A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  She was a penniless art student dreaming of becoming an artist. Borja was working as a waiter in a café and both survived on the wage and tips he earned. They lived in one of those tiny attics that have made Paris so famous, without heating or bathroom, and for a couple of years Borja acted as her patron, for want of a better word, while she painted and strove to become that great artist. Apparently, at the same time my brother also wanted to be a writer (you see, we are twins!), but what with his work in the café and the devotion he showed her, he never managed to write a single worthwhile word.

  The upshot was that the girl, who was very pretty according to Borja, met a gallery owner thirty years older than herself and thirty million times richer than he was. She married the gallery owner and dropped Borja, who for another couple of years at least paraded his depression and drunken habits around the bars of Paris without writing a line. My broken-hearted brother finally left, and the girl, who was called Camille, stopped painting to devote herself body and soul to her rich spouse’s prosperous business. According to Borja, the married couple owned one of Paris’s most famous contemporary art galleries.

  “It must be fifteen years since I last saw her,” he said after he’d ordered his second cognac. “Even so, it’s still a kick in the teeth.”

  “You still feel ...” I hinted gently.

  “I feel I acted like an idiot for five years of my life,” he said angrily. “But as things stand, going to see her is all that comes to mind.”

  I asked him if he preferred to go alone, but he said he’d prefer if we both went. It wasn’t too far away and we walked, although it was drizzling and quite cold. Protected by our umbrellas, we reached this particular Parisian temple of art just as tiny snowflakes began to fall.

  “Pep, good heavens, I wouldn’t have recognized you!” said my brother’s ex looking surprised. “I mean ...”

  “You’re as beautiful as ever,” said Borja giving her three big kisses with a broad smile I knew wasn’t genuine.

  I’d not had the pleasure of meeting Camille when she was my brother’s girlfriend, but knowing his tastes I reckoned she’d not worn very well. She was a very short, incredibly thin woman, skin and bones to be precise. She wore her hair short, dyed various colours and thousands of tiny wrinkles furrowed her face, which was caked in make-up as if she were going to a party. Her patterned dress was hideous. She wore big earrings and rings on every finger. I suddenly realized her over-the-top appearance reminded me of Lola, and things then clicked.

  “I suppose you feel peculiar seeing me after so much time ...” Borja began rather nervously.

  “Let’s say I wasn’t expecting you,” she replied curiously, with a big smile.

  “You look great. Really,” lied Borja.

  “I’m older. Caramba, Pep, what are you doing here in Paris?” she asked looking him up and down, “Have you been here long?”

  “We’ve just arrived, you might say. Perhaps you can do a favour for my friend. It’s the Christmas holidays and so many people have gone away, I could only think of coming to you for help ...”

  Camille smiled at me and Borja did the introductions, “Camille, meet Eduard ... Eduard Másdeu.”

  As that woman knew him as Pep Martínez, he’d decided to change my name. He added: “He’s a collector.”

  “Enchantée,” she said offering me a hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I responded.

  “The thing is,” Borja cut to the quick, “my friend would like to contact a painter who’s famous here in Paris: Pau Ferrer, but we were told he’s in a coma in hospital.”

  “That’s right, poor chap! And by all accounts he’s done for this time.” She shook her head. “It’s the second attack he’s had ... Apparently,” she said confidentially, “his nose is wrecked on the inside ...”

  “Our problem is that his dealer is away from Paris and won’t be back till after the holidays,” explained Borja.

  “And?”

  “He painted a picture my friend bought not long ago, the portrait of a woman. He requires some information about the model used and we were hoping to talk to him. But since he’s ill and his dealer isn’t here ... I thought perhaps you might know him, the model or might know someone who knows her.” Borja showed her the photograph that was printed in the catalogue.

  “Is this the painting he bought?” she asked. “I know it well. He’s made a good investment.”

  But suddenly she burst out laughing and said: “But don’t you know? Don’t you know how Pau paints these portraits?”

