Off Side (2 page)

‘The worst thing that can happen to a diver is when he gets a cold.’

The thought of this had her choking with laughter, but her mind was still on her lodger, and she spent a moment puzzling out suitable excuses to confront him for an explanation of the strange medicinal smells. In the end she hit on a strategy, left her rocking chair rocking, and reconfigured her face into the smiling solicitude of the perfect landlady. She stood before his closed bedroom door and knocked.

‘Don Alberto? Am I disturbing you, Don Alberto?’

The door opened, and the man seemed to be both supported by and supportive of the door frame, with well-formed muscles showing under a white shirt which turned alternately red and white with the flashing of the neon sign outside.

‘Am I disturbing you, Don Alberto?’

‘No, no, not at all.’

He had a nice smile, and Doña Concha’s eyelids fluttered in a reflex action which, according to old-timers in the area, she had inherited from her Aunt Amparo, who had been a chorus girl with Tina Jarque before the Civil War.

‘I was a bit hesitant about bothering you. The thing is, I thought I smelt gas. Silly of me, really. How could I have smelt gas, since the shower heater is electric? But I did smell something, so I thought I’d better knock, just in case something had happened to you.’

As she was speaking she noted that the smell wasn’t just in the room. It was actually emanating from the man’s body, with an invisible but tangible substantiality.

‘It smells like … medicine … or something …’

The man raised his arms to take a sniff, and then laughed lightly.

‘Yes, señora, I suppose it does. It’s the smell of liniment.’

Doña Concha’s eyes opened in surprise.

‘Liniment? I’ve known the smell of Sloan’s Liniment all my life, and it’s nothing like that.’

‘This isn’t Sloan’s Liniment. It’s one that I got into the habit of using in Mexico. It doesn’t bother me, but I can see that it might bother others. Sorry about that …’

‘Anyway, why do you use so much liniment? Do you have a hernia, or something?’

‘No. No. I go out running. I go training …’

Doña Concha’s lips maintained a broad smile, but her brain was harbouring suspicions. What kind of training could possibly need so much liniment?

‘I’m a footballer.’

‘A footballer?’

Her reaction was half incredulity and half confirmation of what she had heard. Then, later, while the girl was finishing her sardine sandwich and coffee, the lodger hurried out into the night
again, as if not wanting to be seen. It suited Doña Concha not to publicize the fact that she was harbouring prostitutes in her kitchen, so she let him go, pursuing him only with a look that was full of secret doubts.

‘Tell me something. Do you think a man can be a footballer once he’s past the age of thirty?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘With all the money they earn, why would a footballer want to come and live in an area like this?’

‘How should I know?’

Her literary protégée was having a bad night. She seemed to have no appetite as she nibbled at her sandwich and slouched in the plastic chair, with her legs apart and wearing a pair of tights that were too loose for her. There’s nothing so pitiful as the sight of a women in loose-fitting tights, Doña Concha thought, and she averted her gaze from the wretched sight.

‘Because you have usurped the function of the gods who, in another age, guided the conduct of men, without bringing supernatural consolation, but simply the therapy of the most irrational of cries: the centre forward will be killed at dusk.

‘Because you use your centre forward to make yourselves feel like gods who can manage victories and defeats, from the comfortable throne of minor Caesars: the centre forward will be killed at dusk.

‘Because dusk is the hour at which the bio-rhythms of enthusiasm drop, and death and the death rattle resound like a music which is awesome and mournful: the centre forward will be killed at dusk.’

Carvalho finished reading the letter, and raised his eyes to look at the slow-moving, serious young man who had been sitting in his office for the last half hour, with his legs crossed effortlessly, as if they were made to caress each other every once in a
while as he periodically changed position. The movements of his arms were equally light and elegant — that’s the word, Carvalho thought, as he tried to find an aesthetic quality to complement the simple sensual impression of lightness. Elegant. And modern. Judging by his hair-style and the casual alpaca clothing, the young PR man for the most powerful football club in Barcelona (and in Catalonia, and the world) was there to create an impression — namely that the club’s new board of directors represented a new spirit, a far cry from the air of make-do, improvisation and premodernity which had characterized the previous management.

