The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page A

question to the prostitutes:
    ‘How come you’ve got such big tits, granny?’
    ‘Because your dad used to suck them.’
    A drunk is calculating the shortest distance between the roadway and the pavement. Schoolchildren are returning from some mezzanine school where the toilets perfume the whole environment and the children’s horizons begin and end with an internal patio divided between the section for the dustbins, a playground for rats and cats, and a number of inside passageways where the washing lines seem to be perennially full. Pots of geraniums on rickety balconies; the occasional carnation; cages containing thin, nervous budgerigars; and butane gas bottles. Notices advertising the services of midwives and chiropodists. An office of the leftwing PSUC. Maite’s hairdresser’s. A vile smell of frying oil: squid á la romana , fried seafood, spicy potatoes, roast lambs’ heads, sweetbreads, tripe, rabbit thighs, watery eyes and varicose veins. But Carvalho knew these people and their ways. They made him feel alive, and he wouldn’t have changed them for the world, even though at night he preferred to flee the defeated city and make for the pinewood heights. There was nothing to beat the backstreets and alleyways that give onto the Ramblas—tributaries feeding into a river which carries the biology and the history of a city, of the entire world.
    Biscuter was making a potato tortilla.
    ‘I’m doing it the way you like it, boss. With a bit of onion and a touch of garlic and parsley.
    Biscuter improvised an eating space on Carvalho’s office desk, and the detective applied his mind to the quarter of tortilla filling his plate. Biscuter sat in front of him, tucking into another quarter and waiting for some word of appreciation.
    ‘You can’t say that it hasn’t turned out well, eh, chief? If you’re still hungry I’ve made you a bit of brain paté with ratatouille . It’s good, isn’t it, boss?’
    ‘True.’
    ‘God, you’re stingy, boss. I think it’s brilliant. And wait till you taste the ratatouille . It’s a treat! Oh—I forgot. There was a phone call from Pedro Parra—the “colonel”, he called himself. He said: “Don’t forget, tell him that the ‘colonel’ rang. Tell him he’ll have what he was looking for tomorrow, if he calls in at the bank.” And there’s a telegram too. I didn’t open it.’
    ‘Am arriving Barcelona Wednesday. Rhomberg.’
    ‘Do me a bit of the paté.’
    ‘I suppose you won’t need any supper after this, eh, boss? You eat like a pig, and you still manage to stay trim. But it all goes into your blood, you know, and you end up with cholesterol…’
    ‘I’m surrounded by doctors! First Bromide, and now you! Stop worrying about the cholesterol and get on with your food.’
    ‘I was only saying it for your own good.’
    ‘And will you be eating again after this little snack?’
    ‘Of course. The left-overs will do fine for my supper. Don’t know what’s up with me, boss. I’m feeling depressed. I’m sleeping badly. I’ve been remembering my mother.’
    Biscuter dried his eyes with his serviette, but they were still brimming with tears which threatened to spill into the green and red of the ratatouille .
    ‘Find yourself a girlfriend, Biscuter. Or a prostitute. Or have a wank every now and then. You’ll find it does wonders.’
    ‘You say find a prostitute, but that’s not so easy. They just treat me as a joke. When they say, “Come on, baldy, pull your willy out so that I can give it a wash,” I just want to laugh. And as for wanking, as you put it, I’m at it nonstop. First with one hand, then with the other. I even use the numb-hand system. I go to bed and lie down on top of my hand, so as to cut off the circulation, and it goes all numb. Then it feels not like my hand at all, but like something else . . .’
    ‘Have you ever tried it with a piece of raw meat?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’ve missed something.’
    With one eye on Biscuter and the