The Faint-hearted Bolshevik (2 page)

BOOK: The Faint-hearted Bolshevik
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And that is the inexplicable way that Sonsoles came into my pathetic life and how, by playing around like a fool, I managed to turn a simple traffic accident into a hell of a downfall.

Now that I come to think about it, it’s weird that everything started with the car. Modern man is totally dependent on machines, and of all the machines the one that leaves modern man drooling is the fucking car. Modern man spends hours on his car, he gets into debt to buy it, he doesn’t sleep if it makes a strange noise or if it sticks when he’s changing gear. Many men don’t spend as much time with their families as they do with their cars; they spend less money on their families than on their cars, and they don’t give a damn if one of their kids has a fever, which in the case of a child is about the same as the car breaking down, and decidedly more serious than any squeaking noise coming from the car’s shock absorbers.

When his luck improves, a modern man buys himself a car. If more than four or five years have passed since he bought the last one and he hasn’t got a new one, his fellow modern men consider him a bit of a loser. One of the few reasons why a modern man might kill another is because the latter has blocked his way. One of the few reasons why a modern man under thirty years of age might stop paying into Social Security is because of a traffic accident.

Personally, my first car was very important to me because at the time I had X pesetas and the car cost me X plus 500,000 pesetas. Also, because the motherfucker’s fuel injection system didn’t work very well and every other day you could find me at the garage struggling to put up with some idiot who insisted that gas here in Spain was very dirty, not like the stuff they had in Germany, which was what they always told me because they didn’t have the imagination to think up a more convincing piece of nonsense.

The second car was less important to me, because by that time I had more money, and because the fuel injection system was just as God had intended fuel injection systems to be: resistant to any type of dirt contained in the fuel in the country where the car was sold.

The third, which is the one I drove into Sonsoles’ rear end, didn’t really matter to me. Or at least that’s what I thought. If I’m not mistaken, I bought it because it was the cheapest one available that had air conditioning and enough power for me to overtake a truck without risking my life.

However, one night when I had an upset stomach, I discovered that my bowels had something in common with my car’s, something so weird it was almost alarming: the smell of my farts under the sheets was identical to the smell of unleaded fuel once it had been burnt up by my car’s engine and had passed through its catalytic convertor. I’d only recently bought it, and I’d spent weeks trying to figure out what the stench flooding my garage every day reminded me of. Although it has nothing at all to do with this story, I think that was the night I decided to add to my list of carefully hidden personality traits that of enemy of ecology.

I also hate pedagogy, liberal capitalism and sports. I don’t know why everything that tries, or claims to try, to improve people’s lives sooner or later ends up ruining them.

Sonsoles López García had taken a precaution she knew would not affect the paperwork needed for the repair of her hideous convertible, and the result was that I had to work a bit harder. She had merely barred with a line the box designated for the telephone number of the driver of vehicle B. And I could tell it had been done with malicious intent because the line went up quite a bit at the end. Back in the days when I used to read things other than work stuff and my utility bills, I once read a book on graphology. It said that people whose signature slants upwards at the end are either the enthusiastic sort or pretty bad-tempered. It didn’t seem to me that Sonsoles López García was easily enthused, except when she went to buy gold trinkets to put around her wrists or on her fingers or to hang between her tits. I’m not an enthusiastic person either and my signature slants up at almost thirty degrees.

Someone should have told Sonsoles that not giving your telephone number is just fucking stupid when you give your address. Sooner or later the telephone number can be found. And in Sonsoles’ case, it was extraordinarily easy. As soon as my butt touched the chair in my office, the first thing I did was dial 003 for information.

“Your call will be served by operator eight … four … nine,” the telephone company computer stuttered. “Good morning, Information” a human being took over. A female human being, to be more precise.

“Good morning. I’d like the telephone number for Señorita Sonsoles López-Díaz. Her surname’s double-barrelled. She lives on Calle Moreto, at number 46.”

“There’s no one by that name, sir.”

“Is there anyone else by the last name López-Díaz or López at that address?”

“I can’t give you that information, sir.”

“Okay, thanks, Mata Hari.”

I hung up and dialled again.

“Your call will be served by operator seven … three … one.” This time I got a man. “Good morning, Information Department.”

“Good morning. I’d like the telephone number for Señor López-Díaz.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not Colombo,” joked the operator.

“It’s not that difficult. He lives at 46 Calle Moreto.”

There was the sound of a computer keyboard. A second later the operator was back.

“Armando López-Díaz. Have a pen and paper ready.”

The voice of the other computer, the one that greeted you and clicked on the numbers, dictated a telephone number. If I hadn’t hung up it would have kept dictating numbers to me until every last one of my teeth fell out.

I dialled the seven digits. A young woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Who’s that speaking?”

“Lucía.”

“Ah. I’d like to speak to Sonsoles.”

“She’s out.”

“When will she be back?”

“Who are you?”

“Antonio. I work with Don Armando.”

“And why do you want to talk to Sonsoles?”