‘Which centre forward is it referring to?’

The young man arched one eyebrow and composed a smile of benign perplexity.

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘No. Ever since I stopped needing to wrap sandwiches, I no longer buy newspapers.’

‘Don’t you watch television either?’

‘It sends me to sleep. I do my best, but I always seem to end up nodding off. Maybe I’m getting old.’

‘I’ll make it easy for you. The whole world is talking about our club’s latest signing. The outgoing board left us with a team that wasn’t really up to it. You could say it was burnt out. So we have been working to rebuild it, and what we needed was a star, a major international figure, who would restore the public’s confidence in us. We signed Jack Mortimer. The Golden Boot.’

‘Is that a metaphor?’

‘No. It’s a prize. For the best footballer in Europe.’

‘They give him a gold boot? Solid gold?’

The visitor wasn’t a man who lost patience easily, but he had no great pedagogic vocation either, so he pursued his explanation no further and waited for Carvalho to take the conversational initiative.

‘Why would they want to kill a centre forward who cost such a lot of money? Competition?’

‘I don’t imagine that anyone’s actually planning to kill our centre forward. He’s probably got something else in mind which he hasn’t yet communicated to us. Maybe we’re just dealing with the kind of person who’s got a thing about famous people. Like the man who killed John Lennon.’

‘But I presume that you get hundreds of letters like this, and just ignore them. So why have you decided to take this one seriously?’

‘The first thing we did was to notify the police. We asked them to be very discreet, because of the possible knock-on effect that something like this could have on a club with more than a hundred thousand members and a social expectation involving millions. The police moved behind the scenes, and they told us that it was worth taking this letter seriously. They’d had word from their informants that something was afoot. The police are continuing their inquiries, but they’re having to move very carefully. The club has decided that you should also be brought onto the case, in parallel with the police. You’ll be able to move less conspicuously than the police.’

‘Your club’s very much in the news. You’ve got a hundred journalists at the gates every day waiting for scraps of news. How are you going to hide the fact that I’m involved?’

‘I’m glad you asked that.’

‘I’m glad too, and I’m glad that you’re glad.’

Something approaching a melancholic smile blurred the seriousness on the face of this fastidious messenger.

‘We’ll have to collaborate very closely. We could end up being friends.’

If he’d had anything in his mouth, Carvalho would have choked on it. But he had nothing, so he choked on nothing. He fell silent and looked bemused.

‘I’ll be acting as your go-between. It wouldn’t do for the journalists to see you having a direct relationship with the club’s board. We’ll need to find some kind of pretext for you to be moving
around the club.’

‘Are you a footballing PR man by vocation?’

‘If you’re going to use the word “vocation” in its proper meaning, you should only apply it to jobs where God is involved. Priests, for example. Or monks. The gods send out a call, and the person in question feels that he has a vocation. Are you a private detective by vocation?’

‘I’ll need some kind of card or document, something to authorize me to move around on the club’s premises.’

‘Are you interested in psychology?’

‘I find all branches of human knowledge interesting. Take grammar, for example …’

‘Do you think you can pass for a psychologist?’

‘Absolutely the best profession for passing yourself off as something.’

He tossed an envelope onto the desk and waited while Carvalho opened it, took out a sheet of the club’s headed notepaper and read what was on it.

‘So I’m now authorized to conduct a study on “The Application of Group Psychology in Sporting Organizations”.’

‘That piece of paper will enable you to talk to anyone connected with our club without raising suspicion.’

This elegant man seemed to take pleasure from leaving things on Carvalho’s desk, and this time it was a visiting card which he produced from a very expensive leather wallet like a priest taking the host from the chalice. ‘Alfons Camps O’Shea, Public Relations’. Carvalho read the card, and then took another look at its bearer. There was a pleasing correlation between the name and the physical appearance of this young man who was in the process of rearranging his legs and regaining the vertical. He was evidently about to leave.

