‘How are the negotiations going, by the way?’ he asked.
‘We’re just arranging a time and a place for the first round,’ I replied.
‘Got you.’
‘Don’t you go losing my Lost Times, now.’
‘As if.’
‘What are you going to use them for?’
‘I can’t tell you anything, it would jeopardise the operation.’
He drained the last of his beer, made a face, and got up. His Shining Path T-shirt looked even scruffier than usual, with thousands of stains of varying origins, an odd little hole near his belly button and the left sleeve unravelling, although it had perhaps been like this since day one and I was only noticing now because I was stoned.
‘You’re the least discreet Maoist I know,’ I said to him. ‘It’s almost as if you want to be caught — is that it? You want them to catch you so you’ve got something to moan about?’
‘Is it because of my T-shirt?’ he replied. ‘That’s just to put people off the scent.’
‘You mean you’re not a Maoist?’
‘Yeah right.’
‘So why did you tell me you were?’
‘I didn’t, you reached that conclusion all by yourself.’
‘Juliette told me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘So you’re not a Maoist?’
‘Course I’m not.’
‘So what are you?’
‘That question doesn’t matter any more, Grandpa, times have changed. We live in a post-ideological era, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Post-ideological? Aren’t you the one who keeps on going on about novels being a bourgeois invention?’
‘That’s not ideology, Grandpa, that’s history.’
‘So what’s your real name, Mao?’
‘That question doesn’t matter either. And anyway, you’re not really called Teo, either.’
‘So you’ve never been to Peru.’
‘The closest I’ve been to Peru is a restaurant in La Condesa where they do a mean ceviche. Speaking of which, has anyone ever told you you’ve got a nose like a potato?’
‘Watch it, “Mao”. And do you mind telling me, since I suppose you don’t speak Chinese either, how you figured out that the guys in the Chinese restaurant over the road are Korean? Or did you make that all up?’
‘I used the translator on my phone, Grandpa.’
He picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, putting an end to the conversation and getting ready to leave.
‘Now I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘That’s a good symptom,’ I told him.
‘Of what?’
‘That you’re not going to die of a broken heart.’
‘Or that that was some good quality ganja.’
‘There’s a taco stand on the corner that opens late.’
‘Bleurgh, they look gross, they’re probably made of dog meat.’
‘No shit!’
~ ~ ~
The first round of negotiations took place one Saturday afternoon on neutral ground, chosen by Francesca: a Sanborns café opposite the Jardín de Epicuro. The mediation would be Juliet’s responsibility, as she claimed to be an expert in these sorts of conflict.
‘It won’t be the first or the last time I’ve done it,’ she had said, when she put herself forward as a candidate.
When Francesca, jealous, tried to allege favouritism towards my cause due to our being friends, Juliet interrupted her and defended herself:
‘Madam,’ she said, ‘I take umbrage at the suggestion that I’ll replicate the vices of the corrupt State.’
On the negotiating table there was a cup of tea, for Francesca, and two beers. First and foremost, I informed them that I wasn’t prepared to drag out the discussions for ages.
‘It’s best we get straight to the point,’ I said, ‘the beer here cost me thirty pesos.’
‘It’s quite a simple negotiation,’ Francesca replied. ‘We’ll be done in no time at all. You give us back the Lost Times and the reading lamps, and if you don’t, I’ll report you to the management committee.’
‘I’ve already told you twenty times,’ I replied, ‘that I don’t have the Lost Times. If you lost them, you need to look for them properly. You know what they say: he who doesn’t seek doesn’t find. Oh, and I don’t have the reading lamps, either.’
‘Well in that case I don’t know what we’re doing here,’ said Francesca, looking at Juliet.
‘Let me explain what the negotiation consists of,’ I said. ‘You give me back my Aesthetic Theory and I’ll make a certain compromising photograph of you disappear, or else—’
‘What are you talking about?’ she interrupted.
‘The photo of that lad you so carelessly let into the building. I’d love to know what the management committee thinks of its dictator infringing her own rules. I’m debating whether to ask you to resign.’
‘I didn’t let anyone in!’
‘I don’t have your Lost Times!’
‘I don’t have your Aesthetic Theory!’
‘Now look here,’ Juliet intervened, ‘let’s just calm down. I suggest we put together a hypothetical scenario to start the dialogue off. It’s an imaginative exercise, all right, before you dismiss it out of hand.’
Francesca nodded and I took a tiny sip of beer, just to moisten my mouth.
‘Let’s imagine,’ Juliet continued, ‘that this lady has in her possession the copy of Aesthetic Theory belonging to this gentleman.’
‘Even though I don’t,’ Francesca said.
‘I told you, this is hypothetical,’ Juliet said. ‘Let me finish. And let’s imagine also that the gentleman has the copies of Lost Time and the reading lamps that belong to the salon members. Better stilclass="underline" let’s imagine something else. Let’s imagine, instead, that you don’t have the books, as you both insist, but that you might be able to obtain them, you understand? You don’t have them, but, if a friendly agreement were reached, you could get hold of them. Based on this supposition, would you feel comfortable carrying out an exchange?’
‘I can’t give what I don’t have,’ I said.
‘Nor can I,’ Francesca said.
‘But what you might be able to do is each indicate to the other where they could find what they’re looking for. It would be an exchange of information.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can give to the gentleman,’ Francesca declared.
She put her hand into her pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, which she handed to me.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Read it,’ she replied.
It was a photocopy of a medical report stating that I was not ‘legally competent’ and ‘not liable for prosecution’ because I suffered from alcoholism and senility.
‘This is a fake document!’ I cried.
‘It’s an official document,’ Francesca said. ‘The Society for the Protection of Animals requested it and thanks to this certificate you were let off a fine. Do you know what would happen if I handed it over to the management committee? You know the rules very welclass="underline" I could send you to an old people’s home with this little piece of paper.’
In my head I saw Papaya-Head’s papaya head and I imagined beating it to a pulp, or cutting it into little pieces with an enormous butcher’s knife.
‘This is an insult!’ I shouted. ‘I’m leaving the table. The negotiation’s off.’
I left immediately, without waiting for an answer, mainly because I wasn’t prepared, on top of everything else, to pay the bill. The following day, as was to be expected, Papaya-Head didn’t show up to the literary workshop in the bar. On Monday, with the help of Juliet, who called Dorotea, I got hold of the man’s telephone number. After downing two tequilas, I rang him with rage coursing through my veins.