Outlaws

Epilogue

The True Story of Liang Shan Po

‘The last time we saw each other you told me that today you’d finish telling me the story. You promised you’d tell me why, instead of telling it yourself, you agreed that I should do it.’

‘I’ll tell you quickly.’

‘Don’t rush on my account: it’s our last day.’

‘I know, but a lot of time has passed since we last saw each other and in the meantime I’ve discovered that what I thought was the end of the story is not. Let’s cut to the chase. Have I already told you about the dinner parties Cortés and his wife would sometimes have for me at their house? In theory the idea was to find me a girlfriend; in practice as well, I guess, though most of the time it was just an excuse to get together on Saturday nights. This particular Saturday the guests were, as Cortés had told me earlier in the week, two women in their thirties who had just founded a small publishing house for which his wife was translating a popular philosophy book.’

‘My publishers.’

‘Silvia and Nerea, yes. I got along well with them, and over dessert, as usual at those dinners, Cortés and his wife steered the conversation round to office matters, so I would feel at ease, on home ground. This minor paternalism almost always irritated me, but that night I took advantage of it to show off, and by the time we were having coffee and liqueurs I started talking about Zarco and my relationship with him. I’d never spoken to Cortés or his wife about the subject, although they knew, as everyone did, that as a teenager I’d been a member of Zarco’s gang — María had proclaimed it to the four winds, after all — and of course they knew all or almost all of the ins and outs of my adventures as Zarco’s lawyer. In any case, that was practically the only topic of conversation for the rest of the evening, which went on until two or three in the morning.

‘The next day, Sunday, I slept all morning and spent the afternoon regretting having told that story to two strangers. At least a couple of times I phoned Cortés, who tried to calm me down by assuring me I’d been brilliant the night before, that I hadn’t said anything I shouldn’t have and he was sure I’d impressed the two publishers. First thing Monday morning I got a phone call from Silvia, and I immediately thought Cortés or his wife had put her up to it in order to reassure me. That’s not why she was calling. Silvia asked if we could have lunch together one day that week; she added that she had a proposal she wanted to make. What proposal? I wanted to know. I’ll tell you when we see each other, she answered. Give me a hint, I begged. Don’t leave me on tenterhooks. We want you to write a book about Zarco, she admitted. As soon as I heard the proposal I knew I was going to accept it; I also knew why I’d poured out the story of my relationship with Zarco to Silvia and Nerea: precisely because secretly I was hoping to convince them to make the proposal they’d just made. Almost embarrassed by my cunning, to keep Silvia and Nerea from suspecting that they’d fallen into my trap I turned down the proposal from the start. I told Silvia that I didn’t know how such an idea could have occurred to them and I was grateful to them but it was impossible. Without conviction, I argued: To begin with, I know how to talk, but not how to write. And besides, everything’s already been said about Zarco. That’s the best reason for you to write this book, Silvia replied easily. Everything’s been said about Zarco but it’s all lies; or almost all of it. You said so on Saturday. At least you have something true to tell. And, as far as you not knowing how to write, don’t worry about that: writing is easier than talking, because you can’t edit yourself as you talk, but when writing you can. Besides, Cortés told us you’ve begun a memoir or something like that. That’s what Silvia said, and only then did I realize, with relief, that for her and for Nerea what I’d thought a possibly romantic dinner had actually been a business dinner, if not a trap, and in that matter my novice-writer’s hunger had been joined to the neophyte publishers’ appetite for success. It’s not a memoir, I corrected her, on the verge of dropping the pretence that I didn’t want what I actually did want. They’re notes, remnants, scraps of memories, things like that; besides, they’re not just about Zarco. That doesn’t matter, Silvia enthused. That’s your book: the one you started to write before we asked you. Now you just need to finish off the remnants and sew them together.

‘Frankly, I got enthusiastic too. So much so that, after having lunch with Silvia the next day, I got down to work on it immediately, and for a month devoted my evenings and some entire nights to writing the book. Until I realized I wasn’t capable of it, especially because, even though everything I was writing was true, none of it sounded true. So I gave up. That was when Silvia suggested that I should tell another person the story, so they could take charge of writing it; it struck me as a good idea: it occurred to me that, as long as the story’s true, it didn’t matter who wrote it, and with time I’ve come to think that it’s preferable that someone other than me tell it, someone detached from the story, someone who is not affected by the story and can tell it with some distance.’