  Borja and I looked at each other dismayed.

  “Pau takes photos of people behind their backs and then uses the photos as the basis for his portraits. He says that what excites him is painting people, but also that people who commission painters to paint their portrait in oils are vain in the extreme and don’t deserve the efforts an artist has to make. What’s more, Pau thinks studio models are too stagey. Apparently,” she added playfully, “on one occasion le roi himself wanted to commission a portrait and he said no.”

  “The guy’s got balls,” I said.

  “But here in Paris, everyone knows ... the way Pau Ferrer works.”

  “But, obviously we don’t in Barcelona,” Borja retorted.

  “I bet this woman is a complete stranger to Pau. He must have taken her photo when she wasn’t looking. I’m sorry,” said Camille. “I can’t help you.”

  It had its funny side. With all the women there are in the world Pau Ferrer had to choose to paint a woman he didn’t know, whose husband was an art-collector and a politician in Barcelona who feared for his reputation.

  “You say he takes photos ...” Borja had had a brainwave. “Do you think we could talk to his wife or a friend of his? Perhaps we could get hold of one ... You know, this is more important than you think.”

  I imagine Borja wanted material proof to take to the MP. Camille looked intrigued.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to ... but one of Pau Ferrer’s friends is a good friend of mine. I think they split up about a year ago, but they’re still friends. I don’t know whether she might be able to help you,” and she jotted a name and telephone number on very elegant notepaper. “She’s Cécile Blanchart. Tell her I told you to phone her.”

  “You don’t know how grateful I am,” said Borja.

  Camille beamed at Borja. She started playing with one of her necklaces with one hand while with the other she stroked the hair around the nape of her neck.

  “I hope, after all these years, you won’t leave just like that, Pep? You must have lots to tell me ... You’ve changed so much! You’re a real gentleman now!”

  “My business is going well. I can’t complain,” my brother replied contentedly. “How is Fabien?”

  From my brother’s smile that tailed off in a grimace, I deduced that this Fabien must be Camille’s husband.

  “Oh! He hardly ever comes to the gallery these days. He’s in a delicate state.” And added in a seductive, honeyed tone, “You have forgiven me, haven’t you, Pep?”

  “There was really nothing to forgive. We were youngsters ...” Borja replied condescendingly.

  “Why don’t we have dinner tonight? Like two old friends.”

  “Such a pity! I’ve got a prior engagement.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Fine,” agreed Borja. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow. At eight in the usual place. All right?”

  “Heavens! It’s years since I’ve been there ... It might have closed down ...”

  “It’s not changed a bit,” said Borja. “I’ll book a table. At eight o’clock sharp.”

  One of the things I’ve learned as I’ve followed my brother throughout the world is never to contradict him in public because I always put my foot in it. However, as soon as we left the gallery I reminded him that our return flight took off at the same time as his dinner-date.

  “Quite,” he smiled sulkily, signalling our conversation was at an end.

  W
e took a taxi back to our hotel. It had got dark and, although it wasn’t raining, an icy wind was blowing. Moreover, we had to talk to Camille’s friend and try to fix a meeting with her as soon as possible. It wasn’t the end of the world if we didn’t get a photograph, because Camille’s explanation seemed persuasive enough and we could certainly document it elsewhere. The art catalogue Lluís Font had given us didn’t supply us with that information – there’s all manner of things in that kind of publication except for info that is useful. Most catalogues seem to be written at the height of an attack of delirium tremens, but I suppose art critics have a right to earn their daily crust.

  While Borja rang Pau Ferrer’s friend and agreed a time to meet the following day, I spoke to Montse, who seemed more than busy. That night Borja and I decided we deserved a slap-up meal and he took me to one of those restaurants tourists never see the inside of. We ate and drank like lords, none of your nouvelle rubbish, traditional French cuisine, and we managed to let our hair down for awhile. Two bottles of Bordeaux bit the dust, and dishes with such complicated names that I can’t remember them, just that we started on foie cooked four different ways and Borja ate fish and I ate some kind of meat done in a really delicious purple sauce.

