Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (6 page)

“But what is Arnau doing exactly? Does he hit other children? Does he break things? Does he show a lack of respect towards you?” I asked.

“He never sits still and spends the whole time chatting. And sometimes uses swear words,” said the schoolmistress in a hushed voice. “Obviously, children normally pick up swear words at home…” she added pitilessly.

I looked down, shamefaced, and Montse remained silent. I initially interpreted her silence as an act of contrition, as implicit acceptance that we had failed as parents and had no idea how to bring up our son. I was wrong. When I looked up and saw the expression on my wife's face, I realized Montse was so angry that her silence was caused by the effort she was making to stop herself going for the teacher's jugular.

“So what do you suggest?” Montse asked curtly, not returning the smile of commiseration the teacher had given us when she finished her little speech.

Her advice was to ban Arnau from playing football and to give him a course of homeopathic medication. Many children in the class are already taking some, she said. The other option was to start on Bach flower remedies that worked extremely well.

I'd been shocked to hear that Arnau ran the risk of becoming an illiterate, foul-mouthed, male chauvinist piglet, and was at a loss for words. Montse, who is feistier, thanked the teacher dryly and reminded her she was a professional psychologist and that, in her view, Arnau's behaviour wasn't abnormal in the slightest. In any case, she would take her remarks on board, she added, though she didn't feel it necessary either to have recourse to medication or to ban him from playing football.

“You are his parents. You must make these decisions,” said the teacher, raising her eyebrows, with a knowing smile that meant we were to blame for Arnau's problems and she was washing her hands of the whole business.

“Indeed,” Montse retorted as she got up. “My husband and I will do whatever we think necessary. Thank you for your concern.”

“That's a stupid teacher, if ever there was one!” Montse grunted as soon as we were outside the school gates.

“Yes, I do think she was exaggerating rather…”

“What does she mean when she says Arnau is hyperactive because he likes playing football? He's only five years old, for Christ's sake!”

“Anyway, I think he's too young to start taking pills…”

“Forget it! I know my son. There's nothing wrong with him.” Montse was beside herself. I suggested going for a coffee, although what my wife needed right then was a herbal
infusion. We sat at a small café terrace and, while we were waiting to order, Montse asked me for a cigarette. I took out a packet and gave her one, but said nothing. She's been trying to kick the habit for three years, and that was her first in five days.

“The fact is,” she explained after a couple of drags had calmed her down, “leftist teachers now think it's trendy to recommend homeopathy or Bach flower remedies.”

“I thought you were all for that kind of thing…”

“Not any more. Besides, you shouldn't experiment on kids,” she asserted as she savoured her sinful cigarette.

I'd suspected for some time that my wife was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of some of the so-called alternative therapies, from when some children in the school who had bronchitis developed pneumonia after their parents put their trust in some esoteric juice or other. Montse was also quite against the idea that vaccinations were simply an evil conspiracy by the pharmaceutical companies to boost their profits, and was worried by the tendency of her radical acquaintances to refuse to give permission for their children to be vaccinated and hand them homeopathic rather than antipyretic pills when they got a temperature.

“There's only one way to keep a kid quiet in class, and that's fear,” she continued. “That's why priests and nuns are so good at keeping order.”

“So what should we do? Change Arnau to another school?”

“No, it's almost the end of term and they say the teacher he'll have next year isn't so dopey. Anyway, I don't think there's a single school in Barcelona that doesn't have at least one specimen of that kind.”

“What are you getting at now?”

“They have a thing about authority and don't know how to instil discipline. On the one hand, they are against
punishment and expect kids in kindergarten to behave like little adults. When they realize they can't keep control halfway through the year, they start blaming television or parents who don't spend enough time with their children…”

“I don't think they're so wide of the mark in that respect,” I retorted. “Arnau
does
watch too much TV. In my day —”

“Exactly, that's what they always say: in our day we did this or didn't do that. That old refrain about things not being what they used to be.”