‘Someone like me.’

‘For example.’

‘So it was you who suggested my name?’

‘No. It was Silvia. Or maybe Nerea. I don’t remember. But it was me who approved you; and also who established the conditions. A few days after I accepted her suggestion, Silvia called and said she had the perfect person for the job. The next morning I received your book on the Aiguablava crimes. I hadn’t heard of you, but I’d followed the case in the papers, and I liked the book because, contrary to what I had tried to write, everything you told in it sounded true; even better I liked that not only did it sound true, it was, or at least your version of events coincided with that of the judge.’

‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

‘No, but many fantasies were told about that story, and I was glad that you didn’t let yourself be fooled by them and you didn’t give in to the temptation of reproducing them. I thought that, as well as knowing how to write, you were trustworthy.’

‘Thanks. Anyhow I should warn you that, in my case, it’s not such an achievement, because I’m one of those who think fiction always surpasses reality but reality is always richer than fiction.’

‘The fact is you were chosen, and I soon started telling you the story that we’re now almost at the end of.’

‘Almost?’

‘As I said it turns out that wasn’t exactly the end. The end — or what I now think is the end — happened a couple of weeks ago, after you and I saw each other last time. One afternoon, while I was with Gubau at the home of a client we were going to defend against a charge of embezzlement, I received a text message. “Hiya, Gafitas,” it said. “It’s Tere. Come and see me as soon as you can.” It was followed by an address on Mimosa Street, in Font de la Pòlvora, and ended: “It’s above José and Juan’s Snack-Bar. I’ll be expecting you.” I put my mobile away, tried to concentrate again on my client’s statement; after a while I realized that I wasn’t even taking in what she was saying and I interrupted her. Excuse me, I said, standing up. Something unexpected has come up and I have to leave. What’s up? Gubau asked anxiously. Nothing, I answered. You finish here and get a taxi back. We’ll talk tomorrow in the office.

‘It was about seven in the evening and I was in Amer, so I must have got to Font de la Pòlvora about half past seven. The neighbourhood gave me the same feeling as ever, a feeling of festering poverty and dirt; but the people, who packed the streets, seemed happy: I saw a group of children jumping on a dusty mattress, several women trying on dresses that were spilling out of a van, a group of men smoking and clapping along to a rumba. I soon found José and Juan’s Snack-Bar, on the ground floor of a building with a yellowish façade. I parked the car, walked past the snack-bar door and into the building.

‘In the hall I tried to turn on the light in the stairwell, but it didn’t work and I had to go up in the dark, feeling my way along the flaking walls. It smelled bad. When I got to the door of the flat Tere had indicated I pressed the bell, but it didn’t work either, and when I was about to knock on the door I noticed it wasn’t closed. I pushed it open, went down a tiny hallway and came out in a little living room; there was Tere, sitting in an old wingback chair, looking out the window with a blanket over her legs. I must have made a noise, because Tere turned towards me; recognizing me she smiled with a smile that had equal amounts of joy, surprise and weariness. Hiya, Gafitas, she said. That was fast. She brushed a hand over her dishevelled hair, trying to fix it up a bit, and added: Why didn’t you let me know you were going to come? I immediately realized something fundamental had changed in her, although I didn’t know what. She didn’t look well: she was very drawn, with big dark circles under her eyes and her bones very visible in her face; her lips, which had been red and full, were dry and pale, and she was breathing through her mouth. Instead of explaining that I showed up so quickly because she’d said to come as soon as possible, I asked: What are you doing here? What do you want me to do? she answered, almost amused. This is where I live. But that place, in truth, did not look like a home; it looked more like an abandoned garage: the walls of the room were grey and covered in damp stains; there was no furniture apart from a formica table, a couple of chairs and, on the floor, in front of Tere, an old television set, which wasn’t on; also on the floor I saw newspaper pages, cigarette butts, an empty litre-bottle of Coca-Cola. Oblivious to the mess, Tere was in her bathrobe, with her hands folded in her lap; under the robe she was wearing a pink nightgown. Can you walk? I asked. Tere looked at me questioningly; her eyes were a matte, lifeless green. You can’t stay here, I said. Tell me where your coat is and I’ll take you home. My words erased the joy from Tere’s face. I’m not going anywhere, Gafitas, she replied. I already told you I live here. I stared at her; she was very serious now. Come on, she said, gesturing vaguely. Grab that chair and sit down.