  “So, dear partner, case closed!” I said as I decided whether to dunk my bread in that sauce. “Poor Pau Ferrer clearly wasn’t involved in the mysterious murder of Lídia Font. He didn’t even know her.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “In other words, as far as we’re concerned, we’ve done our bit,” I insisted.

  “Aren’t you curious to know what really happened?”

  Borja was starting to worry me.

  “You mean about finding out who gave her a push?”

  “Well, you can’t deny it, this case is far too similar to the novels we read when we were kids. And we did promise the MP we’d talk to that policeman.”

  “You mean the case isn’t over!” I acquiesced forlornly.

  After polishing off the desserts – wonderful home-made cakes, mine a bitter chocolate and Borja’s an apple tart – we lit up and ordered a couple of cognacs. We were surely the last generation of privileged sybarites to enjoy that kind of dinner, because smoking would be soon be banned in restaurants and no doubt alcohol would follow suit. And then maybe they’d decide to prohibit sugar and fats, if our local feminists hadn’t already sentenced us all to being alcohol-free, Catholic and vegetarian.

  “And tomorrow you’re going to stand Camille up, I presume ...” I jibed.

  “Well, she did give it to me on a plate. It’s the least I owe her.”

  “She’ll probably not show up.”

  “Possibly not. But if she does, and I think she will, she’ll dine alone,” and in that confidential tone he only uses when the alcohol’s flowing, he added, “I spent many an hour waiting for her in that place. It was our favourite restaurant. When we had any money, that is, which wasn’t very often.”

  “Is that why you turned into Borja?” I plucked up the courage to ask.

  It was the first time I’d openly touched on the reason for his change of identity.

  “It’s late. We should get back to the hotel.”

  And with a half smile he curtailed our conversation.

  We walked back to the hotel, despite the intense cold and the threatening clouds looming overhead. I was tired, but my intake of alcohol and coffee meant I didn’t fall asleep immediately. That night I dreamed of Olga, and also of Camille, and the following morning I woke up dead tired and furry-mouthed. Borja, on the other hand, beat me down to breakfast and was as fresh as a daisy.

  As agreed, we turned up at Cécile Blanchard’s house at eleven sharp. She was about the same age as Pau Ferrer and seemed very affected by his illness. She was an intriguing woman with a house stuffed with books, paintings and cats. Her long curly hair was dyed saffron and she wore a bunch of necklaces over a blue tunic of sorts. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she spoke in a warm, gravelly voice while puffing on a pipe. She offered us a cup of tea.

  Cécile confirmed everything Camille had said about Pau Ferrer’s method of working. We tried to make her understand it was very important for us to get one of the photos his friend had taken of Lídia Font. We explained what the problem was, without divulging any names: the model had died and her husband, who’d discovered the painting by chance, suspected the two must have been having an affair. That amused her no end and she burst out laughing.

  “I remember when Pau painted that portrait ...” she drawled in a French that was easily understood. “At the time, over two years ago, we saw a lot of each other ...”

  Apparently, there were several photos of Mrs Font around, and Cécile promised to have a good look for them in her ex’s study. Although they were no longer lovers, as she explained quite unashamedly, she still had keys to his studio. She also remembered that the woman in the photo was asleep.

  “But Pau decided to paint her as if she were awake, he did that kind of thing sometimes,” she said as she accompanied us to the door. I could see she was making an effort to hold her tears in check.

  We thanked her and said our farewells, wishing her friend the very best. Before returning to the hotel, we went present shopping, and then, as the weather was good, decided to go for a stroll and enjoy the city for a few hours.

