Tattoo (13 page)

‘He was never going to stay at Philips for long. He couldn’t get used to this,’ she said, making the gesture of clocking in with a card.

‘Were you the first woman he got close to in Holland?’

‘No, I suppose not. After the Philips factory he went to Amsterdam and found work as a doorman at a live-sex club.’

‘A doorman?’

‘Well, he used to be in some of the acts. And in that line of business, you know, you meet lots of people, not all of them honest.’

‘In other words, he fell in with crooks.’

‘No, not exactly. Singel told me you already knew all about it. I don’t think people who sell drugs are necessarily
crooks. That depends on the drugs. If it’s heroin or cocaine or opium, that is criminal.’

The widow was speaking without looking at Carvalho. Just like everyone else, her ideology justified her own way of life.

‘Did Chesma meet you through Singel?’

‘No, the other way round. I got to know Singel and all the rest through Julio. Two years ago. He came to Rotterdam often on business. I don’t know how, but he had got hold of a pass for meals in an artists’ centre. It’s cheaper, and the food is decent. I always eat there. I work organising the artistic festivals of Rotterdam, in the Doolen, just by Central Station. We met at the restaurant there. I was fascinated by the huge gap between what that boy was and what he could be.’

‘So you entered their organisation.’

All at once she was on her guard.

‘Singel told me I wasn’t to answer anything about that kind of thing.’

‘I simply wanted to know if Julio was a strong enough personality to drag you into something illegal.’

‘I did a few things. Only a very few, and above all to keep him from doing them. If he had been caught, they would have thrown him out of the country or put him in jail. Can you imagine Julio in a jail?’

‘I can imagine anyone in a jail.’

‘Some people wouldn’t be able to stand it.’

‘You could count them on the fingers of one hand, and there are something like three billion people in the world today. In fact we’re made up of two groups: those who go to jail and those who might go to jail. That’s the secret of success of all politicians everywhere.’

‘But some people are especially sensitive. Julio was one of them.’

‘Beware of people who are especially sensitive. They’re capable of cleaning out the worst latrines in the filthiest jails in the world.’

‘You didn’t really know him.’

‘OK, go on. Julio shows up, you fall in love. You see him off and on. He gets you involved in the drug business. You get him involved in the literature business. Fair exchange: you get money and he gets culture.’

‘I never made a penny out if it! I only did it to protect him!’

Carvalho felt a desire to arouse sincere anger in this woman who was so good at playing a role without realising she was doing it. The secret of seduction lay in the wide, soft bed with its red-and-white sheets. All the rest was literature or an ideological mask to disguise the skeleton of the most primordial instinct of all.

T
he widow Salomons sat on the bed. Her legs were slightly splayed, revealing the firm consistency of her thighs. Carvalho feasted his eyes. ‘Bit by bit he started staying longer in Rotterdam. He made two or three trips to Spain before going back the last time.’

‘Have you any idea how it occurred to him to have a tattoo like that done?’

‘No, but perhaps he thought it was his personal motto. Nothing he got involved with ever ended happily. He was thrown out of everywhere, but he was a leader. A born leader.’

‘Why did he decide to go back to Spain to live?’

‘I’ve no idea if he meant to stay there. Our relationship gradually fell apart.’

‘From your side too?’

‘No.’

It was a faint, uncertain ‘no’, as if on a low flame.

‘No,’ she said again, more firmly. ‘I still loved him. A lot. But he wasn’t someone to settle down.’

‘Do you have children?’

‘A boy.’

‘He goes to boarding school?’

‘Did Singel tell you that?’

‘No, but it’s obvious.’

‘He would never have understood my relationship with Julio. In fact, it was Julio who was most against him being sent away to school, but that was the only way. This is a small apartment.’

‘Will the boy come back to live with you now?’

‘I’ve got used to this way of life. So has he. He’s very happy as he is. Besides, I’m still young.’

‘Did Julio ever write to you about anything specific in Spain? About people he knew?’

‘No, he tried to avoid it. The letters he wrote were very sincere: he would tell me when he met other women, but never said who they were.’