‘I sat down in front of her. I took her hands: they were just skin and bones, and they were cold; without saying anything, Tere stared out the window. Through the dirty panes I could see the backs of a couple of tower blocks where tons of garbage and useless stuff was piled up, some kids playing football in a vacant lot, and beyond that, tied to a post, an old work horse grazing in a field; dark, rocky-looking clouds covered the sky. I asked Tere if she was ill; she said no, she’d just had a bit of flu, she was on the mend now, that she was eating well and was well looked after. That’s what she said, but, since many explanations are less convincing than a single one, and since her appearance was not exactly healthy, I didn’t believe her. Julián would be there soon, she added. I didn’t ask who Julián was. There was a silence that lasted too long, and I unexpectedly broke it by asking her why she’d abandoned me after Zarco’s death, why she’d left without saying anything; I immediately regretted the question, but Tere seemed to think her answer through conscientiously. Before telling me she let go of my hands and leaned back in the armchair again. I don’t know, she answered; but she immediately contradicted herself: Besides, you wouldn’t understand either. As if in a hurry to change the subject she began talking about Font de la Pòlvra; Tere knew I went there once in a while — once in a very long while — for work, and at some point asked me how I saw the neighbourhood. As usual, I answered. The city changes but this place always stays the same. Tere nodded pensively; after a while she ran her tongue over her lips and smiled slightly. More or less like me, she said. I asked her what she meant. She shrugged, looked out the window for a moment and then looked back at me. Well, she said. I tried to change too, didn’t I? And immediately, undoubtedly because she noticed a trace of confusion or bewilderment on my face, she explained: To change, to be someone other than who I was, to be different. I tried. You know I did. I moved away, I tried to study, I went out with you, with Jordi, I don’t know. . All for what. I was an idiot, I thought it would work. And here I am again. She paused, added: at Liang Shan Po. She smiled again, now with a broader almost cheerful smile, and, before I could get over my surprise, she asked: That’s what you used to call the prefabs, right? I didn’t answer, I didn’t ask her if she’d heard that from Zarco: after all nobody else could have told her. Tere unfolded her hands for a moment and with one of them gestured towards everything outside the window, the unredeemed misery of that ghetto where the last residents of the prefabs had been confined, just after the summer of ’78. She said: Well, here you have what’s left of Liang Shan Po. I hoped she’d go on, but she didn’t; all I could think of to say was: That Liang Shan Po thing is stupid. Tere replied: I told you you wouldn’t understand.

‘I was going to ask her again what she meant when she took the blanket off her legs and stood up. I have to go to the bathroom, she said. I stood up and, as I helped her to walk, I realized she was even thinner than she looked at first glance: I felt her shoulder blades and hipbones in my hands. There was no light in the bathroom and the toilet tank was broken. Fearing that she might fall, I asked her if she wanted me to stay in there with her, but she said no, handed me a plastic bowl and asked me to fill it with water from the kitchen. I did what she said and, while listening to her urinate behind the door, with the bowl in my hands, waiting for her to finish, I felt that I had to get her out of that place, not for her sake, but for mine. Since she seemed to be taking too long I asked if she was all right; her answer consisted of opening the door, taking the bowl from me and shutting herself in there again.

‘When she came out she’d washed her face and combed her hair. She held the bowl out to me and asked me to put it back in the kitchen. I was about to say: Let’s just go, Tere. You’re sick, you have to see a doctor. Put some clothes on and I’ll go get the car. But I waited, I didn’t say anything. I took the bowl, Tere started to walk on her own back to her armchair and wrapped herself back up in the blanket. She seemed very tired from the effort and stared out the window; the sky was even darker than before, but night hadn’t yet fallen. I left the basin in the kitchen and went back into the room. When she saw me, Tere said: Aren’t you going to ask me why I asked you to come over? I sat back down in front of her and reached for her hands again, but she pulled them away and folded her arms, as if she’d just got a sudden chill. What did you ask me here for? I asked. Tere let a few seconds pass; then she said, straight out: I gave you guys away. I heard the words, but didn’t understand their meaning; Tere repeated them. Knowing what she was talking about, I asked her what she was talking about.’

‘She was talking about the last robbery, no? The robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular.’

‘Right.’

‘She meant she was the one who gave them the tip-off.’

