobody had seen his attacker — and around noon we heard that my old classmate had died.

‘Hours later Zarco showed up at my office, ready to go for a couple of beers at the Royal. Remember the guy I told you about the other day? I said as soon as I saw him. The bully of my school, I specified. Sure, he said. Somebody killed him this morning, I told him. Zarco looked at me and, seeing I wasn’t going to add anything, shrugged his shoulders and said: So what? What do you mean so what? I said. They stabbed him seven times. Not exciting enough for you? I was going to go on but I didn’t, because I had the feeling that an almost imperceptible smile was prowling about Zarco’s lips. At that moment I remembered that he left the prison every morning just before the time Batista had been murdered, and, dismayed by a sudden suspicion, I went over to my office door, pulled it shut and turned to him. Hey, I asked, lowering my voice. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with this, would you? He didn’t seem surprised by the question, but his smile widened and he turned his head from left to right. You’re too much, Gafitas, he reproached me. Did you or did you not have anything to do with it? I repeated. Zarco held my gaze, seemed to be thinking over his reply. And what if I did have something to do with it? he asked defiantly. Are you going to start crying over this son of a bitch now? A son of a bitch is a son of a bitch, Gafitas. Didn’t you tell me you regretted not having got revenge on him? It was just an expression, I answered. It’s one thing to say something and quite another. . I didn’t finish my sentence, I said: Batista was nobody, he hadn’t done anything. Ah, no? he answered. He fucked you right up, and when you were just a kid who didn’t know how to defend himself. That’s not doing anything? They locked me up inside for much less. He, on the other hand, never got touched. Well then, now justice has been done. After a pause he continued: And if I took care of it, all the better. Who’s going to suspect me, who never even met him? And who’s going to suspect you? A clean job, man, he concluded, opening his arms. Just like pressing a button. True or false? I was stunned, trying to process what I’d heard. Zarco pointed at me with his index finger and, as if urging me to say something, added: I scratch your back and you scratch mine, eh, Gafitas? The phrase snapped me out of my paralysis, and in two strides I stood a handspan from him; in the quiet of my office I heard the soles of my shoes squeak against the wooden floor. Tell me the truth, Antonio, I said. Did you have anything to do with it or not? Zarco was again slow to answer; his blue eyes bored into mine. Until he suddenly blinked, smiled broadly and patted me on the cheek. Of course not, dickhead, he finally said.

‘That was the last time Zarco and I talked of Batista, or of his murder. A murder that, as happens with so many, was never solved: the police arrived very soon at the conclusion that it had been the work of a professional, perhaps a hitman from some Latin-American country, but they didn’t find any trace of the murderer; the police investigated Batista’s relatives, friends and business competitors in search of a motive with the same degree of success. Until the case was filed away in the archives.’

‘Now I understand why you don’t want this story told in the book. Readers might think Zarco killed Batista.’

‘Maybe he did kill him. Or had him killed. Sometimes I think he did it, and by killing him thought he was doing me a favour, that it was his way of repaying me for what I was doing for him. But other times I think he couldn’t have killed him: that he had no money to hire a hitman (although the truth is that someone like him might not need money for that) and that he couldn’t have committed the murder so cleanly and he wouldn’t have had enough time, that morning, to get from the prison to Montjuïc and surprise Batista on his way out of his house (although the truth is that perhaps he would have had enough time and that Zarco probably knew how to kill as professionally as any hitman). I don’t know. And, now that I think of it, maybe you should recount this story in your book, just as I’ve told you: after all what it’s about is readers getting to know the truth about Zarco. And this, including my doubts, also forms part of the truth.’

‘Aren’t you afraid some readers might think you’re lying, or diluting or massaging the truth, and that it was you who induced Zarco to kill Batista, to get revenge without getting your hands dirty?’

‘Do you think I would have told you if I had? Besides, I didn’t want to get revenge on Batista, for me it was a forgotten story or almost forgotten, I’m not saying what I said to Zarco was entirely false, I’m only saying it was one of those things that get said sometimes when you have a few too many and nobody takes seriously, or a momentary and unimportant letting off steam, which I immediately regretted. . Anyway, do what you think best, or what’s best for your book: if you think it advisable, tell it; if not, don’t. Later we’ll see.

‘But getting back to our story, because the evenings of cheerful friendship and beers with Zarco at the bar of the Royal soon came to an end. Practically from one day to the next the friendship and good cheer evaporated and Zarco’s head betrayed him again; or that’s the impression I had: that the persona had once again got the better of the person. Before, during my visits in the interview room at the prison, it was common for Zarco to complain about his lack of freedom, of the stupidity of the regulations or mistreatment from the guards; now, when he’d only been spending his days outside the prison for a few months, Zarco fell back into his unstoppable habit of complaining, and his fatal old blend of arrogance and seeing himself as a victim began to poison our conversations again: Zarco said that his work folding and unfolding cartons at the factory in Vidreres was slave labour, that his hours were slavery hours, that his salary was slaves’ wages and that he’d come out of prison to live the life of a slave as bad or worse than the one he’d been leading inside. Hearing this I began to think I’d been too optimistic in judging his state of mind, I went back to fearing his fear of liberty (a liberty that would soon be complete and no longer partial), I began to fight his despondency as best I could. It’s not true that you’re leading the same life you led in prison, I reasoned. You’re leading a much better life. And, of course it’s not a slave’s life: it’s the life most people lead. Look at the other inmates, look at the guys who work with you. And what do they matter to me, Gafitas? answered Zarco. I don’t give a shit what people do: if they want to get fucked, let them fuck themselves; it’s up to them. What I give a shit about is not fucking myself up. You get that, right? And right now I’m just as fucked outside jail as in. Several times I told him I knew that the work he was doing wasn’t very satisfying, and I could get him another job. Oh yeah? asked Zarco. Doing what? Whatever you want, I answered. Everybody wants to hire you. Don’t talk bullshit, Gafitas, he replied. What everybody wants is to be able to say they’ve hired Zarco and be able to show me off like a fairground monkey as propaganda for their business, just like my boss does. It’s not the same, is it? Besides, he concluded, I don’t know how to do anything at all, and by now I’m not going to learn, so all I can do is slave labour.

‘With slight variations, conversations like this were repeated for weeks at the Royal between one beer and the next, and I participated in them with increasing anxiety as Zarco’s nervousness grew and his physical state degenerated before my very eyes (as I later discovered, in part because he’d gone back to using heroin); also as I watched unfold before my eyes, in the things that he said, the oft-repeated spectacle of the irreconcilable contradiction between his person and his persona: again he wanted the world to forget Zarco once and for all, that it let him be Antonio Gamallo, a normal man with a normal life like the majority of people; but, at the same time, once again he didn’t want to be a normal man, he didn’t want anybody to forget he was Zarco nor did he want to dispense with his pride and the privileges of being Zarco, among them that of not living the life of slavery that the majority of people lived. He didn’t want to and, in part, maybe he couldn’t: as much as he aspired to be a normal person, a new person, he panicked at the thought of not being Zarco any more, because that meant no longer being who he’d always or almost always been; likewise, as much as he aspired to live outside prison, he panicked at the thought of doing so, because it meant no longer living where he’d always or almost always lived.

‘But all this is mere speculation, or not much more. What’s certain is that at some point, perhaps tired of me arguing with him and telling him what he had to do, or simply tired of complaining, Zarco stopped coming to my office after work and I practically stopped hearing anything about him. Two or three months later — eight months after getting his third-stage parole, to be precise — the government granted him a limited pardon and conditional release. This was the premature culmination of the project we’d set in motion almost two years earlier, and, in spite of my melancholy premonition that Zarco was heading for disaster, I received the news as a triumph: not only because I’d done my work conscientiously and got Zarco out of prison in record time, or because I would be able to get the highest propaganda value out of his case this way; most of all because in those months I’d reached the conclusion that I could only get Tere back when Zarco got his freedom back and we were free of him: our relationship had always been hindered by Zarco, by our need for him as teenagers and by his need for us as adults, by the suspicions and mistakes and doubts those needs had provoked, and I imagined that, once Zarco was no longer depending on us nor us on him, Tere and I could start over again, picking up our relationship where Tere had left it in suspension a few months back, after the night we’d rescued Zarco from La Creueta. So I waited impatiently for news of the pardon and, as soon as I got it, I rushed to phone Zarco to tell him.

‘It was a late morning in early June or mid-June. I phoned his workplace in Vidreres and asked for him, but they told me he’d been off sick for a couple of days and hadn’t left the prison. I phoned the prison and again asked for him, but they told me he was in Vidreres. The misunderstanding didn’t surprise me. For some time the businessman who’d hired him had kept me informed of Zarco’s absences from work; this, combined with his constant lack of punctuality and refusal to submit to drugs tests, had led to the prison superintendent drafting a report advising against Zarco’s pardon and recommending rescinding his third-stage parole status with the argument that he was not ready for release. Luckily, no one had paid the report any attention, and that morning I wondered whether or not I should call the superintendent. Then I wondered whether or not to call María. I hadn’t talked to her for months, but I knew from Tere that she was fed up with her sham marriage and barely saw Zarco, which was not preventing her from turning into an increasingly popular public persona, although in her appearances on the radio, in the press and on television she talked less and less about Zarco and more and more about herself.

‘In the end I just phoned Tere. After phoning the factory in Cassà and being told she was no longer employed there, I found her at home. As I told you before, Tere and I talked on the phone every once in a while, but it was usually she who called me rather than me calling her, so, without giving her time to be surprised by my call, I told her what they’d told me at the factory in Cassà. Why didn’t you tell me? I asked. Because you didn’t ask, she answered. Have you found a new job? I asked. No, she answered. I asked her what she was planning to do; nothing, she answered. I’ve got a few months of dole coming to me, she explained. Maybe I’ll go on holiday; or maybe I’ll stay home and study: I’ve got exams next month. Tere fell silent; now it was she who asked: Has something happened? I told her what had happened. Congratulations, Gafitas, she said. Mission accomplished. I didn’t notice any enthusiasm in her voice, and I wondered if she was really glad that all this was over. Thanks, I said, without daring to ask her; instead of that I asked: Do you know where he is? Zarco? she asked: for a while now she’d gone back to calling him that, not Antonio. Isn’t he at work? No, I answered. Not at the prison either. Then I have no idea where he is, said Tere.

