formed an opinion of it.”
“But you mistrust it from the outset. Fine. Of course most people feel the same about the police, wouldn’t you say?”
Héctor had to admit that was true, but he qualified it.
“Things have changed a lot. The police aren’t seen as the enemy any more.”
“Exactly. They’ve stopped being the body that strikes fear into a citizen, at least an honest one. Although in this country it took time to change that image.”
In spite of the neutral, impartial tone, Héctor knew that they were sliding down a rocky slope.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked. He was no longer smiling.
“What do you think I mean?”
“Let’s get to the point . . .” He couldn’t help a certain impatience, which usually translated into a lapse into his childhood accent. “We both know what I’m doing here and what you have to find out. Let’s not beat about the bush.”
Silence. Salgado knew the technique, although this time he found himself on the receiving end.
“Fine. Look, I shouldn’t have done it. If that’s what you want to hear, then there you have it.”
“Why shouldn’t you have done it?”
He tried to stay calm. This was the game: questions, answers . . . He’d seen enough Woody Allen films to know that.
“Come on, you know. Because it’s not good, because the police don’t do that, because I should’ve stayed calm.”
The psychologist jotted down a note.
“What were you feeling at the time? Do you remember?”
“Rage, I suppose.”
“Is that a regular thing? Do you usually feel rage?”
“No. Not up to that point.”
“Do you remember any other moment in your life when you lost control in that way?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “When I was younger.”
“Younger.” Another note. “How long ago . . . five years, ten, twenty, more than twenty?”
“Very young,” stressed Héctor. “Adolescent.”
“Did you get into fights?”
“What?”
“Did you usually get into fights? When you were a teenager.”
“No. Not as a regular thing.”
“But you lost control one time.”
“You said it. One time.”
“Which time?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “None in particular. I suppose I went through an out-of-control phase, like all boys.”
A new note. Another pause.
“When did you arrive in Spain?”
“Pardon?” For a moment he was on the verge of answering that he’d arrived a few days previously. “Ah, you mean the first time. Nineteen years ago.”
“Were you still in this out-of-control adolescent phase?”
Héctor smiled.
“Well, I suppose my father thought so.”
“Hmmm. It was your father’s decision, then?”
“More or less. He was Galician . . . Spanish; he always wanted to return to his native country but couldn’t. So he sent me here.”
“And how did you feel?”
The inspector made a gesture of indifference, as if that wasn’t the pertinent question.
“Excuse me, but I can see you’re young . . . My father decided I had to continue studying in Spain and that was it. No one asked me.” He cleared his throat a little. “Things were like that then.”
“You didn’t have any opinion on the matter? At the end of the day you were made to leave your family, your friends and your life there behind. Didn’t it matter to you?”
“Of course. But I never thought it would be permanent. Besides, I repeat: they didn’t ask me.”
“Ah-ha. Do you have siblings, Inspector?”
“Yes, one brother. Older than me.”
“And he didn’t come to Spain to study?”
“No.”
The silence following his answer was denser than before. There was a question working its way to the surface. Héctor crossed his legs and looked away. The “kid” seemed in doubt and, finally, decided to change the subject.
“In your file it says you separated from your wife less than a year ago. Was she the reason you stayed in Spain?”
“Among others.” He corrected himself. “Yes. I stayed here for Ruth. With Ruth. But . . .” Héctor looked at him, surprised he didn’t know: these
“But you mistrust it from the outset. Fine. Of course most people feel the same about the police, wouldn’t you say?”
Héctor had to admit that was true, but he qualified it.
“Things have changed a lot. The police aren’t seen as the enemy any more.”
“Exactly. They’ve stopped being the body that strikes fear into a citizen, at least an honest one. Although in this country it took time to change that image.”
In spite of the neutral, impartial tone, Héctor knew that they were sliding down a rocky slope.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked. He was no longer smiling.
“What do you think I mean?”
“Let’s get to the point . . .” He couldn’t help a certain impatience, which usually translated into a lapse into his childhood accent. “We both know what I’m doing here and what you have to find out. Let’s not beat about the bush.”
Silence. Salgado knew the technique, although this time he found himself on the receiving end.
“Fine. Look, I shouldn’t have done it. If that’s what you want to hear, then there you have it.”
“Why shouldn’t you have done it?”
He tried to stay calm. This was the game: questions, answers . . . He’d seen enough Woody Allen films to know that.
“Come on, you know. Because it’s not good, because the police don’t do that, because I should’ve stayed calm.”
The psychologist jotted down a note.
“What were you feeling at the time? Do you remember?”
“Rage, I suppose.”
“Is that a regular thing? Do you usually feel rage?”
“No. Not up to that point.”
“Do you remember any other moment in your life when you lost control in that way?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “When I was younger.”
“Younger.” Another note. “How long ago . . . five years, ten, twenty, more than twenty?”
“Very young,” stressed Héctor. “Adolescent.”
“Did you get into fights?”
“What?”
“Did you usually get into fights? When you were a teenager.”
“No. Not as a regular thing.”
“But you lost control one time.”
“You said it. One time.”
“Which time?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “None in particular. I suppose I went through an out-of-control phase, like all boys.”
A new note. Another pause.
“When did you arrive in Spain?”
“Pardon?” For a moment he was on the verge of answering that he’d arrived a few days previously. “Ah, you mean the first time. Nineteen years ago.”
“Were you still in this out-of-control adolescent phase?”
Héctor smiled.
“Well, I suppose my father thought so.”
“Hmmm. It was your father’s decision, then?”
“More or less. He was Galician . . . Spanish; he always wanted to return to his native country but couldn’t. So he sent me here.”
“And how did you feel?”
The inspector made a gesture of indifference, as if that wasn’t the pertinent question.
“Excuse me, but I can see you’re young . . . My father decided I had to continue studying in Spain and that was it. No one asked me.” He cleared his throat a little. “Things were like that then.”
“You didn’t have any opinion on the matter? At the end of the day you were made to leave your family, your friends and your life there behind. Didn’t it matter to you?”
“Of course. But I never thought it would be permanent. Besides, I repeat: they didn’t ask me.”
“Ah-ha. Do you have siblings, Inspector?”
“Yes, one brother. Older than me.”
“And he didn’t come to Spain to study?”
“No.”
The silence following his answer was denser than before. There was a question working its way to the surface. Héctor crossed his legs and looked away. The “kid” seemed in doubt and, finally, decided to change the subject.
“In your file it says you separated from your wife less than a year ago. Was she the reason you stayed in Spain?”
“Among others.” He corrected himself. “Yes. I stayed here for Ruth. With Ruth. But . . .” Héctor looked at him, surprised he didn’t know: these
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