‘And you looked the other way with Gamallo.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? By not showing up at the prison on Sunday night, Gamallo had violated the conditions of his release permit. Why didn’t you report the violation? Why didn’t you inform the director-general? Why instead of reporting it or informing him did you call Cañas so he could try to solve the problem by finding Gamallo and bringing him back to the prison?’
‘Because it was the most sensible thing to do. Rules are not there just to be observed. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I did it; I mean it wasn’t the first time I phoned the lawyer of an inmate who had violated a weekend release, so they could try to right the wrong before it was too late and beyond repair. OK, Cañas was right, Gamallo was not just any prisoner, but at least in this respect I behaved towards him the way I would have towards any other prisoner. Or almost. Look, I think there’s something that you haven’t entirely understood. I didn’t have anything against Gamallo, and much less against Cañas; leaving aside questions of principle, we disagreed on the means, but not on the ends: Gamallo’s failure to reintegrate into society would not have just been a personal failure for Gamallo, for Cañas and for the director-general; it would also have been a failure for me, because Gamallo was in my charge. Don’t forget that: Gamallo’s failure was my failure, but his success was my success. I was also interested in everything turning out well.’
‘Even though you didn’t believe it could turn out well.’
‘Even not believing it. That’s what I meant by a question of principles. Of course I would almost say that, more than a question of principles, it was a question of character. We might say that I am a pre-emptive pessimist: I always expect the worst. That’s why I enjoy the best more. Or that’s what I believe.’
Chapter 9
‘After dropping off Zarco at the prison, Tere asked me to take her home. I agreed without a word and we crossed the city one last time that Monday from one edge to the other, in silence, while the sun came up and people started going to work. It was daytime when I stopped the car in front of the building where Tere lived, and an almost summery light blazed against the white façades of the houses of Vilarroja. It must have been seven-thirty or eight o’clock. I had barely spoken a word since the slap Tere had given me in La Creueta to make me shut up and convince me to wait for Zarco, and his insults and threats were still stinging; besides, I didn’t like the idea that Tere might ask me about what Zarco had said about my participation in the robbery of the Bordils branch of the Banco Popular. So I don’t know if what I said to Tere next was a way of alleviating the sting or of avoiding uncomfortable questions (or both at once). Turning to face her I asked: How did you know where to look for Zarco? Tere didn’t answer; she was pale and ravaged by the sleepless night. I asked: Is it true you hadn’t seen him this weekend? Tere continued not answering and, increasingly furious and fired-up (perhaps still under the effects of the line of coke I’d snorted in La Creueta), I took the opportunity to let off steam. And another thing, I said, do you think I’m a dickhead and a wanker, too? You think I’m a sanctimonious git and that I’ve been making a fool of myself? Are you using me too? Tere listened to this string of questions without batting an eyelid and, when I finished posing them, she sighed and opened the car door. You’re not going to answer? I asked. With one foot already on the pavement, Tere turned to look at me. I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this, she said. Because I’ve had it up to here, I said sincerely; and I added: Look, Tere, I don’t know if you’ve been with Zarco this weekend or not, and I don’t know what kind of things you’ve got going on: that’s between you and him. Now, if you want what’s between you and me to carry on, that’s going to have to be the way everybody does it; if not, I’d rather we didn’t see each other. Tere thought for a moment, nodded and murmured something, which I didn’t catch. What did you say? I said. Nothing, she answered as she got out of the car. Just that I knew this was going to happen.
‘During that week we didn’t see each other or speak on the phone, but I was reconsidering; on the Saturday I went to Barcelona and spent the afternoon in Revólver and Discos Castelló buying CDs — it had been a while since I’d bought any — and the following week I called her and suggested she come over to my place. I have some new music, I said, and then tried to tempt her by listing what I’d bought. When I finished, Tere said she couldn’t accept the invitation. Are you still angry? I asked. I didn’t get angry, she answered. You were the one who was angry. Well I’m not angry any more, I said; then I added: Have you given any thought to what we talked about? She didn’t ask me what I meant. There’s nothing to give any thought to, she said. Look, Gafitas, this is a mess, and I don’t want any mess. No ties, no commitment. I told you. You were right: we can’t go out like everybody else does, so it’s best that we stop seeing each other. Why can’t we go out like everybody else? I asked. Because we can’t, she answered. Because you’re what you are and I’m what I am. Well then we’ll see each other as we’ve been seeing each other up till now, I conceded. Come over to my place. We’ll have dinner and dance. Like we did before. We had a good time, didn’t we? Yeah, said Tere. But that’s over; I didn’t want it to end, but it’s over. And what’s done is done. Although we carried on arguing for quite a while, Tere had made a decision and I could not get her to change her mind; the decision didn’t mean a break-up, or at least I didn’t take it to mean a break-up: Tere just asked me for time to think, to clarify her ideas, to find out, she said, what she wanted to do with her life. All this sounded a bit hollow to me, or rhetorical, like something you hear in movies, but I had no choice but to accept it.
‘Tere and I stopped seeing each other that summer, just like that. I phoned her at least once a week, but our conversations were brief, distant and functional (mostly we talked about Zarco and María), and, when I tried to guide them onto a more personal terrain, Tere cut me off or listened in silence and then found a reason to hang up straight away. Towards the beginning of August she stopped answering the phone and I imagined she’d gone away on holiday, but I didn’t go up to Vilarroja to find out. Actually I didn’t see her again until Zarco’s wedding day.’
‘Zarco’s wedding?’
‘Zarco and María’s wedding. It was in September, three months after the frustrated escape in La Creueta, and it was the good result of that episode, or the culmination of its good results; so good that for months I could allow myself to think that, for Zarco, that night had been like an alcoholic’s last tumble off the wagon or like the last performance of a dying persona. The fact is that the episode had an immediate therapeutic effect, and in a way revolutionized Zarco’s life. I myself noticed an improvement in his attitude straight away, his mood and even his appearance, but I wasn’t the only one to notice it; the prison reports changed from one week to the next: the guards stopped complaining about him, he went back on the methadone to combat his heroin addiction, started exercising again. This personal readjustment contributed perhaps to the fact that, in spite of the shock of the night of La Creueta, the prison superintendent did not rescind his weekend-release privileges. It’s true that I spent Sunday nights on edge, always hanging by the phone, although it’s also true that Zarco did not return late back to prison again and I did not receive another distressing phone call from the superintendent.