Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

‘You do that.’ And then, with a gush of pity:

‘Abou, do not be disappointed if he says no. It will not be your honour that he doubts. It is just that the way they do things here is different.’

‘So I see.’ He gave a despairing shrug. ‘Sometimes here,’ he said, ‘I feel lost. You do things that are obviously right. And then they turn out not to be right! Leila is angry with me. But how could I know? I did what would be right at home, but things are different here. Leila herself has changed since she’s been here. She is not the Leila I knew!’

Following their visit to the prison, Manuel had been making inquiries of his own. The tip that it was possible to get private supplies of food into the cells gave him something to work on. In the end it would have had to come in through the warders. Kitchen staff brought food to the floor in covered containers and left it there for the floor warder to deliver to the cell. The warder it had to be and Manuel had soon been able to identify the one. And here Manuel had had a great stroke of luck. One of the girls who worked for him, little Rosa, had a sister-in-law who was a remote cousin of the warder Enrico’s wife. Among the Catalonians such relationships, however remote, counted for a lot and Manuel had used the sympathetic Rosa — made even more sympathetic by the belief that the inquiries were being made on behalf of the bereaved father so that it was in the cause, said Manuel, of a trust that was almost sacred — to put out feelers.

She had learned that something was definitely not right with Enrico and hadn’t been right for some time, since, in fact, the formal investigation had begun. He had not been eating properly and had been drinking, correspondingly, far too much. His mother was very concerned about him and had urged him to go to Father Roberto and make confession.

Enrico had responded roughly and said that if everyone made confession who should make confession then Father Roberto would have a busy time. The mother had enlisted the aid of Enrico’s wife, who was equally uneasy about his permanent, or so it seemed, loss of appetite, not just for food but for other things as well. His wife had put it down to some malign pressure in his bowels, a giant tumour perhaps, and had indicated to Rosa with considerable vivid pantomime, but probably rather less accuracy, the likely whereabouts of the tumour. She had even summoned the doctor. Enrico had, however, spurned the doctor as he had the priest, saying that doctors were only interested in extracting money from poor men and that he would be damned if he would let the doctor have anything to do with him.

Both his mother and his wife had crossed themselves at this and his mother had renewed her insistence that he go to see Father Roberto. Enrico had stumped out and taken to drinking even more heavily, and mother and wife were now at their wits’ end. The time was therefore ripe, thought Manuel, for a discreet approach.

He had made the approach, very cleverly, through one of Enrico’s drinking cronies, a long-standing friend whom the warder trusted; and he had used the card yet again of the father grieving for his son. It was not a case, said Manuel, of a family seeking to take revenge — so Enrico need not worry — but of a father needing to set his mind at rest. Information was all he sought, and for that he might be prepared to pay. Of course, said Manuel sternly, one should not accept money for such a sacred service as this, but…

Enrico said sod the sacred service. The money, on the other hand…

But could it be kept secret? He didn’t mind doing the old chap a favour — it was only right that he should do what he could to make it easier for the old boy — but he didn’t want to find himself caught and landed before the investigating prosecutor.

No chance of that, said Manuel confidentially. The information could be conveyed only to an ignorant Englishman who knew nothing about the set-up and so wouldn’t ask awkward questions. He was interested only in putting the old man’s mind at rest.

And wouldn’t it set Enrico’s own mind at rest? Anyone could see that his mind was troubled, had been troubled for a long time. In fact, too many people could see that and were, perhaps, beginning to ask questions. Put the old man’s mind at rest, and then, perhaps, that would put Enrico’s own mind at rest. He would have done what he could. And there would be no need for either priest or doctor and it would get his mother and his wife off his back.

This was a powerful argument and gradually Enrico became convinced. He had, after all, as he said to Manuel, nothing — much — to hide. He had been an innocent party to someone else’s trickiness. He certainly wouldn’t have passed the stuff into the cell if he had known — he had thought it was just sauce, something that would improve the God-damned awful food that the poor bastards were served with, make it a bit more tasty. No one had been as surprised as he had been when… It was all that damned woman’s fault.

Damned woman?

Yes, the damned woman who had given it him and tricked him into passing it into the cell.

Enrico had been willing eventually, and after much persuasion by Manuel, to talk to Seymour. The question, though, was where. Not in the bar, certainly, in front of his cronies; that would be asking for trouble. Somewhere private, secret? Seymour’s room in the hotel? Enrico was reluctant: in fact, he was reluctant about any suggestion which would take him away from his own pitch and on to foreign ground.

But why did it have to be foreign ground, asked the ever-resourceful Manuel? Could not the meeting take place in Enrico’s own home?

In front of his wife and his mother? Enrico shuddered at the thought. But then, gradually, came round to the thought. He himself wouldn’t have to do anything (always a welcome idea, that). The meeting would be completely private — he could tell them to get out of the house while the meeting was going on, couldn’t he? Of course, he could, said Enrico confidently.

And over-boldly: for, when Seymour entered the room with Manuel, he found mother and wife sitting there, very much in occupation.

Manuel looked at Enrico, Enrico looked back at Manuel and shrugged. And so the meeting went ahead.

‘This is an English Senor,’ said Manuel. ‘He has come not on his own behalf but on behalf of a grieving father who has lost his son.’

‘Poor man!’ said Enrico’s mother, much moved.

‘Poor man!’ echoed his wife. ‘Just think, Enrico, if we had lost our Simon!’

‘Where is the little bugger?’ said Enrico. ‘You’ve made sure that he is staying out of the house?’

‘He is playing with Ramon.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

Enrico turned to Seymour.

‘So, Senor,’ he said, a little uncertain of himself in this strange situation and therefore belligerent. ‘What can I do for you? I cannot take long. I’m a busy man.’

‘This will not take long. I want to know how the poison got into the cell.’

‘Poison!’ said Enrico’s mother, crossing herself. ‘You did not tell us that, Enrico!’

‘How was I to know it was poison?’ protested Enrico. ‘I thought it was just a dainty. Something to give the prison food a bit of flavour.’

‘You’ve always said that the food there is terrible,’ supported his mother.

‘Well, it is. And he’d been in for a few days and wasn’t eating anything. The last two meals I had taken him he had just left.’

‘That goes to show!’ said Enrico’s wife. ‘If a man is hungry and still can’t eat it, that tells you what the food must have been like.’

‘I thought I was doing him a good turn,’ said the warder.

‘And so you were!’ said his mother warmly. ‘So you were.’