Or the Bull Kills You (14 page)

Cámara lifted his head as she spoke, looking back at the living room above them where they had been sitting a few moments before. The Moroccan had appeared at the window and was looking down on them. When he saw that Cámara had seen him he pulled back and disappeared.

‘It doesn't matter to those people what you do,' Carmen said, resuming. ‘Once you've reached the top everyone wants to pull you down. Not even all of Jorge's charity work could make them realise he was a good man. You know about his work with orphans?'

She looked round; Cámara nodded.

‘I know that most people in the street adored him. But they adored him as an image, as an icon. They didn't know him, never saw the man behind the
traje de luces
.'

She sat up, lifting herself up with one arm, and opened her legs slightly before crossing them again.

‘You mentioned his temper,' Cámara said. ‘Did you ever see him angry at anyone else? Did he ever talk badly about anyone? About tensions with anyone?'

She paused, bending down again to run her hand through the water.

‘There were always tensions,' she said at last. ‘Jorge was an artist. An artist has to be a perfectionist, and demands perfection from those around him. Yes, there were tensions with Ruiz Pastor, if that's what you're interested in, and with the Ramírez family, with some of the other bullfighters on the circuit, with the media, with the businessmen and their mercenary attitudes towards bullfighting, busy trying to make it into just another
negocio
, like football, or the cinema. And of course all these stupid politicians with their talk of banning bullfighting. Nonsense, all of it. But he never spoke about any of it. I was only ever aware of it from how he was, how he behaved. I was here to protect him, to give him love, to help him forget the rest of the world. And it worked, to an extent.'

‘Any specific examples?' Cámara asked. ‘Anything in the past couple of months, perhaps?'

‘Since the beginning of this year?' she asked.

‘
Por ejemplo
.'

‘There were some comments of Cano's in the press during the run-up to the new season,' she said. ‘I don't know what they were. Cyril told me, in fact. Not Jorge at all. Just some silly spat. I never believed they were really rivals like people said. Just some story made up for the newspapers. That happens a lot, you know.'

She gave him a look, then pushed her hand deeper into the water.

‘Did Blanco – did Jorge say anything about it?'

‘About Cano?' she said. ‘No. I'm sure it was nothing, as I say.'

‘Anything else?'

She thought for a moment.

‘We weren't together every day. You know that. We were waiting to get married before moving in together.'

‘But you spoke on the phone?'

‘Oh, yes. He called me three, sometimes four times a day when we were apart.'

‘And did you ever notice anything wrong during the calls?'

‘Wrong? Oh, did he ever seem angry over anything, you mean? No. Maybe. He didn't seem very happy the last time he went up to see Ramírez at the farm. Furious, really. But I told him he shouldn't have gone. He wasn't feeling well that day. The whole world could be against him some days from the way he spoke. It was his genius, you see?'

‘When was that? When did he go to the Ramírez farm?'

‘A couple of weeks ago. He always went just before the
Fallas feria
started, to check up on things, see the bulls they were going to send down, that kind of thing. Or at least that's what I think he did when he went up there. I never visited the place.'

‘Did he tell anyone else about his visit? Ruiz Pastor, perhaps?'

‘If it was anything to do with his art then I suspect he did, yes. They spoke often on the phone when Jorge was here. Always something to arrange or organise.'

‘How do you get on with the Ramírez family?' Cámara asked.

She pulled her hand out of the water and straightened up, swinging her legs tightly underneath her as she sat up.

‘Perfectly well.'

‘Have they been here to see you? Since what happened, I mean?'

‘I prefer to mourn in solitude,' she said.

She got to her feet.

‘The sun's getting too strong out here,' she said, and started walking back up the slope towards the sliding glass doors. Cámara got up and followed her back into the house. The Moroccan was nowhere to be seen.

Carmen stood at the window looking out at the sea.

‘Cyril!' she called out. There was no reply.

‘Cyril?' Still nothing.

‘He must have gone out to do the shopping,' she said after a pause. Cámara watched her closely as she turned round to face him again: something about her seemed to quiver slightly. As she raised her arm to her hair to push it behind her ear he could see her hand was shaking.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

She smiled.