‘I believed her. That night I went to look for Zarco at the prison. Shortly before nine I asked through the intercom by the entrance if he’d arrived; they told me he hadn’t and I went back to wait for him in the car. I was there for a while, and I’d already decided that Zarco wasn’t coming back and I might as well leave when I saw him get out of a clapped-out Renault parked in front of the yard. Hey, Antonio! I called him, climbing out of my car. He turned towards me and waited on the sidewalk, right beside the prison gate. At first my presence seemed to annoy him — What are you doing here, Counsellor? he asked when he recognized me — but as soon as I gave him the news his expression relaxed, he took a deep breath, opened his arms wide and said: Come here, Gafitas. He hugged me. He smelled intensely of alcohol and tobacco. Well, he said as we finished hugging; I looked in his eyes: they were red. When do I get out? I don’t know, I replied. Tomorrow they announce the news, so pretty soon, I suppose. Then I hastened to warn him: But the problem is not when you’re going to get out but what you’re going to do when you’re out. During my wait I’d loaded up with arguments, and now I reproached him for not having gone to work for the last two days and asked him what he was going to live on if he lost that job and told him I knew it had been a long time since he saw María and asked him where he was going to live if not with María. Zarco didn’t let me continue. Take it easy, man, he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. I just found out I’m a free man. Save the lectures for another day; let me enjoy it for now, eh? And don’t worry about me, for fuck’s sake, I’m a big boy. For a moment that drunken laid-back attitude irritated me. I’m not worried, I replied. I just want you to understand that this hasn’t ended and it’ll all go to hell if you don’t live a normal life from now on. With all the work we’ve put in. . I understand, Zarco interrupted me again. Fuck, how am I not going to understand? The way you go on about it. He took his hand off my shoulder and gave me a pat on the cheek; then he pointed at the building where he slept, on the other side of the prison fence, on the far side of the inadequately lit yard, and added: Well, Gafitas, it’s damn late: if I don’t get in there right now I’ll be left without a pardon. Zarco had already called through on the intercom and they’d opened the gate to the yard when I suggested: Tomorrow we could celebrate the news with a drink at the Royal. I clarified: When you get off work. I added: I bet Tere would join us too if you invited her. She’s lost her job. The news didn’t seem to make much of an impression on Zarco, and I thought maybe he already knew; or that he was so absorbed in his own stuff that he’d barely heard. Tomorrow? he asked, almost without turning back to me. Tomorrow we’ll have to hold a press conference and all that, no? Well, maybe I’ll call you and we’ll talk about it.

‘He didn’t call, we didn’t talk about it, we didn’t celebrate the pardon. The press conference, however, was held. It was two days later, in the prison itself, and it was the Director-General of Correctional Institutions who called it. I didn’t attend the event because no one asked me to; neither María nor Tere attended either, not even the superintendent, at least according to the reports of it I read the next day in the papers. They all included a photo of Zarco and the director-general, both smiling and both with their index and middle fingers raised in a victory sign; they all reproduced the director-general’s statement, according to which Zarco’s liberty represented “a triumph for Antonio Gamallo, a triumph for our prison system and a triumph for our democracy”, and a few words from Zarco thanking all those people “who’d done their bit, however small, to make this moment possible”; they all highlighted María’s absence, and all related this fact to the rumours of the couple’s separation that had been circulating lately.

‘That very day Zarco disappeared from the media and didn’t show up again until four or five months had passed. Just as I’d suspected (or desired), during that time I no longer saw him. But I still received news of him. Thanks to my former client from Vidreres I found out that, once he’d regained his freedom, Zarco had not set foot in the carton factory again. A little while later María made some casual or apparently casual statements to a reporter on a television programme in which she confirmed that she and Zarco were living apart and hadn’t seen each other since months before the pardon was granted, and in which she also insinuated that, almost from the start, their relationship had just been staged. These words unleashed a storm of gossip, conjecture and demands for explanations among the tabloid and romance journalists that María fed with silences and rudeness, which filled many minutes of television and whole pages of magazines for several weeks and which I interpreted as the swansong of the media soap opera starring María and Zarco.

‘The exact opposite of what my incurable optimism had predicted ended up happening with Tere. For the first few weeks things stayed more or less the same as they’d been up till then: she phoned me every once in a while and I waited for the opportunity to take a step forward, as if I were afraid to rush things or feared that if I didn’t get it right the first time, I wouldn’t get a second chance. But after a month and a half Tere stopped calling me, and then I made up my mind; I started calling her, started pressuring her: I suggested we see each other, that we go out for lunch or dinner, that she come over for lunch or dinner, that we give it another try; I assured her I was ready to accept her conditions and that this time there would be no ties, no mess, no commitments, no demands. Tere responded to my suggestions with excuses and to my complaints by saying I was right, especially when I repeated that I’d been waiting for months and was tired. You should try something else, Gafitas, she suggested more than once. I don’t have anything else to try, I answered, almost infuriated. I already know what I want. The one who doesn’t seem to know what she wants is you. The last conversation we had was not awkward but sad, or that’s how I remember it. Resigned to reality, I didn’t beg and we didn’t argue, but, maybe because I sensed that this was farewell, I asked her about Zarco, something I hadn’t done for a while. Tere answered vaguely, told me she hadn’t seen him and all she knew was that he was living in Barcelona and earning a living working in the car-repair garage of a former cellmate. That’s what she said, and for some reason I thought she was lying and that she was giving me the brush-off again; I also thought that she was telling me without saying so that it was no longer any of my business because my work with Zarco had finished. When I hung up the telephone I remembered Zarco’s words in La Creueta: end of story, debt settled, you can go now.

‘I stopped calling Tere and tried to forget her. I didn’t manage to. The only thing I managed to do was wake up each morning with a crushing sensation of failure. That sensation increased a few weeks later, when Zarco was arrested on the Rambla de Catalunya in Barcelona after having robbed a pharmacy and having tried to steal a car from an underground parking lot. It was less than five months since he’d received the pardon and the conditional release. It was front-page news in the newspapers and magazines and on the radio and television, it unleashed a journalistic debate about the softness of Spanish penal legislation, the insufficiencies of the prison system and the limits of rehabilitation, and provoked a small political earthquake that included a row in the Congress, an exchange of accusations between the Madrid government and the Catalan one and the sacking of the Director-General of Correctional Institutions, Señor Pere Prada. For Zarco the episode also represented an ending. The violation of the conditions of his release meant that from the correctional point of view he went back to square one: he went back to having three decades of imprisonment to serve, to which he’d now have to add, besides, the years he’d get for his last two crimes. All this meant, given his age and given that nobody was going to risk granting him any kind of release, let alone parole, in practice Zarco was condemned to a life sentence. His hopes for liberty ended there. And there ended the myth of Zarco.’

‘You mean the myth of Zarco in his lifetime ended there, the one you reactivated with the campaign in favour of his pardon; but the Zarco myth didn’t end: the proof is that here we are you and I, talking about him.’

‘You’re right. Actually, when you think about it, rather than ending at that moment Zarco’s myth seemed to transform, or degrade, or took its final shape. I mean that almost from one day to the next Zarco went from being the legendary good delinquent who had finally found the right road and began to be seen as an irredeemable junkie, sordid and dirty, like a perpetual delinquent, ungrateful and glib, like a hopeless quinqui without a trace of glamour. In short, he began to be seen as a tyrant and not as a victim. María contributed very much to this transformation from the beginning, from the first time she appeared on television ranting and raving about Zarco; well, ranting and raving about Zarco, and about Tere and about me. Which was the first time I saw her converted into a furious vengeful woman. I don’t suppose you’ve seen that interview, because I didn’t record it; anyway these things must be on the Internet, on YouTube or sites like that, no?’

‘Probably. I’ll find out.’

‘Find it if you can: it’s worth seeing. The interview went out one Saturday night, quite late, on a magazine show with a huge audience. María was interrogated for more than an hour by the presenter and by several reporters with the idea that she might confide in them about her relationship with Zarco and clear up her insinuations about the wedding having just been a stunt. By then her appearance barely bore any relation to the shy, sad, anodyne woman Tere had introduced me to years earlier in my office: she’d let her hair grow, dyed it blonde and had it curled, her face was caked with make-up, she was wearing a sparkling, violet-coloured, tight satin dress with a plunging neckline. That night María more than fulfilled her mission: she clarified, confided, ranted and raved; her performance was worthy of a diva: she accompanied her words with dramatic silences, with outbursts of rage, affected gestures, challenging looks straight at the camera. She began by saying that she hadn’t seen Zarco for months and had no news of him apart from what she’d read in the press, and then she went on to say that Zarco had hit her many times, that he’d stolen money from her, that he’d abused her sexually and had tried to sexually abuse her daughter, that he’d cheated on her with Tere, that Zarco, Tere and I had tricked her into marrying him in order to get him released, that she had paid me significant sums of money to defend him, that I knew about all the humiliations he and Tere had submitted her to and not only did I not do anything to prevent them but I had encouraged them because I’d belonged to Zarco’s gang in my youth and Zarco and Tere were blackmailing me with the threat of exposing my delinquent past. I listened to all this live, alone in my loft on La Barca Street, more fascinated than furious or scandalized, as if they weren’t talking about me but about my double and, as soon as María started to spill the beans, I began telling myself that a good lie is not a pure, free-standing lie, that a pure lie is an implausible lie, that, to make it plausible, a lie needs to be constructed in part out of truths, and I spent the programme wondering how much truth María’s lies contained: I knew, for example, that it was true that Zarco had stolen money from her (though not that María had paid me a single euro to defend Zarco), and I wondered if it was also true that Zarco hit her and had tried to sexually abuse her daughter; I knew that it was true, of course, that when I was young I’d been in Zarco’s gang and that in a certain sense Zarco, Tere and I had tricked María so she would marry Zarco so we could get him freed, and I wondered if it was also true that Zarco cheated on María with Tere and if from the moment he started to get out on weekend-release passes, more than a year before, the two of them had been seeing each other behind my back and that explained why since then Tere hadn’t wanted to go back to seeing me and had kept me at a distance, keeping my hopes up through telephone conversations. I asked myself many questions similar to these, but I didn’t give myself any answers. I didn’t want to.

‘Or I couldn’t. As soon as the programme began Gubau called me, and almost immediately after him my daughter called and then Cortés; before I got into bed I spoke by telephone with no fewer than ten people. All of them were watching the programme or had seen it and all of them wanted to comment on it and find out how I was, but from there on in the reactions differed: most of them tried to calm me down, took it for granted that the woman was crazy, that she just wanted to be on television and that what she said was false. But there were also different reactions. In my sister’s tone of voice, for example, I thought I detected, well covered by the obligatory indignation, a tiny shade of resentment, as if she were pained by the public prominence her little brother had just acquired, but also a shade of respect, as if she’d just discovered, proudly, that I had finally become somebody. Is it true that you were in his gang? my ex-wife asked for her part, with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. Crikey, you could have told me: now I understand why you were so obsessed with Zarco. . The truth is that, sometimes with one ear on the television and the other on the receiver while my mobile was ringing, I tried to deal with them all, answer their questions and play down the importance of the programme and María’s accusations, but when I finally disconnected the phones I’d realized that this was just the beginning and that, supposing it didn’t end up affecting me personally, it was obviously going to affect the opinion others had of me, which was a way of affecting me personally.

‘In the days that followed the gossip magazines and radio and television chat shows repeated María’s accusations, and that Monday morning I read in everybody’s eyes, in the office and at court, that yes, that was just the beginning. That afternoon my secretary put through an unexpected call. It was the producer of the programme María had appeared on two days before. He introduced himself, said his name — López de Sol, I remember he was called — and, without any further explanation, he offered me the possibility of defending myself the following Saturday against María’s accusations: it would simply entail allowing myself to be interviewed at the same time and on the same set by the same group of journalists that had interviewed her. I thanked him for the offer and turned it down. The producer told me not to be hasty, to think it over, that he’d phone back that evening. I answered that I’d already thought about it and he could save himself the trouble of calling back. Here the producer changed his tone, with an inflection at once friendly and paternalistic he mentioned a sum of money, not particularly high, and then explained María’s appearance on his programme the previous Saturday had been a hit, that they planned to continue with the story next Saturday and that, if I didn’t agree to be interviewed, they would most likely interview María again. Then I flew off the handle: shouting, furious, I told him he should do what he thought best, but that, if María continued talking about me on television the way she had the time before, I’d be bringing two lawsuits to court, one for slander and another for defamation of character, one against María and the other against the programme. My threat did not upset the producer; I heard him click his tongue, heard him sigh; before hanging up on him I heard him say: You haven’t understood anything, Counsellor.

