Authors: Javier Cercas
‘At that moment I heard Matías and the Boix brothers catch up. From the ground, in the leaden light shining from a streetlamp, I saw a blurry confusion of jean-clad legs and feet in sneakers or sandals. Nearby I caught sight of my glasses: they didn’t look broken. I begged them to pick them up and someone who wasn’t Batista picked them up but didn’t give them to me. Then Matías and the Boix brothers asked what was going on. Nothing, said Batista. This fucking
catalanufo
, he’s always lying. I didn’t lie, I managed to say in my defence. I just said I was going home. See?, said Batista, twisting my arm harder. Another lie! I screamed again. Let him go, Matías said. He hasn’t done anything to us. I felt Batista turn to look at him without letting go of me. He hasn’t done anything?, he asked. Are you a dickhead or what? If he hasn’t done anything why does he take off running as soon as he sees us, eh? And why has he been hiding? And why does he keep lying? He paused and added: Well, Dumbo, tell the truth for a change: where were you coming from? I didn’t say anything; as well as my back and arm, my face was hurting too, pressed against the ground. See?, said Batista. He keeps quiet. And a guy keeps quiet when he has something to hide. Just like a guy who runs away. Yes or no? Let me go, please, I whined. Batista laughed. As well as a liar you’re a dickhead, he said. You think we don’t know where you’ve been hiding? You think we’re idiots? Eh? What do you think? Batista seemed to be waiting for an answer; suddenly he twisted my arm even harder and asked: What did you say? I hadn’t said anything and I said I hadn’t said anything. Yes you did, said Batista. I heard you call me a son of a bitch. I said: That’s not true. Batista brought his face up to my face as he twisted my arm nearly out of its socket; I thought he was going to break it. Feeling his breath on my face I screamed. Batista paid no attention to my screams. Are you calling me a liar?, he asked again. Matías intervened again, tried to ask Batista to leave me alone; Batista cut him off: told him to shut up and called him an idiot. Straight away he asked me again if I was calling him a liar. I said no. Unexpectedly, this answer seemed to pacify him, and after a second or two I felt the pressure ease up on my arm. Then, without another word, Batista let me go and stood up.
‘As quickly as possible I did the same, brushing the dirt off my cheek with the palm of my hand. Matías handed me my glasses, but before I could take them Batista grabbed them. I stood looking at him. He was smiling; in the darkness of the park, under the plane trees, his features appeared vaguely feline. You want them?, he said, holding out my glasses. As I reached out my hand towards them, he pulled them away. Then he held them out again. If you want them, lick my shoes, he said. I stared back at him for several seconds, and then looked at Matías and the Boix brothers, who were watching me in expectation. Then I knelt down in front of Batista, licked his shoes – they tasted of leather and dust – stood up again and stared back at him. His eyes seemed to sparkle for an instant before he let out a snort that sounded like laughter or a laugh that sounded like a snort. You’re a coward, he finally said, throwing my glasses on the ground. You disgust me.
‘I spent the night tossing and turning in bed while trying not to feel completely ashamed of the incident with Batista and trying to find some relief for my humiliation. I didn’t manage either one, and after that I decided not to return to the Vilaró arcade. I feared that Batista had been telling the truth and knew where I was hiding and would come looking for me. What might have happened if he had found me?, you’ll be wondering. Nothing, you’ll say to yourself, and I suppose you’d probably be right; but fear is not rational, and I was afraid. Whatever the case, soon loneliness and boredom overcame my fear, and two or three days later I went back to the arcade. When he saw me Señor Tomàs asked what had happened and I told him I’d been sick; I asked him if our deal still held. Of course, kid, he answered.
