Southern Seas Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  MANUEL VÁZQUEZ MONTALBÁN’S

  PEPE CARVALHO SERIES

  “Montalbán does for Barcelona what Chandler did for Los Angeles—he exposes the criminal power relationships beneath the façade of democracy.”

  —THE GUARDIAN

  “Montalbán writes with authority and compassion—a le Carré-like sorrow.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “A writer who is caustic about the powerful and tender towards the oppressed.”

  —TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

  “Carvalho travels down the mean calles with humor, perception, and compassion.”

  —THE TIMES (LONDON)

  “Does for modern Barcelona what Dickens did for 19th century London.”

  —TOTAL

  “Carvalho is funny … scathingly witty about the powerful. He is an original eccentric, burning books and cooking all night. Like Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe, he is a man of honor walking the mean streets of a sick society.”

  —THE INDEPENDENT (LONDON)

  “A sharp wit and a knowing eye.”

  —SUNDAY TIMES (LONDON)

  Born in Barcelona in 1939, MANUEL VÁZQUEZ MONTALBÁN (1939–2003) was a member of Partit Socialista Unificat de Catalunya (PSUC), and was jailed by the Franco government for four years for supporting a miners’ strike. A columnist for Madrid’s El País, as well as a prolific poet, playwright, and essayist, Vázquez Montalbán was also a well-known gourmand who wrote often about food. The nineteen novels in his Pepe Carvalho series have won international acclaim, including the Planeta prize (1979) and the International Grand Prix de Littérature Policière (1981), both for Southern Seas. He died in 2003 in Hong Kong, on his way home to Barcelona.

  PATRICK CAMILLER has translated many books from Spanish including Volker Skierka’s biography of Fidel Castro, and two books by Che Guevera, The African Dream: The Diaries of the Revolutionary War in the Congo and Back on the Road: A Journey to Central America. He is also the translator, from the Romanian, of Norman Manea’s The Black Envelope.

  SOUTHERN SEAS

  First published as Los Mares del Sur by

  Editorial Planeta, S.A., Barcelona

  © 1979 Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  Translation © 1986 Patrick Camiller

  This edition published by arrangement with Serpent’s Tail

  Melville House Publishing

  145 Plymouth Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  www.mhpbooks.com

  eISBN: 978-1-61219-118-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012934611

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  First Page

  Other Books by This Author

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I ain’t got the strength to move.’

  ‘I can think of something that’ll move you.’

  Loli gathered her fat cheeks into a smile and gave a little snort, tossing her fringe à la Olivia Newton-John.

  ‘You’re feeling horny.’

  ‘Today’s the day, baby.’

  Darkie stood up on his bandy legs. The galactic dome of the building formed a fluorescent arch above his head. He hitched up his trousers and his crazy legs carried him towards the bar. The bar staff seemed miraculously capable of working in near total darkness. Piles of flesh heaped at the bar resolved into a tangle of arms and tongues belonging to a myriad of courting couples. Darkie prodded one of the shapes with his fist.

  ‘Move yourself, Roebuck. Me and your sister are off.’

  ‘Go away! You’re always interrupting.’

  Freckles had withdrawn her roughened tongue, and was now using it to protest at Darkie’s interference.

  ‘OK. If you two don’t fancy a ride, that’s too bad for you.’

  ‘A ride? Count me out this time, Darkie. I want a quiet night.’

  ‘I had my eyes on a tasty blue Jag …’

  ‘A Jaguar! Well, that’s different. I’ve never been in a Jag.’

  ‘A Jaguar!’ exclaimed Freckles, her eyes fixed on some vague horizon.

  ‘I think it’s even got a phone. It looks more like a travelling lounge than a car, man! All four of us can screw in it, and the wheels will still hold up.’

  ‘I like it, I like it,’ Roebuck laughed. ‘I’ll call my old lady: “Hi, baby. I’m fucking in a Jag”.’

  ‘Go out with Loli and wait on the corner by the paper factory.’