‘Had he been writing to you recently?’

‘Less.’

‘Have you kept his letters?’

‘Some of them perhaps. At first I kept them all, but then I grew scared my son might find them. He spends the weekends with me, and they were very intimate letters.’

‘Can I read them?’

‘I’m sorry, but they’re personal.’

‘Are there any that might give me some clue as to what he was doing in Spain, where he was, who he was seeing?’

‘He never mentioned any names.’

‘But if he wrote to you about the women in his life, he must have said something specific about them.’

‘No. Never. He had grown used to being careful.’

‘No addresses either?’

‘Yes, he did give those.’

She got up and rummaged in the desk drawers. She took out an envelope and handed it to Carvalho. The handwriting was laborious, as though it had been carefully studied at school, although the neatness of the strokes was spoilt by the use of a cheap biro. Carvalho looked at the sender’s address
on the back, and noted it down: ‘Teresa Marsé, 46 Avenida General Mitre, Barcelona’.

‘What links did he have with the organisation from Spain?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘I mean personal links, not business ones. Did Singel and the others still feel they could trust him?’

‘Completely. When he heard Julio was dead, Singel was really upset. Such a horrible death!’

The tears began to flow again. She peered at Pepe through the waterfall.

‘Did you see the body?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Is it true he had no face left?’

‘So I heard.’

‘Well then, it might not be him. Has the body’s identity been confirmed?’

It’s easy enough to do a tattoo. A dead body can be switched. It could well not have been Julio Chesma. In his mind’s eye Carvalho no longer saw the limp, tear-stained widow, but Señor Ramón. What was he trying to confirm? The identity of a dead man, or the confirmation of an identity?

‘So Julio never gave you any idea of what he was up to in Barcelona?’

‘Don’t start that again. You know I can’t tell you anything about that. Besides, I haven’t the faintest idea. I know nothing.’

‘His death could have been a settling of accounts.’

‘Singel thought the same and is very worried.’

The widow had got up from the bed. She was not a limp rag doll any more. She glanced at her watch: Carvalho had been told it was time to go in many less polite ways.

‘I have to go,’ he said, making as if to set off downstairs.

‘Have you found out all you wanted to know?’

‘Not everything. But the circle is closing.’

‘And where is it taking you?’

‘Back to the beginning. That’s the surprise you get when things come full circle.’

He led the way down the stairs because he had learnt that is it polite to go upstairs behind women and to go down in front of them. Not all women understood why this was how it should be, and on more than one occasion Carvalho had seen his efforts at politeness interpreted in quite the wrong way. But the widow Salomons was well educated, and even smiled when Carvalho started down the steps ahead of her. Pepe was wondering whether he should throw a lifeline, to make their meeting into something more than a wake for a lost lover. All he had to say was: ‘I’m sorry we had to meet in such tragic circumstances. Are you doing anything this evening?’ By the time this thought had been transferred from brain to face, he had turned to the widow and was leering at her like a professional undertaker enquiring whether she had found the ceremony to her satisfaction.

‘I’m sorry you had to go through this difficult moment. Some things are best forgotten.’

The widow Salomons’ head dropped to her ample chest. Carvalho feared more waterworks. But then she lifted her head again and smiled at him through her tears with the stoic look of a Trojan woman accepting her destiny and death. Carvalho cast a last backward look at this suffering Trojan determined despite everything to seek new lovers she could regenerate through culture. Hypersensitive lovers who deserved to be more than they were; lovers who fought the good fight in bed and kept her feeling young as long as her skin was smooth and her flesh firm.

T
he desk sergeant said he did not know whether Kayser was in the building. A minute later, the big blond inspector who had visited Carvalho twice at his hotel came into the room. Kayser was in, and would not be long. The inspector again offered Carvalho one of his tiny cheroots. Usually Carvalho smoked only heavyweight cigars, but he took one because novelties always fascinated him.

‘Have you got something interesting for Kayser?’

‘My farewell. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘That is interesting. We’ve been very worried about you, Mr Carvalho.’

‘You shouldn’t have worried. I’m only here as a tourist.’