‘That Saturday night María was on the show again. I decided not to watch it, and I didn’t see it, but on Sunday I learned that her second appearance had been even more brutal than the first, so for several days I considered the possibility of carrying out the threat I’d made over the phone and filing suits against María and the programme. Cortés and Gubau talked me out of it; their arguments were irrefutable: I knew it wasn’t easy to win such a lawsuit, but my partners made me see that, even supposing we did win and María was sentenced to withdrawing her insults and accusations and the programme obliged to broadcast a retraction, the person most harmed would still be me, because the trial would destroy my reputation, and the main beneficiaries would be them, because the trial would only increase María’s fame and the programme’s audience. So I chose to keep quiet, to try to stay out of it, to go on as if nothing were going on. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I should have filed a suit. Who knows. The thing is that over the following weeks the sensation of failure and shame multiplied and began to devour me like a cancer.’

‘Didn’t you try to talk to Tere? Didn’t you try to get in contact with her?’

‘I tried, but I couldn’t. I phoned her, but she didn’t answer. I went to her house, but she wasn’t in. Someone told me she wasn’t living in Vilarroja any more. I don’t think finding her would have done any good, anyway. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me to try to find out which prison Zarco had been sent to, although I thought of him far too often. And do you know what I remembered most of all? The night in La Creueta, of the binge he went on of telling me I was making a fool of myself and calling me dickhead and wanker. Because that was the honest truth, that’s how I felt then: like a dickhead and a wanker who’d made the most ridiculous fool of himself.

‘During the following months I again tried to force myself to forget about Tere. Also to forget about Zarco. María, however, was much harder to even try to forget, because as a result of her two appearances on the Saturday-night TV programme she blasted off for stardom and began to show up in magazines, on the radio and television much more often than she had up till then, taking Zarco’s place to a certain extent. Not that Zarco was suddenly obliterated from people’s memories, but that, thanks to María, he seemed at times to turn into a different character, hazy and secondary, into the minor bad guy of a tragedy or a melodrama no longer his own: up till then María had just been Zarco’s wife, while he was the real protagonist of the story; from then on María became the protagonist and Zarco became merely the beast who had made her a victim par excellence. As far as everything else went, that was a bad time for me. I’d just turned forty, but I felt washed up, and that feeling sunk me into a foul pit of self-pity: I saw myself wallowing about in absolute failure, in absolute drought and desiccation, in absolute futility; my old feeling of living a borrowed anodyne life returned, stronger than ever, my impression of having taken a wrong turn and of being trapped in a misunderstanding. I lost interest in my work, lost my capacity for joy, I wore out physically in no time. Some mornings I woke up crying; some nights I cried myself to sleep; some days I stayed in bed, unable to get up and go to my office. Just then I made what I thought was a great discovery; I thought I discovered a truth that I’d always had in view and hadn’t wanted to see, a truth that changed everything except the sensation of having been a dickhead and a wanker and made the most ridiculous fool of myself, which became even sharper.

‘The discovery happened in a trivial way, one morning when I was talking to a bunch of colleagues in the courthouse corridor and someone mentioned Higinio Redondo, my father’s friend, I don’t know if you remember. .’

‘The friend who lent you his house in Colera after the bank robbery in Bordils.’

‘That’s right: my mentor, the lawyer I began my career with. At a certain moment someone brought up his name while we were talking. I don’t know who it was or what they said, perhaps they were remembering one of Redondo’s anecdotes or jokes, something like that, which wasn’t unusual either, as I told you before Redondo was a real character, people at the courthouse still remember him. The thing is that Redondo’s name acted as a trigger: I suddenly stopped listening and mentally left the small group and the courthouse; suddenly, like I say, I believed I saw the truth, as if it had always been right in front of my nose, barely hidden by a semi-transparent veil, and the unexpected mention of Redondo had revealed it. I don’t remember what happened afterwards, or how the conversation ended. The only thing I remember is that for several days I walked around stunned by the humiliating certainty that my story was actually a mediocre copy of Redondo’s story, a version of a story as old and ridiculous as the world: I already told you that Redondo had fallen in love like a schoolboy with the wife of a penniless client who used him to get her husband out of prison and that, as soon as she got what she wanted, she left him.’

‘And you believed your story with Tere was similar?’

‘It’s not that I believed it: it’s that it struck me as obvious. And not that it was similar: it was even worse. More ridiculous. More humiliating. I suddenly felt that everything fell into place: Tere was Zarco’s girlfriend when I met her, in the Vilaró arcade, she still was while Zarco’s myth grew up in the prisons and she probably still was now, when he himself had destroyed or degraded his own myth and now knew for sure that he would never live in freedom again. That didn’t mean Tere hadn’t loved me, or that she hadn’t been in love with me when we used to see each other at my place to make love and listen to old CDs, or even that she hadn’t been during the summer of ’78, like Zarco and she herself claimed. Why wouldn’t she have been? Who can say that in her own way Redondo’s lover wasn’t in love with him? Women are like that: they turn their interests into feelings; they always have and they always will, at least as long as they’re weaker than us. So no, that didn’t mean that Tere hadn’t loved me: it just meant that she’d loved me in an occasional and conditional way, while she loved Zarco in a permanent and unconditional way. It meant that probably everything or almost everything Tere had done with me she’d done for Zarco: in the washrooms of the Vilaró arcade she’d seduced me because Zarco needed to recruit me, and that same summer, as you suspected, she’d seduced me again on Montgó beach to get even with Zarco, who was sleeping with another girl that night; and at my place on La Barca she’d seduced me again, twenty years later, because she wanted to make sure I’d work conscientiously to get Zarco out of prison and, when Zarco started to get out on release, brushed me off so I wouldn’t bother them, but she used her wiles to keep hold of me, although at a distance, so I wouldn’t abandon them before Zarco was freed and she could run away with him. . It all fell into place. And worst of all I felt that I’d always known the truth and at the same time had never wanted to know it, that it was such an obvious truth that neither Tere nor Zarco had bothered much about hiding it from me, and that, precisely for that reason, I’d been able to ignore it or pretend I didn’t know. I understood Tere’s attitude that night in La Creueta, trying to get Zarco to shut up when, drunk and drugged up, he let off steam and almost let out the brutal truth and called me a dickhead and a wanker and said that the two of them were using me and that I didn’t understand anything. I understood the irony of two professional sharks like Redondo and I falling for such an old and well-known trick. I understood Redondo’s horror when he discovered the snare he’d fallen into and immediately started planning to imitate him by leaving the practice in the hands of Cortés and Gubau and abandoning the city for a good long while. And I understood that the great misunderstanding of my life was that there hadn’t been any misunderstanding.’

‘So you did as Redondo had done? You dropped everything and left?’

‘No, I didn’t leave. I stayed, not because I wanted to but because I didn’t even have the energy to leave. What happened was I went to a doctor who diagnosed depression, and for more than a year I underwent psychiatric treatment and a massive diet of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. As time passed, I began to recover gradually: I continued in treatment and, although I didn’t give up the psychotropics, I reduced the doses and managed to return to work and more or less resume my old life. It’s true that during that period I felt like some sort of survivor, but it’s also true that I began to think with increasing frequency that the worst was over and that, since I’d already made all or almost all the mistakes a person can make, what I did from there on in I could almost only get right. It was naive: I’d simply forgotten that, no matter how bad things got, they could always get much worse.’

‘Does that mean you heard from Zarco?’

‘Bingo. One day in May or June of 2004, almost three years after seeing him for the last time at the gates of the Gerona prison, I received a letter from him. It was the first sign of life I’d had from him since the press reported his final arrest. The letter came from the Quatre Camins prison and was written by hand, with careful rounded handwriting and in the formal tone of a request; I read it twice: the first time I thought Zarco was using that handwriting and that tone to impose a professional distance between us (or perhaps to tell me without saying so that he was annoyed with me for all the time I’d wanted nothing to do with him); the second time I guessed that he used them because they were the only ones he knew. Zarco began with an overly formal salutation, and then immediately asked me to be his lawyer again; then he gave the reasons for his request: he stated that days earlier, in the prison yard, a skinhead had given him a beating that had left him almost unconscious and that, while they were transporting him to the emergency room of Terrassa General Hospital, two members of the Catalan police force had stopped the vehicle, made him get out and brutalized him. Now he was back at the prison, isolated from the rest of the inmates in a hospital unit, and he wanted me to denounce the two beatings; as well as taking charge of this case, he also wanted me to defend him against a charge of insubordination, and most of all he wanted me to start proceedings to get him readmitted to Gerona Prison and do whatever necessary to get them to accept him. At the end of his letter, Zarco managed to wrench a pitiful note out of his orthopaedic handwriting and inform me that he was ill, begging me to help him through this rough patch and asking me to get in touch with Tere so she could bring me up to date and fill me in on the details.

‘I don’t know if I finished rereading Zarco’s letter more furious than incredulous or more incredulous than furious. It was like a message from an alien. I thought it was incredible and infuriating that, after having cost me two years of work and having betrayed my trust and that of all those who had supported the campaign for his liberty, he didn’t offer the slightest excuse or show the slightest sign of remorse. I thought it was incredible and infuriating that he showed no sign of feeling guilty, or even of remembering his own outrages, and instead was still trying to present himself as a victim. Most of all I thought it was incredible and infuriating that, after having deceived me and making Tere deceive me, having treated me like a dickhead and a wanker and having forced me to make a fool of myself, he would still come to me using the same old bait and believing I would bite for a third time (although I couldn’t help but notice that the letter didn’t contain Tere’s address or phone number, so I could get in touch with her). All this meant that I didn’t feel the slightest pity for him or the slightest cordial impulse towards him or his situation; just the reverse: I knew that ninety-five per cent of my feelings of absolute futility and drought and desiccation and failure that had dragged me into depression should be attributed to Tere’s deceit and her having left me, but at that moment I realized that the remaining five per cent should be attributed to my absurd attempt to take responsibility for the actions of someone who didn’t take responsibility for his own actions and to save someone who deep down didn’t want to save himself; and I also realized that the best thing I could do would be to stay away from him. From him and from Tere. The result of this reflection was that I didn’t even answer Zarco’s letter. And the result of this result was that I suddenly felt buoyant and independent, as if someone had just taken a lead collar I didn’t know I was wearing off my neck.