  Darkie crossed the dance floor in the glow of the flashing lights, and the white surface seemed to send bursts of electricity rippling through his legs and up to his black, twisting hair.

  ‘You still here, old ’un?’ he said, as he passed the doorman. ‘You look like part of the furniture.’

  ‘You take my place, and I’ll be jiving around in there with the best of them. OK? So piss off!’

  ‘All right, all right, no need to get all worked up.’

  Darkie felt protected by the darkness as he moved away from the rotating flicker in the hall. He put his hand in his right trouser pocket and fondled the picklock resting against his prick. He stroked his balls thoughtfully. Then he extracted the picklock and tried flexing it, as if to test its solidity. Casually, he walked up to the Jaguar and inserted the pick. The door sprang open with a little click, solid, like the steel door of a safe. It smells like a rich woman’s cunt, thought Darkie. Jesus … cigars! And a whisky flask! He opened the car bonnet and, with a caressing movement, brought the wires into contact. This done, he settled into the driving seat with the imagined assurance and grace of its owner. He reached for the whisky bottle. He lit up a cigar. Then he moved smoothly into gear and gave a wrench on the wheel so that the tyres squealed as he pulled away. Picking his way through piles of old bricks and parked cars, he came to the corner, where Loli, Roebuck and Freckles were waiting. Loli sank into the seat behind him, and the three passenger doors shut with a polite thud.

  ‘I want advance warning next time. Taking this kind of car isn’t our scene. Too much aggravation.’

  ‘Maybe not your scene. It’s mine, though. I feel like a lord.’

  ‘You sure are, Darkie,’ Freckles laughed from the back seat.

  ‘But I’m the one who’ll have to go street-walking while he’s behind bars.’

  ‘The only reason you go on the game is because you like it.’

  ‘Like hell! What a motor! We’ll fuck in Vallvidrera tonight.’

  ‘I’d rather fuck in bed.’

  ‘It’s brilliant with the smell of pines around you,’ said Darkie. He took one hand off the wheel, reached down Loli’s low-cut dress and kneaded a hard, ample breast.

  ‘Don’t go through the centre of San Andrès. It’s crawling with cops.’

  ‘Take it easy. You guys are too nervous. With cars like this, you’ve got to act like you’re born to it.’

  ‘What’s that you’re smoking, Darkie? You’re gonna wet the bed tonight. You’re not old enough for cigars like that.’

  Darkie took Loli’s hand and placed it on his bulging prick.

  ‘What d’you think of this cigar, then?’

  ‘Dirty pig!’

  Loli smiled, but she took her hand away as if she’d had an electric shock. Roebuck leaned forward and worked out the route that Darkie was taking.

  ‘Don’t go to the centre, I said! It’s crawling with police.’

  ‘Cool, man, keep cool.’

  ‘Cool’s got nothing to do with it. This is just bloody daft.’

  ‘Roey’s right,’ Freckles cut in. But Darkie was already heading for the Rambla de San Andrès, and came out onto the Plaza del Ayuntamiento.

  �
�You stupid FUCKER …’

  Roebuck’s impotent cry made Darkie smile.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen, man. Cool, man, keep cool.’

  ‘Watch out! Over there!’

  Loli had seen a patrol car parked on one corner of the Ayuntamiento.

  ‘Relax …’

  Darkie arched one eyebrow, to look unconcerned, and drew level with the patrol car. A peaked cap made a movement. A face looked up, profiled against a yellow street light whose beam was interrupted by an election banner drawn high across the street: ‘City Hall Could Be Ours!’ The arched eyebrows registered sharply on the yellow face. The dark eyes seemed to grow smaller.

  ‘He’s looking at you.’

  ‘They always look like that, like they’re forgiving you for being alive. Give them a badge and they think the world belongs to them.’

  ‘They’re coming after us!’ shouted Freckles, her eyes on the rear window.

  Darkie’s left eye flicked to the wing mirror. He saw the yellow headlamps and rotating rooflight of the patrol car.

  ‘I warned you, shithead. What an arsehole you are!’

