Barcelona Shadows (15 page)

“Are you sure, sir?” I ask him.

He looks at me, thinking of a reply. All of a sudden he squints his eyes and bites his lips.

“Yes,” he decides.

“The game is closed.”

I turn the roulette wheel and the ball runs fiendishly faster than the horses. Moisès Corvo can’t take his eyes off me. But he is distracted when the ball staggers and falls onto black eleven.

“Good choice,” I say, sweeping the chips towards him. Now he has some 300 pesetas and a croupier with little eyeglasses and bow tie on his side.

One of the ladies applauds in amusement and the bellboy, a boy about Blackmouth’s age but significantly cleaner and more polite, approaches the policeman.

“Would you like me to take your coat, sir?” he offers.

“No,” says Moisès Corvo curtly.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.” I look the policeman up and down. “Would you like to try your luck again, sir?”

The inspector takes the bait. He’s only ever played
twenty-one
and for pocket change. This is as seductive for him as it is new. The lady who applauded approves his decision to try again.

“Red thirty-two.” He moves three chips, 150 pesetas.

The bets are closed and I turn the wheel again. It should have been a black twenty-six, but—these things happen—the little ball jumps strangely and lands on red thirty-two. Moisès Corvo can’t believe it. Two wins on two bets. The public goes oooh, the bellboy again offers (now more insistently) to put away his outerwear, and the lady who applauds approaches the inspector (like the roulette ball).

“You’re very lucky,” she says, leaning over a bit, enough to make her neckline ooze flesh and promise.

“Now that you are by my side, I guess I am,” he responds, not forgetting that now, more than ever, the two security guards are keeping a close eye on him. Maybe not an anarchist, but he is looking a lot like someone with something up his sleeve.

I help him and make him lose the next two rounds. Well, more than help, I don’t interfere, and the ball falls where it will, and the bank wins, and it seems that everything goes back to normal. Two hundred pesetas less make the woman insist they go for a stroll, but 150 less make her lose interest and look around for another winner.

Moisès Corvo finds that it’s the moment to leave the tables and do what he came there to do. Now he has 250 pesetas, which is a lot more than he had when he came in, and he gives me
twenty-five
as a tip, which I thank him for. When he hands me the chip, though, he grabs my hand and gives me a penetrating look:

“Do we know each other?”

“I hope not, or we’d have a problem.”

“Pardon me?”

“If we knew each other, I couldn’t be your croupier.”

“But I’ve seen you somewhere, haven’t I?”

“This is a very small city.”

Moisès Corvo thinks of all the people he’s ever arrested or questioned, but he can’t place me. He can’t even imagine I’m the one who took his two children, and the one who was beside him the day he was shot, when he was expecting to cross over.

I can’t deny that it excites me, though, when I’m recognized. Especially because the face of this emaciated, yellowish croupier isn’t my face, or it is, but only circumstantially, and he was able to see past the skin, behind the disguise. He is much more perceptive than people think, and his contact with my trail every night has given him a deeper vision of reality. And darker, obviously. I’ve said it before, forgive me for repeating myself, but I like Moisès Corvo. We could be good friends, if I could have any.

The policeman addresses one of the security guards, the heftier one, and sees out of the corner of his eye how the other (a weakling who must be a relative of the owner because he doesn’t offer much security) rushes over.

“Sir,” he says in a serious tone, and then he turns towards the one who has just come over. “Miss.”

“We don’t like troublemakers,” warns the big one.

“Neither do I,” answers Corvo. “I’d like to see Mr André Gireau.”

The guards hesitate and look the inspector over again. He doesn’t look like Monsieur Gireau’s typical client.

“We don’t know any André Gireau.”

“I think you do.” Reluctantly, Moisès Corvo places a fifty-peseta token into the man’s pocket. “And so does this.”

“We can ask,” he concedes, but not without a fight. “But we need a name.”

“Madame Lulú.”

The scrawny one laughs under his breath. That dead ringer for King Alfons XIII doesn’t look like his name is Madame Lulú.

“Wait on the belvedere,” concludes the one with the marmoreal bearing.