‘It's been so nice to have some company,' she said. ‘To talk about things. I have struggled all my life to find happiness. And with Jorge I found it. My time with him was the best period in my life, and I give thanks to God every morning for what He allowed me to have. Our life together as man and wife was going to be just the start – a new life, a pure life. I wanted it so badly.'

She sniffed, her hand swiftly wiping away a tear that had formed at the edge of her eye.

‘I'd even had my virginity restored for him. That's how much I wanted it. Did you know that? No, of course, nobody knew that. There, you can go and tell the newspapers now, if you want. They'd pay you well for that. Or are you one of the honourable ones? Yes, perhaps you are. But they can do that, these days, you know. A specialist in London. Works a lot with girls from Arab countries, as you'd imagine. But also from Latin America. Very good, very discreet. Some Spanish women had been to see him in the past, he told me. He was a kind man.'

She shook her hair loose, the belt around her dressing gown coming undone and falling to the floor where she stood.

‘He said I had the prettiest vagina he'd ever seen.'

‘Why are you going to the bullfight? I thought you hated it.'

Torres pulled hard on his cigarette, the bright end glowing brightly against the black of his beard.

‘Worried that someone else is going to get it in the neck?'

Cámara breathed out a plume of smoke and looked out over the empty wasteland behind them: no kids with
petardos
today.

‘The best police work, my dear Torres,' Cámara said, flaring his nostrils, ‘is often done by adopting an oblique approach, to come from a direction where the criminal least expects…'

‘Fuck off!' Torres said. ‘You just want the afternoon off. Leave me here with all the boring stuff.'

Cámara coughed.

‘Well, that's part of it as well.'

‘
Cabrón
.'

‘I could always have you transferred to Maldonado's team, if you prefer.'

Torres smiled.

‘You're the one who has a problem with him, remember? Not me.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Cámara said. ‘I only have the greatest respect for Chief Inspector Maldonado.'

‘Is that why you hit him, then?' Torres asked.

‘What?'

‘Oh, come on. Everyone knows. Just because he didn't report it, you think the whole building didn't find out about it? Half the guys gave you a cheer, it has to be said.'

‘And the other half?' Cámara asked.

‘Too scared.'

They both finished their cigarettes, but hovered at the door, not wanting to go back in. The lull from a late lunch weighed down on them, while the sun on their faces brought images of being elsewhere: for Torres, sitting out at a terrace bar, drinking beer and watching the girls go by; for Cámara, lying on the beach at Formentera, where he should have been. With Almudena? He examined the image for a moment. He was no longer sure.

‘Why did you hit him, anyway?' Torres asked more seriously.

‘Ancient history,' Cámara said. ‘I've forgotten. Anyway, I didn't really hit him. Not
really
. His chest just got in the way of my fist.'

‘Some say it was because Maldonado was in charge of the pay review that year. Recommended you for a pay cut.'

Cámara frowned.

‘I'm sure there were other reasons as well.'

Torres was the one to make the first move back inside. Cámara's limbs felt leaden, as though his body were rebelling against the idea of having to work. He still had half an hour or so before heading over to the bullring.

‘The
criminalistas
had a look at the boat they pulled in,' Torres said, jerking the door open where it caught on the floor.

‘Anything?' Cámara asked.

‘Not much. The
Guardia Civil
called Huerta: said that whoever had been in there last was probably wearing blue overalls, like the kind workmen use. Found some fibres.'

‘Ah!'

‘Yeah, Huerta said you'd be pleased to hear that. I've checked. Old Pere, the boat's owner, doesn't own any blue overalls. Fishermen in the Albufera wouldn't be seen dead in them, apparently.'

‘Anything else?' Cámara asked.

‘Nothing,' Torres said, shrugging his shoulders. They passed into the shade of the building.

‘She said I'd be happy that Blanco'd been killed,' Cámara said absent-mindedly as they walked up the white concrete emergency stairway back up to their floor.

‘Who?'

‘Carmen Luna. Said murder was what I dealt in, so Blanco's murder was just more grist to my mill. Or something like that.'

‘Well,' Torres said, beginning to pant as they climbed up, ‘I suppose she's right.'

Cámara stopped where he was and Torres looked at him. They both knew what the other was thinking: the scene back at the
barraca
and Ruiz Pastor's bloodied, mutilated body. Things like that weren't easily erased from anyone's mind.

