Lime's Photograph (10 page)

“Goodnight,” I said to his back, but he still didn’t answer. The cell was as good as soundproof. I couldn’t hear any other prisoners. I couldn’t hear any sounds from the street. I couldn’t hear jangling keys or shuffling footsteps. It was silent and peaceful. It was a strange feeling in Madrid, which is always noisy and never completely still. The only sound was the blood throbbing in my head and a faint humming from a pipe in the wall. I used the stinking hole in the corner, washed, brushed my teeth and lay down on the bed. I’m a bad sleeper. I don’t sleep much at all, and now it was impossible to relax and fall asleep. The light was on and the quiet set my nerves on edge. I missed Amelia and our little miracle. I forced myself to think about the good times we spent together. I understood how people could
become very vulnerable and even lose their minds when isolated from their fellow beings. I had always seen myself as a lone wolf who was comfortable, and maybe even happiest, in his own company, but I already missed to the pit of my aching stomach the company of my loved ones and other people, even if just strangers in a café. The Minister’s people knew what they were doing. If they kept me here long enough I would agree to anything. Almost. Because, along with my anxiety and fear, I was also angry and stubborn and felt deeply violated in body and soul. I lay on my back and kept this little flame of anger and chagrin burning. I needed a cigarette. I wanted to hold on to that sense of injustice, which would help me put up a fight. I knew it wasn’t any use meditating, so I just lay there as time stood horribly still and my thoughts raced erratically. I shivered and sweated alternately, even though the temperature, like the black silence amid the bright light, remained constant.

I must have dozed off finally, because I woke with a jolt when the door swung open. The two henchmen from Llanca came in, the small fat sweaty one and the big heavy. The big one glowered at me, and his expression told me that he hadn’t forgotten that I had nearly broken his wrist and his testicles were probably still black and blue. The small one attempted a smile. They were wearing suits, but the time of day was reflected in the rough, dark stubble on their chins. It was nearly 4 a.m. They looked exhausted. They’d come early, knowing that this was the time when defences were at their lowest, but actually they looked more tired than I felt. I had napped and was feeling quite fresh.

The big one leant against the door, covering the peephole. He had a habit of rubbing his left hand across his chin and then sliding it up and carefully twisting a finger in one of his nostrils. It was a strange kind of tic. As if he was nervous, while the rest of his body seemed menacingly composed. The small one leant against the wall. He had dead, grey eyes and a very narrow nose, and his eyes were deep-set
as if they had been shoved into place a little too forcefully when he was born.

I sat up and prepared myself for the beating they had undoubtedly come to give me. But instead the small fat one threw me a packet of Chesterfields and a disposable lighter. I lit up, inhaled deeply, felt my body tingle all over and a pleasant dizziness made the room swim momentarily. A few lines from an old poem by Sten Kaalø drifted into my mind.

And here in the kitchen in Skåne with the radio on the blue wax cloth

the sun has just risen above the hilltops

and a little dizzy from the first morning cigarette

I sit enthralled and listen

Years ago a local eccentric called Sigvaldi had sold copies of the poem from a pram he pushed around Copenhagen. I had been fascinated by poetry when I was young. Perhaps I had wanted to be a poet. This memory appeared out of the blue, as if I was losing my mind and could picture the past quite clearly, while the present remained enveloped in a fog. My detachment baffled them. They read it as anxiety, which probably wasn’t so wide of the mark.

“Calvo Carillo,” the man by the wall introduced himself. “My colleague is Santiago Sotello. There’s no reason to be afraid. How about talking business, Pedro? Surely this can be sorted out in a civilised fashion. We are, after all, mature and experienced men. We’re used to making our way in the world and leaving rash behaviour to the young. That being the privilege of youth.”

I smoked and didn’t say anything, just watched his strange doll-like eyes. Eyes like Maria Luisa’s teddy bear. Stuck on with a blob of glue.

“This could take a serious turn,” Carillo continued.

“You haven’t got a case,” I said.