‘Right. I went quiet, silent, as if she’d told me she’d just seen a UFO or that she’d just been sentenced to the electric chair. Tere unfolded her arms and, as soon as she started to speak (slowly, with many pauses), I looked away from her and fixed my gaze beyond the window and the kids who were still playing football, on the horse that was ambling around his post. Tere assured me that what she’d said was the truth, repeated that it had been her who had informed the police and that’s why she’d made an excuse not to participate in that morning’s robbery. They scared me, she explained. They threatened me. Although if they’d only threatened me I wouldn’t have said anything. They threatened my mother and my sisters, threatened to take the kids away. They were fed up with us, especially fed up with Zarco. They wanted to catch him any way they could; for his own sake and because they knew that, if they caught him, the gang would be finished. They put me between a rock and a hard place. I knew that sooner or later they’d catch us; and I also knew that Zarco would never suspect me and that, if by some miracle he found out that I’d snitched on you, he wouldn’t do anything to me. Not to me. So I ended up giving in. What choice did I have? The question hung in the air for a few seconds. I was stunned: I didn’t know what to think, except that what Tere said was true. How could it not be? What interest could Tere have in lying about it, and so many years later at that? What could she possibly gain from accusing herself of such a thing? Only I insisted on one condition, she continued. And they agreed. This time she waited for me to ask the question, but I didn’t. The condition was that they’d let you escape, she said. I looked away from the window and stared at her. Me? I asked. Tere touched the beauty spot beside her nose. I had to choose someone and I couldn’t choose Zarco, she explained. I told you already: they weren’t going to let Zarco escape; you they would. She paused. You understand, right? she said. That morning the cops weren’t after you. Even if Zarco hadn’t stopped at La Devesa they wouldn’t have caught you; and if they had caught you they would have let you go pretty soon. That was the deal I made with them. And those kinds of deals are kept. You know better than I do.

‘That was it: I did know; but I still didn’t know what to think, or what to say. I said: Why are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you tell me before? Tere answered: Because before Zarco was alive and I didn’t want you telling him. She added: And because I don’t want you to keep thinking something that isn’t true. I want you to know the truth; and the truth is that you never owed Zarco a thing. Tere sat there looking at me expectantly for a few seconds. Since I didn’t say anything she asked: Are you mad at me? Why would I be? I answered. Didn’t you say you saved me? Yeah, she said. But before that I snitched on you. You and everybody. And on top of that I let everybody believe that the one who snitched was you. What were you going to do? I replied, shrugging. First you had no choice but to give us up; then you had no choice but to keep quiet about having given us up. Besides, I continued, after a pause: Do you know how many years ago that happened? Thirty. It doesn’t matter to anyone any more. The ones it could have mattered to are dead now. Zarco’s dead. Everybody’s dead. Everybody except you and me. Tere listened to me attentively, I don’t know whether relieved or sceptical, and when I finished talking turned back towards the window. I looked at her sharp profile, at her very pale cheeks and temples, blue networks of veins showing through. Before I could go on, Tere said: Look. It’s raining.

‘I looked: a heavy, slow shower was falling from the sky, chasing the boys off the vacant lot; the horse, however, stood motionless under the rain. I pulled my chair up closer to Tere’s until our knees were touching, and just when I was about to speak I noticed that her left leg was still, quietened, without its perpetual piston movement. All of a sudden I was sure that was the change I’d noticed when I saw her, and that change changed everything. Tere, I said, taking her hands again. She seemed absorbed by the rain, exhausted by the confession she’d just made. I repeated her name; she turned and looked at me. Do you remember the Vilaró arcade? I asked her. Do you remember the first time we saw each other? Tere waited for me to continue. Do you know the first thing I thought when I saw you? There was silence. I thought you were the most gorgeous girl in the world. And do you know what I think now? Another silence. That you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world. Tere smiled with her eyes, but not with her lips. Let me take you to a hospital, I said. Then we’ll go home. Nothing will happen to you. I’ll take care of you. And we won’t be apart again. I promise you. Tere listened to me without batting an eyelid, without losing the smile. When I finished speaking she let a few seconds pass, took a deep breath, sat up a little, took my cheeks in her hands and kissed me; her lips didn’t taste of anything. Then she said: You have to get going, Gafitas. Julián will be here any minute.