“We all fall for that…”

“But the world has changed and you can't bring up kids nowadays trying to tell them that the TV and video games don't exist, as the way to get them interested in books. And whatever they say, kids today are much more aware.”

“I agree.”

The waiter came and put the bill on the table.

“Are you missing your old job?” I asked as I searched for my wallet. “It's been almost two years since you…”

“Not at all, and even less so after that little chat with Arnau's teacher!”

In the days when I was still earning my bread in a bank, before Pep returned to Barcelona transformed into Borja, Monte worked as a school counsellor thanks to her degree in psychology. She too was bored with her job, and, as soon as she could, she did what I had done and changed her lifestyle. She and some friends opened up the Alternative Centre for Holistic Well-being in Gràcia, close to the plaça de la Virreina where, apart from selling beauty treatments using organic concoctions, they provided anti-smoking group therapy and yoga and meditation courses.

“I must be off. I have a session,” she said, looking at her watch and putting out her cigarette.

“I expect I'll be back late tonight. We're going for a drink with that girlfriend of Borja's.”

“Merche?” she scowled.

“No, Mariona Castany. It's to do with our new case.”

“Your partner's affair with Lola will end in disaster. You do realize that, don't you?” she sighed.

“Don't be such a spoilsport.”

As it was still early, I took a leisurely stroll home and had a delicious siesta. When I woke up, it was almost six o'clock. I didn't want to be late, so I leapt out of bed and scrambled around in the wardrobe for something decent to wear to cocktails with that sophisticate Mariona. I rolled up at Borja's at a quarter to seven and he, too, looked as if he'd just got out of the sack.

“You by yourself?” I asked when he opened the door.

“Yes.”

“So, was it lunch with Merche?”

Borja nodded.

“We went to the Port Olímpic. I think she's rumbled me.”

“About you and Lola?”

“She suspects there's another woman. And I thought Merche wasn't the jealous kind!” he sighed.

“What did you expect? You'll have to choose sooner or later. You can't sustain this situation for much longer.”

“It's late. I need to have a shower,” he replied, changing the subject.

While Borja was sprucing himself up, I switched on the TV and zapped for a while. The princess in town was over the moon with her latest face; a footballer had cheated on his teenage sweetheart with a famous model; the octogenarian Duchess of Alba was as happy as a lark with her
young, proletarian fiancé. More of the usual. The usual circus programmed to keep our eyes on the box. Our daily ration of fantasy.

A few minutes later, Borja appeared showered, dressed and scented – overly so, for my taste.

“Like my shirt?” he asked.

“Very smart. Where did you pick that up?”

Borja had opted for black jeans and a mauve shirt.

“I snaffled it the other day in Gonzalo Comella on the Via Augusta,” he confessed.

“Pep!…”

“It cost a fortune.”

“One of these days they'll catch you.”

“I don't think so. I'm a dab hand at it,” he said, smiling as he admired himself in the mirror.

I sighed. Designer wear is one of Borja's vices, but he can't afford such luxuries, so instead loots expensive shops. His other vice is taking other people's overcoats and umbrellas from restaurants when he lunches out, and he has an impressive array in his flat. Still smiling, he put on a sea-blue jersey and took another look in the mirror to be sure he liked his ensemble. Then he gave me the once-over and nodded.

We decided to take the car, but rather than driving straight to the Gimlet we made a detour via the office to look at the lie of the land. The police cars and bystanders had gone, and we didn't stop. We reached the cocktail bar early and, while waiting for Mariona, ordered a couple of gin and tonics, light on the gin. Our friend arrived at five past eight, in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt that emphasized her svelte body, which remained in good shape. After giving us a couple of pecks on the cheek, she flopped down on a chair and tetchily ordered a Singapore sling.

“I am up to here with my friends!” she huffed. “All they can talk about is who has just died or who is about to. It is
awfully
depressing.”

“You need a boyfriend, Mariona. Or two,” quipped Borja, shaking his head. Mariona has been a widow for three years although it's rumoured she's been having an affair with a famous city architect for the past fifteen.

