On the Edge by Rafael Chirbes

says:
    “They’ve impounded the delivery vans, the trucks; they’ve confiscated all the stuff in the warehouse, they’ve sealed off the shops, they’ve even confiscated the blowtorches, and not only have they halted all work on all the sites, they’ve taken away the accounts books. Apparently, Pedrós has disappeared from Olba, vanished, and no one knows where he is. His creditors are looking for him. Some of them have sworn they’ll have him killed when they find him and I believe a few of them have clubbed together to pay some Moldavian or Ukrainian mafiosi, ready to scour the entire planet to find him.”
    “Cut the bureaucratic language, Justino. ‘Intervene’ is what the EU is doing to the PIGS, you know, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and Spain. What’s happening to Pedrós, here and elsewhere, is what we call ‘seizure of goods.’ You mean he’s bankrupt, that they’ve seized his property,” says Francisco. “Anyway, I knew about it already, we all did, didn’t we?”
    I had been convinced for some days that the subject would come up eventually—and probably because of me. But until today, not a word. And no one asks me now if Pedrós going bankrupt will affect me at all, knowing as they do, because I’ve been boasting about it for ages, that I’m responsible—or was responsible—for all the carpentry work in his developments. Fortunately, I’ve never told anyone that I’m also his partner in the construction company, that I put all my savings into his company and mortgaged my properties. It seemed so profitable and, yes, even the safest thing to do. I didn’t tell them about that, but it will leak out eventually, these things always do, Pedrós himself might have announced it at suppers, at bars, at social gatherings. They’d probably been talking about it, about me, before I arrived. Carlos, the manager of the savings bank in Olba, may have mentioned it when he came in for his post-lunch coffee and sat—as he always does—in the bar opposite the bank. Or here, over a game of cards. I don’t think he cares much about confidentiality. He’d be spilling the beans—quite openly now that the creditors have come knocking at the door: now that my account with the savings bank is no longer an account but a black hole. The only reason the people here haven’t asked me is because they already know; besides, Álvaro must have told them that the workshop isn’t just closed until further notice for renovation, as it says on the sign I pinned on the door. You don’t start renovating when you’re seventy; and the only things that are likely to give you notice at that age are your heart, your colon or your prostate. You just have to see the way the police have sealed off the building sites. It’s obvious that I’m not trotting down to the market each morning with my shopping bag because I’m retired now, having simply chosen not to take myself off to a spa or to the Mexican Riviera Maya. Of course they know, and they probably know more than I do, there’s bound to have been gossip about what Pedrós has done with my money and just where my participation in his business has landed me, namely in the garbage dump. They’ve probably known about his bankruptcy for some time and, indirectly, about mine, and in fact, they probably knew before I did. The cuckold is always the last to find out and, of course, the one who knows least about the kinky things his wife gets up to with her lover. But these bastards are perfectly capable of keeping quiet and waiting for me to be the one to give in and confess, for me to break down in tears in the arms of my childhood friend and reveal all, to open up my heart: dear Francisco, Pedrós has bankrupted me. Help me. Save me. At least console me. That’s what they want me to say. Or else I should get drunk with Justino and—stumbling and stuttering—tell him what everyone already knows: that I’m bankrupt and about to land in jail, and ask him tearfully not to forget