A Shortcut to Paradise (28 page)

26

Amadeu felt as if he was floating in a dream during the first days of his release. Initially he was annoyed by the injustice he had suffered at the hands of the
mossos
and furious at the rumour about his alleged cannibal appetites, but his anger soon gave way to a feeling of gratitude and pleasure when he realized how his fortunes had changed. The day they let him go, seconds after Oriol Sureda had bleated a kind of confession, he wasn't just greeted by his wife and family when he left the Model, but by the Under-Secretaries for Justice and Culture, and more than twenty journalists scrummaging for a photo and an interview. Amadeu had suddenly gone from being a blood-curdling killer to become a victim of the system, and that lent him a half heroic, half tragic halo that everyone agreed suited him to a T. A leading publisher had offered him a tempting contract to write a book about his jail experiences, and a film director had taken out a film option and wanted him to write the screenplay. To be sure, he'd been deeply saddened by Knocksie's death, but it had shown the huge power poetry can wield. That inmate had been so moved by his rhymes that he'd suffered a heart attack.

In the end, it seemed his miserable time in prison had been worthwhile. But it was only an illusion, a false impression that evaporated as soon as Amadeu returned to his city. Yes, things were different in Vic. Instead of giving him the hero's welcome he was expecting, they treated him standoffishly, like a criminal who'd escaped the tentacles of justice by dint of devious ploys. The folk of Vic hadn't really come to terms with his alleged cannibalism and, to be on the safe side, they preferred to act like the inmates of the Model and simply avoid him. There was a widespread feeling of paranoia over the city that Amadeu couldn't handle. The good folk of Vic were afraid of Amadeu Cabestany the teacher and writer.

In September, classes resumed at Amadeu's secondary school and the teachers eyed him with more reticence than usual and avoided him in the staffroom. Most suspiciously, the pupils behaved politely and obediently in his classes, which was the envy of the other teachers. His friends began not to return his calls and, in that bleak atmosphere, his wife relapsed into deep depression. His daughters had no friends and there was tension at home. Even the parish priest, a lifelong acquaintance, suggested one day that, as God was everywhere, it might be better for him to live elsewhere for a while.

To complicate matters further, the daughter of the councillor for culture in the Vic Town Hall was one of Amadeu's pupils, and her father had been on tenterhooks since the restart of classes. What if, for some reason he wasn't privy to, someone had decided to cover up that nasty business? What if her teacher was still a cannibal and was eyeing up his daughter's tender flesh? Being a politician, the councillor knew only too well how the world of politics worked: driven by favours, cover-ups and stabs in the back, naturally.

The afternoon their daughter came home a couple of hours late, he and his wife were unimaginably distressed. The fact that Llum – yes, Light
was
the girl's name – was sixteen years old didn't lead them to think she might be smooching with her boyfriend in the park or dancing at a disco with her friends. The next morning, the councillor decided to begin the process of distancing his daughter from Amadeu, and made an early call to the councillor for culture. She was a rather unpleasant woman, but, fortunately, belonged to his party and they'd known each other from their university days.

“Dolors, we've got to do something about this Amadeu Cabestany. He shouldn't be allowed to stay in Vic.”

“What do you mean?” asked the councillor, sounding surprised.

“It's because of all that kerfuffle, you know… It won't have a happy ending. Someone will lose it and we'll have a tragedy on our hands.” He remembered how he himself had just cleaned his father's gun and gone out of his way to buy bullets.

“So what the hell do you expect us to do? He didn't kill Marina Dolç and the rumours about his cannibalism were down to a stupid misunderstanding… Besides, he's a civil servant. We can't throw him out of the school just like that.”

“That's up to you. You can't say you weren't warned.”