The belvedere is the chic way to say large balcony, and even though Moisès Corvo doesn’t understand at first, he deduces that he has to go outside because the Milksop grabs him by an elbow and escorts him there.

“Let me go if you ever want to eat solid food again.”

The threat does its job and the guard runs his hand through his hair to smoothe it, let’s not fight. The policeman is a head taller than he: the Milksop is scared stiff.

At the balustrade, Moisès Corvo lights a cigarette and distracts himself watching the amusement park that extends along the mountain’s slope. One highlight is the “scenic railway”, which according to a sign is the name of the impressive roller coaster two and half kilometres long. The cars whip around those brave enough to ride it, in exchange for hair-raising screams. Further downhill, an attraction remains closed: it’s too cold for the water chute, boats that go up and down, to run. The queues at the booths for Alleys Bowling and the Palace of Laughter are long enough to discourage those more sensitive to the cold. Moisès Corvo buttons up his duster coat and pulls his hat down even further over his ears.

“Choose one.” A voice from behind him, unmistakable French accent. “You get a ride included in the price of admission.”

The inspector turns and finds himself face to face with a Mephistophelean presence, a very slender individual dressed all in black, with blond, almost platinum hair and beard, and skin so pale that the bluish veins on his nostrils and temples can be seen, like tiny dark streams.

“I didn’t come here to play,” responds the policeman.

“That’s not what Mr Roure told me.” He points to the stocky guard. Yes, his name is quite fitting, as it means oak tree.

“I came to win.”

The diabolical character (his fingernails long like guitar picks) acknowledges his wit and extends his hand.

“André Gireau.”

“Tobias Lestrade.” He shakes his hand.

“Like?…”

“Yes.”

“It must be strange having the same name as a fictional character.”

“You get used to it.”

“Êtes-vous français?”

It’s a bad sign when the other guy is asking the questions.

“My grandfather,” he lies, as he has been for a good while. “And you, what brought you to Barcelona?”

“Oh, I’m surprised you ask me that. I figured you must already know, if Madame Lulú sent you to me.”

“Ah, so you aren’t going to put me in the uncomfortable position of having to ask you for what you already know I’ve come for.”

“No, don’t worry about that. I understand the difficulties expressing out loud our most private desires. I’ll save you the awkwardness.”

“I appreciate that. It’s my first time and I’m pretty nervous.”

“Then allow me to buy you a drink. We like our special clients to feel comfortable.”

André Gireau leads Moisès Corvo to the restaurant, which now has the tables and chairs removed and they are setting it up as a dance floor for after midnight, when the rides close. With a sweep of his hand he orders the barman to serve them two cocktails, the regular, and he sits with the policeman at a reserved table.

“How is Madame Lulú?”

“Radiant.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“I’ll give her your greetings next time I see her.”

“Thank you. We both love the night, we don’t like the sun, and we live locked up in our luxurious cages. We have few opportunities for socializing, beyond our clients.”

“Do you have many dealings with them?”

“The clients? You’re getting a taste of it. I like to chat a bit, find out their tastes, their inclinations, and suggest what I think will be best for them.”

“And what do you think is my inclination?”

André Gireau runs his fingers through his thick beard and scratches his cheek, making the sound of toasted bread breaking.

“I think you are an imposter.”

Moisès Corvo has to hide his surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think that this is a disguise, that you aren’t who you say you are.”

“You offend me.”

“No, you offend me with a cheap trick. Do you really think I can’t tell the difference between classy people and a poor wretch like yourself? Mr Lestrade…” He leans over the table, as if about
to share a secret. He is completely relaxed, without a trace of anger in his expression or voice. “I have a gift. I strip people bare. In every sense of the word. I know how to look into people’s souls, I can read everyone with a single glance. And I see that you are not who you say you are.”

“And who am I, then?”

“I don’t know. Will you tell me? Why have you come?”

“A man told me about Madame Lulú, and she told me about you. You already know why I’ve come.”

“A man?”

“The gimp.”

“A lame man told you that here we could get what you desire.”

“More or less. I trust Madame Lulú and she trusts you.”

“Madame Lulú trusts everyone. She’s a whore who’s come up in the world. A good woman, but too innocent. She trusted you, which was obviously a mistake.”