‘Or maybe not,' Torres said.

‘We could always ask to move to Personnel.' Cámara started walking up the stairs again, this time taking them two at a time as he tried to kick himself into gear.

‘Yeah,' Torres said, heaving himself up behind. ‘You'd be good at that.'

 

He'd broken his vow once. Now that he'd done it again he felt almost worse, but coming to this bullfight, he knew, was important: politically because it showed the
Policía Nacional
was still concerned about the appearance of finding Blanco's killer; for the investigation because the chances were significantly high that the murderer would be present, revisiting the scene, enjoying the spectacle of a bullfight in his victim's honour, and it behoved Cámara to be there as well; and emotionally because Alicia had invited him. No, if he was honest with himself, whatever he felt towards her was only physical at this point; his emotions were in a state of paralysis.

The bullring was packed. Few tickets had made it on to the open market as grandees and aficionados from all over the country had hustled for a place at this, what had turned out to be one of the most important events of the year. There had been a rumour at one stage that Mayoress Delgado herself might turn up, declaring a truce in her war against bullfighting. But the idea had been scotched by her team; Flores himself had written in the morning's copy of
El Diario
to deny it, and insisted that their anti-bullfighting policies were still a major plank of the manifesto. There was to be no back-pedalling at this late stage, with only four days to go until the election. Blanco's murder might have been an embarrassment for the Town Hall, and bullfighting might have been given a martyr figure, but the Delgado team had decided on a show of strength.

Cámara pushed through the crowds, his eyes darting from face to face, his senses alive and sharp. The sound of the beating drum from the
Anti-Taurino
League was barely audible above the din of the thousands of people streaming through the gates and into the portico walkway that circled the outside of the bullring. Moreno caught his eye as he walked past their position.

‘Come to check it out again?' he said, cocking his head. ‘I wouldn't bother – the bulls are all doped up to their eyeballs anyway.'

Cámara moved on. Next to Moreno, Marta was pulling her megaphone up to her mouth to begin a new tirade.

Alicia wasn't at the entrance waiting for him as she'd promised, and in the end he had to wave his badge at the ticket girl and force his way in – something he could have done anyway, but he preferred the idea of slipping in just like any other member of the public. Word would get out eventually that the policeman heading the Blanco case was there.

A hand grabbed his arm and jerked him to one side.

‘You found it, then?'

Alicia was wearing a low-buttoned cream blouse with a high collar, and a tan suede jacket. Gold earrings with shiny red gemstones dangled around her exposed neck. She smiled at Cámara.

‘Our seats are just here. We need to go: it's about to start.'

She led Cámara by the arm down a wide tunnel before they came out into the sunshine of the bullring. Stepping up a small stone staircase, they passed through a gate of painted wood and into the very first row of seats, just above the
callejón
passageway where the bullfighters moved around the ring before stepping out into the arena itself.

‘We certainly couldn't be any closer,' Cámara said.

‘Not unless you wanted to jump in there and have a go with the bulls yourself,' said Alicia.

They squeezed in among the other spectators and sat on a wooden bench with a proper back and armrests. Not only the best seats for viewing the spectacle, but the most comfortable as well: a few rows higher up this level of luxury came to an end and people had to make do with stone benches, softened only by plastic-covered cushions hired from one of the stalls near the entrance.

Many of the men were wearing jackets and ties, while some of the women, Cámara noticed, had come in black, or sombre-coloured dresses, taking advantage of the below-average temperatures to take out their fur coats for one final outing before being mothballed till the following winter. The ubiquitous cigar smoke, hanging thickly in the air above their heads, was mingled with sweet-scented perfumes and rich colognes.

Yet despite there being a seriousness about the afternoon, the atmosphere was anything but solemn. A woman sitting next to him carefully placed her
mantón de Manila
– a flowery, embroidered silk shawl – over the barrier in front of them, as was the custom, and then pulled out a black-and-white photograph of Blanco from her bosom and pinned it to the top. She smiled as she did so: she was here to commemorate the life of a great bullfighter, more to remember him than to mourn for his loss.

Cámara wondered aloud about Carmen Luna coming. He'd forgotten to ask her that morning.

