HE KNEW HE was being followed without needing to look behind him. As he turned the corner and headed up towards the cathedral, Fernandito glanced over his shoulder and saw them: two figures that had been trailing him since he left the police station. He quickened his pace, adjusting his course to keep close to the shadows of the front doors until he reached the end of the esplanade. There he paused for a moment, hiding under the canopy of a closed café, and saw that Hendaya’s two henchmen hadn’t lost him. He had no intention of leading them to his home, much less to Alicia’s, so he decided to drag them along on a night tour of Barcelona, hoping he would eventually either tire them or shake them off by sheer good luck or an unlikely stroke of genius.
He set off towards Puertaferrisa, sticking to the middle of the road, as visible as a target in a firing range. The road was practically deserted at that time of night, and Fernandito wandered unhurriedly, passing the occasional drunk, a nightwatchman on duty, and the usual contingent of lost souls who prowled the streets of Barcelona into the early hours. Every time he looked back, Hendaya’s hounds were there, keeping the same distance whether he walked faster or slower.
When he reached the Ramblas, he considered breaking into a run and trying to lose them in the narrow streets of the Raval, but that would give him away, and given his followers’ patent skill, his chances would be slim. He decided to continue down the Ramblas until he reached the entrance to the Boquería market.
A cortege of vans had congregated outside the market doors, where, beneath a garland of lightbulbs, a large group of workers were unloading crates, supplying the stalls for the following day. Without thinking twice, Fernandito slipped between the columns of crates, his silhouette melting into those of the dozens of workers moving through the market’s corridors. As soon as he felt he was out of sight of his pursuers, he scuttled off towards the rear of the enclosure. As he ran, the huge market with its vaulted ceiling opened up before him like a cathedral devoted to the art of fine foods, where the smells and colours of the universe conspired to form a great bazaar to meet the city’s appetites.
He dodged heaps of fruit and vegetables, mounds of spices and canned food, boxes packed with ice and jelly-like creatures that were still moving, avoiding bleeding carcasses hanging from hooks and receiving curses and shoves from butchers, young hands, and women in rubber boots at the greengrocer stalls. When he reached the back of the building, he found himself in a square full of empty wooden crates. He darted behind a pillar of boxes, his eyes riveted on the market’s back exit. Thirty seconds ticked by without any sign of the two police officers. Fernandito took a deep breath and allowed himself a smile of relief.
His moment of calm was short-lived. The two policemen peered around the market door and paused to study the square. Fernandito sank into the shadows and slipped away.
As soon as he’d turned the corner onto a narrow street bordering the old Hospital de la Santa Cruz, towards Calle del Carmen, he bumped into her: peroxide blonde, skirt so tight it looked poised for an explosion, and the face of a decidedly unpious Madonna wearing flaming lipstick.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be getting your hot cocoa ready before going to school?”
Fernandito eyed the tart and, above all, the promise of shelter offered by the doorway behind her. The building itself was most uninviting. An individual with a sallow complexion acted as front desk man, occupying a cubicle the size of a confessional.
“How much?” Fernandito said, surveying the entrance to the narrow street.
“That depends on the service. Today I have a special offer for altar boys and breast-feeding babes, ’cause when it comes to brea—”
“Fine,” cut in Fernandito.
Having concluded the sales pitch, the hooker took his arm, pulling him towards the stairs. The customer had taken only three steps when he stopped to look behind him, perhaps alerted by the prudish radar all novices have inside them, or by the aromas emanating from the building. Fearing a financial loss in what was already a bear market of a night, she gave him a passionate squeeze and whispered in his ear, in the wettest of tones, “Come on, little birdie, come to Mama. I’m going to take you on an end-of-term trip that will sweep you off your feet.”
As they walked past the cubicle, the attendant handed them the supply kit, which included soap, rubbers, and other assorted accessories. Fernandito followed the Venus-for-hire up the stairs without taking his eye off the entrance door. Once they’d turned the corner to the first-floor landing – which opened onto a cavernous corridor with rooms smelling of hydrochloric acid – the tart gave him an anxious look. “You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, love.”
Fernandito sighed, and she searched his nervous eyes. The street bestows fast-track diplomas in psychology, and experience had taught her that if a customer didn’t warm up at the mere promise of a good tumble and her lush, abundant good looks, he was likely to change his mind once he stepped into the filthy room that served as her office. Or, worse still, that he might go back on his word before pulling down his trousers and beat a retreat without delivering on expectations or fees. “Look, sweetheart,” she said, “rushing is not a good idea when it comes to love, especially at your age. I’ve seen more experienced sailors than you burst the cork with just one touch of this luscious bosom. You need to calm down and enjoy the whole thing like a cream cake. One little mouthful at a time.”