‘That happened on a Monday. The following days were euphoric. I started showing up for work with the same joy as in the early years, I flirted with a young attorney at the courthouse and a couple of times went to the Royal for a few beers with Cortés and Gubau after work. This state of light-heartedness vanished suddenly on the Thursday morning, when Tere showed up unannounced at the office. She’d barely changed in those three years: she was dressed in her eternal teenage style — jeans, white shirt and handbag strap slung across her chest — and her hair was still damp and uncombed; she seemed very happy to see me. I, however, could not and did not want to hide my annoyance; without even saying hello I asked: What are you here for? Instead of replying, Tere gave me a fleeting kiss on the cheek and, before I could invite her in (or not), stole into my office. She sat down on the sofa. I followed her, closed the door and stood across from her. Zarco’s written to you, hasn’t he? she said straight off the bat. I answered her question with another question: Did he tell you that? No, she answered. He gave me the letter and I left it in your mailbox. At that moment I understood why Zarco’s letter didn’t have Tere’s address or phone number: it had been written for her to hand to me in person. And why didn’t you come up and give it to me? I asked. I didn’t want to overwhelm you, she answered. I thought you should have a few days to think it over. I nodded and said: No need. There’s nothing to think about. I’m pleased to hear it, she said. Don’t be pleased, I said. I don’t plan on falling into the trap again. What trap? she asked. You know what trap, I answered; then I added a half truth: Being his lawyer. It’s not a trap, she said. And I don’t understand why you don’t want to help him. The question isn’t why I don’t want to help him, I argued. The question is why should I help him. Because if you and I don’t nobody will, she answered. He’s completely alone. Well, he’s earned it, I replied. When we tried to help him it did no good at all; or rather: all it did was fuck us all up and make us waste our time and money. As far as I know, the only one who got fucked over was him, replied Tere. Oh, yeah? I said. I was about to reproach her for leaving me, I was about to tell her about my depression; I spoke of María. What’s wrong? I asked. Don’t you watch TV, don’t you see any magazines, don’t you go outside? Have you not heard about the mountains of shit María has piled on top of us? That’s water under the bridge, replied Tere. It wasn’t true, but almost; although over the last year María hadn’t disappeared from the media, her star was fading: she still showed up on the odd chat show and sometimes appeared in the gossip magazines, but she was no longer a relevant figure in the media circus, her story and her celebrity were wearing out and, in spite of her efforts, she seemed incapable of reviving them. Tere continued: Besides, it was all lies. Not all of it, I corrected her. Almost all, she conceded. And nobody pays her any attention any more. They didn’t before either. Don’t you realize it’s all a comedy and everybody knows it’s a comedy?

‘She fell silent. I did the same. I was upset and didn’t want to argue with Tere: I just wanted to get the matter out of the way swiftly, without giving her time to use any wiles to make me vulnerable again and make me accept her suggestion. I sat in one of the armchairs, beside her, still on the sofa, watching me expectantly and almost still, except for her left leg moving with its unstoppable piston rhythm. Look, Tere, I began. I’m going to tell you the truth. I’m fed up with this story. I’m fed up with Zarco and with you. With both of you. You tricked me when I was a kid and you’re deceiving me now. You think I don’t know? You think I’m an idiot? Zarco was right: I have made a ridiculous fool of myself and been a dickhead and a wanker and let myself be used. And I’ve suffered a lot. I loved you, you know? And I suffered like an animal when you left me. I don’t want to suffer any more. It’s over. Understand? It’s over. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. Not with you and not with him. Don’t ask me to defend him again because I’m not going to. No way. I don’t want to know anything more about Zarco. And, if you had any sense, you’d do the same. He’s made you make a fool of yourself too. He uses you too whenever he feels like it. But have you really not figured out what a fucking son of a bitch he is, as well as a pathological media whore? Tere had been stroking the mole beside her nose, her head had slumped between her shoulders and her eyes fixed on the parquet and her gaze turned inwards. Meanwhile I went on cursing her, more and more upset, her and Zarco; I swore at them until I realized Tere was saying or murmuring something. Then I shut up. Tere repeated: He’s my brother. An absolute silence filled the room. I’d heard perfectly, but I asked: What did you say? Tere looked up at me: her green eyes were empty, inexpressive; three very fine lines had just appeared on her forehead. That he’s my brother, she repeated. His father was my father. We don’t have the same mother, but his father is my father. She looked at me, touched the mole beside her nose and shrugged in a gesture that seemed like an apology, but she didn’t say anything else.

‘I didn’t know what to say either, so I stood up from the armchair and took a few steps towards my desk; when I got to it I turned back towards Tere. Is that true? I asked. Tere nodded. It can’t be, I said. Tere kept nodding. Nobody knows, she explained. My mother and his mother. And me. No one else. What about Zarco? I asked again. Zarco neither, she answered. My mother told me we were sister and brother when he showed up in Gerona, not long before we met you. She told me because Zarco and I were always together, she knew we loved each other a lot and she didn’t want anything to happen between us. She fell silent, pensive, or perhaps as if not knowing what else to tell me, or not wanting to tell me. I asked another question: Why didn’t you tell Zarco? What for? she answered. It was enough for one of us to know. And I could live with it, but he might not have been able to: he’s weaker than you think. And had you. .? I asked. I realized Tere was crying: big fat tears started rolling down her cheeks, falling onto her shirt and leaving little wet spots. I had never seen her cry. I sat in the armchair, beside her, I held one of her hands: it was damp and warm. We were just kids, she said. We didn’t know what we were doing, nobody ever told us anything, you know? She kept crying, without mopping up her tears, as if she hadn’t noticed she was crying, and I understood she wouldn’t say anything else.

‘For a while we sat in silence; I ran my fingers over her knuckles with my mind blank: I didn’t even think that here was a real misunderstanding, only a resolved misunderstanding, and that now, probably, everything did fall into place. When Tere stopped crying and started wiping her face with her hands I stood up, left the office, came back with a packet of Kleenex and gave her a few. Sorry, she said as she dried her eyes. I don’t know why I told you that. She finished tidying herself up, looked at me. Then she looked away and we were quiet for a while longer. She blew her nose and dried her tears; I had been left speechless. At a certain point she said: Well, I do know why I told you. What I told you is the truth: Zarco has nobody; you and I are all he has left. And he’s ill. She turned back towards me, her eyes still shining: You’ll help him, won’t you?’

Chapter 10

‘When Gamallo got his pardon and the conditional release and left the Gerona prison with everyone’s felicitations, I hoped it would be the last I’d see of him. A short time later he committed another crime and was sent to Quatre Camins Prison, but still I hoped. I was mistaken. His lawyer was to blame for everything.

‘After Gamallo was released, Cañas and I still saw each other, almost every time he visited one of his clients at the prison. As I told you before, we’d had a clash over Gamallo, but thanks to that my opinion of him had improved and now our relationship was excellent, so, if we bumped into each other on his way in or out of the prison (sometimes even in town), we’d say hello and chat for a while, though we always avoided talking about Gamallo. However, things must have got pretty complicated for Cañas when, shortly after Gamallo got sent back to Quatre Camins, that nutcase started accusing him on television of being complicit in the barbarities Gamallo had done to her. . I mean his wife. But, anyway, I imagine Cañas will already have told you all this; I only know what everybody knows. The thing is that for a while I didn’t see him. I asked about him and was told he was having health problems, though nobody specified what kinds of problems he was dealing with; then there was also a lot of talk about his involvement with the girl who visited Gamallo, it seemed to become the talk of the courthouse for a while, and ended up reaching me. Later, after some months (many months, maybe more than a year), Cañas reappeared: he started visiting his clients again, our paths started crossing again once in a while here and there and we went back to talking about anything except Gamallo again, until a moment arrived when I almost forgot Gamallo or when I stopped associating Cañas’ name with that of Gamallo.

‘It was around that time that Cañas showed up in my office again one afternoon. Years had gone by since he’d last done that and I thought he was coming to talk to me about one of the inmates. We chatted for a while and, when I thought he was going to leave and that it had just been a courtesy call or something like that, the lawyer put me right: he told me he’d come to see me because he’d agreed to defend Gamallo again and because he was going to put in an application for his transfer from Quatre Camins to Gerona Prison. I couldn’t believe my ears. You’re incorrigible, was all I could manage to say. Cañas smiled. You’re mistaken, he answered. I’m just a lawyer. And Gamallo is my client. I’m just doing my job. Sure, I said. Though I think you’re the one who’s making a mistake. In any case, I added, I appreciate your informing me of what you plan to do. Well, Cañas said then, and his smile turned a bit mischievous, a bit childish. Actually I haven’t come just to inform you. He took a sheaf of photocopies out of his briefcase and put it on my desk as he said: I’d like you to support the application. I looked at the pile of pages, without touching it. The decision to transfer an inmate rests with Correctional Institutions, but Cañas knew that the opinions of the prison superintendents (that of the receiving prison and that of the current one) were important; he also knew it wasn’t going to be easy to convince me to support his move, so he had come to the meeting prepared. He explained what the sheaf contained: the main thing was a report from the superintendent of the Quatre Camins prison supporting Zarco’s transfer, and a series of reports from various specialists; according to Cañas, only one thing could be deduced from these reports, and it was that the Zarco of today bore very little relation to the one who had first come to the Gerona prison, because the illness, the years and his own errors had taken away the strength and the halo of youth and converted him into an inoffensive inmate. Cañas ended up playing a sentimental tune. He said, more or less: When he arrived here last time, Gamallo was coming to recover his freedom; now he just wants to be allowed to live his final years in peace. I don’t think anyone has the right to deny him that.

‘As soon as Cañas finished speaking I sat up a bit in my chair, took the sheaf of pages, leafed through it for a moment without reading it and then I sighed and put it back down where it had been. Look, Counsellor, I said. Maybe you’re right: maybe Gamallo is no longer what he used to be. I’m not saying you’re not. What I do say is that, even half dead, that man is a headache. I paused and then continued: You know something? In a little over two years I’m going to retire. Don’t you think I too have the right to live this time out in peace? You know better than anybody that when Gamallo was in this prison my life was unbearable, and on top of that it did no good; I don’t want to go through that again. Besides, what good would it do to transfer him? Naturally the superintendent of Quatre Camins wants to be rid of Gamallo, but the truth is that his prison is much more modern and much better equipped than mine, especially to deal with Gamallo. So, don’t take it personally, but, if I can spare myself the presence of that man here, I’m going to. I hope you’ll understand. Cañas did not understand, or did not want to understand. We argued for a few minutes more. In the end we went our separate ways amicably, and, though the lawyer managed to get me to keep the reports on Gamallo, he did not manage to get me even to promise that, since I wasn’t going to support the move, I would at least not oppose it.’

‘But in the end you supported it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I didn’t know, I guessed. Why did you?’

‘Support him? To be frank, I don’t know. One day Correctional Institutions called me to ask if I thought it would be good for Gamallo to return to Gerona and I simply couldn’t think how to say no. I suppose Cañas and the Quatre Camins reports must have convinced me between them that Gamallo was no longer a problem, that he was on his last legs.’

‘And were they right?’

‘Yes, this time they were. When they brought Gamallo to the prison I was surprised that a man could deteriorate so much in such a short time. He was skin and bones, had difficulty walking, he’d lost most of his hair and his face looked like a preview of his skull, with his black teeth, sunken eyes and fleshless cheeks. My first impression was that the man was no more than a walking skeleton; the medical reports confirmed it: he had once again exchanged heroin for methadone, but AIDS was devouring him from within and he was very weak, which meant that, at any moment, any minor illness could overcome his defences and wipe him out.

‘His myth had also collapsed. Not only did the press not mention a word of it, when he arrived in the city, but even in the prison his arrival didn’t provoke the slightest agitation. In spite of everything I decided to hedge my bets and assigned him his own individual cell with the idea of keeping him separate from the rest of the inmates. For Gamallo, this was a humiliating measure, which equated him with the lowest of the low — informers or rapists — but he didn’t protest, I think he already knew that because of the combination of his former celebrity and his physical weakness he was an irresistible target for the kids looking to make themselves respected, kids he no longer had the strength to confront; he didn’t protest when I tried to impose an activity programme that would keep him busy from morning till night either. How ingenuous! The activity programme, I mean: in his physical state, Gamallo couldn’t carry out any programme and, when I realized that, I understood that Cañas was right and the only thing we could do for him was to let him end his days in tranquillity. And that’s what I tried to do.’