‘She didn’t say anything else. I didn’t insist. I knew it was futile. We sat there opposite each other, looking out the window in silence while the room gradually grew dark; outside, abandoned beneath the rain, the dray horse seemed to look back at us with an almost human gaze. After a while Tere said again that I should leave. I stood up and asked if I could do anything for her. Tere moved her head almost imperceptibly from one side to the other, before she said no. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow, she added. I looked at the chaotic disarray of the flat and noticed the plural. Where to? I asked. Tere shrugged. Somewhere, she said. Then I thought I wasn’t going to see her again and took a step towards her. Please, Gafitas, said Tere, holding up one hand. I stopped, stood still there for a couple of seconds, staring at her, as if the suspicion had suddenly hit me that this image of Tere, ill, sitting in that wingback chair, in that desolate flat in that miserable neighbourhood, wearing a blue bathrobe and frayed nightgown, pale, drawn and exhausted, was going to supplant all the others I had of her for the rest of my life, and my memory had already started to struggle against that flagrant injustice. Until, without another word, I turned and left.

‘A violent downpour was falling over Font de la Pòlvora when I walked out of Tere’s building.

‘That night and the next two days were agonizing. I didn’t want to phone Tere or return to Font de la Pòlvora, but I sent her several texts. At first she answered. I asked her how she was and if she needed anything and she answered that she didn’t need anything and that she was fine. The last text she sent me said: “I’m better, Gafitas. The doctor’s given me the all-clear. I’m off. Bye.” I replied congratulating her, asking her where she was and where she was going, but she didn’t answer me any more. Once the first moment of frustration was over, I calmed down, and then the anguish turned into a bittersweet feeling: on the one hand I thought I wouldn’t see Tere again, that this was the end of the story and everything that had to happen to me had now happened to me; but on the other hand I thought I finally knew the truth and that, now, everything did fall into place. The calmness — or at least the calming sensation that everything fell into place — didn’t last long. One of those nights, while I was having a drink at home before going to bed, I was struck by a doubt. I spent most of the night battling it, and the first thing I did the next morning when I got to the office was ask my secretary to find me Inspector Cuenca’s phone number. I suppose I’ve told you that after the summer of ’78 the inspector and I still saw each other.’

‘You mentioned it; the inspector also told me that after that summer you lost touch with each other for some years, after which you began to see each other again as if you’d never met.’

‘It’s true. We pretended we didn’t know each other, and we pretended very well. We mostly saw each other at the time when he worked for the civil government, almost directly across the street from my office, as a security advisor for the governor. We became rather friendly during those years, but even then neither of us ever mentioned anything, much less whether he had been on the verge of sending me to prison for belonging to Zarco’s gang. Later we stopped seeing each other again and then, not long ago, I heard that he’d been chief of the airport police station for some time. And there, at the airport, my secretary found him that morning. When I told the inspector I needed to talk to him, he just asked: Is it urgent? It is for me, I answered. He said his morning was pretty busy but we could see each other mid-afternoon, and suggested I come see him in his office at the airport. It’s a private matter, I said. I’d rather talk somewhere else. I heard silence at the other end of the line; then I heard: Well, as you wish. He asked when and where we should meet; I said the first thing that came into my head: at six, on a bench in Sant Agustí Plaza.

‘At quarter to six I was already sitting in the sun on a bench in Sant Agustí Plaza, in front of the statue of General Álvarez de Castro and the city’s defenders. Shortly after six Inspector Cuenca showed up, out of breath and with his jacket folded under his arm. I stood up, shook his hand, thanked him for coming, suggested we could have a coffee at the Royal. The inspector dropped onto the bench, loosened the knot of his tie and said: First tell me what you want to talk about. I sat down beside him and, without giving him time to catch his breath, asked: You haven’t guessed? Still panting, he gave me a look that was halfway between ironic and suspicious; he asked: You want to talk about Zarco? I said yes.