  So far my reunion with the Paris of my youth had been a deeply disappointing experience. At no time had I managed to relive any of the emotions that had swept me off my feet the first time I’d visited. I felt unmoved by the sight of the Seine, the Notre Dame and even the Jardins de Luxembourg, which twenty years earlier had been the scenario of my youthful passionate love for Olga. On the trip with my brother, none of those emblematic places had succeeded in arousing the same sensations. I was terrified by the thought that, if I did come back one day with Montse, I’d have to feign emotions I was no longer able to experience in order to make my wife happy, and that prospect made me feel empty and despondent. I said nothing of this to Borja, but Paris was no longer my Paris. I could only see a huge metropolis full of frantic cars and people, imposing enough but stripped of the unrepeatable magic that had enchanted me twenty-five years ago when he was in his twenties. Borja and I strolled silently, laden with bags of presents, when my brother stumbled and saw one of his shoelaces had come undone.

  “Christ! Let’s sit down for a moment,” he suggested.

  We were near the river and walked over to one of the seats next to the bank, between the old bouquiniste stalls. While Borja did up his shoe, I put my bags on the floor and enjoyed a few moments’ rest. We’d been walking for almost two hours and my feet were beginning to hurt.

  Suddenly the wind started to blow in gusts and the heavens opened and turned black. Drops of rain fell on our heads from the clouds gathered above and were the size of walnuts when they splattered on the ground. The unexpected storm changed the smell of the city that was now filled with the perfume from the trees and the rainwater and the river. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and, as if the guy up there had been listening to my thoughts, Paris was transformed once again, magically, into the mythical place it used to be for me. Sitting there, while Borja tied his shoelaces and cursed the downpour, I was stirred by the disturbing emotions from my early twenties. For a few moments, it was as if no time had elapsed between that first trip and now. Finally Paris was Paris again.

  “You look spellbound!” I heard Borja shout as he tried to make himself heard above the gale. “Come on, hurry up. This is one hell of a downpour!”

  I could have stayed there transfixed under the rain, savouring that part of me that had been fading away over the years and that I’d suddenly recovered. I knew it was an ephemeral feeling sentenced to disappear, and that however long I sat on that bench on the banks of the Seine I could only hold on to it as long as the spirited, surprise shower lasted. I got up disconsolately and walked after Borja, who was running towards a taxi rank as if the devil were at his heels. As I got into the
car, soaked, in emotional turmoil but happy, I bid farewell to the Paris of my twenties and the memory of the girl who finally ensured those days of my youth were what they ought to have been.

  15

  “We’re late ...” said Borja as we tried to park the Smart in the blue zone, which was no easy feat at that time of day.

  We’d agreed to see our client in his office on the Diagonal. Our appointment was at twelve and Borja was right. We were late. All the parking lots in the vicinity had posted the red “FULL” signs and we’d been driving around for twenty minutes. As on any 30 December, the city centre was a chaotic, seething mass. It was Friday and everybody seemed to have rushed out to do their last-minute shopping. The weather had inspired people because the sun shone brightly and few people were wearing coats. Women of all ages were desperately combing this shoppers’ paradise for that party dress to show off on New Year’s Eve.

  “Thank God the plane arrived on time!” I said in a foul temper. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t see him this afternoon ... Montse was pretty angry when I told her I wasn’t going home. You know she’s not used to being by herself. And she’s been coping with the children for the past three days ...”

  “Don’t worry. Lola will have kept her company.”

  “Sure, that’s part of the problem.”

  One of the things nagging me was the fact Montse and Lola had enjoyed three days to devote to the single topic of Borja. I bet they’d plotted something and would try to involve me on my return. I was also worried about the possible fallout from the comments I’d made to Montse before going to Paris, my rash statement to the effect that Borja really fancied Lola. I just prayed that, after a brief tête-à-tête and a few glasses of wine, Montse hadn’t told her about the little matter of the painting. I expect my sister-in-law hadn’t noticed that her mother’s landscape had vanished from the passage in our flat.

  “You know the MP was in a hurry to talk to us,” said Borja justifying himself. “He wants to see us in person.”