Chapter 11

‘At the end of the spring or beginning of the summer of 2005 Zarco returned to Gerona Prison and I started seeing him once a week again, often more than once. It wasn’t until then, almost thirty years after I met him, that I started to feel that what linked us was starting to resemble a friendship. Of course, I was still his lawyer, but the problem (or the advantage) was that, once we got him transferred to Gerona, he practically didn’t need a lawyer, or he needed one much less than he had before: after all, any fantasy of rehabilitation was ruled out, as was any hope of getting any release permits, and the legal matters we could deal with had been reduced to a minimum. By then, Zarco was physically a wreck; morally too: as Tere had told me, he was alone, nobody wanted anything to do with him, he was totally discredited outside and inside the prison and he no longer even seemed capable of playing the part of Zarco. This is important: as soon as I saw him again, still in Quatre Camins, before we managed to get him transferred to Gerona, I had the impression that the struggle within him between the person and persona was over, that the tendency to see himself as a victim and the arrogance were coming to an end and the magnificent façade of the myth was about to come tumbling down, revealing the prematurely aged, defeated and ill man in his forties behind it. At first, as I said, it was just an impression, but it made me see him in a different way, just as knowing that he was actually Tere’s brother changed my way of seeing him; it changed, although I don’t know how it changed: I didn’t know exactly what his relationship with Tere had been like — and I don’t think I wanted to know — but the truth is that he no longer interfered in my relationship with her, and nor did she in my relationship with him.

‘All this explains why I started to go to see Zarco at the prison almost immediately, more to chat for a while than for work, and that our conversations became much more intimate than they had ever been before. Obviously it never occurred to me to tell him what Tere had revealed in my office; actually, as far as I recall, we barely talked about Tere except in passing. We talked a lot, however, about his mother (who was living in Gerona, like some of his family, and with whom he hadn’t been on speaking terms for years), and especially about his three older brothers, three quinquis who he’d got to know when he was eleven or twelve, with whom he’d lived for a very short time and who’d been the idols of his youth; all three had died more than a decade before in violent circumstances: Joaquín, the youngest, crashed into a moving van at an intersection in El Clot, in Barcelona, while fleeing the police in a stolen car; Juan José, the eldest, while trying to slip down a rope from the window of the Madrid prison hospital, where he had been moved from a prison where he was serving thirty years for homicide; Andrés, the middle brother and for many Zarco’s model, at a police roadblock on the way into Gerona, after robbing a bank in Llagostera, when the police shot him when they saw him reaching for his pistol. But you know all these things: they’re in the cuttings in my archive and besides, if I’m not mistaken, Zarco recounts them in his memoirs.’

‘You’re not mistaken.’

‘Of course: actually, most of the things he told me then he’d already told in his memoirs, sometimes even in the same way and almost in the same words, so I sometimes had the impression that Zarco wasn’t telling me what he remembered but what he remembered having told in his memoirs. Anyway, I enjoyed listening to him a lot, hearing him talk about the riots and escapes he’d played a starring role in, the books he’d signed or that had been written about him and the movies he’d been in, the journalists and film directors and actresses and musicians and football players he’d met. In this way I discovered something that surprised me, and it’s that, in his memoirs and interviews, Zarco had lied or adorned the truth much less than I’d thought (and less in the second volume of the memoirs than in the first, according to him, through the fault of Jorge Ugal, the ghostwriter who later, in part thanks to that book, went on to have a short political career); or to put it another way: what I discovered was that it hadn’t been Zarco who’d constructed his own myth, but most of all the newspapers and the films Bermúdez made, and all he did was to approve it, make it his own and spread it.’

‘So you think his memoirs are reliable.’

‘I think so. Except on particular points, of course.’

‘For example?’

‘For example on the death of Bermúdez. From the first moment everybody thought Zarco was the one who killed him, who shot him up with that overdose of heroin and set up that scene to look like a ritual sacrifice or a sexual crime. .’

‘But in the memoirs he denies it.’

‘What else was he going to do? I’m sure it’s true.’

‘Did he confess?’

‘No: he denied it. But at that time I could tell when he was lying and when he was telling the truth, and on that matter he lied to me. I’m sure. Or almost sure. You should have heard him bitch about Bermúdez; he really badmouthed him, but not because Bermúdez was homosexual, as some have said: he didn’t care about that, in fact I think he always knew Bermúdez was in love with him and he played with that, or tried to. No, I think he hated Bermúdez for other reasons: he thought that, with Zarco’s saga and his other films about young quinquis starring real quinquis that followed, Bermúdez had made a fortune and won prestige in the film world at his expense, and on top of that he’d done so by presenting himself as a sort of philanthropist who wanted only to save him and other kids like him; he claimed that Bermúdez’s Catholic altruism was hypocritical, a stomach-turning way to sell his films; he said he’d swindled him from the start, that he’d stolen his life to make into films, that he’d promised he’d get to star in them and that it’s not true that he didn’t star in them because the supervising judge wouldn’t let him leave the prison (as was generally thought), but because in the end Bermúdez wanted someone else to star; he also said that he paid him much less money than they’d agreed he would pay, that it was a lie that he’d legally adopted him while they were filming his last movie and even more of a lie that he’d disinherited him as a punishment for having taken advantage of the press-screening cocktail party, at the Ocaña penitentiary, to escape. . Anyway, I think by the end his relationship with Bermúdez had gone sour, and as Bermúdez said, that Zarco staged that escape in part to fuck him over and to fuck up his film and that later, when the police were looking for him, he appealed to Bermúdez again and things got out of hand or he bumped him off on purpose, or had him bumped off. Zarco was like that: if he came to the conclusion that someone was a real bastard, or had acted like one, he would make that person pay if at all possible.’

‘As might have happened with Batista.’

‘For example.’

‘It’s strange then that he didn’t make María Vela pay for what she did.’

‘No, not strange: the thing is he didn’t consider María to be a real bastard. And he was probably right. María was just a mediapath, like him, or rather, like the Zarco character; at most she was an opportunist. But not a bastard. And maybe that’s why Zarco, in the conversations we had then, never spoke badly of her, always downplayed the importance of what she said about him in the press (or what she was still saying, which was less and less as there were fewer and fewer people paying any attention) and he didn’t seem at all irritated by all the visibility in the media she’d achieved at a certain moment by messing with us; more than that: my impression was that Zarco spoke more cordially of María now than he had done when they were together and she spent all her time trying to get him out of jail.

‘But what Zarco and I discussed most — where I believe the complicity I told you about sprang from — was none of that, but the summer of ’78. In fact, we could spend all of my afternoon visits in the interview room remembering the guys in the gang, reliving purse snatches, robberies and binges, recalling the General haggling with his wife — who Zarco insisted was actually blind not pretending to be blind — telling each other details of a visit to La Vedette or trying to rescue from oblivion the names and faces of the regulars at La Font or Rufus. Those conversations at times turned into fierce tournaments in which Zarco and I competed in eagerness for precision about the past; thanks to them — and to those I’d had with Tere years earlier, in our nights of romance in my penthouse on La Barca — I was able to reconstruct the summer of ’78, and that’s why I remember it so well. Of course, Zarco often talked about the prefabs, and one day I told him about the only time I’d been there, shortly after the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular, although I didn’t tell him that I’d actually gone there that day to see Tere and especially to find out if the gang thought I’d been the one who had given the game away (and, if so, to refute it). This doesn’t mean that we didn’t talk about that matter then, actually we discussed it several times, but always in the way we discussed all the details of the summer of ’78, a slightly strange way, very cerebral, almost with the coldness with which you might discuss a chess problem; whatever the case, I always arrived at the conclusion that Zarco thought that the snitch or informer could have been anybody that day, but that anybody didn’t exclude me.’

’You mean you didn’t convince Zarco that it hadn’t been you?’

‘That’s it: I tried, but I didn’t manage it. Or I don’t think so. He always had a shadow of a doubt. Although he didn’t say so, I knew he did.’

‘Perhaps he had some doubt because you did too, because you weren’t entirely sure that, before the Bordils robbery, you hadn’t run your mouth off.’

‘Could be.’

‘Another thing. You say that, when he returned to Gerona Prison, Zarco was a physical wreck. Didn’t he improve later?’

‘No. Although the prison treated him well, he was ill and exhausted, and he had nothing left. Whle I talked with him in the interview room I often had the sensation I was talking to a zombie, or at least a very old man. And in spite of that (or perhaps thanks to it) during that time I discovered three important things about him and about my relationship with him: the first two demonstrate that deep down I had a vision of Zarco for years that was guileless and mythologized, ridiculously romantic; the third demonstrates that Zarco himself shared that vision. Perhaps by this point you’ve guessed the three things I’ve come to tell you, but I didn’t discover them till then.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, I’ve always heard it said that, in personal relations, the first impression is what counts. I don’t think it’s true: I think the first impression is the only one that counts; all the rest are just additions that do not alter anything essentially. At least that’s what I think happened to me with Zarco. I mean that there in the Gerona prison, Zarco might have looked like human scum, and he surely was, but that didn’t mean I could stop seeing him as I’d seen him with my teenage eyes the first time I’d seen him, walking into the Vilaró arcade with Tere, and as I’d seen him during that summer. That’s the first thing I understood: that for three months of my adolescence I had admired Zarco — I’d admired his serenity, his courage, his audacity — and since then I haven’t been able to stop admiring him. The second thing I understood is that, as well as admiring him, I envied him: now, in the Gerona prison, seen with the perspective of time, Zarco’s life could seem like a wasted life, the life of a loser, but the truth of the matter is that, if I compared it with mine — which had so often seemed to me a false and borrowed life, a misunderstanding or, even worse, an insipid yet convincing simulation of a misunderstanding — his seemed to me like a full life, that had been worth living and that I would have traded for mine without hesitation. The third thing I understood is that Zarco had always been aware of playing the role of Zarco, or at the very least he was aware now of having played this role for years.’

‘Is that what you meant when you said that at this moment the persona disappeared and only the person remained?’

‘Exactly. Let me tell you about one of the last conversations Zarco and I had, in the prison’s interview room. That afternoon we’d been talking for a while as usual about the summer of ’78 when, after I mentioned the prefabs in passing, Zarco interrupted me and asked me what I’d said. At that moment I understood that, without realizing it, I’d just called the prefabs by the nickname I’d always had for them, so I said I hadn’t said anything and tried to change the subject; Zarco wouldn’t let me, and repeated the question. Liang Shan Po, I finally confessed, feeling as ridiculous as a guy who accidentally says his lover’s pet name out loud in public. That’s what you called the prefabs? Zarco asked. I nodded. I tried to keep talking so I wouldn’t have to give him an explanation, but I couldn’t; Zarco frowned, his eyes narrowed until they looked like two slits and he asked: Like the river in The Water Margin? Zarco greeted my surprise with a black and toothless smile. You remember the series? I asked. Fuck, Gafitas, Zarco protested. You think you’re the only one who ever watched TV? He immediately started talking about The Water Margin, about the dragon and the snake, about Lin Chung and Kao Chiu and Hu San-Niang, until he stopped short in mid-sentence, frowned again and looked at me as if he’d just deciphered a hieroglyphic on my face. Hey, he said. You didn’t fall for that old song and dance too, did you? What song and dance? I asked. He took a couple of seconds to answer. The Liang Shan Po thing, he specified. The honourable bandits. All that shit. I wasn’t sure what he meant. I told him so. He explained: You didn’t believe that whole Water Margin spiel, did you? That whole story about you lot on that side being worse sons of bitches than we are on this side, and vice versa; that thing about the only difference between me and you is that I was born in a wrong neighbourhood of the city and on the wrong side of the river, that society’s to blame for everything and I’m innocent of everything and this that and the other. You didn’t believe that, right?

