Off Side by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page A

for all to see, in himself, in Biscuter, in Charo and in Bromide, and in each case it betrayed its victims in a different way. Charo, by a tendency to put on weight, Bromide by the fact that he was slowly rotting away inside, and Carvalho by the fact that he was ever-increasingly a passive spectator of his own time and of other people’s. For the time being, though, time had spared Biscuter — perhaps because it had already marked him from the moment of his birth. Biscuter was born ugly, and it was as if time had settled its account with him from the moment that he emerged from his mother’s womb.
    ‘Jesus, boss. So you’ve finally noticed that I exist!’
    Carvalho leapt to his feet abruptly and thumped the table.
    ‘Not you too, Biscuter! I seem to be surrounded by manic depressives. Why do I have to spend my life providing a shoulder for other people to cry on?’
    ‘It’s not that, boss. The problem is, these days you don’t seem to care if I’m alive or dead. I told you the other day I’d bought the
Gastronomic Encyclopaedia
. It cost me a small fortune, and you didn’t even ask to see it. And you never tell me if my cooking’s any good or not, or if I’m doing it right. I’ve always stood by you, boss, and every shopkeeper in the area knows it. I’m not asking for a reward or anything, but people are always telling me how lucky you are to have an assistant like me.’
    ‘Go and see Charo, and tell her that Bromide’s ill and she should take him to the doctor’s. If she starts throwing things atyou and saying that I can come and tell her myself, tell her I’m tied up for the moment. I’ll ring her later.’
    ‘And I’ve got no security, either, boss. Do you ever stop to think about that? God forbid, but supposing something happens to you one day? What’s going to happen to poor old Biscuter? Out on the scrap heap?’
    With a vehemence that alarmed him, Carvalho assured him that this would not be the case. Biscuter was sufficiently alarmed to leave the office at a prudent speed, albeit with the satisfaction of a man who has just spoken his mind: ‘That told him,’ Biscuter repeated to himself as he went down the stairs, and he had the impression that his words had not passed unheard. Carvalho was perplexed, a state of mind which he found particularly repellent — a philosophical luxury unbefitting in a person of even average intelligence. He needed to clear his brain. He opened the desk drawer and took out a bottle of vintage Knockando, a good whisky for states of fundamental perplexity. He served himself three fingers in a large glass, and drank them in three long sips. This triple charging and discharging of alcohol and inhaled air did him good, and he was just preparing to go out and reconquer the streets and his state of mind when the phone rang. Even before the first words took shape at the other end, a kind of malignant vibration told him that it was Charo ringing to acknowledge receipt of Biscuter’s message.
    ‘Would señor José Carvalho happen to be in? Could his majesty come to the phone and oblige his humble servant by telling her exactly what was on his mind?’
    Carvalho decided to stick to the bare bones of conversation and ignore the provocative tone. Yes, she would be happy to go with Bromide, because Bromide was a nice person, not like some people she could name. In fact, a very nice person. Not like some people etc. Why in God’s name did he have to send a messenger? Had he forgotten her phone number? Surely at least he could have remembered her phone number, even if he seemed to haveforgotten her. And sending Biscuter round just showed what a bad-mannered pig he was.
    ‘And a bastard … Do I make myself clear?’
    She made herself clear.
    ‘I’ll be round later this afternoon.’
    ‘You don’t have to treat me like a dog that has to be taken for walks. If I need a piss, I’m quite capable of going on my own.’
    ‘All right, so I won’t be round later this