Dear Alec
Re: our conversation the other day. If any situation encapsulates the petty small-mindedness of the Basque problem, it’s the controversy surrounding poor Ainhoa Cantalapiedra, the rather pretty pizza waitress who has won Operación Triunfo. Have you been watching it? Spain’s answer to Fame Academy. The wife and I were addicted.
As you may or may not know, Miss Cantalapiedra is a Basque, which has led to accusations that the result was fixed. The (ex) leader of Batasuna has accused Aznar’s lot of rigging the vote so that a Basque would represent Spain at the Eurovision Song Contest. Have you ever heard such nonsense? There’s a rather good piece about it in today’s El Mundo.
Speaking of the Basque country, would you be available to go to San Sebastián early next week to meet officials in various guises with a view to firming up the current state of affairs? Endiom have a new client, Spanish-based, looking into viability of a car operation, but rather cold feet politically.
Will explain more when I get back this w/e.
All the very best
Julian
I click ‘Reply’:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Basque visit
Dear Julian
No problem. I’ll give you a call about this at the weekend. I’m off to the cinema now and then to dinner with friends.
I didn’t watch Operación Triunfo. Would rather cook a five-course dinner for Osama bin Laden–with wines. But your email reminded me of a similar story, equally ridiculous in terms of the stand-off between Madrid and the separatists. Apparently there’s a former ETA commander languishing in prison taking a degree in psychology to help pass the time. His exam results–and those of several of his former comrades–have been off the charts, prompting Aznar to suggest that they’ve either been cheating or that the examiners are too scared to give them anything less than 90%.
All the best
Alec
The second email comes through on AOL.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Coming to Madrid
Hi–
As expected, Heloise has now kicked me out of the house. The house that I paid for. Logic?
So I’m booked on the Friday easyjet. It lands at 5.15 in Madrid and I might have to stick around for a bit. Hope that’s OK. I’ve taken three weeks off work to clear my head. Could go to Cadiz as well to stay with a mate down there.
Don’t worry about picking me up, I’ll get a cab. Just tell me your address. (And don’t do the seven different email/dead drop/is this line secure?/smoke signal bullshit.) Just hit ‘Reply’ and tell me where you live. NOBODY’S WATCHING, ALEC. You’re not Kim Philby.
Anyway, really looking forward to seeing you.
Saul
So he’s finally coming. The keeper of the secrets. After six years, my oldest friend is on his way to Spain. Saul, who married a girl he barely knew just two summers ago and already lies on the brink of divorce. Saul, who holds a signed affidavit recounting in detail my relationship with MI5 and SIS, to be released to the press in the event of any ‘accident’. Saul, who was so angry with me in the aftermath of what happened that we did not speak to each other for three and a half years.
There’s a knock at the door, a soft, rapid tap. I switch off the TV, close the computer, quickly check my reflection in the mirror and cross the room.
Sofía is wearing her hair up and has a sly, knowing look on her face. Giving off an air of mischief as she glances over my shoulder.
‘Hola,’ she says, touching my cheek. The tips of her fingers are soft and cold. She must have returned home after work, taken a shower and then changed into a new set of clothes; the jeans she knows I like, a black roll-neck jumper, shoes with two-inch heels. She is holding a long winter coat in her left hand and the smell of her as she passes me is intoxicating. ‘What a room,’ she says, dropping the coat on the bed and crossing to the balcony. ‘What a view.’ She turns and heads to the bathroom, mapping out the territory, touching the bottles of shower gel and tiny parcels of soap lining the sink. I come in behind her and kiss her neck. Both of us can see our reflections in the mirror, her eyes watching mine, my hand encircling her waist.
‘You look beautiful,’ I tell her.
‘You also.’
I suppose these first heady moments are what it’s all about: skin contact, reaction. She closes her eyes and turns her body into mine, kissing me, but just as soon she is breaking off. Moving back into the room she scans the bed, the armchairs, the fake Picasso prints on the wall, and seems to frown at something in the corner.
‘Why have you brought a suitcase?’
The porter had put it near the window, half-hidden by curtains and leaning up against the wall.
‘Oh, that. It’s just full of old newspapers.’
‘Newspapers?’
‘I didn’t want the receptionist to think that we were renting the room by the hour. So I brought some luggage. To make things look more normal.’
Sofía’s face is a picture of consternation. She is married to an Englishman, yet our behaviour continues to baffle her.
‘It’s so sweet,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘so British and polite. You are always considerate, Alec. Always thinking of other people.’
‘You didn’t feel awkward yourself? You didn’t feel strange when you were crossing the lobby?’
The question clearly strikes her as absurd.
‘Of course not. I felt wonderful.’
‘Vale.’
Outside, in the corridor, a man shouts, ‘Alejandro! Ven!’ as Sofía begins to undress. Slipping out of her shoes and coming towards me on bare feet, letting the jumper fall to the floor and nothing beneath it but the cool dark paradise of her skin. She starts to unbutton my shirt.
‘So maybe you booked the room under a false name. And maybe my uncle is staying next door. And maybe somebody will see me when I go home across the lobby at 3 a.m. tonight. And maybe I don’t care.’ She unclips her hair, letting it fall free, whispering, ‘Relax, Alec. Tranquilo. Nobody in the whole world cares about us. Nobody cares about us at all.’
THREE
Taxi Driver
Saul’s plane touches down at 5.55 p.m. the following Friday. He calls from the pre-customs area using a local mobile phone: there’s no international prefix on the read-out, just a nine-digit number beginning