‘Have a think about it. We know your rates, and we have no problems from that point of view.’

‘Who says you know my rates? I don’t have fixed rates. How
about you pay me what you pay your centre forward?’

‘Are you a centre forward?’

‘As good as. I’m the “Golden Boot” of my profession.’

Camps O’Shea took in the entire contents of the office with one glance, which he then transferred to Carvalho as if to say that he had completed his inventory.

‘It doesn’t look that way.’

‘Don’t you worry about that. The rest of the world doesn’t need to know. We’ll keep it between you and me. I’ll draw up a pro forma and a plan of action.’

The man buttoned his alpaca jacket and adjusted it around his anatomy with the same suaveness that characterized his discourse and probably his entire life. He had an air of luxury about him. As he reached the door he was checked momentarily by Carvalho inquiring: ‘I imagine you must be pretty keen on football?’

The PR man turned round and calculated the effect that his answer might provoke.

‘As a sport, I find it rather stupid and ordinary. But as a sociological phenomenon I find it fascinating.’

So saying, he left, without giving himself time to hear Carvalho muttering to himself: ‘A sociologist. That’s all we need.’

Carvalho brooded over the questions that he should have asked and hadn’t, but his musings were interrupted by the arrival of Biscuter, laden down with every kind of shopping imaginable. He was panting and puffing and each puff ruffled the few long red hairs remaining on his balding head.

‘That staircase is going to be the death of me, boss.’

‘You look like you’ve bought up half the market.’

‘The fridge was empty, boss, and I prefer to do it all in one trip … Those stairs’ll be the death of me … I’ve bought some
cap-i-pota
, and I’m going to make you some
farcellets
of
cap-i-pota
with truffles and prawns. Don’t worry, though, I’ll make it nice and light. Not too greasy. Mind you, I reckon the human body needs a bit of grease every once in a while. Otherwise it starts squeaking
like a rusty hinge. Then I’ll do you some figs
à la Syrienne
. Stuffed with nuts and cooked in orange juice. Low calorie. Instead of sugar I’ll use honey.’

‘You’re reading too much, Biscuter.’

‘You should take a look at the
Enciclopaedia Gastronomica
. I’ve been buying it in instalments. It’s incredible, the things that people dream up. Who do you reckon it was who first thought of stuffing figs with nuts and cooking them in orange juice?’

‘A Syrian, I suppose.’

As the video came to an end the lights came on. There was a buzz of comment and small-talk, and the darkness gave way to a fervour of words and gestures. Behind the presidential table sat the club’s directors, headed by the chairman, Basté de Linyola, and in the centre, illuminated like a particularly pampered pet, sat Jack Mortimer, the golden-haired golden boy, with a face that was all smiles and freckles. The proceedings were opened by the club’s PR chief, Camps O’Shea, who reminded the journalists of the reasons for the press conference. He blinked slightly under the harsh lights of the various TV channels which were there to record the moment of the public presentation of a newly signed footballer. Camps O’Shea then informed them that he would be translating for Mortimer.

‘He’s been doing a crash course in Spanish, but he’s a bit shy about his conversational abilities, particularly when he’s in the lion’s den with the likes of you, gentlemen.’

His attempt to break the ice was rewarded with a ripple of appreciative laughter, and from within the ripple the first questions began to emerge.

‘Will he be learning Catalan as well?’

‘Of course! També! També!’

Mortimer contrived to answer partly in Catalan when the question was translated to him, and thereby won himself another
ripple of laughter and a round of applause.

‘How do you feel about signing for such a powerful club?’

‘What do you make of the fact that English footballers have never been a great success in Europe?’

‘Are you aware of the social and symbolic importance of the club that you have signed for?’

‘Do you expect to maintain your English average of thirty goals a year?’

‘Do you prefer to wait for the ball to come to you, or do you prefer to go out and get it?’

‘Mortimer, you were married a short while ago, and now you’re expecting a baby. Will you call it Jordi if it’s a boy? Or Núria if it’s a girl?’

This time Camps did not translate the question, but offered the reply himself.