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Authors: Manuel Vázquez Montalbán
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author and the central hero … the viewpoint of
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
…
Carvalho left at this point, with a thick head and a dry throat. He went to order a beer at the bar, and found himself next to a brunette with huge green eyes, whose body was enveloped in a poncho that first saw life on some arid plain of the Andes.
‘Hello!’
‘Hello! I know you … You’re …’
‘Dashiell Hammett.’
She laughed, and then insisted that he give his real name.
‘Horacio introduced us at the signing of Juan’s book, isn’t that right? It’s boring in there. That’s why I left. I’m not to keen on all this
roman noir
business. I agree with Varese: when the bourgeoisie can’t keep control of the novel, it starts to lay on the colours. I’ve read what you write. I like it a lot.’
Carvalho was bemused. Had Biscuter or Charo published something under his name? He would ask them for an explanation as soon as he returned home.
‘Well, my heart hasn’t really been in it recently.’
‘Yes. One can see that. But it happens to all of us. I agree with Cañedo Marras: great tiredness presages great enthusiasm.’
Carvalho felt like saying: Take off your poncho,
mi amor
, and let’s go to bed. I don’t care whether the bed’s black or white, or round or square, because when the bourgeoisie can’t keep control of bed, it starts to lay on the adjectives.
‘Are you going to stay here? Or would you fancy coming and drinking six bottles of absolutely sensational white wine?’
‘You’re quick on the draw, stranger. What are you getting at?’
‘That we go to bed.’
‘Obviously. Do you know Juanito Marsé? That’s his technique too. He says he’s had a lot of slaps in the face, but also quite a few lays.’
‘What do I get? A slap in the face?’
‘No. But not a lay either. I’m waiting for my girlfriend. She’s still stuck in there. You see, ours is an impossible love!’
‘It never got beyond birth.’
‘That’s the best sort.’
Carvalho made a slight bow and left. Outside, he mused on the theme of budding affairs. He went back to his days as an adolescent, falling for girls in the street, following them, taking their bus or tram, saying nothing, but hoping for an encounter charged with a sense of the aesthetic. Any minute now, she’ll turn round, take my hand, and carry me to the end of the rainbow, where I shall live forever, in contemplation of the one I love. When he actually fell in love with someone, he found himself expecting that she would be waiting for him at some precise point in the city, probably by the harbour. He would turn up there, impatiently glancing at his watch, and convinced that the appointment would be kept.
Maybe I needed to be in love, maybe I needed a degree of self-deception. You can’t survive stripped of everything, without the possibility even of entering some church. You can’t live without prayer. Nowadays, you can’t even believe in the liturgy of wine, ever since the experts decreed that red wine should be chilled and not served at room temperature. Who ever heard of such a thing!The race is degenerating. Civilizations go under when they start to question the unquestionable. The Franco regime began to collapse on the day when Franco first said: ‘It’s not that I …’ A dictator must never start a speech by placing a negation before himself.
You can’t escape by getting drunk every day. Nor suddenly surprise yourself with gritted teeth, as if you’d been making some superhuman effort. What superhuman effort were you making? I suppose you think it’s nothing? To wake up. Day after day. In a city where the restaurants are all mediocre, uninspired and expensive. Two weeks ago, he had taken his car and set off south in search of a Murcian restaurant. He had a nap en route, to give himself an excuse for a large lunch. And as soon as he arrived at Murcia, he transferred himself from the car seat to the restaurant seat and bewildered the head
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
…
Carvalho left at this point, with a thick head and a dry throat. He went to order a beer at the bar, and found himself next to a brunette with huge green eyes, whose body was enveloped in a poncho that first saw life on some arid plain of the Andes.
‘Hello!’
‘Hello! I know you … You’re …’
‘Dashiell Hammett.’
She laughed, and then insisted that he give his real name.
‘Horacio introduced us at the signing of Juan’s book, isn’t that right? It’s boring in there. That’s why I left. I’m not to keen on all this
roman noir
business. I agree with Varese: when the bourgeoisie can’t keep control of the novel, it starts to lay on the colours. I’ve read what you write. I like it a lot.’
Carvalho was bemused. Had Biscuter or Charo published something under his name? He would ask them for an explanation as soon as he returned home.
‘Well, my heart hasn’t really been in it recently.’
‘Yes. One can see that. But it happens to all of us. I agree with Cañedo Marras: great tiredness presages great enthusiasm.’
Carvalho felt like saying: Take off your poncho,
mi amor
, and let’s go to bed. I don’t care whether the bed’s black or white, or round or square, because when the bourgeoisie can’t keep control of bed, it starts to lay on the adjectives.
‘Are you going to stay here? Or would you fancy coming and drinking six bottles of absolutely sensational white wine?’
‘You’re quick on the draw, stranger. What are you getting at?’
‘That we go to bed.’
‘Obviously. Do you know Juanito Marsé? That’s his technique too. He says he’s had a lot of slaps in the face, but also quite a few lays.’
‘What do I get? A slap in the face?’
‘No. But not a lay either. I’m waiting for my girlfriend. She’s still stuck in there. You see, ours is an impossible love!’
‘It never got beyond birth.’
‘That’s the best sort.’
Carvalho made a slight bow and left. Outside, he mused on the theme of budding affairs. He went back to his days as an adolescent, falling for girls in the street, following them, taking their bus or tram, saying nothing, but hoping for an encounter charged with a sense of the aesthetic. Any minute now, she’ll turn round, take my hand, and carry me to the end of the rainbow, where I shall live forever, in contemplation of the one I love. When he actually fell in love with someone, he found himself expecting that she would be waiting for him at some precise point in the city, probably by the harbour. He would turn up there, impatiently glancing at his watch, and convinced that the appointment would be kept.
Maybe I needed to be in love, maybe I needed a degree of self-deception. You can’t survive stripped of everything, without the possibility even of entering some church. You can’t live without prayer. Nowadays, you can’t even believe in the liturgy of wine, ever since the experts decreed that red wine should be chilled and not served at room temperature. Who ever heard of such a thing!The race is degenerating. Civilizations go under when they start to question the unquestionable. The Franco regime began to collapse on the day when Franco first said: ‘It’s not that I …’ A dictator must never start a speech by placing a negation before himself.
You can’t escape by getting drunk every day. Nor suddenly surprise yourself with gritted teeth, as if you’d been making some superhuman effort. What superhuman effort were you making? I suppose you think it’s nothing? To wake up. Day after day. In a city where the restaurants are all mediocre, uninspired and expensive. Two weeks ago, he had taken his car and set off south in search of a Murcian restaurant. He had a nap en route, to give himself an excuse for a large lunch. And as soon as he arrived at Murcia, he transferred himself from the car seat to the restaurant seat and bewildered the head
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