It was obvious that I had cleared the first hurdle. I’d planned to amuse myself for longer, but I threw myself into the next one, one I knew she wouldn’t fall for:

“You see, I met Sonsoles about a month ago. She came back to my place, had a bit much to drink, and, well, you know how these things happen … I wanted to use a condom because I’m bisexual and some of my friends sleep around, but she wouldn’t let me. Now I’ve had a blood test and according to the results … ”

“That’s not funny, you jerk.”

“Don’t hang up on me, this is important for your sister.”

“She’s not my sister. I work here.”

“It doesn’t matter, she needs to know anyway.”

“To know what? You’ve got AIDS, right? And I’m the Empress of Iran.”

“Not exactly.”

“What then?”

“Look, now I think about it, it’s a very delicate matter. I’m going to give you my phone number. Tell her to call me.”

I took out my collection of carefully chosen telephone numbers and after wavering between the Archbishopric of Madrid-Alcalá and the Ministry for Social Affairs, I gave her the number for the police station in Tetuán.

“If you think I’m going to take down that number you’ve got another thing coming,” she replied.

“Write it down and give it to her. What could happen?”

“They might fire me, for starters.”

“Tell her I’m a prank caller. You’ll see how seriously she takes it.”

“Fine, tell me the number again. That way we’ll have something to give the police.”

I repeated it.

“And please, don’t let her husband find out,” I snivelled.

“She doesn’t have a husband. Goodbye, you jerk.”

Lucía slammed the phone down on me, as they say in American detective novels, which is to say I had the phone pressed to my ear when she hung up, opening a couple of cracks in my eardrum.

Whether it was a stroke of luck or because I’m a fucking genius, that brief phone call had helped me confirm a number of things. Sonsoles was single. She lived with her father, a certain Don Armando who must be quite a big shot and who could very well have a colleague named Antonio, and someone called Lucía as a maid, who wasn’t in the least intimidated by talk of bisexuals and venereal diseases.

That morning I had more than enough work to keep me busy, things I had left half-finished on Friday night and others I’d been putting off but couldn’t put off any longer without my boss calling to ask who did I think I was and being unable to tell him the truth. Since I get pissed off when I have to lie unless I’m doing it for fun, I plunged back into my work and forgot about Sonsoles until that night. I’ve often found that leaving everything until the last minute is the most effective way of working. Things get done where there’s no choice but to do them, and since there’s no choice but to do them, they get done one after the other, quickly and without thought. When the god Yahweh told Adam he’d have to slave away to avoid dying of hunger and that He’d put a stop to any more raids on the fruit trees, He didn’t think he was screwing Adam over because he was incapable of wielding a hoe, or because wielding a hoe would be an unsustainable effort for him. He knew he was screwing him over because His creature Adam was a bum who would spend the whole time he was hoeing thinking what a hardship it was. The bad thing about working isn’t the work per se, but the thought that you’re working. Just thinking is fine, just working is less good, but thinking and working at the same time is worse than shooting yourself in the head. That’s why the wisest of the Greeks jerked off with both hands while that idiot Plato used his to write down everything he saw.

That night I left the Bank early, early meaning nine o’clock p.m. There were still another ten or fifteen cocksuckers just like me at work on my floor, except they had nothing to do once they left the office and so they would stay there until they were kicked out. One day I’ll tell you about how things are run at the damn office, which is sort of like an ant-hill but even more frantic. You either have to laugh or cry, depending on how you feel that day and how fucking angry you are at being a member of the cocksucking ant brigade.

As I picked up my car I remembered I’d have to take it to the garage to have a nose job the next day. I immediately set off in the direction of the Paseo del Prado. I parked where I used to when I used to hang around that area, just where the Ritz Hotel keeps its garbage cans. Although there’s always someone shooting up in the phone booth, the hotel staff are more or less alert. I don’t think they’d do anything at all if they saw someone robbing a car, except wishing it was over as soon as possible, but although junkies aren’t at all worried about having an audience, thieves, on the other hand, feel more at ease when no-one’s watching. These are the types of things one should be aware of. Since I wear decent clothes and earn a good salary and own things that can be stolen, I try to understand the habits of the have-nots. I know it sounds better to say you really care about the underprivileged and ethnic minorities and that you wouldn’t mind sharing what you have with them, but it would be like a kick in the balls to anyone if such a person relieved you of belongings you weren’t planning to share as yet.

I went into the phone booth, careful not to step on the syringes, and I didn’t hold the phone too close to my ear. The mouthpiece stank of cigarettes and it wasn’t easy to hold it close to your mouth even if you wanted to. I put in two hundred pesetas, dialled Sonsoles’ number, and prepared myself to make the most of whoever might answer the phone.

“Yes,” muttered an older woman. The weaker flank. Plan A.

“Good evening. Is this the home of Don Armando López-Díaz?”

“Yes. Who is calling?”

“I’m calling from the IRS.”

“From where?”

“From the Inland Revenue Service. Is Señor López-Díaz there?”

“Yes. One moment, please.”

Though Sonsoles’ mother had covered the mouthpiece with her hand, I heard a series of whispers slipping through her fingers that ended in a gruff, manly
ahem
.

“Armando López-Díaz. To whom am I speaking?”

“Eduardo Gutiérrez, tax inspector. I am so sorry to be calling so late, Señor López-Díaz. We call in the evening because it’s easier to reach tax-payers at home.”