  ‘Shut up, Roebuck, or I’ll smash your face. See if they can catch me now!’

  Loli screamed and gripped Darkie’s arm. He elbowed her aside, and she burst into tears against the side window.

  ‘That’s great! Now the stupid fucker’s going to race them. I suppose you think they’ll just give up? Stop the car, cunt, and we’ll make a run for it!’

  The flashing lights were joined by the wail of a siren. Waves of sound and light from the patrol car signalled to the Jaguar to stop.

  ‘I’m going to shake them off.’

  Darkie put his foot down, and the world shot up dangerously close, as if the nose of the car was swelling and going out to meet it. He turned a corner and ran out of space, caught between parked cars on his right and a mini with its back end jutting out into the street. The Jaguar crashed, and Loli’s head hit the windscreen. Darkie reversed. The rear of the car hit something with a crunching metallic groan. Darkie barely heard it over the noise of the approaching siren. He managed to get the car up the sidestreet, but his arms were shaking so violently that he couldn’t steer, and the Jag began bouncing off cars left and right. Finally, the steering wheel jammed and his limp hands could get no more action out of it. The rear doors opened. Roebuck and Freckles dived out.

  ‘Don’t move. One step and you’re dead!’

  Darkie heard feet running up. Loli was still in the front seat, crying hysterically, her nose and mouth pouring blood. Darkie got out with his hands raised, and barely had time to straighten up before uniformed hands shoved him against the car.

  ‘You won’t forget this little jaunt in a hurry. Get your hands on the roof.’

  As they gave him a thorough body-search, Darkie recovered enough to register that Roebuck was getting the same treatment a few yards away, and that another cop was searching Freckles’s handbag.

  ‘She’s badly hurt,’ said Darkie, pointing to Loli. She had got out, and was still crying tears and blood as she leaned back against the patrol car. The policeman looked aside for a moment, and Darkie gave him a solid right-hander. A path opened for him in the night, and he ran into it as fast as his legs would carry him. His arms worked like pistons. Police whistles screeched. More whistles. Curses, muffled in the distance. He cut round several corners, but still heard the sound of running feet behind him. He breathed in damp, coarse air which came in great gulps and scorched his lungs. Sidestreet followed sidestreet without yielding a suitable bolt-hole. High walls built of lifeless brick or wrapped in sandy, dusky cement. Suddenly he came out onto the Rambla de San Andrès, and all the lights in the world revealed him poised on one leg and braking with the other. A few yards away, the sentry in his hut outside the barracks looked on in amazement. Darkie sprinted across the brightly lit avenue in search of the open ground he could make out, up by Holy Trinity. He needed to stop. He was suffocating. He had a stitch in his side. He was on the verge of vomiting from the burning in his lungs. An old, much-painted, weathered wooden door promised access to an area of waste ground. Using the unevenness of the eroded wood to get a grip, Darkie got a toehold and began pulling himself up by a sheer effort of will. But his arms lacked the strength for the weight of his body, and he fell back onto his haunches. He took a few paces back, gathered fresh momentum and hurled himself at the door again, struggling to raise himself against the wobbling resistance of the wood. He felt the top of the door in his groin as he gave a final thrust and then found himself falling down a clay slope and slithering over rubble. He sank to his knees. He was in the concrete foundations of a house under construction. The door over which he had jumped was like a crown at the top of the slope. It stared down at the intruder.

  His eyes scanned the dark, weatherbeaten patch of ground. He reckoned that the building work had been abandoned for a fair while. The battering he had blindly inflicted on himself was now becoming identifiable sources of pain. His muscle joints were strained and aching, and a cold sweat was soaking him. He looked for somewhere to hide, in case they tried to follow him onto the site. It was then that he saw him—a man, with his head resting against a pile of bricks, his eyes staring back, and his hands palms-upwards to the sky.