‘The inspector nodded. He seemed to be ageing well, but for some reason his face made me think of a tortoise; a sad tortoise. He was facing straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the statue of General Álvarez de Castro or on the maple trees that surrounded the centre of the plaza or on the big white parasols that shaded the terraces of the bars or on the arches or the cream-coloured façades covered with strings of wrought-iron balconies; a drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. Well, he said with resignation, once he’d caught his breath. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later, didn’t it? Arranging his jacket on his lap he asked: What do you want to know? Just one thing, I answered. Who was the informer? Inspector Cuenca turned to me as he wiped away the drop of sweat from his cheek; I asked: You know what I mean, don’t you? Before he could answer I reasoned: You were waiting for us outside with your people. You knew we were going to rob that bank. Somebody must have told you. Who was it? Inspector Cuenca didn’t look away; he seemed more annoyed than intrigued. What do you want to know that for? he asked. I need to know, I answered. What for? Inspector Cuenca repeated. This time I didn’t answer. Inspector Cuenca blinked several times. I’m not going to tell you, he finally said, shaking his head. Professional secret. For fuck’s sake, Inspector, I said. It was thirty years ago. That’s true, said the inspector. And that’s precisely why you should have forgotten this story by now. I, however, still have my obligations, especially to people who confided in me. Would you reveal a client’s secret, even thirty years after they confided in you? Don’t play games, Inspector, I protested. This is not a normal case. Don’t play games, Counsellor, he protested. There’s no such thing as a normal case.

‘We fell silent. I let a few seconds go by. OK, I conceded. I’m not going to ask you to tell me who it was. I’ll just ask you to tell me yes or no. I paused and then asked: Was Tere the informer? Now Inspector Cuenca looked at me with genuine unmitigated curiosity. Tere? he asked. Which Tere? Zarco’s girlfriend? I was about to tell him that she wasn’t actually his girlfriend but Zarco’s sister, but I just said yes. Inspector Cuenca’s face gradually lit up, until the laughter illuminated it entirely; I think it was the first time in my life I’d ever seen him laugh: it seemed like a strange laugh, the cheerful laughter of a young man from the disillusioned face of an old one. What’s the matter? I asked. Nothing, he answered. The inspector barely smiled but he wasn’t sweating any more, although it was still hot; his thick veiny hands were still holding his jacket on his lap. It’s just that I can’t believe you’re serious, he said; immediately he asked: You liked that girl, didn’t you? I blushed. And what’s that got to do with it? I asked. Nothing, said the inspector and, meaning you, he added: The journalist who’s going to write about Zarco told me. What he told me is that you joined Zarco’s gang for the girl. Is that true? I couldn’t see any need to lie, so I told him it was true. I asked the inspector why he asked; he said no reason; he went on: And might I know where you got the idea that the girl was my confidante? I didn’t say she was your confidante, I corrected him, I just asked if that time she was your informer. Same thing, he said. Who knows what you’ve told that journalist. . But have you forgotten how things worked with Zarco? Do you really think one of his own would have dared talk? Would you have dared talk? Don’t you remember how scared everyone was of Zarco? I wasn’t scared of him, I hastened to reply. I did what he said but I wasn’t scared of him. Of course you were scared of him, said Inspector Cuenca. And if you weren’t you were more oblivious than I thought, more oblivious than any of your friends. Zarco was a nasty piece of work, Counsellor. Very nasty. As far as I know he always was. How would any of his own dare to inform on him? And, least of all, that quinqui girl; you must have known it: she was as loyal as a dog, I couldn’t have got her to give up Zarco even if I pulled her fingernails off.

‘I thought Inspector Cuenca was right. I thought that, actually, before talking to Inspector Cuenca I already knew that Tere could not have been the informer, and that I’d only wanted to talk to Inspector Cuenca to confirm it. I have another question, I said to Inspector Cuenca. He was staring straight ahead, with his eyes half-closed against the sun; the jacket placed on his lap concealed his belly. I said: I’ve always wondered why you let me go that night, why you didn’t arrest me. Inspector Cuenca immediately understood I meant the night he came looking for me in Colera, and the proof is that only a couple of seconds went by before he murmured: Now that is a good question. He said it without looking at me, curving his wide mouth and thick eyebrows; since he didn’t go on I asked: And what’s the answer? He let another couple of seconds go by and said the answer is that there is no answer. That he didn’t know what the answer was. That he had no idea. That he had never let any other guilty suspect go on purpose and at first he even regretted having done so, until he reached the conclusion that he might have done it for the wrong reasons. Here he seemed to reflect for a moment and added: Like all the best things I’ve done in my life.