“Is something wrong? I declare all my earnings scrupulously.”

Armando López-Díaz’s voice quivered slightly as he lied.

“It’s just routine. The computer has selected you as part of the Wealth Tax inspection. I’d like to know when you could have the paperwork ready to make a formal declaration.”

“The paperwork … ”

“For the last five years. All the paperwork relating to your tax returns.”

“Oh, well, of course.”

“And your answer?”

“Well … I need a couple of days to get the paperwork in order.”

“Absolutely, and you are self employed, if my notes are not mistaken?”

“Yes. I’m a freelance architect.”

“Exactly. And you use self-assessment.”

“Yes, I think so. Yes.”

Having discovered through sheer luck that Armando López-Díaz was a professional, it was easy as pie to figure out he had chosen the option that would allow him to deduct certain expenses, a taxi here, a telephone bill there, a rental car, claiming them as professional expenses. Until a tax inspector came along and forced him to get his act together. And there was another small disadvantage: he had to keep accounts.

“You’ll also need to have all your accounts up-to-date.”

“Of course, yes.”

I was having the time of my life making Armando sweat. But I’m the impatient sort, and that wasn’t what I really wanted to do.

“There’s one more thing, Don Armando.”

“Yes?” he asked, so faintly I could barely hear him.

“You have a daughter. Sonsoles López-Díaz García-Navarro.”

“Yes. Why?”

“I believe she lives with you?”

“She’s not here at the moment. I don’t understand what … ”

“And she’s single.”

“But what does that matter to the tax office?”

“Your daughter doesn’t work, is that correct?”

“Yes, she does.”

I let a couple of seconds of silence pass so that Don Armando would get anxious and be even less on the ball.

“That can’t be the case, Don Armando. She doesn’t have any income declared under her personal tax number. Is it possible she’s being paid under the table?”

“Under the table? What are you saying? My daughter works for the Ministry of Industry. She’s a Commercial Accountant for the Government.” I could clearly hear the damn capital letters civil servants and the parents of civil servants always use.

“At the Ministry of Industry? That can’t be true. In Madrid?”

“At the Ministry itself. Listen, what the hell is going on?”

“There’s clearly something wrong. Please forgive me, Señor López-Díaz. We’re going to have to verify all your daughter’s information.”

Armando’s brain was creaking. It happens with most pompous asses. Their mind moves about as fast as a pregnant tortoise.

“I was under the impression that it was me you were after?” he tried to get himself together.

“And your daughter too. You’ve both been selected. There’re no further complications as far as you’re concerned because we do have your tax returns. You show me the supporting paperwork and your books, we compare them, and we stop bugging you. If everything’s in order in half an hour we’ll sign the form saying we’ve checked them and they match. As far as your daughter is concerned, according to the computer she hasn’t paid any taxes. No tax returns, no deductions from her salary.”

“That can’t be true.”

“If she works at the Ministry it’s very strange that her income isn’t showing up on the system. You wouldn’t be covering up for her, would you?”

“For Heaven’s sake. Why would I lie to you? If there’s a mistake on the computer system you’ll have to correct it.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Tell your daughter to call this number at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. She’ll need to give her name and say that she was selected on this month’s list. Take note of the number.”

I gave him the number for the Association of Marxist Lesbians and repeated it for him. Armando wrote it down, then assured me yet again in a barely audible voice like a little boy who never sticks his tongue out at the teacher:

“I’m sure there must be some mistake, take my word for it.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry. With regard to your inspection, would next Monday suit?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“I’ll send you the summons first thing tomorrow. Thank you for everything and good night.”

“G …”

This time it was me who slammed the phone down on one of the members of the López-Díaz household. As I got in the car I thought about how Sonsoles’ poor father wouldn’t sleep a wink that night and I didn’t give even half a shit. As for Sonsoles herself, as well as filling in what I knew about her, I was confident I could cause her some trouble of the kind that really annoyed her.

On my way home, an unfortunate thought crossed my mind. Until now I hadn’t done more than play a couple of pranks, nothing that had amused me as much as I’d hoped. My restlessness stayed with me after that, even while I sat in my living room cutting up the sleaziest images from a magazine full of naked men to send a collage to Sonsoles at the Ministry of Industry. That was child’s play. Either I had to move on to the serious bit as soon as possible, or quit messing about. I would have to make an effort in the beginning, it must be said, but being bored was even worse. Since I’ve turned thirty, when I’m really bored I get violent, and I’m filled with a terrible urge to head-butt the television. That’s something to be avoided since I need my head for work and I don’t earn enough to buy a new TV set every day.

The television itself is not what matters, because almost everything they show is nonsense for mental midgets, which, by the way, means that everyone who doesn’t receive any other form of education, in other words almost everyone, becomes a little bit more retarded every day. On the other hand they do broadcast women’s ice-skating and gymnastics championships (both artistic and rhythmic) on television. I’m not that interested in ice-skating or gymnastics, but female skaters and gymnasts are one of the few things in life which justify my getting out of bed each day.

BOOK: The Faint-hearted Bolshevik
2.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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