‘At that moment I knew it. It wasn’t only in his words, it was in the sarcasm that drenched his voice, in the disappointment and irony and sadness of his old man’s eyes. What I knew was that Zarco was definitively finished, that the persona had disappeared and only the person barely remained, that lonely, ill and washed-up quinqui I had in front of me, on the other side of the interview room. And I also knew or imagined that, deep down, Zarco had never believed in his own persona, had never seriously thought that he was the true Robin Hood of his time, or the great reformed delinquent; it had just been a pretend, strategic identity, which he’d used when it suited him but never really believed or he’d only believed it fleetingly and almost without meaning to, an identity that he hadn’t believed in for a long time in any case and that, in those days of terminal lucidity when he no longer had the energy to laugh or cry, was only pitiful.

‘That’s what I knew then (or what I imagined), thanks to that conversation.’

‘I would have imagined something else as well.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The opposite: that perhaps Zarco no longer believed in his own persona, but he believed that you did believe in it. That he believed, in some way, that you still believed he was an innocent victim, that you were the last one who thought of him as the Robin Hood of his day, or as the great reformed delinquent. That you weren’t really either his lawyer or his friend, but the last admirer he had left. Or the last deputy: the last honourable man Lin Chung had left on the far side of the Water Margin. After all, the questions Zarco had asked you were rhetorical, weren’t they?’

‘You might be right.’

‘And didn’t you say anything? Didn’t you try to disabuse him of that notion?’

‘More or less. I told him I hadn’t believed his song and dance, as he’d called it, that of course I’d never thought that society was to blame for everything and he was just a victim of society. Zarco replied by asking then why did I call them the outlaws of Liang Shan Po, and I answered because at first I did believe it, that after all in the summer of ’78 I was sixteen years old and at sixteen you believe things like that, but later I stopped believing it, only by then it was too late to change the nickname so it stuck. That’s what I told him, more or less, though I realized he didn’t believe me and I didn’t want to insist.’

‘So you let Zarco hold onto a false idea of what you thought of him.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘I thought the truth was very important to you.’

‘It is, but a virtue taken to extremes is a vice. If one does not understand there are things more important than the truth one doesn’t understand how important the truth is.’

‘You didn’t talk about the matter again?’

‘No.’

‘And neither of you mentioned the Liang Shan Po again?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘And Tere? You haven’t even mentioned her today.’

‘She hasn’t come up. What do you want me to tell you? That summer we saw each other quite often. Tere had lived in Barcelona for a while but the last two or three years she’d moved back to Gerona, or rather to Salt, where she had a job cleaning various council properties. She’d given up her nursing studies and was going out with the local librarian, a guy with a ponytail and a goatee who went everywhere on his bicycle, spoke Catalan-inflected Spanish and rented an allotment on the banks of the River Ter where he grew tomatoes and lettuces. His name was Jordi and he was ten years younger than Tere. We got along well immediately (as far as he was concerned I was just Zarco’s lawyer, and Zarco was just Tere’s famous, unruly relative), so some Saturdays I’d show up at the allotment and spend the afternoon watching him and Tere working the land, talking politics (he was a separatist) or about Salt (he’d been born there and hoped to die there, though he’d travelled all over the world) and having the odd toke of his marijuana; when it got dark we’d go back into the city, them on their bikes and me in my car, and have something to eat at Jordi’s place or in some bar in the old quarter.

‘Sometimes, not many times, Tere and I would meet on our own. For this I would have to invent some important matter to do with Zarco, which was not at all easy. I remember one Saturday I’d met her at midday in a bar in the Sant Agustí Plaza and, after we finished our coffee and dealt with my bullshit, I accompanied her to the farmers’ market they have every weekend on the boardwalk between La Devesa and the banks of the Ter; and I remember while Tere was doing her shopping I thought I might lay a trap for her and suggest crossing the river over to the ground where years before the prefabs had stood. Have you ever been back? I asked. No, she said. It doesn’t look anything like it used to, I told her, and then went on to describe the immaculate park of freshly mown lawns, with brand-new wooden benches and swings and slides that had replaced the lines of miserable barrack huts crisscrossed by streams of pestilential water swarming with flies where she had lived, until I noticed she was looking at me strangely. And if it doesn’t look anything like it used to what do I want to see it for? she asked curtly. That’s how Tere was then: invulnerable to the lures of nostalgia, reluctant to talk more than necessary about the past we shared. Even so, one of those Saturdays we met to talk about Zarco she suggested a café in Santa Eugènia, and when I got there I found her with a large woman who greeted me with a big kiss. Don’t you know who I am? she asked. I had trouble recognizing her: it was Lina. She was still just as blonde as she had been in La Font days, but she’d put on twenty-five or thirty kilos, looked very much worse for wear and shouted when she talked. She didn’t say a word about Gordo, but told me she’d married a Gambian, that she lived in Salt too, that she worked in a hair salon and had three kids. It was an odd encounter. Tere and Lina had never completely lost touch although it had been a while since they’d seen each other, and at some point Lina started talking about Tío, who apart from us was the only member of Zarco’s gang still alive: it seems she’d bumped into him by chance not long before, at the Trueta hospital, and she told us he was getting around in his wheelchair and she’d been really happy to see him (and him to see her); finally she suggested the three of us go visit him in Germans Sàbat, where he still lived with his mother. Tere and I agreed to her suggestion, and we arranged to meet the following week at the same time and in the same place to go together to Tío’s house. But the following Saturday I didn’t show up to meet them; days later I found out that Tere hadn’t shown up either.

‘More or less around the middle of October I stopped seeing Tere and Jordi, not for any reason; Tere simply stopped calling me and I was starting to get the impression that, after the novelty of the first few months, my company was starting to be annoying and they’d rather be alone. The fact is I didn’t see Tere again for almost three months. This time it was by chance. That afternoon I’d gone to La Bisbal to visit a client, at dusk I was returning to Gerona and as I drove into the city by Pont Major I recognized Tere in a group of women and children waiting for a bus at the stop closest to the prison, sheltering from the cold under a little roof. It was Sunday, the last Sunday of the year. I stopped the car, waved to Tere, offered to give her a lift home. Tere accepted, got in beside me and, as soon as we pulled away from the bus stop, told me that Zarco was in very bad shape, that both Friday and Saturday he’d had a fever and that morning they’d diagnosed him with pneumonia. A bit surprised, I said I’d seen Zarco on Wednesday and he hadn’t said anything and I hadn’t noticed anything either; I asked: Did you see him? Tere said no, but she’d been able to speak to the senior supervisor. They were thinking of taking him to hospital, she said. Which hospital? I asked. I don’t know, she answered. I took my eyes off Pedret Avenue for a moment and looked at her. Don’t worry, I said. Tomorrow I’ll talk to the superintendent. And I added: I’m sure it’s nothing. The conjecture filled the car like an unavoidable lie as we approached the city, which at that hour, covered in Christmas lights, sparkled in the distance. To dispel the silence I asked after Jordi. Tere told me distractedly that she hadn’t been seeing him for a while; I waited for an explanation, some comment, but neither was forthcoming, and I didn’t want to keep asking.

‘Tere’s house was on the outskirts of Salt, near the overpass and the highway to Bescanó, in a tower block planted in the middle of a dirty site covered with rubble and weeds. I stopped in front of the building and again promised Tere that I’d talk to the prison superintendent the next day; Tere nodded, asked me to please do that and said goodbye, but as she stepped out of the car she seemed to hesitate. Outside the darkness was almost total; the silence too, except for the growl of the traffic coming from the highway. Without turning back towards me, Tere asked: Do you want to come up?

‘It was the first time she’d ever invited me into her home. We went up a stairway with scaly walls lit by fluorescent tubes, and on the way up we crossed paths with two Middle Eastern women with their hair covered by scarves. When we went inside her apartment Tere ushered me into a tiny dining room, turned on the gas heater and offered me tea or camomile tea. I said I’d have camomile. While Tere made the tea I noted the underprivileged order that reigned in the room: there was nothing but a table with two chairs, an imitation-leather armchair, a sideboard, a small CD player, a portable television and the heater; there were also three open doors leading off the dining room: behind one of them was the kitchen where Tere was bustling, behind the other two I glimpsed or imagined a bathroom and bedroom even smaller and icier than the room I was in. Distracted by that inventory of misery, without realizing it I lost the joy I’d felt at the news that Tere had split up with Jordi, and felt overwhelmed with sorrow at Tere’s life in that lonely outlying flat, sorrow at the news about Zarco’s health, sorrow of the season and Sunday night sorrow.

‘That night Tere and I slept together again. First thing the next morning, instead of going to the office, I went to the prison. At the entrance I was told I couldn’t see Zarco because he’d been admitted to the infirmary. Then I tried to see the superintendent and, after being kept waiting for several minutes, went into his office. I asked him straight out how Zarco was doing. By way of reply the superintendent dug a sheet of paper out of the mess of papers on his desk and handed it to me. And what does this mean? I asked, waving the paper around after I read it. It means that, according to the doctor, Gamallo probably won’t come out of this one, the superintendent answered. Can’t they do anything else? I asked. Aren’t they going to take him to hospital? The superintendent made a gesture of indifference or discouragement. If you want we’ll take him, he answered. But the doctor advises against it. Gamallo isn’t well enough to be moved, and we’re taking good care of him here. Can I go in and see him? I asked, handing him back the paper. I’m sorry, said the superintendent. No visitors are allowed in the infirmary. But I repeat you shouldn’t worry. Gamallo is well attended. Besides, you know doctors: they always say things are worse than they are. Who knows if this one might not be wrong.

‘When I left the prison I called Tere and told her what the superintendent had told me, but she made no comment.

‘The three days that followed were very strange; in fact, I remember them as the happiest days of my life, and at the same time the most melancholy. Tere and I were barely apart. She had a week of holidays, and I took the time off. First I suggested we go away somewhere, but she wouldn’t; then I suggested she come and stay at my place, but she wouldn’t agree to that either; finally it was me who ended up going to stay at her place, arriving with a bag full of clothes and another full of part of my collection of CDs of ’70s and ’80s music. It was like a honeymoon. We didn’t leave home except to eat at L’Espelma, a restaurant in Salt, and we spent morning, noon and night in bed, listening to my CDs, watching movies on TV and making love without the enthusiasm of the first times, but with a care and tenderness that I’d never known. Like a honeymoon, as I said, except a honeymoon troubled by bad omens: in those happy days I had an intuition more than once of how it was all going to end, and that’s why they were also melancholy days.