‘That afternoon something happened that changed my life. I’d spent quite a while playing the Rocky Balboa machine when I was startled by a group of people bursting into the place. At first I thought, in panic, that it was Batista and my friends; with relief, almost with joy, I soon saw that it was Zarco and Tere. This time they weren’t alone: they were accompanied by two guys; this time Señor Tomàs didn’t stop them on their way in: he just watched them from the door of his booth, his hands on his hips and his crossword-puzzle book in one of them. After a moment, the relief and joy faded and the worry returned, especially when the four recent arrivals made straight for me. What’s up, Gafitas?, asked Zarco. Not planning to come to La Font? I stepped back from the machine and ceded the controls to him; he stopped short; pointing at me with a smile he turned to the two guys: See? This is my Gafitas: I don’t even have to say anything before he does what I want him to. While Zarco took over the game I’d started, Tere said hi. She said she’d been waiting for me at La Font and asked why I hadn’t gone there. The other two guys watched me with interest. Later I found out they were called Gordo and Tío: Gordo, or Fatso, because he was so skinny he always seemed to be in profile; Tío, because that’s what everyone called him. Gordo wore tight bellbottoms and had wavy, shoulder-length hair that looked like it was kept in place with hairspray; Tío was shorter than him and, even though he was the oldest of all of them, had a sort of childlike air about him, his mouth always half-open, his jaw a little loose. I answered Tere’s question with excuses, but nobody paid any attention to my reply: Zarco was concentrating on the Rocky Balboa machine and Gordo and Tío were playing the pinball machine next to it; as for Tere, she too soon seemed to lose interest in me. But I stayed beside her anyway while her friends played, not daring or not wanting to walk away, listening to the comments the four of them made, watching Señor Tomàs go in and out of his booth and watching the regulars glance over at us out of the corners of their eyes.
‘Zarco had finished his turn and given his place to Tere when the guy in the Fred Perry shirt came back into the arcade. Zarco exchanged a few words with him and Gordo and Tío stopped playing and the four of them went outside together. Tere went on playing pinball. Now, instead of looking at the table all the time, I looked at her every once in a while, furtively, and at a certain moment she caught me; as a cover-up I asked who the Fred Perry guy was. A dealer, she answered. Then she asked me if I smoked. I said yes. Hash, Tere clarified; I knew what hash was (just as I knew what a dealer was), but I’d never tried it and didn’t say anything. Tere guessed the truth. Do you want to try it?, she asked. I shrugged. If you want to try some come to La Font, Tere said. In a pause between one ball and the next, she looked at me and asked: Are you going to come or not? I had no intention of going, but I didn’t want to tell her. I looked at the image of Rocky Balboa looming over the pinball table; I’d seen it a thousand times: Rocky, muscular and triumphant, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts with the American flag printed on them, raising his arms to the clamouring stadium while a defeated boxer lies in the ring at his feet. I looked at this image and remembered myself licking Batista’s shoes and felt the shame of my humiliation all over again. As if fearing that the silence could reveal what I was feeling, I hurried to answer Tere’s question with another question: Do you go every day? I meant to La Font; Tere understood. More or less, she answered, and launched the next ball; when that one got swallowed by the machine too she asked again: Why? Are you going to come? I don’t know, I said, adding: Probably not. Why not?, Tere insisted. I shrugged again, and she kept playing.
‘I kept looking at her. I pretended to look at the pinball table, but I was looking at her. Tere noticed. The proof was that she hadn’t even finished playing that ball when she said: Not bad-looking, am I, Gafitas? I blushed; I immediately regretted having blushed. The arcade was very noisy, but I had the impression that in the centre of the uproar was an absolute silence, which only I could hear. I pretended I hadn’t really heard her question. Tere didn’t repeat it; she finished playing the ball unhurriedly and, leaving the game half-finished, took me by the hand and said: C’mon.
‘Have I already told you that some of the things that happened that summer feel like things I’ve dreamt rather than things I’ve experienced? What happened next was one of those. Tere dragged me to the back of the arcade, dodging the people that were beginning to fill the place, and without letting go of my hand we went into the women’s washroom. It was exactly the same as the men’s – there was a long hallway with a big mirror on the wall, opposite the line of stalls – and at that moment it was almost empty: just a couple of girls in high heels and miniskirts applying mascara in front of the mirror. When Tere and I came in, the girls looked at us, but didn’t say anything. Tere opened the door of the first stall and invited me in. Where are we going?, I asked. In here, she answered. Disconcerted, I looked at the two girls, who were still looking at us. What? Tere hissed at them. Take a picture; it’ll last longer.