‘I thought he was joking; I looked him in the eye: he wasn’t joking. I asked him what he meant. Then he started to tell me about his life: he told me he hadn’t been born in Gerona but he’d been living in Gerona for almost forty years and that he often thought that, had he not ended up in this city, his life would probably have been a disaster, in any case it would have been much worse than it had been. And do you know why I ended up here? he asked. Without waiting for an answer he raised one of his hands and pointed towards the centre of the plaza. For that, he said. I looked in the direction he was pointing and asked: For the statue? For General Álvarez de Castro, he answered. For the siege of Gerona. Do you know there’s a novel by Galdós about it? Sure, I said. He asked me if I’d read it and I said no. I have, he said. Twice. The first time was many years ago, when I was eighteen and doing my practical training in Madrid. The book made a big impression on me, I thought it was a great war novel, and that Álvarez de Castro was a fabulous hero. So, when it came time to choose a posting, I decided to come here: I wanted to see the city, wanted to get to know the city where Álvarez de Castro had fought, or Álvarez de Castro’s men, I don’t know. Inspector Cuenca then told me that a few weeks earlier, exactly when he was talking to you about his relationship with Zarco, he’d mentioned the Galdós novel and what it had meant to him, and having done so piqued his curiosity and he reread it. And do you know what? said Inspector Cuenca, turning once again towards me. I thought it was shit; rather than a novel about war it seemed like a parody of a war novel, an affected, gruesome and pretentious thing set in a cardboard-cut-out city where only cardboard-cut-out people live. And as for Álvarez de Castro, Inspector Cuenca also said, Frankly: he’s a disgusting character, a psychopath capable of sacrificing the lives of thousands of people in order to satisfy his patriotic vanity and not surrender an already defeated city to the French. Anyway, Inspector Cuenca concluded, after I finished reading the book I remembered that I once heard a professor on TV say that a book is like a mirror and that it’s not the person who reads the book but the book that reads the person, and I thought it was true. I also said to myself: Damn, the best thing that happened in my life happened to me due to a misunderstanding, because I liked a horrible book and because I thought a villain was a hero. Inspector Cuenca fell silent; then, without taking his eyes off me, looking at me with infinitely ironic mischief, with absolutely serious irony, he asked: How do you like that?

I thought over my reply, or rather pretended to be thinking it over. I was actually thinking that it wasn’t Tere who had lied to me but Inspector Cuenca, and that the inspector was telling me all that to distract me from the fundamental issue, to continue protecting his confidante more than thirty years after she’d confided in him. For a moment I wanted to persist, carry on the interrogation, but I remembered my last conversation with Tere and told myself it made no sense: La Font and Rufus and the district had disappeared decades ago, and Inspector Cuenca and I were nothing but two relics, two charnegos from back when charnegos still existed, an old cop and an old gang member turned shyster sitting on a bench in the late afternoon like two pensioners talking of a vanished ruined world, of things nobody in the city remembered any more, and that didn’t matter to anybody. So I chose to let it go, to keep quiet, not to keep asking: I didn’t know if it was Tere who had told me the truth and Inspector Cuenca who lied, or if it was Tere who had lied and Inspector Cuenca who was telling the truth. And, since I didn’t know, I couldn’t know if Tere had loved me or not, or if she had only loved me in an occasional and conditional way, while she had loved Zarco permanently and unconditionally. Actually, I said to myself then — and I was surprised I’d never thought it before — I didn’t even know how Tere had loved Zarco, because I had no proof that Tere and Zarco were sister and brother and that Tere hadn’t lied to me years before, in my office, telling me they were, to convince me to keep helping Zarco up until the end; actually, I said to myself then, I didn’t even know either if, supposing it was true that Tere and Zarco were sister and brother, after finding out the real kinship between them that Tere had loved Zarco in a different way than she’d loved him before knowing it. I didn’t know anything. Nothing except that it wasn’t true that everything slotted into place in that story, and that there was an infinitely serious irony in it or an absolutely ironic mischief or an enormous misunderstanding, like the one Inspector Cuenca had just told me about. And I also thought that after all perhaps it wasn’t the end of the story, that perhaps not everything that had to happen to me had happened and that, if Tere came back again, I’d be waiting for her.

‘I looked out of the corner of my eye at Inspector Cuenca, and said to myself that in spite of his air of a sad tortoise and disillusioned old man he was a fortunate man. I thought it but I didn’t tell him. The question I’d asked him remained unanswered and we sat there in silence for a while, enduring the sun on our faces, watching through half-closed eyes the urban hustle and bustle of Sant Agustí in front of General Álvarez de Castro. Until at some point I stood up and said: Well, now can I buy you a coffee? Inspector Cuenca opened his eyes wide, as if my question had woken him up; then he sighed again, stood up as well and, as we started across the plaza towards the Royal, said: If it’s all the same to you, let’s have a beer.’