  ‘Jesus! Damn!’ said Darkie, panting. He went up to take a closer look, but maintained a respectful distance. The man was not looking at him. His eyes seemed to be fixed on the old door at the top of the slope, as if it had been his last hope before he died. On the other side, the whistles were getting closer, and the sounds of pursuit became more distinct. The dead man and Darkie seemed to share a mutual moment of hope in the door. Suddenly, someone began pushing against it, and Darkie collapsed in a flood of tears and a hysterical ‘Aaaaaah’ that came all the way from his stomach. He looked for a pile of rubble, to sit down and await the inevitable. The look that he gave the dead man was full of reproach: ‘You bastard! You’re all I needed tonight. Now I’m fucked!’

  ‘Do you realize, Biscuter—we private eyes are the barometers of established morality. I tell you, this society is rotten. It doesn’t believe in anything.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Biscuter backed Carvalho up, not only because he guessed that the boss was drunk, but also because he could recognize a catastrophe when he saw one.

  ‘Three months without an assignment. Not a single husband chasing his wife. Not a single father looking for a runaway daughter. Not even the occasional pathetic wretch wanting proof of his wife’s adultery. Don’t women run away from home any more? Of course they do, Biscuter. More than ever. But nowadays their husbands and their fathers don’t give a shit if they do. The basic values have been lost. You people wanted democracy, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was all the same to me, boss.’

  But Pepe Carvalho wasn’t talking to Biscuter. He was questioning the green walls of his office, or an imaginary person seated on the other side of his desk—a forties-style desk with a smooth French polish that had faded over thirty years, as if it had slowly absorbed the gloom of the detective’s office on the Ramblas. He swallowed another glass of ice-cold orujo, and puckered his face at the shiver that ran down his spine. Hardly had he put the glass on the table than Biscuter returned to fill it again.

  ‘That’s enough, Biscuter. I’m popping out for a breather.’

  He went out onto the landing, where the sounds and smells of the building assailed him. The foot-tapping and castanets of the ballet school; the meticulous tap-tapping of the old sculptor; the mustiness emanating from thirty years’ worth of sedimented garbage, combined with the smell of faded polish and the impacted dust that had found refuge in the window frames and the opaque, rhomboid skylights poised above the stairwell. Carvalho took the stairs two at a time, helped or driven by an alcoholic energy, and went out to savour the brisk, chill air of the Ramblas. Spring had gone mad. It was cold and overcast on that early evening in March. A short walk and a few deep breaths helped Carv
alho clear his dulled brain and intoxicated liver.

  He had one million two hundred thousand pesetas in the savings bank, which brought in five per cent at fixed intervals. At this rate, he would not have enough capital to retire at fifty or fifty-five and live on the interest. The crisis, the crisis of values, he mused, with the dogged persistence of the alcoholic. He had read in the papers that labour lawyers were also in crisis, because workers were now turning to the unions’ legal advisors. Both were victims of democracy. Doctors and notaries were also victims of democracy. They had to pay their taxes now, and they were beginning to think that perhaps it was preferable to have been professionals living under fascism while practising a degree of liberal resistance.

  ‘We private detectives are about as useful as rag and bone men. We retrieve from the garbage can that which doesn’t yet belong with the garbage, or that which, on closer inspection, was never garbage in the first place.’

  No one was listening to him. Threatening drops of rain sent him running towards Calle Fernando, in search of the canopied shop windows of Beristain. There he found himself in the company of three prostitutes, who were swapping advice on the best way to make packet soup. A very small boy left the shop with a very large hockey stick. His father was asking again and again: ‘Are you sure that this one’s right for you?’ ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ replied the boy, obviously peeved by this paternal lack of confidence. Carvalho left his shelter and began to walk faster in the direction of a delicatessen where he often bought cheese and sausage. He stopped again, this time attracted by the sight of a litter of puppies wriggling on a pile of wood shavings behind a pane of glass that separated them from the street. With one of his fingers he made as if to play with the pert nose of a little German shepherd dog, whose hind paws were being nibbled by two spaniel puppies. He spread his hand flat on the window, as if to communicate warmth or some message to the little creature. The dog licked the glass in a vain attempt to reach Carvalho’s hand. Pepe moved away abruptly and completed the short distance to the deli.