He observed the youth sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to control his skepticism so as not to seem rude, although at the same time it seemed strange that this kid-yes, kid-fresh from university and dressed informally in jeans and a white checked shirt, should have in his hands the file of a forty-three-year-old inspector, who, if he’d had an unlucky break in adolescence, could even be his father. The notion made him think of Guillermo and his son’s reaction years before when his tutor at school suggested that it wouldn’t be amiss for them to take him to a psychologist who-his exact words-“might help him open up to others.” Ruth wasn’t a big fan of shrinks either, but they decided they’d nothing to lose, although they certainly both knew Guillermo socialized with whoever he felt like and didn’t bother with anyone who didn’t arouse his interest. He and Ruth laughed for weeks at the outcome. The psychologist had asked their son to draw a house, a tree and a family; Guille, who at the age of six was going through a phase of adoring comics and was already demonstrating the same skill for graphic art as his mother, threw himself enthusiastically into the task, albeit with his usual selective disposition: he didn’t like trees so didn’t bother with that one, but instead drew a medieval castle as the house, and Batman, Catwoman and The Penguin as the family. He didn’t want to imagine what conclusions the poor woman drew on seeing the supposed mother imagined in a leather suit with a whip in her hand, but they were both sure that she’d kept the drawing for her thesis on the dysfunctional modern family, or something like that.
He’d smiled without noticing; he saw it in the inquiring look the psychologist was giving him through metal-rimmed glasses. Héctor cleared his throat and decided to feign seriousness; he was almost sure, however, that the boy opposite him still read comics in his spare time.
“Well, Inspector, I’m glad you feel at your ease.” “Sorry, I suddenly remembered something. An anecdote about my son.” He regretted it instantly, sure that this wasn’t the most opportune moment to bring it up.
“Ah-ha. You don’t have much faith in psychology, right?”
There was no hostility in the phrase, but an honest curiosity.
“I haven’t formed an opinion of it.”
“But you mistrust it from the outset. Fine. Of course most people feel the same about the police, wouldn’t you say?”
Héctor had to admit that was true, but he qualified it.
“Things have changed a lot. The police aren’t seen as the enemy any more.”
“Exactly. They’ve stopped being the body that strikes fear into a citizen, at least an honest one. Although in this country it took time to change that image.”
In spite of the neutral, impartial tone, Héctor knew that they were sliding down a rocky slope.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked. He was no longer smiling.
“What do you think I mean?”
“Let’s get to the point. .” He couldn’t help a certain impatience, which usually translated into a lapse into his childhood accent. “We both know what I’m doing here and what you have to find out. Let’s not beat about the bush.”
Silence. Salgado knew the technique, although this time he found himself on the receiving end.
“Fine. Look, I shouldn’t have done it. If that’s what you want to hear, then there you have it.”
“Why shouldn’t you have done it?”
He tried to stay calm. This was the game: questions, answers. . He’d seen enough Woody Allen films to know that.
“Come on, you know. Because it’s not good, because the police don’t do that, because I should’ve stayed calm.”
The psychologist jotted down a note.
“What were you feeling at the time? Do you remember?”
“Rage, I suppose.”
“Is that a regular thing? Do you usually feel rage?”
“No. Not up to that point.”
“Do you remember any other moment in your life when you lost control in that way?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “When I was younger.”
“Younger.” Another note. “How long ago. . five years, ten, twenty, more than twenty?”
“Very young,” stressed Héctor. “Adolescent.”
“Did you get into fights?”
“What?”
“Did you usually get into fights? When you were a teenager.”
“No. Not as a regular thing.”
“But you lost control one time.”
“You said it. One time.”
“Which time?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “None in particular. I suppose I went through an out-of-control phase, like all boys.”
A new note. Another pause.
“When did you arrive in Spain?”
“Pardon?” For a moment he was on the verge of answering that he’d arrived a few days previously. “Ah, you mean the first time. Nineteen years ago.”
“Were you still in this out-of-control adolescent phase?”
Héctor smiled.
“Well, I suppose my father thought so.”
“Hmmm. It was your father’s decision, then?”
“More or less. He was Galician. . Spanish; he always wanted to return to his native country but couldn’t. So he sent me here.”
“And how did you feel?”
The inspector made a gesture of indifference, as if that wasn’t the pertinent question.
“Excuse me, but I can see you’re young. . My father decided I had to continue studying in Spain and that was it. No one asked me.” He cleared his throat a little. “Things were like that then.”
“You didn’t have any opinion on the matter? At the end of the day you were made to leave your family, your friends and your life there behind. Didn’t it matter to you?”
“Of course. But I never thought it would be permanent. Besides, I repeat: they didn’t ask me.”
“Ah-ha. Do you have siblings, Inspector?”
“Yes, one brother. Older than me.”
“And he didn’t come to Spain to study?”
“No.”
The silence following his answer was denser than before. There was a question working its way to the surface. Héctor crossed his legs and looked away. The “kid” seemed in doubt and, finally, decided to change the subject.
“In your file it says you separated from your wife less than a year ago. Was she the reason you stayed in Spain?”
“Among others.” He corrected himself. “Yes. I stayed here for Ruth. With Ruth. But. .” Héctor looked at him, surprised he didn’t know: these details would also be in the files. The feeling that his whole life, at least the most recent facts, could be in a dossier within reach of anyone who had the authority to examine it bothered him. “Sorry.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I don’t want to be rude, but can you tell me where this is going? Look, I’m perfectly aware that I made a mistake and that it could-can-cost me my job. If it means anything, I don’t think I did a good thing, and I’m not proud of it, but. . But I’m not going to discuss all the details of my private life, nor do I believe you have a right to meddle in it.”
The other man listened to his speech without turning a hair and took his time before adding anything. When he did, there wasn’t the least condescension in his tone: he spoke with composure and without the slightest hesitation.
“I think I should make some things clear. Perhaps I should have done so at the beginning. Look, Inspector, I’m not here to judge you for what you did, or to decide whether or not you should continue working. That’s a matter for your superiors. My interest lies solely in you finding out what it was that provoked this loss of control, learning to recognize it and react in time in another similar situation. And for that I need your cooperation, or the task will be impossible. Do you understand?”
Of course he understood. Liking it was another matter altogether. But he had no option but to agree.