The councillor hung up. She was worried. They'd already made one hell of mess of that whole affair. Of course, there might be a solution, she pondered. The plan to open up a cultural centre in Lapland had been paralysed for months because they couldn't find
anyone who wanted to go. One of the priorities of her mandate was to establish contact with minority cultures, but Lapland was a long way away from the Costa Brava, freezing cold, and no candidates had come forward. Amadeu Cabestany was really the best solution available, and she could always give it a patriotic slant and offer him the position of director of centre on an executive director's salary. Amadeu would have to learn the two variants of the Sami language and give Catalan lessons to a handful of Laplanders, but the post would give him ample time to write his novels and they'd find him a publisher. The councillor could include in the package the award of the St George's Cross and the Blue Ribbon of Catalan Literature in fifteen or twenty years' time when all this scandal had blown over, if not before. It was bait the despondent Amadeu in hostile Vic couldn't fail to nibble.

Amadeu and his family soon reached a decision. His wife was slightly reluctant to begin with, but agreed to pack their cases as soon as she saw the salary they were offering her husband and that accommodation and the children's schooling were also thrown in. Perhaps Amadeu was right and they needed a radical change of air, even if it was the icy blasts of Lapland. It was also a way to isolate her husband from that woman who acted as his agent and was still running after him. If they didn't like it there, Clara Cabestany ruminated, working up her enthusiasm, they could always contemplate a return to Catalonia.

By November, he, his wife and daughter were installed in Jukkasjarvi, in Swedish Lapland. It was certainly freezing and they had lots of free time. After a few weeks of wallowing in the mythical whiteness of those hills and mountains that had turned their back on time and history, Amadeu Cabestany decided to give up writing novels and concentrate on poetry, which he'd always felt comfortable writing. The incident with Knocksie had been decisive in this respect. He would write a verse saga and tell the world of the tribulations of his small country and the exodus of its sons to the boundaries of the polar circle. It would be translated into every language, including the two variants of Sami, and finally he and his name would scale glorious heights on their way to immortality.

If his country sent him to fly the flag in distant lands, thought Amadeu, he should feel proud and grasp the nettle. He would make the supreme sacrifice and learn a language that had four hundred words for reindeer and, in exchange, Laplanders would learn Catalan and that corner of the planet would protect the language of his ancestors from pollution by foreign tongues. They would also strive to prevent the pinkish white of the Arctic snow from blurring their Mediterranean identity, so the heritage of Wilfred the Hairy permeating their DNA didn't vanish in that deserted back of beyond. The Virgin of Monserrat, the Catalan flag and a Barça poster they'd been given when they'd departed now dominated like The Last Supper the dining room of the log cabin where they now lived, forever reminding the Cabestanys of the need to keep the flame of their origins flickering in the distant lands of Saint Nicholas.

27

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Shush, Jordi, let your father be. He's writing a novel.”

“What's a novel, Dad?”

“A novel,” replied Ernest Fabià, looking up from the notebook where he was jotting, “is a story for adults.”

“Do you adults like stories then, Dad?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And does your novel have any dragons and princesses?”

“Something of the sort.”

“And a secret room?”

“OK. So you want a secret room?”

“And a witch? Will there be a witch?”

“OK, I'll include a witch…”

“One that's very frightening, right? With lots of warts.”

“Yes, sir: a horrible witch… And we'll give her a wart on the nose. What do you reckon?”

 

 

An astonished Carmen had been tenderly admiring her husband for some time. She'd been right to send him off to the Translators' House for a few days, even though she'd never got a clear idea about what really happened in that small Aragonese city. In fact, to begin with, when Ernest came back to Barcelona slightly early, he was quite ill. According to him, he'd got a cold and the dry climate of Tarazona hadn't suited him. The fact was he'd come back in a frail state and Carmen hadn't known what to do. Ernest complained his back hurt and used that excuse to justify his bad temper and low spirits.