“Serious in the sense that we can make life uncomfortable for you. Maybe you’ll be out in a couple of days. But then you’ll be back in again. The terrorist angle is flimsy, but every time there’s a killing we’ll haul you in for questioning. The assault charge is maybe a bit slim too, but the state has large resources at its disposal, and should we so wish we can find the witnesses to your brutal attack on a man in the service of the King. We would have to lock you up again, for further interrogation. For an identification parade. Do you get my drift?”

I nodded. I knew he was right. They could give me a really hard time. As if reading my thoughts, he continued with the list of harassments available to a modern, civilised and strong state when dealing with its citizens, or perhaps more specifically those people who are not its citizens.

He took a step forward.

“You are a foreigner in our country, but a foreigner who has learnt our language, understands our culture and I believe I can say has a certain love of the life here, right? It can be difficult to get a residence permit extended. At least, the process can take a long time and in the meantime we would have to withdraw your work permit. Wouldn’t we? Then there are the tax authorities. They can be exacting too, and they can also be very slow. They can ask for all manner of documentation, receipts, accounts. Insist on meetings, auditing checks, search warrants; delve into the past, contact business associates, demand payments, impose fines, embark on drawn-out court cases. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“And the church could always excommunicate me, I suppose?” I said.

Carillo smiled. The heavy glowered. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and rapped his thigh slowly and rhythmically with the baton that must have been there all the while, and which he now indicated
could be put to use if I didn’t listen to reason. A thick, vicious-looking cosh which he had obviously made himself. A solid rubber tube undoubtedly stuffed with lead and iron. These men were about as subtle as bulldozers. They were evidently in a hurry.

“No. There’s not really much the church can do, but the investigation could of course involve family and friends,” he said, without a trace of irony.

“Keep my wife out of this,” I said.

“When the wheels start turning, then the wheels start turning.”

“But they can be stopped?”

“They can.”

“How can I be sure they won’t start turning again?” I asked.

He looked at me, relieved. Now we had a negotiation under way. He was a politician’s lackey and he would rather solve problems through honourable compromise, both parties thinking they had come out of it without losing face.

“Nothing gets into print. We get the photographs and negatives, but of course we’ll have no way of knowing if you’ve kept the odd one or two.”

“No, you won’t,” I said.

“It’s of no matter. In a modern society it’s important to have an insurance policy which covers the unanticipated as well.”

“You’re a wise man,” I said.

He didn’t register the sarcasm, or else he didn’t want to hear it. I knew that he knew that I would accept the offer. What did the whole business actually mean to me? It meant a good deal of money, but I had all the money I needed. It meant that I would have to swallow a fair share of pride, but it wasn’t exactly a case that learned lawyers with expertise in freedom of speech legislation would study for years to come. They were hardly the kind of photographs that ideologists would use in defence of freedom of the press. They were photographs
taken because they would excite people’s curiosity and appetite for scandal. They were photographs which would fan the flames of righteous indignation, but they wouldn’t change anything one way or the other. And, personally, I couldn’t care less which politicians were in power. I thought it over while the little bureaucrat waited patiently.

“When can I get out?” I asked.

He hesitated. So there were certain complications.

“In 24 hours. Maybe sooner.”

“Why not now?”

“We should at least make it look as if the formalities have been observed, and that means getting you released by the judge. Frankly, we’ve leant on him a bit to get you in. I don’t think we’d be doing ourselves any favours by putting more pressure on him.”

“You mean he takes his responsibilities seriously?” I said.

“Perhaps.”

“I think it smells fishy.”

They had, all things considered, found me with amazing speed.

He paced the cell for a few moments. Watching him, I realised just how little space I actually had. A few steps back and forth. I knew I would go mad if I had to sit alone in a tiny cell for months.

“The business with the judge is genuine. But then of course we might want to have the photographs and negatives in our hands before we, as it were, drop the case. We don’t want any, and I mean not any, press coverage,” he said.

“I’m in solitary.”