‘The fact of the matter is that first thing in the morning on New Year’s Day the prison service supervisor woke me up to tell me that Zarco had died in the early hours. From that moment on confusion takes over from the strangeness in my memory, to such an extent that the following hours and days have the texture of a dream for me, or rather a nightmare. I don’t remember, for example, how I told Tere the news. I don’t remember how she took it, either; I don’t remember the two of us at the prison, taking charge of the body or of Zarco’s things, although I know we went to the prison and took charge of the body and of Zarco’s things, of all the paperwork of the death. The funeral was held on the second day of the year. Inevitably, the newspapers repeated that it was a media event and a manifestation of popular mourning, but my impression is that, for once, the cliché did not entirely betray the reality. Over the last years the country seemed to have forgotten Zarco, or only seemed to remember him every once in a while as a guilty husband and increasingly distant secondary and declining character in the gossip magazines; now, the massive crowd at his funeral demonstrated that it wasn’t the case, that the people had not forgotten him.

‘Zarco’s relatives, friends and acquaintances immediately showed up at the wake. Tons of them showed up. I had never seen a single one of them, I didn’t know if any of them had ever visited him at the prison or had anything to do with him over the last few years; Tere, however, seemed to know them all, at least she treated them as if she knew them. The wake was in Salt, in the Salt chapel of rest. As I said before Tere and I had at first shared responsibility for the formalities and paperwork, but she soon turned into a sort of mistress of ceremonies, I think unintentionally. Shortly after we arrived at the chapel building she introduced me to a relatively young woman, still good-looking, with big blue eyes and big blonde hair, and told me it was her aunt, Zarco’s mother; then she introduced me to other relatives of Zarco’s, including one of his younger brothers (an albino who bore not the slightest physical resemblance to Zarco). I didn’t manage to exchange anything more than the typical expressions of condolence with any of them, I don’t know whether because Tere always introduced me simply as Zarco’s lawyer. Some of them were Gypsies or looked like Gypsies, but none expressed outwardly any signs of pain over Zarco’s death, except for his mother, who sighed every once in a while or cried out for her dead son.

‘By mid-afternoon the chapel was full of busybodies and journalists on the hunt for quotes. I avoided them as best I could. By then I’d already lost my place, I did nothing but wander aimlessly between one big crowd of strangers and another and I had the impression that, rather than helping Tere, I was annoying her. I talked to her and we agreed that it would be best if I left and she stayed with the family. That night I called her, I suggested we have dinner just the two of us. She said she couldn’t, that she was still with people, that she’d be finished late and that I should call her the next day. I called her the next morning, very early; she had her mobile disconnected and, although I tried again and again, it was futile. When I finally managed to get through to her it was almost one. She seemed nervous, she told me she’d argued with someone, maybe with Zarco’s mother, she told me about preparations for the funeral; I asked her where she was, but all she answered was that I shouldn’t worry and we’d see each other that afternoon. Then she hung up. I was worried, and a minute later I called her back. I got an engaged signal.

‘The funeral was held in Vilarroja. There, at four in the afternoon, a huge crowd packed the church and its grounds. I had to make my way through those present, escorted by Cortés and Gubau, who had wanted to come with me. After looking around the church for a while I found Tere in the middle of a circle of mourners. I hugged her. We talked. She seemed to have recovered her serenity, but she also seemed tired, perhaps uncomfortable with the role that had fallen to her or been assigned to her, impatient to get all that over with as soon as possible. When the priest appeared in the vestibule, we separated: Tere sat in the front row, beside Zarco’s mother; I stood at the back near the door. The ceremony was brief. While the priest was speaking I looked around the church and saw Jordi, Tere’s former boyfriend, behind me; I also saw Lina on the end of an aisle, holding onto a wheelchair where, unmistakable, very pale and crying, Tío sprawled, fatter than thirty years earlier but with the same vaguely childlike air he had back then. Once the ceremony was over, the crowd didn’t want to disperse and accompanied the family and the hearse to the cemetery, a few kilometres from the church. It was the most motley funeral cortège: there were mink coats beside rags, bicycles beside Mercedes, elderly people and children, relatives mixed in with journalists, criminals mixed in with cops, Gypsies mixed in with non-Gypsies, people from the neighbourhood, people from the city, people from other cities. I was with my two partners and with Jordi — who was walking his bike and told me he hadn’t been able to say hello to Tere — all of us quite distant from the hearse, back where the cortège was starting to thin out; a cortège that, as people had joined along the way, soon filled the cemetery, which made Cortés, Gubau, Jordi and I decide not to go in but stay by the gate, waiting. That was why we didn’t manage to witness either the burial or an incident that some newspapers picked up the next day and has to do with María Vela, who it seems had attended the burial (although I didn’t see her at the funeral or at the cemetery). Various versions of the incident circulated. The most often repeated claims that, after the ceremony, María had approached Tere, who had returned her greeting; everything would have ended there and there wouldn’t have been any incident had not a photographer caught the scene and had Tere not seen him do so; but the fact is she saw him and asked for the memory card from the camera and, when the photographer refused, she grabbed the camera and smashed it on the ground and stamped on it.

‘That anecdote is the last thing I know of Tere; after Zarco’s funeral she vanished: literally. When the burial ended I was waiting for her with Jordi, Cortés and Gubau at the cemetery gate until we realized that she must have left through another gate with Zarco’s family. I called her on her mobile, but she had it switched off. Only then did I understand what was going on. And what was going on was that Tere had been avoiding me almost since I gave her the news of Zarco’s death. Cortés and Gubau, who possibly guessed what I had guessed, invited me to go for a drink; I accepted and Jordi said he’d come along, although in the end it wasn’t one drink but several and although, while we drank them, I kept dialling Tere’s number, always without success.

‘I finished up that evening quite drunk, and the next morning began several weeks of bitterness. No matter how hard I tried I didn’t understand Tere’s disappearance; as well as not understanding it I didn’t accept it: I phoned her at all hours of the day and at all hours was waiting for her to call; I went to look for her at her place, and spent many hours sitting on the stairs, waiting for her; I even thought of getting in touch with her through Zarco’s relatives who she’d introduced me to during the wake, but I didn’t know how to and, after a few attempts to locate them, I gave up. One afternoon, it must have been at least a week after her disappearance, I decided to knock on every door in her building and ask if any of her neighbours knew where she was; I didn’t speak to all of them — some weren’t in, most were Arabs and quite a few didn’t understand Spanish — but from that inquiry I concluded that Tere had clearly not returned home after the burial, although also that she hadn’t moved out and might return at any moment. On another day I went to see Jordi at his library and confirmed that conclusion: he told me that he didn’t know where Tere was and the only thing he did know was that she’d left her job at the council without explanation. That afternoon I had a few beers with Jordi at a bar next door to the library; we were there till they closed, talking about Tere: since I immediately realized Jordi was still in love with her, I wasn’t bold enough to tell him the truth, to tell him about our honeymoon tucked up in Tere’s flat, and I spent the whole time trying to console him. When we were saying goodbye, Jordi couldn’t hold himself together any more and burst into tears.

‘During the weeks that followed I immersed myself in work matters. I was afraid of falling back into depression, into a blacker and deeper depression than the previous one or even a depression with no way out, and I fought it by working. My partners helped me a lot. Cortés and Gubau had the brains to treat me as an unwell or convalescent person and the tact to keep me from noticing that they were treating me as an unwell or convalescent person. They accepted without protest my pathological hyperactivity, my inexplicable absences, my glaring errors and apparent whims, among them eliminating prison visits, from which I invariably returned filled with deadly discouragement. On the weekends Cortés and Gubau took turns trying to distract me: they took me on day trips or out drinking, invited me to the cinema, the theatre or a football match, had me over for dinner or introduced me to single or divorced women friends. Keeping my daughter apart from my misfortunes helped even more, oblivious to what I was going through, which I hadn’t been able to do or known how to do during the collapse that followed Tere’s penultimate disappearance which had only contributed to making my misfortune worse. It also helped to accept the help of a psychoanalyst, to whom Gubau practically dragged me. Psychoanalysis did me good for three reasons. The first is that it helped me formulate in detail, chewing over and digesting it, what had happened to me at age sixteen with Batista (only then did I realize, for example, that he’d represented absolute evil to me, for several months). The second is that, although perhaps it didn’t allow me to entirely digest what had happened with Tere, or with Tere and Zarco, it allowed me to accept it, live with its memory, keeping at bay legions of hostile ghosts in the shape of poisonous conjectures, guilty fictions, regrets without compassion and real or invented memories that fed the torture I mortified myself with on a daily basis.’

‘And what’s the third reason? What else did psychoanalysis do for you?’

‘It got me writing. As soon as I lay down on the psychoanalyst’s couch I began to think that, if it was really going to be useful to tell my story out loud to be able to understand it, it would be more useful to tell it in writing, because I thought that writing was more difficult than talking, it requires a greater effort and allows you to go into more depth. So I got into the habit of writing down sketches of episodes, dialogues, descriptions and reflections on Zarco and on Tere, on the summer of ’78, on my re-encounter with Zarco and with Tere twenty years later; in short: many of the things I’ve been telling you about recently. These notes were fragmentary and random, they didn’t have a single narrative thread or the slightest systematic, not to mention literary, volition; and, although the stimulus for writing them had been psychoanalysis, they didn’t have a healing intention, but the truth is that they worked on me like therapy, or at least they did me good. The truth is, a year after losing sight of Tere and after Zarco dying, I was sure that I had dodged the threat of another collapse and had the impression that I’d recovered myself, and recovered my work and my former habits, including visiting my clients in prison at least once a week. A symptom of my recovery (or perhaps a consequence) was that at Christmas I took a week-and-a-half-long holiday. I spent it in Cartagena de Indias, Colombia, staying in the Hotel de las Américas, swimming in the mornings at the hotel beach or at the beaches on the Rosario Islands, spending the afternoons reading and drinking coffee with white rum and the nights dancing at the Havana Club, a place in the Getsemaní neighbourhood where I met in the small hours of one of those nights a Dutch divorcée I slept with several times and with whom I exchanged an unhealthy number of emails once I was back in Gerona for a couple of weeks, at the end of which the story ended as easily as it had started. A little while later I started sleeping with a linguistics professor recently arrived at the university and a friend of Pilar’s, Cortés’ wife, a good-looking, cheerful and kind Andalusian woman from whom I fled as soon as I noticed her phoning me too often.

‘During this time I knew nothing about Tere; on the other hand, I had lots of news about Zarco (or about what remained of Zarco). His death provoked his last public resurrection and the definitive crystallization of his myth. It was predictable: as soon as Zarco died, everybody must have felt with good reason that the myths of the living are fragile, because the living can still belie them, while, since the dead cannot, the myths of the dead are more resilient; so everybody hastened to construct an invulnerable myth out of the dead Zarco, a myth that he could no longer contradict or disfigure.’

‘An invulnerable but modest myth.’

‘A modest but real myth. The proof is that here you are, preparing a book about him. The best proof is that, right now, even kids know who Zarco was. If you think about it, that’s extraordinary: after all we’re talking about a guy who was just a minor delinquent, known most of all because of three or four mediocre films and a riot and a couple of jail breaks. It’s true that the image people have of Zarco is false, but one doesn’t attain posterity, even a modest one, without simplifications or idealizations, so it’s natural that Zarco has turned into the heroic outlaw that, for the journalists and even for some historians, embodies the yearning for liberty and the frustrated hopes of the heroic years of the change from dictatorship to democracy in Spain.’

‘The Robin Hood of his day.’

‘Yes: the Lin Chung of the Transition. That’s the image Zarco’s been reduced to.’

‘It’s not a bad image.’

