The Songs of Manolo Escobar by Carlos Alba Page B

first hire car parked around the side.
    Inside, two uniformed officers sat languidly in a stale, smoky fug, their feet resting on adjacent desks. A couple of yellowing computer terminals were located amid a jungle of paperwork, overflowing ashtrays and dirty cups. The scene resembled Ben’s bedroom, though with the addition of a pair of utility belts to which handcuffs and pistols were attached.
    The men were fixated on a basketball game playing on a small television set attached high on a wall on the far side of the room. The game had reached a critical juncture, and we had to wait until the team in red had missed a penalty shot before we were afforded the attention of one of the officers.
    â€˜
Si
,’ he said curtly, without standing up.
    Mama went through the same routine she had gone through with the cleaner in the Ajuntamente, handing him the photograph, which he held and scrutinised before throwing it down on his desk next to a plate of olive stones. He looked too old to still be working: his clothes hung off his skinny frame, and large, protruding gums dominated his mouth. His hair was pitch black, greasy and thinning, and he hadn’t shaved for several days.
    He talked slowly and unenthusiastically, frequently shrugging and pouting. He struck me as a time-server, seeing out the dog-end of his career in a backwater town. From his tone I might have deduced that he didn’t know anything about Papa, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his car was parked outside the building.
    â€˜What’s going on, Mama?’ I asked.
    She ignored me, continuing to address the policeman in a tone that became sharper and firmer the more she spoke. The mood changed quickly and the policeman exploded in anger. He stood up and gesticulated, presenting his upturned hands to Mama, jutting his head forward in a gesture of rebuke. He spoke for around a minute, apparently building a concise, empirical case. As he neared the end of his diatribe, Mama interrupted.
    â€˜
¿Dónde está mi marido
?’ she asked slowly and deliberately. ‘Where is my husband?’
    The policeman ignored her question and continued with his rhetoric. She asked the question a second time, louder and more forcefully.
    â€˜
¿Dónde está mi marido?
’
    Again he ignored the question and raised his voice to compensate. Suddenly Mama snapped, her face reddened, and she began to shout at the top of her voice.
    â€˜
¿Dónde está mi marido?
’ she screamed. ‘
Quiero ver mi marido
.’ ‘I want to see my husband.’
    The other policeman, who until now had remained silent, stood up, white-faced, and intervened. He was clearly the good cop – younger than his colleague, and apparently the junior partner, but more eager to help. He turned down the sound on the television set with the remote control and offered Mama a glass of water, which she accepted. The bad cop sat down slowly and sheepishly concerned himself with something on his computer.
    â€˜
Mi marido está muy enfermo
,’ Mama said. ‘My husband is very ill.’
    She reached into her handbag and pulled out a strip of tablets.
    â€˜
Él tiene cáncer. Si él no toma su morfina regularmente, los efectos de su tumor serán muy dolorosos
,’ she explained. ‘He has cancer. If he doesn’t take his morphine regularly the effects of his tumour will be very painful.’
    â€˜What did you say?’ Pablito asked.
    Mama put her hand over her mouth.
    â€˜I’m sorry Pablito,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.’
    My brother rocked on his feet and I moved forward to steady him, then I lowered him on to a seat. He slumped down and stared at the floor.
    The good cop spoke to Mama at length. She nodded appreciatively, occasionally mouthing ‘
claro’
, a term of understanding and conciliation. He took the pills from her and lifted a bottle of water from his