“It can be arranged. You’ll be given access to a telephone tomorrow morning. You can have newspapers, a radio, a television, whatever food you choose, all the exercise in the yard you want, but the detention order remains in force until, let’s say, appropriate authorities appreciate that the case is bound to be thrown out because of the nature of the evidence.”

He flung his arms wide. What he was saying was: “This is the deal, I haven’t got anything else to offer, I can’t go any further. If I have to go further, then I’ll need to go and get new instructions.”

“OK,” I said.

“We’ve got a deal?”

He was surprised, but what else could I do? What had he expected? That I would shout and scream? Demand immediate release? I was familiar enough with the world he and I operated in to know that although he might be presenting me with a proposal, the bottom line had already been calculated and the figures had to add up.

“We have.”

“It’s a pleasure to do business with you,” he said, and held out his hand.

I shook it. He let me keep the cigarettes and the lighter. They left, wishing me a good night and saying they would see me again in the morning, and I smoked one more cigarette before lying down on the bed and falling asleep. I didn’t feel completely comfortable with what I had agreed to, but it was probably the best solution. Oscar would be a little disappointed about the money, but of course he would understand that photographs of an old lecher and a beautiful Italian actress were not worth all the hassle we would have to face if we put them on the market. We had lost a battle. We had lost battles before, just never to the powers that be. We would win others. Against the powerful, too. This was my reasoning, but I was kidding myself. Deep down I was cursing myself for having given in so quickly, and at the same time pleased because I could see my decision as the first step towards quitting one aspect of my job.

I had been thinking about it for quite a while, ever since my daughter had begun to talk. These days I felt something like shame at lying in wait to trap people at their most vulnerable. I’d already thought about stopping in order to concentrate on my portraits and perhaps
do some photojournalism. The money wouldn’t be the same, but did we really need more money, my little family and I? I had a nice portfolio of securities. If I sold my share in the firm, and if I found a good financial adviser, I would barely have to lift a finger for the rest of my life. Deep down, wouldn’t I like my daughter, in a few years’ time, to be able to look at me with pride and be able to talk about her father’s job without embarrassment? I felt rather relieved. I wasn’t exactly going to make a definitive decision that night in the cell, but I took a step or two in the right direction. People are fools. They think they can make decisions, but then discover that fate has shuffled the cards again.

But I managed to fall asleep, which is always a small miracle for me. I knew that things were up and running. I understood Spain well enough to know that it was a rich, civilised and modern country, but the Spanish still laboured under traditions and bureaucracy and everything took its time, so if I was given a telephone tomorrow I could just look at the next day as a day off.

And that’s what I did.

A new, younger warder appeared the next morning. He brought coffee and milk, bread and butter and the morning papers plus a radio. And not least a mobile phone which was fully charged and worked. This meant that the cell couldn’t have been completely insulated, unless it had been secured with an electronic filter which, in this day and age, they had been able to remove during the night. Because now I thought I could hear sounds: tapping, buzzing, clattering, a voice. It was as if I was no longer completely cut off from the world. Or perhaps it was a special telephone. It wasn’t mine, at any rate. It had a ringing tone, but neither a menu nor a memory like my phone, which also showed who had called and the name of the phone company. It was a Straightforward, modern device from which you could ring out, but couldn’t pass on the number. It occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t
a mobile phone at all, but a cordless, so that somewhere a pair of large, state ears were listening in. The new warder said that it was against all the rules, but that he had been instructed to let me have it for 15 minutes, then he would come and fetch it again.

I immediately rang Amelia. She picked up the telephone on the first ring and started crying when she heard my voice, but I calmed her down. I don’t think she had slept a wink. She was generally a calm and robust Spanish woman who was not easily unsettled, and she stopped crying so we could talk. I assumed the line was tapped, but they were welcome to hear me saying how much I missed and loved her and how much I looked forward to seeing her and Maria Luisa again. I was fine and would be home within 24 hours. I had a lump in my throat, but spoke in a calm voice and called her only Amelia and not Sugar, our little pet name for each other. She was the daughter of an intelligence officer, so she knew not to grill me. I explained the situation and the deal that had been made.