‘Zarco?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me that you’re surprised; I was surprised too. I didn’t understand why, precisely when we started to glimpse a way out of his situation, his good mood of the initial days evaporated and he seemed increasingly pessimistic and complaining. Much later I understood there were two reasons for this. The first is that by that stage Zarco was mediapathic: he had spent more than half his life appearing in the papers, on radio and television on a daily basis and it was hard for him to live without being the protagonist of the film or appearing in the media; that, I’m sure, is one of the reasons he approved the campaign I proposed to reactivate the popularity of his persona. The problem was that, since he was used to being the centre of attention, he didn’t like it at all that María took over that position.’
‘But María had become the centre of attention to get him out of prison!’
‘And what’s that got to do with anything? A mediapath is a mediapath, don’t you get it? Zarco’s irritation was not rational; the proof is that, if anyone had told him he was irritated, he would have responded that he wasn’t. What was happening was simply that it wounded his self-esteem as a media star that the press had put the focus on María instead of putting it on him. Nothing more. Although that explained only one part of his disgruntlement; the other, which was perhaps fundamental, took me still more time to understand.
‘Actually, I didn’t understand it until one day towards the end of spring. That morning, more or less six months after taking charge of Zarco’s defence, much sooner than we’d imagined, the Barcelona court consolidated all of his sentences into a single thirty-year sentence. It was the news we were waiting for, great news, and, as soon as I received it, I phoned Tere and María to tell them, and in the afternoon I ran over to the prison to tell Zarco. His reaction was bad, but I’d be lying if I said I was surprised. It disappointed me, but it didn’t surprise me. By then, as I said, I had been noticing for weeks that he was tense and nervous, irritable, hearing him complain about everything and rant and rave about the prison, about the persecution a couple of the guards were subjecting him to and the passivity of the superintendent, who (according to him) allowed the persecution to go on. When I noticed his anxiety I rushed to speak to María and Tere, but María said she hadn’t noticed anything and Tere had accused me of exaggerating and, as usual, played down the matter. Don’t pay any attention to him, she said, referring to Zarco. Sometimes he gets like that. It’s natural, don’t you think? I would have gone crazy if I’d been locked up in jail for more than twenty years, almost without setting foot outside. Then she advised me: Patience. He’ll get over it.
‘I followed Tere’s advice, but Zarco’s uneasiness did not pass, at least not over the next few weeks. That’s why I said I wasn’t surprised by his reaction, that afternoon in the visiting room: when he heard the great news I’d gone to tell him, he wasn’t pleased for himself, wasn’t pleased for me, didn’t even cheer up; he just asked in a demanding tone whether the consolidation of his sentences meant he could soon get out of prison. In spite of the fact that he had asked me the same question many times over recent weeks, I answered it once again: I told him that, although we didn’t know when we could get him definitely released, in a couple of weeks we could start requesting day passes and in a few months he might be out on conditional release/probation. He reacted as if he didn’t know the answer in advance and, with a contemptuous look on his face, he snorted. That’s a long time, he said. I don’t know if I can stand it. Clicking my tongue, I smiled. What do you mean you can’t stand it, man? I asked, with an unworried air. Just a few weeks, a few months, no time at all. I don’t know, he repeated. I’m fed up with this prison. That’s natural, I said. What I don’t understand is why you haven’t escaped yet. But it’s not worth it now: in no time at all, like I said, you’ll start to get out on leave. Yeah, he answered. To go back inside the next day. I don’t want to go back inside. I don’t want to come back to this shit. I’m sick and fucking tired of it. I’ve made up my mind. What have you decided? I asked, alarmed. I’m out of here, he answered. I’m going to ask to be transferred. I’ll talk to my friend Pere Prada, tell him I’m fed up and I want to be moved. I can’t take it here any more. And then he started cursing the prison, the superintendent and the two guards who seemed to be harassing him. I tried not to let us get buried in the avalanche of complaints, but the way I did so was mistaken: interrupting him every couple of sentences, I carried on joking, I was trying to play down that list of grievances, I assured him that when he started to go out on leave everything would change; finally when he mentioned his “friend” Pere Prada again and I reminded him in a sarcastic tone, as if accusing him of self-importance, that Prada was not his friend but the Director-General of Correctional Institutions, he cut me off: Shut your fucking mouth! Between the four walls of the interview room, Zarco’s order exploded like slander. When I heard it, I thought of standing up and walking out; but, when I started to follow that impulse, I looked at Zarco and suddenly saw in his eyes something I don’t remember ever having seen and that, to tell you the truth, I never expected to see and much less at that moment, something that seemed to me to be the complete explanation of his anxiety. Do you know what it was?’
‘No.’
‘Fear. Pure and simple fear. I couldn’t believe it, and the surprise made me swallow my pride, I shut up and sat back down at my desk. I waited for Zarco’s apology, which was not forthcoming; the only thing that reached me, in the silence of the visiting room, filtered by the glass that separated the two rows of bars, was his laboured and hoarse breathing. I stood up, stretched my legs, took a deep breath, sat back down at my desk and, after a pause, tried to get Zarco to see reason. I said that I understood but that this was not the moment to think of transfers, I assured him I’d speak to the superintendent as soon as I could and demand he put a stop to the guards’ persecution, I asked him to endure it for a little longer, I reminded him that he had within reach what he’d so long been fighting for, I begged him to calm down, not to ruin everything. Zarco listened to me with his head hanging, still furious, still panting a little, although when I finished speaking he seemed to have cooled off; he let a few seconds go by, hinted at a smile that almost seemed like an apology or that I interpreted as an apology, accepted that I might be right and finally asked me to talk to the superintendent as soon as I could so that the harassment of the guards would stop and accelerate as far as possible the granting of weekend passes and conditional release. I said yes to everything, promised that as soon as I left the interview room I would go to see the superintendent and, without any more explanations, we said goodbye.