‘You haven’t heard anything about her?’
‘No.’
‘And María?’
‘No more than everybody else knows. That she’s still out there, gripping her fame with teeth and claws, or what remains of her fame, which I think by now is very little. Zarco’s death and reappearance in the media allowed her to return to her origins as the wife of a famous man and exploit the rose-tinted version of her life with Zarco again. Like that, on the basis of lies, María recovered the place she’d lost, though for a very short time. Then she lost it again, and since then I don’t know what’s become of her, or even if she’s moved back to Gerona. . Anyway, for my part I can only say that at least I didn’t knowingly contribute to that bullshit, because, no matter how much they insisted (and I assure you they insisted a lot), I never let any of the reality shows she appeared on interview me. Don’t take it the wrong way. It wasn’t an ethical matter, I don’t consider myself superior to María, I don’t even have anything against her any more, and much less against reality shows. Everyone makes a living how they want, or how they can. I deal in legal judgments, not moral ones. But I didn’t fancy going on TV talking about my life. That’s all. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course. What I don’t entirely understand is that, from Zarco’s death until now, you’ve refused to speak of him with serious journalists, people preparing articles, features, documentaries, biographies, things like that.’
‘There are two reasons. One is that at first I didn’t feel like talking about Zarco: same with Tere, all I wanted was to forget him. And the other is that I don’t trust journalists, especially serious or supposedly serious journalists. They’re the worst. They’re the tricky ones, not the frivolous ones. Frivolous journalists lie but everyone knows they lie and nobody pays them any attention, or hardly anyone; serious journalists, however, lie while shielding themselves with the truth, and that’s why everyone believes them. And that’s why their lies do so much damage.’
‘So you convinced yourself that only you could tell the truth.’
‘Don’t take me for an idiot. What I convinced myself of is that only I could tell a certain part of the truth.’
‘And why haven’t you told it? Why have you agreed to tell it to me, who isn’t a journalist but might as well be, after all I’m going to write a book about Zarco?’
‘Don’t you know? Haven’t your editors told you? If you want I’ll explain, but it’s a bit of a long story. How about we leave it for next time?’
‘OK. Next time is our last, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Next time I’ll tell you the end of the story.’
Chapter 12
‘Gamallo died on New Year’s Eve 2005. Or was it 2006? It must have been 2006, because it wasn’t long before I retired. The fact is that his death brought the press swooping back down on him, this time in search of carrion. Some journalists tried to get in touch with me then, but I didn’t want to talk to them. It was a repugnant spectacle: as if they hadn’t made up enough lies about Gamallo when he was alive; now that he was dead and couldn’t even defend himself any more they wanted to go on lying. Truly repugnant.
‘I lost track of his lawyer again for about a year, maybe a year and a half. In that time he didn’t show up at the prison. I asked, and was told that he hadn’t stopped working: he’d simply stopped visiting his clients; later I found out that it wasn’t just that, Cañas wasn’t welclass="underline" he no longer attended trials, he seemed to have delegated almost everything to his partners, he began to get a reputation for being standoffish and eccentric. I had grown fond of him, and felt bad that what had happened to him had happened to him, that things hadn’t gone well for him and had affected him so badly; I especially felt that it had happened because he had not listened to me, because he had got his hopes up and tried to defend Gamallo.’
‘Do you think that was the cause of the problems Cañas had?’
‘In part yes. I’m not saying his sorry tale with the girl had no bearing, although it had happened a long time before and it would be logical if, by the time Gamallo died, it had been forgotten; but, anyway, I can’t give an opinion on that. What I do know is that failure is a bad business, and that Cañas felt he had completely failed with Gamallo, after having invested so much in him. For me the problem was that Cañas had believed the legend of Zarco, as I already told you, and he had decided to redeem him, redeem the great delinquent, the symbol of his generation. That was his proposal, and not achieving it hurt him: fellows used to success don’t easily accept failure. So he felt like a failure, and perhaps guilty. Don’t you think so?’
‘No, but I’d like to know why you think that.’
‘Let me finish telling you the story and you’ll understand. Cañas took quite a long time before getting back into his habit of visiting his clients, but one afternoon, shortly after hearing that he’d started doing so again, I ran into him at the prison. We happened to meet in the foyer, as I was on my way out of my office having just finished for the day. Long time no see, Counsellor, I said in greeting. We were starting to miss you. Cañas looked at me with a speck of mistrust, as if he suspected I was making fun of him, but he soon smiled; physically he wasn’t the same man: he still wore an impeccable suit, but he’d lost a lot of weight and his hair was going very grey. I took a bit of a vacation, he said. So you jumped the gun on me, I replied. That’s what I plan to do in a couple of months, except my vacation’s going to be longer. You’re retiring? he asked. I’m retiring, I answered. It was true; but it wasn’t true that retiring made me as happy as I insisted on pretending: on the one hand it made me happy; on the other it made me uneasy: apart from resting and sitting in the front row for the spectacle of my physical and mental collapse, I didn’t know what I’d devote my life to when I retired, or what I’d do with it. I thought that, like Cañas, I was a bit pitiful too; and I immediately thought there’s nothing filthier than feeling oneself worthy of pity. Cañas and I kept talking. At a certain moment he asked: Can I buy you a coffee? I’m sorry, I answered. I dropped my car in at the garage on my way to work this morning and I have to go pick it up before they close. If you want I can give you a lift, Cañas offered. Don’t trouble yourself, I said. I was just going to call a taxi. Cañas said it was no trouble and settled the argument.
‘The garage was on the other side of the city, near the exit for the airport on the Barcelona highway. I don’t remember what we talked about on the drive, but I do remember that, as we rounded the bend at Fornells Park, already in the outskirts, Cañas brought up a client of his who’d recently arrived at the prison, a gas-station employee we’d been keeping under protection since he’d been admitted. Then Cañas started talking about Gamallo, who was the last of his clients subject to this exceptional treatment, and I thought that he’d brought up the gas-station attendant in order to bring up Gamallo. The lawyer confessed his disappointment, regretted that Gamallo hadn’t been able to live out his last years in liberty. Then he said: Anyway, at least you and I have clear consciences. After all, we did what we could for him, didn’t we? I didn’t answer. We were driving between a double row of car workshops and dealerships, and we turned right into an alley that led to the entrance to the Renault garage, in the back of the dealership. Cañas stopped his car in front of the open door of the garage, but he didn’t turn off the engine. Without losing his thread he continued: At least I think so. What’s more, I think almost everyone can have a clear conscience when it comes down to it. No one had as many opportunities as he did. Between the lot of us we gave him every chance, but he didn’t take advantage of them. Turning towards me he said: What could we do: it wasn’t our fault but his. I felt an awkward contrast between his reassuring words and his anxious gaze, and looked away: I wondered if our encounter in the foyer of the prison had been a coincidence or planned; I wondered if a man who says twice that he has a clear conscience has a clear conscience; I wondered if a man who makes excuses when no one has accused him of anything wasn’t accusing himself. I vaguely sensed that Cañas was suffering, I thought that he was still lost in his labyrinth, said to myself that this unburdening was no accident and he was seeking my approval, or rather he needed it.