Fernandito mumbled what the hooker took as capitulation before the irrefutable evidence of her firm flesh. The room was at the end of the corridor. On the way, the boy could hear the tunes of bump and grind filtering under the doors. Something in his face must have given away his scant familiarity with these matters.
“First time?” asked the tart, opening the door and ushering him in.
The boy nodded in anguish.
“Well, then, don’t worry, novices are my specialty. Half the rich brats in Barcelona have passed through my consulting room to learn how to change their own nappies. Come in.”
Fernando glanced at his temporary refuge. It was worse than he’d expected.
The room exhibited a full inventory of misery, exuding a stench that seemed to peel the green paint off the walls, leaving damp patches of a suspect nature. The minute bathroom, its door open onto the bedroom, featured a lidless toilet and an ochre-coloured sink. Leaden light filtered through a tiny window, and the water pipes whispered a strange melody of gurgles and drips that inspired anything but the atmosphere of romance. A washbasin of considerable proportions at the foot of the bed suggested mysteries he’d rather not dwell on. The bed consisted of a metal frame, a mattress that may have been white about fifteen years ago, and pillows with a lot of miles on the clock.
“I think I’d better go home,” he said.
“Relax, kid, now comes the best part. Once I’ve gotten you out of your trousers, this will look like the nuptial suite at the Ritz.”
The hooker led Fernandito to the bed and helped him sit down, with a fair bit of pushing. Once her client had given in to her shoves, she knelt down in front of him and smiled with a tenderness that cut through the make-up and the sadness oozing from her eyes. A commercial patina in her expression ruined what little low-life poetry Fernandito had tried to imagine. The girl was looking at him expectantly.
“The gates of Paradise open only at the sight of coin, my darling.”
Fernandito nodded. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out his wallet. The tart’s eyes lit up with expectation. He took the money he had on him and gave it to the woman without counting it. “It’s all I’ve got. Is that all right?”
The hooker left the money on the bedside table and looked at him with studied sweetness. “I’m Matilde, but you can call me whatever you like.”
“What do people call you?”
“Depends. Minx, whore, slut, or the name of their wife or mother . . . Once, a repentant seminarist called me mater. I thought he meant ‘water’, but it turns out that’s ‘mummy’ in Latin.”
“I’m Fernando, but everyone calls me Fernandito.”
“Tell me, Fernando, have you ever been with a woman?”
He nodded with the slimmest of convictions. Not a good sign.
“Do you know what to do?”
“The truth is that I only want to be able to stay here for a while. We don’t need to do anything.”
Matilde frowned. The twisted ones were the worst. Determined to straighten out the situation, she proceeded to undo Fernandito’s belt and pull down his trousers. He interrupted her.
“Don’t be afraid, love.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Matilde,” said Fernandito.
She stopped and looked straight at him. “Is someone following you?”
Fernandito nodded.
“I see. Police?”
“I think so.”
The woman stood up and sat next to him. “You’re sure you don’t want to do anything?”
“I just want to be here for a while. If you don’t mind.”
“Don’t you like me?”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re very attractive.”
Matilde chuckled. “Do you have a girl you like?”
Fernandito didn’t answer.
“I’m sure you do. Go on, tell me, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
The woman was looking at him inquisitively.
“Her name’s Alicia,” said Fernandito.
The woman’s hand settled on his thigh. “I’m sure I know how to do things that your Alicia doesn’t.”
Fernandito realized that he didn’t have a clue about what things Alicia knew or didn’t know how to do, and it wasn’t from lack of speculation.
Matilde observed him with curiosity. She lay down on the bed and took his hand. When he looked at her in the light of the anaemic bulb, which gave her a yellowish hue, he realized that she was much younger than he’d imagined. She might have been only four or five years older than him.
“If you like, I could teach you how to caress a girl.”
Fernandito choked on his saliva. “I know how to do that,” he managed to articulate, rather dispiritedly.
“No man knows how to caress a girl, sweetheart. Take it from me. Even the most experienced men have fingers like ears of corn. Come, lie down next to me.”
Fernandito hesitated.
“Undress me. Slowly. The slower you undress a girl, the faster you win her heart. Imagine I’m Alicia. I might even look a bit like her.”
You’re like chalk and cheese, thought Fernandito. Even so, the image of Alicia lying before him on the bed with her arms stretched over her shoulders clouded his eyes. He clenched his fist to stop the trembling.
“Alicia doesn’t have to know. I’ll keep the secret. Go on.”