‘Of course it’s bad. It’s false, and if it’s false it’s bad. And you should do away with it. You should tell the true story of Liang Shan Po. That’s why I’ve spent all these days talking to you.’

‘Don’t worry: I won’t forget. Although in the book, I might not just talk about Zarco: I’ll talk about you and Tere and. .’

‘Talk about whatever you want, as long as you tell the truth. Well, what else do you want to know? I have the impression that I’ve told you everything.’

‘Not yet. Have you seen Tere again?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t heard anything about her?’

‘No.’

‘And María?’

‘No more than everybody else knows. That she’s still out there, gripping her fame with teeth and claws, or what remains of her fame, which I think by now is very little. Zarco’s death and reappearance in the media allowed her to return to her origins as the wife of a famous man and exploit the rose-tinted version of her life with Zarco again. Like that, on the basis of lies, María recovered the place she’d lost, though for a very short time. Then she lost it again, and since then I don’t know what’s become of her, or even if she’s moved back to Gerona. . Anyway, for my part I can only say that at least I didn’t knowingly contribute to that bullshit, because, no matter how much they insisted (and I assure you they insisted a lot), I never let any of the reality shows she appeared on interview me. Don’t take it the wrong way. It wasn’t an ethical matter, I don’t consider myself superior to María, I don’t even have anything against her any more, and much less against reality shows. Everyone makes a living how they want, or how they can. I deal in legal judgments, not moral ones. But I didn’t fancy going on TV talking about my life. That’s all. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Of course. What I don’t entirely understand is that, from Zarco’s death until now, you’ve refused to speak of him with serious journalists, people preparing articles, features, documentaries, biographies, things like that.’

‘There are two reasons. One is that at first I didn’t feel like talking about Zarco: same with Tere, all I wanted was to forget him. And the other is that I don’t trust journalists, especially serious or supposedly serious journalists. They’re the worst. They’re the tricky ones, not the frivolous ones. Frivolous journalists lie but everyone knows they lie and nobody pays them any attention, or hardly anyone; serious journalists, however, lie while shielding themselves with the truth, and that’s why everyone believes them. And that’s why their lies do so much damage.’

‘So you convinced yourself that only you could tell the truth.’

‘Don’t take me for an idiot. What I convinced myself of is that only I could tell a certain part of the truth.’

‘And why haven’t you told it? Why have you agreed to tell it to me, who isn’t a journalist but might as well be, after all I’m going to write a book about Zarco?’

‘Don’t you know? Haven’t your editors told you? If you want I’ll explain, but it’s a bit of a long story. How about we leave it for next time?’

‘OK. Next time is our last, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Next time I’ll tell you the end of the story.’

Chapter 12

‘Gamallo died on New Year’s Eve 2005. Or was it 2006? It must have been 2006, because it wasn’t long before I retired. The fact is that his death brought the press swooping back down on him, this time in search of carrion. Some journalists tried to get in touch with me then, but I didn’t want to talk to them. It was a repugnant spectacle: as if they hadn’t made up enough lies about Gamallo when he was alive; now that he was dead and couldn’t even defend himself any more they wanted to go on lying. Truly repugnant.

‘I lost track of his lawyer again for about a year, maybe a year and a half. In that time he didn’t show up at the prison. I asked, and was told that he hadn’t stopped working: he’d simply stopped visiting his clients; later I found out that it wasn’t just that, Cañas wasn’t well: he no longer attended trials, he seemed to have delegated almost everything to his partners, he began to get a reputation for being standoffish and eccentric. I had grown fond of him, and felt bad that what had happened to him had happened to him, that things hadn’t gone well for him and had affected him so badly; I especially felt that it had happened because he had not listened to me, because he had got his hopes up and tried to defend Gamallo.’

‘Do you think that was the cause of the problems Cañas had?’

‘In part yes. I’m not saying his sorry tale with the girl had no bearing, although it had happened a long time before and it would be logical if, by the time Gamallo died, it had been forgotten; but, anyway, I can’t give an opinion on that. What I do know is that failure is a bad business, and that Cañas felt he had completely failed with Gamallo, after having invested so much in him. For me the problem was that Cañas had believed the legend of Zarco, as I already told you, and he had decided to redeem him, redeem the great delinquent, the symbol of his generation. That was his proposal, and not achieving it hurt him: fellows used to success don’t easily accept failure. So he felt like a failure, and perhaps guilty. Don’t you think so?’

‘No, but I’d like to know why you think that.’

‘Let me finish telling you the story and you’ll understand. Cañas took quite a long time before getting back into his habit of visiting his clients, but one afternoon, shortly after hearing that he’d started doing so again, I ran into him at the prison. We happened to meet in the foyer, as I was on my way out of my office having just finished for the day. Long time no see, Counsellor, I said in greeting. We were starting to miss you. Cañas looked at me with a speck of mistrust, as if he suspected I was making fun of him, but he soon smiled; physically he wasn’t the same man: he still wore an impeccable suit, but he’d lost a lot of weight and his hair was going very grey. I took a bit of a vacation, he said. So you jumped the gun on me, I replied. That’s what I plan to do in a couple of months, except my vacation’s going to be longer. You’re retiring? he asked. I’m retiring, I answered. It was true; but it wasn’t true that retiring made me as happy as I insisted on pretending: on the one hand it made me happy; on the other it made me uneasy: apart from resting and sitting in the front row for the spectacle of my physical and mental collapse, I didn’t know what I’d devote my life to when I retired, or what I’d do with it. I thought that, like Cañas, I was a bit pitiful too; and I immediately thought there’s nothing filthier than feeling oneself worthy of pity. Cañas and I kept talking. At a certain moment he asked: Can I buy you a coffee? I’m sorry, I answered. I dropped my car in at the garage on my way to work this morning and I have to go pick it up before they close. If you want I can give you a lift, Cañas offered. Don’t trouble yourself, I said. I was just going to call a taxi. Cañas said it was no trouble and settled the argument.

‘The garage was on the other side of the city, near the exit for the airport on the Barcelona highway. I don’t remember what we talked about on the drive, but I do remember that, as we rounded the bend at Fornells Park, already in the outskirts, Cañas brought up a client of his who’d recently arrived at the prison, a gas-station employee we’d been keeping under protection since he’d been admitted. Then Cañas started talking about Gamallo, who was the last of his clients subject to this exceptional treatment, and I thought that he’d brought up the gas-station attendant in order to bring up Gamallo. The lawyer confessed his disappointment, regretted that Gamallo hadn’t been able to live out his last years in liberty. Then he said: Anyway, at least you and I have clear consciences. After all, we did what we could for him, didn’t we? I didn’t answer. We were driving between a double row of car workshops and dealerships, and we turned right into an alley that led to the entrance to the Renault garage, in the back of the dealership. Cañas stopped his car in front of the open door of the garage, but he didn’t turn off the engine. Without losing his thread he continued: At least I think so. What’s more, I think almost everyone can have a clear conscience when it comes down to it. No one had as many opportunities as he did. Between the lot of us we gave him every chance, but he didn’t take advantage of them. Turning towards me he said: What could we do: it wasn’t our fault but his. I felt an awkward contrast between his reassuring words and his anxious gaze, and looked away: I wondered if our encounter in the foyer of the prison had been a coincidence or planned; I wondered if a man who says twice that he has a clear conscience has a clear conscience; I wondered if a man who makes excuses when no one has accused him of anything wasn’t accusing himself. I vaguely sensed that Cañas was suffering, I thought that he was still lost in his labyrinth, said to myself that this unburdening was no accident and he was seeking my approval, or rather he needed it.

‘I felt pity again, for him and for me, and again felt enraged at feeling pity. Only then did I intercede. Remember what I told you about Gamallo the first time we spoke about him? I asked; without waiting for an answer I went on: Believe me: I’m sorry that I was right. Anyhow, you’re right too when you say that the failure was not our fault; on that count you can rest easy. That said, don’t deceive yourself: Gamallo had no chance. None. We offered him all of them, but he didn’t have any. You were his friend and can understand that better than anybody. You understand, right? I read in his eyes that he didn’t understand; also that he needed to understand.

‘I looked inside the garage; they were just a couple of minutes away from closing time and I could only see one mechanic shuffling papers inside a glass-walled office. I sighed and undid my seatbelt. Let me tell you something, Counsellor, I said, and I waited for him to turn the engine off, before I went on. Have I ever told you that I’m from Toledo? My father and mother were both from there too. My mother died when I’d just turned five. My father didn’t have any relatives and didn’t remarry, so he had to raise me on his own. He was no longer a young man, he’d fought in the war and he’d lost; after the war he spent several years in prison. He had a job at a hardware store, very close to Zocodover Plaza, and, until I was fifteen years old, when I got out of school I’d always go to the store. I’d get there, sit on a stool to do my homework, at a little table near the counter, and wait for him to finish so we could go home. I did that every day of my life for ten years. Every day. Then, just as I turned sixteen, I was awarded a scholarship and went to Madrid to finish school. At first I missed my father and my friends a lot, but later, especially when I started studying at the university, I felt less and less like returning to Toledo. Of course, I loved my father, but I think I was a little ashamed of him; I also think a moment came when I preferred to see him as little as possible. I liked life in Madrid and he lived in Toledo. I felt like a winner and he was a loser. I was grateful to him for having raised me, sure, and, if he hadn’t died so early, I would have made sure he lacked for nothing in his old age; but, apart from that, I didn’t feel in debt to him, I didn’t think he mattered at all as a person, or had influenced me in any way. . Anyway, nothing out of the ordinary, as you see, normal things that happen between fathers and sons. Why am I telling you this? I paused and looked back inside the garage: the gate was still open and the mechanic hadn’t left the glass office yet. I’m telling you because my father never told me where good was and where evil was, I continued. He didn’t have to: before I had the use of reason I knew that it was good to go to the hardware store every afternoon, do my homework sitting on my stool beside him, wait for him until the shop closed. Evil could be many things, but that was surely good. I paused again; this time I didn’t look at the garage but kept looking at Cañas. I concluded: Nobody ever taught Gamallo any of that, Counsellor. They taught him the opposite. And who can say they weren’t right? Who can be certain that, in Gamallo’s case, what we call good wasn’t evil and what we call evil wasn’t good? Are you sure that good and evil are the same for everyone? And, in any case, why wouldn’t Gamallo be how he was? What opportunities to change did a kid born in a barracks hut ever have, who was in a reform school at seven and in jail at fifteen? I’ll tell you: none. Absolutely none. Barring, of course, a miracle. And with Gamallo there was no miracle. You tried, but there wasn’t. So you were completely right: at the very least it wasn’t your fault.

‘That’s more or less what I told him. The lawyer didn’t answer; he just moved his head vaguely up and down, as if he approved of my words or as if he didn’t want to discuss them, and soon we said our goodbyes: I went into the garage and he started up his car and drove off. And that’s how we left it.

‘You mean that was the last time you saw Cañas?’

‘No. Since then we’ve run into each other two or three times — most recently, at the supermarket: he was on his own and I was with my wife — but we haven’t spoken of Gamallo since then. Well, we’re finished here, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, but would you allow me to ask one last question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Were you being sincere with Cañas that day? Did you say what you said to him because that’s what you think or out of compassion? So he wouldn’t feel unsuccessful and guilty, I mean, to help him get out of the labyrinth.’

‘You mean about Gamallo not having any opportunity?’

‘Yes. Do you believe that?’

‘I don’t know.’