‘I see your eye is a lot better. There were two more attacks in the red light district last night.’

‘It seems such a peaceful place.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

The glass door opened. An arm appeared, and then a man equally as massive as the blond inspector came into the office. His hair was grey, but he had such an air of energy about him that he immediately dominated the room, like one of those charismatic actors who drive everyone else off the stage. As soon as Kayser walked in, Carvalho forgot about the other man. He hardly even realised he was still in the room, sitting in a corner as though he were in the front stalls
to watch the show of fake conviviality Kayser and Carvalho were putting on.

‘I would never have forgiven you if you’d left without saying goodbye. Even if only for old time’s sake. I’ve heard from Inspector Israel here that you don’t work for the Americans any more. You’re on your own. Is it worthwhile?’

‘Every Spaniard dreams of setting up on his own. Let’s just say I work the way I want. My only responsibility is to my client.’

‘I think you’re wasting your talent. I’ve thought a lot about this, Carvalho, my friend, and it seems to me that if you stayed on here in Amsterdam you could be very useful to us. People still think highly of you, and there are lots of youngsters here who learnt all they know thanks to you.’

‘That’s nice to know.’

‘But this time it would be different. Have you any idea how many Spanish workers there are in Holland? More than twenty thousand. Our aim is to make their stay here as trouble free as possible, but it’s not always easy. They have a different mentality. We don’t see things the same way. You could ask to have a department of your own – an unofficial one, of course – and use it to keep a quiet eye on your compatriots. To protect them. They don’t always make the transition successfully from such a protectionist society as yours to our permissive one. We live in a permissive society, as the sociologists call it these days, Mr Carvalho. Have you given up sociology for good?’

‘I live off it.’

‘Is that metaphorically speaking?’

‘It could be. What do you think?’

‘It’s a metaphor. And a very appropriate one. What is a policeman if not a sociologist?’

Inspector Israel agreed. He stepped into the footlights for his moment of fame.

‘That’s true. A sociologist and a psychologist.’

‘You see? Well, a permissive society like ours is bound to cause some mental confusion in your compatriots. They suddenly find they have sex and politics within easy reach.’

‘But sex is expensive for all immigrants.’

‘Exactly right. It’s within their reach, but they can’t always get their hands on it. That creates a great sense of frustration, which unfortunately it is not our job to resolve. And then there’s the political question. You know that here in Holland we are extremely tolerant towards any attitude that does not directly go against our constitution. We even have Trotskyists here, Mr Carvalho. But a Dutch Trotskyist has the immense advantage of being born in Holland. So first and foremost he is a Dutchman, and his Trotskyist behaviour does not go beyond acceptable limits. But can you imagine a Spanish Trotskyist, anarchist or even a communist in Holland? Can you imagine him trying to convert his politically starved comrades? We have to keep a much closer eye on every Spanish, Greek or Turkish activist than we do on a hundred Dutchmen. It would make a fascinating job for you. Above all, classifying the different ideologies and tendencies. Assessing how important they are: that way we would know exactly how your compatriots are evolving politically. Once we knew that, we could make sure they were pointed in the right direction, and that they came to no harm by doing things out of context.’

Carvalho mechanically accepted the second cheroot Israel was offering him at his shoulder. Kayser was still talking, but Carvalho had succeeded in blocking him out mentally and was thinking of other things based on what the inspector
had already said. Then he realised Kayser had come to a halt and was waiting with an expectant smile for his response.

‘No. It doesn’t interest me. I prefer to work for myself. I get hired to follow a woman cheating on her husband, or to find a missing relative. Or to get proof that a business associate is involved in double dealing. All nice and peaceful. I wouldn’t change it for any big, transcendental stuff like ideas or politics. They require either a laudable curiosity for new techniques or an authentic ideological position. I don’t have either of those any more. I work enough to live. I’m not interested in the technological advances of the profession. I don’t even read about them. I’ve changed a lot. As for politics, I couldn’t give a damn about Trotskyism or anarchism or communism, or the permissive society for that matter. I’m not even neutral. I’m aseptic.’