‘Frankly, I got enthusiastic too. So much so that, after having lunch with Silvia the next day, I got down to work on it immediately, and for a month devoted my evenings and some entire nights to writing the book. Until I realized I wasn’t capable of it, especially because, even though everything I was writing was true, none of it sounded true. So I gave up. That was when Silvia suggested that I should tell another person the story, so they could take charge of writing it; it struck me as a good idea: it occurred to me that, as long as the story’s true, it didn’t matter who wrote it, and with time I’ve come to think that it’s preferable that someone other than me tell it, someone detached from the story, someone who is not affected by the story and can tell it with some distance.’
‘Someone like me.’
‘For example.’
‘So it was you who suggested my name?’
‘No. It was Silvia. Or maybe Nerea. I don’t remember. But it was me who approved you; and also who established the conditions. A few days after I accepted her suggestion, Silvia called and said she had the perfect person for the job. The next morning I received your book on the Aiguablava crimes. I hadn’t heard of you, but I’d followed the case in the papers, and I liked the book because, contrary to what I had tried to write, everything you told in it sounded true; even better I liked that not only did it sound true, it was, or at least your version of events coincided with that of the judge.’
‘It wasn’t that difficult.’
‘No, but many fantasies were told about that story, and I was glad that you didn’t let yourself be fooled by them and you didn’t give in to the temptation of reproducing them. I thought that, as well as knowing how to write, you were trustworthy.’
‘Thanks. Anyhow I should warn you that, in my case, it’s not such an achievement, because I’m one of those who think fiction always surpasses reality but reality is always richer than fiction.’
‘The fact is you were chosen, and I soon started telling you the story that we’re now almost at the end of.’
‘Almost?’
‘As I said it turns out that wasn’t exactly the end. The end — or what I now think is the end — happened a couple of weeks ago, after you and I saw each other last time. One afternoon, while I was with Gubau at the home of a client we were going to defend against a charge of embezzlement, I received a text message. “Hiya, Gafitas,” it said. “It’s Tere. Come and see me as soon as you can.” It was followed by an address on Mimosa Street, in Font de la Pòlvora, and ended: “It’s above José and Juan’s Snack-Bar. I’ll be expecting you.” I put my mobile away, tried to concentrate again on my client’s statement; after a while I realized that I wasn’t even taking in what she was saying and I interrupted her. Excuse me, I said, standing up. Something unexpected has come up and I have to leave. What’s up? Gubau asked anxiously. Nothing, I answered. You finish here and get a taxi back. We’ll talk tomorrow in the office.
‘It was about seven in the evening and I was in Amer, so I must have got to Font de la Pòlvora about half past seven. The neighbourhood gave me the same feeling as ever, a feeling of festering poverty and dirt; but the people, who packed the streets, seemed happy: I saw a group of children jumping on a dusty mattress, several women trying on dresses that were spilling out of a van, a group of men smoking and clapping along to a rumba. I soon found José and Juan’s Snack-Bar, on the ground floor of a building with a yellowish façade. I parked the car, walked past the snack-bar door and into the building.
‘In the hall I tried to turn on the light in the stairwell, but it didn’t work and I had to go up in the dark, feeling my way along the flaking walls. It smelled bad. When I got to the door of the flat Tere had indicated I pressed the bell, but it didn’t work either, and when I was about to knock on the door I noticed it wasn’t closed. I pushed it open, went down a tiny hallway and came out in a little living room; there was Tere, sitting in an old wingback chair, looking out the window with a blanket over her legs. I must have made a noise, because Tere turned towards me; recognizing me she smiled with a smile that had equal amounts of joy, surprise and weariness. Hiya, Gafitas, she said. That was fast. She brushed a hand over her dishevelled hair, trying to fix it up a bit, and added: Why didn’t you let me know you were going to come? I immediately realized something fundamental had changed in her, although I didn’t know what. She didn’t look welclass="underline" she was very drawn, with big dark circles under her eyes and her bones very visible in her face; her lips, which had been red and full, were dry and pale, and she was breathing through her mouth. Instead of explaining that I showed up so quickly because she’d said to come as soon as possible, I asked: What are you doing here? What do you want me to do? she answered, almost amused. This is where I live. But that place, in truth, did not look like a home; it looked more like an abandoned garage: the walls of the room were grey and covered in damp stains; there was no furniture apart from a formica table, a couple of chairs and, on the floor, in front of Tere, an old television set, which wasn’t on; also on the floor I saw newspaper pages, cigarette butts, an empty litre-bottle of Coca-Cola. Oblivious to the mess, Tere was in her bathrobe, with her hands folded in her lap; under the robe she was wearing a pink nightgown. Can you walk? I asked. Tere looked at me questioningly; her eyes were a matte, lifeless green. You can’t stay here, I said. Tell me where your coat is and I’ll take you home. My words erased the joy from Tere’s face. I’m not going anywhere, Gafitas, she replied. I already told you I live here. I stared at her; she was very serious now. Come on, she said, gesturing vaguely. Grab that chair and sit down.
‘I sat down in front of her. I took her hands: they were just skin and bones, and they were cold; without saying anything, Tere stared out the window. Through the dirty panes I could see the backs of a couple of tower blocks where tons of garbage and useless stuff was piled up, some kids playing football in a vacant lot, and beyond that, tied to a post, an old work horse grazing in a field; dark, rocky-looking clouds covered the sky. I asked Tere if she was ill; she said no, she’d just had a bit of flu, she was on the mend now, that she was eating well and was well looked after. That’s what she said, but, since many explanations are less convincing than a single one, and since her appearance was not exactly healthy, I didn’t believe her. Julián would be there soon, she added. I didn’t ask who Julián was. There was a silence that lasted too long, and I unexpectedly broke it by asking her why she’d abandoned me after Zarco’s death, why she’d left without saying anything; I immediately regretted the question, but Tere seemed to think her answer through conscientiously. Before telling me she let go of my hands and leaned back in the armchair again. I don’t know, she answered; but she immediately contradicted herself: Besides, you wouldn’t understand either. As if in a hurry to change the subject she began talking about Font de la Pòlvra; Tere knew I went there once in a while — once in a very long while — for work, and at some point asked me how I saw the neighbourhood. As usual, I answered. The city changes but this place always stays the same. Tere nodded pensively; after a while she ran her tongue over her lips and smiled slightly. More or less like me, she said. I asked her what she meant. She shrugged, looked out the window for a moment and then looked back at me. Well, she said. I tried to change too, didn’t I? And immediately, undoubtedly because she noticed a trace of confusion or bewilderment on my face, she explained: To change, to be someone other than who I was, to be different. I tried. You know I did. I moved away, I tried to study, I went out with you, with Jordi, I don’t know. . All for what. I was an idiot, I thought it would work. And here I am again. She paused, added: at Liang Shan Po. She smiled again, now with a broader almost cheerful smile, and, before I could get over my surprise, she asked: That’s what you used to call the prefabs, right? I didn’t answer, I didn’t ask her if she’d heard that from Zarco: after all nobody else could have told her. Tere unfolded her hands for a moment and with one of them gestured towards everything outside the window, the unredeemed misery of that ghetto where the last residents of the prefabs had been confined, just after the summer of ’78. She said: Well, here you have what’s left of Liang Shan Po. I hoped she’d go on, but she didn’t; all I could think of to say was: That Liang Shan Po thing is stupid. Tere replied: I told you you wouldn’t understand.