“I know that you have what I’m looking for here.”

“Yes. We have it. But not for you. Mr Lestrade, I’ll say it more clearly, because it seems you don’t understand: you are not looking for that. You are looking for me, and you will understand that I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”

The waiter brings a tray with two yellowish drinks.

“What is this?” asks the policeman, keeping his gaze fixed on the blond man’s eyes.

“Gimlet. Gin and lime. Delicious.”

“Bring me a whisky.”

The waiter silently asks André Gireau for his authorization and he grants it.

Moisès Corvo decides to reveal his cards.

“I want to know who’s your provider.”

“Ah!” Histrionic, Gireau opens his arms as if he’s had an epiphany. “Now I like you, Mr Lestrade. You are starting to show yourself as you really are.”

“And I can be even better, but you won’t want to see it.”

“I love this tough act. Yes, this is the real you. I sensed it the minute you walked through the door, Mr Lestrade.”

The inspector, who is leaning against the back of the reserved table’s armchair, ever so casually lets the sides of his duster fall to each side. His revolver is clearly visible to Gireau.

“I didn’t come alone.”

“I see that. But it’s a shame, because your little friend should keep quiet during this conversation between two gentlemen, don’t you think?”

“That depends on you. It’s getting impatient with your arrogance.”

“Hmmm.” His index fingers on his lips, thinking it over. “I already told you that I can read people’s souls, and it’s not arrogant to admit that. Did you notice the skinny guard, the one who looks like he could be blown away by a strong wind?”

“Don’t tell me you hired him because he’s a good cocksucker.”

“
Touché
… No, he has other skills. He is one of the best marksmen in Barcelona, and right now he must be aiming directly at your head from outside. No, no, don’t bother looking for him: there is so much light here, you won’t be able to see him, but I can assure you he can see us. Well, you.”

“And if I were to decide that you are going to accompany me on a stroll tonight?”

“Do you know you’re not fooling anyone by pretending you’re not police? I mean, apart from the fact that you’re a terrible actor, it’s practically written on your face and in the way you walk. I know of what I speak, I’ve known a few in my time.”

“I can introduce you to as many as you want.”

“It seems you aren’t understanding me, Mr Lestrade. I’ll be frank with you: gambling has been banned for twenty years, but in Barcelona there are more casinos than in any other European city. This”—he taps his finger on the table, just as the barman brings over the glass of whisky—“this is one of the most important, and it has government protection. We have policemen, your colleagues, Mr Lestrade, covering our activities.”

“I don’t care about gambling. I want to know where the children come from.”

“I’ll make you an offer. I’ll hire you to work for us. I can’t deny feeling a certain sympathy for you, for this lone cowboy attitude of yours. You’ll make much more than you’re making now, and you’ll move among people who’d never give you a second glance in your current line of work. It’s a good offer.”

“Mr Gireau, I’ll admit you’re good at bribery. Surely you get everything you want with your golden tongue. Even the support of your favourite marksman”—he waves with a very false smile at the large windows, dedicated to Mr Milksop. “But you are wrong. You can gamble, you can manipulate people, you can steal all the money you want, but I will not allow you to hand over children to the depraved.”

“OK. I think I’ll have to explain it to you in more detail. Drink up your whisky, or grab the glass and come with me.”

André Gireau and Moisès Corvo leave the restaurant and return to the belvedere. He can see his breath, he hadn’t realized how warm they were inside.

“Look at the scenic railway. And look at the crowd queuing up. Why do you think they’re there, with this ball-busting cold?”

“Because they paid.”

“Wrong answer. Don’t try to think like them. You aren’t one of them and it won’t work for you. Their mattresses aren’t filled with feathers, they’re filled with 500-peseta bills.”

“In prison they won’t have either of those, Mr Gireau.”

“Don’t ruin it, Mr Lestrade, please. Answer.”

“Because they’re like little children with a toy.”

“Not bad, not bad. They have fun, and why? Because they have everything anyone could have, except for strong emotions. They can wake up and bathe in water from the Nile and breakfast on caviar and French wine. OK, I wouldn’t recommend it, but they could. But none of them wakes up feeling death close, or risk, or transgression. That’s what they’ve come here for.”