Read Online Tattoo by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán - Free Book Online Page B

here to save a bit of money and return to Spain.’
    ‘But are you treated all right? Does the Spanish embassy look after you?’
    The two men exchanged looks once more, and when the one from León faced Carvalho again, he had the expression of a man being questioned in a police station. Carvalho guessed they thought he must be a Spanish cop trying to work out their political affiliation.
    ‘I’m only asking because I used to have a friend in The Hague who worked in the same factory as you, but he said it was awful. We called him the Tattoo Man: he had a huge one on his back with the motto
Born to raise hell in hell
.
    The two men were listening closely as they walked on.
    ‘Was he here a long time ago?’
    ‘Two or three years.’
    ‘What was his name?’
    ‘I don’t really remember. We used to call him the Tattoo Man, so we never bothered about what his real name might be.’
    ‘What was he like?’
    ‘Tall, blond, good looking. He sounded like a foreigner.’
    The Galician dug his elbow into his mate’s side.
    ‘That’s the American.’
    ‘Could be. A tall blond kid used to work here. We called him the American.’
    ‘And he had a tattoo.’
    ‘How would you know?’
    ‘Now this gentleman has mentioned it, I remember it well. We once played a football match against the Spaniards from the Philips factory at Eindhoven. The American played for us, and I saw his tattoo in the changing rooms. I remember the bit about hell. I can’t remember the rest, but I do recall that word.’

 
    T hey reached the social centre, which was back close to the factory. It was not managed by Spaniards, and there was no sight of any Spanish food. Carvalho was served a strange sort of aubergine stew, which he recognised as a pale imitation of the Turkish
eman bayildi
. The waiter was Turkish, but he spoke a few Spanish words with an Italian accent, enough for him to communicate with both the Spanish and Italian workers. The man from León insisted on paying for a round of beers, brushing aside the timid, hesitant offer made by the Galician. Then the three of them ate what was put before them.
    ‘I can’t remember the name of my friend the Tattoo Man. Or the American, as you used to call him. Could it have been Luis?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    The Galician knew what he was talking about, and began to speak with the authority of an expert.
    ‘His name was Julio Chesma. He was from Puertollano, in Ciudad Real province.’
    The man from León was not so sure about his family name.
    ‘Julio, yes. But I wouldn’t swear it was Chesma.’
    ‘Chesma. Ches-ma. Believe me. When I damaged this hand here I spent three months in the office, and sawthe records of half the company. Julio Chesma. From Puertollano. He was twenty-seven.’
    ‘Listen to him, will you? He sits there quietly as though he isn’t taking in a thing, then all of a sudden he’s a real encyclopedia.’
    ‘Did he quit here a long time ago?’
    ‘He didn’t stay long. He was one of those who soon get tired of it and look for something easier. Some people don’t know they’re born.’
    ‘He went off to Amsterdam.’
    Carvalho began to look at his fellow Galician like Robinson Crusoe gazing at the washed-up boat promising him his life back. The man had the memory of a great masturbator. He was aware he had won the battle over the man from León’s senseless chatter and that he knew things of interest to this half-Catalan gentleman. The price of his knowledge was to have it praised. Carvalho paid the price.
    ‘You’re the twenty-four-volume Espasa. What a memory you have!’
    ‘He lived in Amsterdam at number sixteen, Rokin Street.’
    He was overwhelmed by his success. He could not help laughing proudly at his own prowess, at the way he had impressed not only the workers’ leader from León but this city slicker.
    ‘How on earth do you know all this?’
    The man from León was annoyed as much as astonished. The Galician explained that they had become friends