‘Startled, the girls turned back to the mirror. Tere pushed me into the stall, stepped in behind me, closed the door and bolted it. The stall was a minuscule space where only a toilet and tank fit; the floor was cement and the walls wood and they didn’t reach all the way to the floor. I leaned back against one of them; Tere pushed her handbag around to her back and gave me an order: Drop your trousers. What?, I asked. Tere’s reply was to kiss me on the mouth: a long, dense, wet kiss, with her tongue twirling around mine. It was the first time in my life that a woman had kissed me. Drop your trousers, she repeated. Like a sleepwalker I unbuckled my belt and undid my zipper. Pants too, said Tere. I obeyed. When I finished, Tere took me in her hand. And now pay attention, Gafitas, she said. Then she crouched down, put it in her mouth and started to suck. It was all over very quickly, because, although I tried not to, I came almost immediately. Tere stood up and kissed me on the lips; now her mouth tasted of semen. Did you like that?, she asked, still holding my exhausted dick in her hand. I managed to mumble something. Then Tere smiled fleetingly but perfectly, let go of me and, before walking out of the stall, said: Tomorrow I’ll be expecting you at La Font.
‘I don’t know how long I stayed there with my pants round my ankles, trying to recover from the shock, or how long it took me to get dressed again. But when I came out of the stall the washroom was empty. And when I came out of the washroom, Tere was not in the arcade; Zarco wasn’t there either, Gordo and Tío had come back in. I went to the door, leaned outside and looked up and down the street, but I didn’t see anybody. Señor Tomàs appeared beside me. Where did you get to?, he asked. I looked at him: he had his hands in his pockets, and he hadn’t noticed that the pressure of his gut had popped two buttons of his shirt; a clump of curly, grey hair poked through the opening. Before I could answer he asked another question: Hey, kid, are you all right? You don’t look so good. I told him I was fine but that I’d just thrown up in the washroom, though I felt better now, and that maybe I wasn’t entirely recovered. Well, you take care, kid, Señor Tomàs warned me. You don’t want a relapse. Then he asked me what I’d been talking about with Zarco and Tere and the others and I told him that time we hadn’t talked about anything. Señor Tomàs clicked his tongue. I don’t trust those
quinquis
one bit, he said. Then he said: Don’t take your eyes off them if they come back, OK? I said OK and, looking at the double row of cars parked under the train overpass, for a moment I thought I’d never see Tere again and asked: Do you think they’ll be back? I don’t know, answered Señor Tomàs; and as we walked back to his booth added: With those people you never know.
‘The next day I went to La Font.’
‘Yes: I’m a police officer. Why did I join the police? I don’t know. I’m sure my father being a Civil Guard had something to do with it, though. And besides, I imagine at the time I was as idealistic and fond of novelty as any other kid my age; you know what I mean: in the movies the cop was the good guy who saved the good people from the bad guys, and that’s what I wanted to be.
‘The fact is that at the age of sixteen I prepared for the exam to become an inspector of the General Police Corps, the secret police. I was a terrible student, but for nine months I studied like crazy and at the end of that time I sat the exam and passed it and even got a good grade. How do you like that? To do my practical training I had to move from Cáceres to Madrid; I took a room in a house on Jacometrezo from which I came and went daily to the Police Academy, at number five Miguel Ángel Street. At that time I began to realize what this job actually entailed. And you know what? I wasn’t disappointed; well, some things did disappoint me – you know, the obligatory routines, stupid colleagues, oceans of red tape, things like that – but on the other hand I made a discovery that should have surprised me a lot and didn’t surprise me at all, and it was that being a police officer was exactly like I’d always thought it was going to be. I already told you I was an idealist, and such a stubborn idealist that for a long time I believed my job was the best job in the world; now that I’ve spent almost forty years doing it I know it’s the worst, apart from all the rest of them.
‘What were we talking about? Oh, yes. My practical training. I found Madrid a bit intimidating, in part because I’d always lived in a small city and in part because it was a difficult time and the veterans of the force with whom I patrolled the city and I were always coming across altercations in the streets: one day it was an illegal demonstration, the next it would be a terrorist attack, and then another day a bank robbery. Or whatever. The thing is I knew almost immediately that level of commotion was too much for me and that neither Madrid nor any other big city was right for me at the time.