However, Ernest's mood had changed a couple of weeks ago. He seemed enthused by the idea of writing a novel and was working on it non-stop. His computer was on fire. Had he had a fling with a translator in Tarazona? Was that why he'd come back early, his wife wondered. Perhaps he was burying himself in work because he felt guilty? After analysing his behaviour, Carmen concluded he'd not been philandering: he hadn't given her flowers or been unusually affectionate. He was the same as normal, like he was before his accident, or even better. This new Ernest reminded Carmen of the Ernest she'd known ten years ago in the fiestas of Gràcia, when they were a couple of innocents without a care in the world. She fell in love with him straight away; he took slightly longer.

Carmen impulsively approached him from behind and kissed him on the shoulder. Ernest had finished the draft of the first chapter that afternoon and had given it to his wife. Carmen was waiting for the kids to finish their snack and go and watch TV before starting on her reading. As it was Saturday and hot, she'd take them to the park later on and they'd leave Ernest in peace to get on with his writing. That evening they were expecting friends to come to dinner and had decided
to order pizzas. There was no need to tidy the house and Carmen preferred reading to cooking.

Things were also going well for Carmen and she was happy. One morning, when Ernest was in Tarazona, she bumped into Montse, her neighbour, on the staircase and confessed how much she hated her work and how she regretted seeing so little of her children. A couple of days later Montse offered her a free massage and a job as secretary at the Alternative Centre for Holistic Well-being. Although they all worked overtime, Montse told her, they were short-staffed. The partner who saw to the accounts had got a new boyfriend and had decided to call it a day. And although the state of the Centre's finances didn't warrant it, they needed someone to look after the paperwork and act as a receptionist. Montse couldn't cope by herself. For the moment, they couldn't pay more than she was earning at the lawyers' office, but she'd be working two minutes from home and in a much more pleasant atmosphere. The place was certainly trendy: Montse and her partners sold short sessions of personal care at a cheap rate, using tarot, group therapies or yoga, and their female customers always left feeling good and smelling sweet. Carmen didn't personally believe in all their outlandish activities, but she was soon infected by the positive vibes and recommended the place enthusiastically to all her friends.

The kids had finished their snack. It was half-past five. Ernest was shut away in his study taking notes, lost to the world. As he had to translate books written by other people to earn his bread, he could only devote weekends and the odd moment in the evening to his own novel. He didn't know how long it would take him to finish, but when he had, it would be a weight off his mind and he'd sleep soundly once more. For the moment, he was saving behind Carmen's back in order to get the two grand together to repay Amadeu Cabestany and send him a letter of apology. That would close a stressful chapter in his life that, conversely, had served to show the stuff he was made of.

The kids announced they wanted to watch cartoons on the TV and, for once, Carmen hadn't said no. After putting the dishes in the sink, she picked up the first chapter of the novel and disappeared into the kitchen. She made herself a pot of the jasmine tea she'd been specially recommended at the Centre, sat down and started to read: “After his wife had left to take the children to school, Pau Gelabert sat down in his pyjamas at the formica kitchen table where they had eaten breakfast and decided to analyse the situation with a cool head.”

28

We were into the second half of July, and as there was nothing urgent that morning demanding my attention, I had got up late. Besides it was a Monday, a day that always invites inaction, and nobody was at home. Before dropping in at the Alternative Centre to prepare the afternoon's anti-smoking therapy session, Montse had taken Arnau to summer school while I cleaned the kitchen and tidied the house. The girls were away at camp and wouldn't be back until Wednesday, and peace reigned in our flat. It was horribly hot in Barcelona and everyone was talking about the terrible toll wrought by climate change, but in a couple of weeks we'd all jump in the car and be off to spend August in Roses. The twins had insisted we go there because they have friends there and even though Roses in the summer is not exactly a paradise of tranquillity and is also very hot, the prospect of fleeing Barcelona and parking our bums near a beach made the oppressive heat seem a little less so. Although I was still sweating, I felt in high spirits and was getting ready to have breakfast when the phone rang.

“Eduard.” It was Borja, and he seemed rather excited. “Have you still got that copy of Marina Dolç's novel you read?”