‘She made a statement saying she wouldn't be here,' Alicia said. ‘I'm glad. This is for the bullfighting world to pay its respects to one of its greatest artists. She's had her moment.'

Cámara took in the rest of the faces around him, sweeping across the bullring to the other sections, glancing up and down: in the cheaper seats, in
Sol
, he detected a similar ambience: more men wearing hats than might otherwise be the case; the women taking more care to make themselves up for the event.

And all the while he was thinking, Was
he
here, their man? Somewhere, among the thousands, he might be close by at that very moment.

The last spectators were taking their seats as the trumpets sounded and the
Puerta de Cuadrillas
– the main doors to the bullring – were opened. The first to ride out were a couple of men dressed in black velvet eighteenth-century-style costumes, with white ruff collars and long, elegant feathers quivering in their caps. They rode to just below the president's box, saluted him and then circled around the arena. Cámara glanced up expecting to see Pardo's face there, in his usual spot as overseer of the event. But he was surprised to see the city's Civil Governor in his place. Perhaps a mere police commissioner had been deemed insufficient for this special bullfight: only the top representative of the government in Madrid would do.

At his side, Alicia leaned in, pressing her body against his.

‘These horsemen,' she explained, ‘are the
alguacilillos
.'

‘I've never quite understood what this bit is about,' Cámara said.

‘It's a throwback to the past when bullfights took place in public squares,' she said. ‘The city authorities – the
alguaciles
– had to clear the public away, push them back to the sides to create a space, before the event could start. So this is an echo of that.'

Cámara pulled out his packet of Ducados and lit one.

‘Are you going to turn this into a lesson in how to watch a bullfight?' he said. ‘I have a strong suspicion that you're trying to convert me.'

Alicia grinned.

‘There's always hope,' she said.

Once the
alguacilillos
had finished, the main procession of bullfighters into the ring commenced. In the lead, their right arms wrapped in brightly coloured capes, came the three matadors, then behind them the members of their
cuadrillas
–
banderilleros
and picadors – followed by the
monosabios
, the picadors' helpers, the
areneros
, whose job it was to rake the sand after each fight, and finally the
mozos
with the mules used for pulling the dead bulls out of the ring.

Each detail of this was explained to Cámara by Alicia, but he had become more interested by one of the matadors at the front of the procession. Alejandro Cano was standing to the left of the trio.

‘He'll be the first one,' Alicia explained to him. ‘He'll take the first bull, as the most experienced bullfighter here today.'

Cámara pulled on his cigarette.

‘Are you surprised?' Alicia said.

‘Blanco took his
apoderado
away from him – a man who is also dead, but I notice no one seems to be remembering him this afternoon.'

He glanced at the spectators behind them – all eyes were on the bullfighters in the ring.

‘All I've heard about the two men is that they were great rivals.'

‘Blanco and Cano were opposites in many ways,' Alicia said. ‘But that's probably what links them so strongly. Cano the socialite, womaniser, very much a public figure. And a showman in the ring. He's aware of the audience in a way that Blanco wasn't. With Blanco there was just him and the bull. I think that's what made him so special: you felt, when you were watching him, that you were somehow present at a private, almost secret act of communion between him and the animal. He fought for himself, set himself against his own high standards, and that's where the spark for him came from. And it was reflected in how he was outside the bullring – never showy, always preferring to keep to himself.'

Cámara thought of Aguado for a moment; he wondered how he was coping with a life without Blanco.

‘But bullfighting in some ways is about opposites coming together,' Alicia continued. ‘The man and the bull, the brute strength of the animal pitted against the intelligence of the human.'

She placed a hand on his arm.

‘Things that are apparently opposite are not always working against each other,' she said. ‘Besides, Cano was there at Blanco's last fight: he's part of the Blanco story. Without him here this afternoon Blanco's memory would be ill served.'

A familiar face in the crowd drew Cámara's eye.

‘I take it the bulls today are Ramírez ones as well, then,' he said.

‘Yes,' Alicia said. ‘It's all been arranged in a hurry. Other bullfighters, other bulls were meant to be here today. But under the circumstances…' She paused, then smiled. ‘You're learning fast, I see.'