‘I looked: a heavy, slow shower was falling from the sky, chasing the boys off the vacant lot; the horse, however, stood motionless under the rain. I pulled my chair up closer to Tere’s until our knees were touching, and just when I was about to speak I noticed that her left leg was still, quietened, without its perpetual piston movement. All of a sudden I was sure that was the change I’d noticed when I saw her, and that change changed everything. Tere, I said, taking her hands again. She seemed absorbed by the rain, exhausted by the confession she’d just made. I repeated her name; she turned and looked at me. Do you remember the Vilaró arcade? I asked her. Do you remember the first time we saw each other? Tere waited for me to continue. Do you know the first thing I thought when I saw you? There was silence. I thought you were the most gorgeous girl in the world. And do you know what I think now? Another silence. That you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world. Tere smiled with her eyes, but not with her lips. Let me take you to a hospital, I said. Then we’ll go home. Nothing will happen to you. I’ll take care of you. And we won’t be apart again. I promise you. Tere listened to me without batting an eyelid, without losing the smile. When I finished speaking she let a few seconds pass, took a deep breath, sat up a little, took my cheeks in her hands and kissed me; her lips didn’t taste of anything. Then she said: You have to get going, Gafitas. Julián will be here any minute.
‘She didn’t say anything else. I didn’t insist. I knew it was futile. We sat there opposite each other, looking out the window in silence while the room gradually grew dark; outside, abandoned beneath the rain, the dray horse seemed to look back at us with an almost human gaze. After a while Tere said again that I should leave. I stood up and asked if I could do anything for her. Tere moved her head almost imperceptibly from one side to the other, before she said no. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow, she added. I looked at the chaotic disarray of the flat and noticed the plural. Where to? I asked. Tere shrugged. Somewhere, she said. Then I thought I wasn’t going to see her again and took a step towards her. Please, Gafitas, said Tere, holding up one hand. I stopped, stood still there for a couple of seconds, staring at her, as if the suspicion had suddenly hit me that this image of Tere, ill, sitting in that wingback chair, in that desolate flat in that miserable neighbourhood, wearing a blue bathrobe and frayed nightgown, pale, drawn and exhausted, was going to supplant all the others I had of her for the rest of my life, and my memory had already started to struggle against that flagrant injustice. Until, without another word, I turned and left.
‘A violent downpour was falling over Font de la Pòlvora when I walked out of Tere’s building.
‘That night and the next two days were agonizing. I didn’t want to phone Tere or return to Font de la Pòlvora, but I sent her several texts. At first she answered. I asked her how she was and if she needed anything and she answered that she didn’t need anything and that she was fine. The last text she sent me said: “I’m better, Gafitas. The doctor’s given me the all-clear. I’m off. Bye.” I replied congratulating her, asking her where she was and where she was going, but she didn’t answer me any more. Once the first moment of frustration was over, I calmed down, and then the anguish turned into a bittersweet feeling: on the one hand I thought I wouldn’t see Tere again, that this was the end of the story and everything that had to happen to me had now happened to me; but on the other hand I thought I finally knew the truth and that, now, everything did fall into place. The calmness — or at least the calming sensation that everything fell into place — didn’t last long. One of those nights, while I was having a drink at home before going to bed, I was struck by a doubt. I spent most of the night battling it, and the first thing I did the next morning when I got to the office was ask my secretary to find me Inspector Cuenca’s phone number. I suppose I’ve told you that after the summer of ’78 the inspector and I still saw each other.’
‘You mentioned it; the inspector also told me that after that summer you lost touch with each other for some years, after which you began to see each other again as if you’d never met.’
‘It’s true. We pretended we didn’t know each other, and we pretended very well. We mostly saw each other at the time when he worked for the civil government, almost directly across the street from my office, as a security advisor for the governor. We became rather friendly during those years, but even then neither of us ever mentioned anything, much less whether he had been on the verge of sending me to prison for belonging to Zarco’s gang. Later we stopped seeing each other again and then, not long ago, I heard that he’d been chief of the airport police station for some time. And there, at the airport, my secretary found him that morning. When I told the inspector I needed to talk to him, he just asked: Is it urgent? It is for me, I answered. He said his morning was pretty busy but we could see each other mid-afternoon, and suggested I come see him in his office at the airport. It’s a private matter, I said. I’d rather talk somewhere else. I heard silence at the other end of the line; then I heard: Well, as you wish. He asked when and where we should meet; I said the first thing that came into my head: at six, on a bench in Sant Agustí Plaza.
‘At quarter to six I was already sitting in the sun on a bench in Sant Agustí Plaza, in front of the statue of General Álvarez de Castro and the city’s defenders. Shortly after six Inspector Cuenca showed up, out of breath and with his jacket folded under his arm. I stood up, shook his hand, thanked him for coming, suggested we could have a coffee at the Royal. The inspector dropped onto the bench, loosened the knot of his tie and said: First tell me what you want to talk about. I sat down beside him and, without giving him time to catch his breath, asked: You haven’t guessed? Still panting, he gave me a look that was halfway between ironic and suspicious; he asked: You want to talk about Zarco? I said yes.
‘The inspector nodded. He seemed to be ageing well, but for some reason his face made me think of a tortoise; a sad tortoise. He was facing straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the statue of General Álvarez de Castro or on the maple trees that surrounded the centre of the plaza or on the big white parasols that shaded the terraces of the bars or on the arches or the cream-coloured façades covered with strings of wrought-iron balconies; a drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. Well, he said with resignation, once he’d caught his breath. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later, didn’t it? Arranging his jacket on his lap he asked: What do you want to know? Just one thing, I answered. Who was the informer? Inspector Cuenca turned to me as he wiped away the drop of sweat from his cheek; I asked: You know what I mean, don’t you? Before he could answer I reasoned: You were waiting for us outside with your people. You knew we were going to rob that bank. Somebody must have told you. Who was it? Inspector Cuenca didn’t look away; he seemed more annoyed than intrigued. What do you want to know that for? he asked. I need to know, I answered. What for? Inspector Cuenca repeated. This time I didn’t answer. Inspector Cuenca blinked several times. I’m not going to tell you, he finally said, shaking his head. Professional secret. For fuck’s sake, Inspector, I said. It was thirty years ago. That’s true, said the inspector. And that’s precisely why you should have forgotten this story by now. I, however, still have my obligations, especially to people who confided in me. Would you reveal a client’s secret, even thirty years after they confided in you? Don’t play games, Inspector, I protested. This is not a normal case. Don’t play games, Counsellor, he protested. There’s no such thing as a normal case.