“Shut up about boyfriends! What are you two into at the moment? A new case?”

“Not exactly a case, Mariona. You know we're not detectives,” replied Borja with another shake of the head. “But we do have an assignment. We've been contracted to… How should I put this?…”

“To do some research?” she suggested.

“Yes, something of the sort. It's Teresa Solana, that writer I asked you about the other day. She wants to write a novel about alternative therapies and has contracted us to do her field work.”

“About alternative therapies?” queried Mariona, raising her eyebrows, as if she didn't understand.

“Well, the ambience in places that programme these therapies. Or more precisely the feel of one such centre on the upper side.”

“I get you. And that's why you wanted to speak to me, I imagine?” she asked, gulping down the cocktail that had just arrived.

“Well, Mariona rules above the Diagonal. You're the queen.”

Mariona burst out laughing and ran her fingers through her long, silvery waves of hair. Then she threw herself back, like a
grande dame
of the stage, and said, “There's a centre near my house that is very fashionable. It's called Zen Moments. By the by, an architect friend of mine designed the building. He even got a prize for his pains.”

“And what do they do?” I asked.

“Oh, a bit of everything: meditation, yoga, massage. But it's a serious establishment, you know? No happy endings. The doctor that runs it is Horaci Bou.” And she added, with a Cheshire-cat grin: “
He
is peculiar.”

“This sounds like just what we're after,” I replied.

“They rake it in,” speculated Borja, always keen on the financial angle.

“I suppose they do. They have lots of takers.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I have very occasionally accompanied a friend for a spot of meditation, but the truth is I find these things very boring. Besides, I have a gym at home and a personal trainer who is most becoming.”

“Ah, so you know the people who run the place?” Borja asked.

“Of course! I bump into Dr Bou and his wife at parties. They aren't one of
us
,” she specified, “but are very well connected and never miss an opportunity for self-promotion. What's more, they belong to the tennis club.” She was referring, of course, to the Royal Tennis Club, that much I knew because I'd been there a few times with Borja.

“Where is the centre?” Borja asked.

“It's on Escoles Pies. I told you it was practically next door to my house.”

“And do you know if you need a recommendation to get in?”

“No, it's not a club,” answered Mariona, shaking her head. “I think you simply need to be well-heeled, as I believe they charge the earth. In any case, if you need endorsing you can mention my name. I am sure they will be thrilled if you say I sent you.”

“You're wonderful, Mariona. I don't know what we'd do without you.”

Mariona insisted on ordering another round and, as it was a warm evening, she suggested sitting on the terrace so she could smoke. Borja and I exchanged anxious glances because the advance from Teresa Solana had flown and our current capital amounted to forty euros.

“Now, that's more like it!” chirped Mariona after a couple of puffs.

The second glass brought with it the inside story on various individuals I'd never heard of and on places that I'd never set foot in. On the other hand, Borja seemed to know the lot and hung on Mariona's every word with genuine interest while I tried to hide the fact I was bored out of my mind and fought off my yawns. When we finally finished our drinks and the time came to pay, Mariona took the bill and insisted on paying. Borja made gentlemanly noises of dissent, but was sensible enough to be less assertive than usual.

“All right, this time, I'll allow you to be an emancipated lady and pay for us,” he said, almost as if he were doing her a favour.

Mariona paid with her magical gold card and we all three got up from our chairs. As it was her chauffeur's day off and she had come by taxi, Borja offered to drive her home in his Smart. Initially, Mariona refused, arguing that the three of us couldn't cram into the car, but I said I felt like a walk and they shouldn't worry on my account. In fact, I was tired and the gin and tonics had gone to my head, and the last thing I felt like was a long walk home. As soon as they were out of sight I went off to catch the bus, hoping that Montse had taken pity on me and got dinner ready. The bus dawdled and when I walked through the door, the Spanish omelette Joana had cooked was no more and I had to make do with a miserable sandwich.