The Blind Man of Seville

had sex before you separated?’

Falcon had to calculate using the ugliest of algebra. If we separated in July and she hadn’t let me touch her for two months then that must equal May.

‘That was May.’

‘A year without sex, Inspector Jefe,’ said the doctor. ‘How is your libido?’

Libido sounds good, he thought. Like a private beach. Let’s go down to the libido.

‘Inspector Jefe?’

‘It probably hasn’t been so good, as you might have guessed.’

That image of Consuelo Jimenez came to him, the one with her kneeling in the chair with her skirt rucked up. Was that libidinous? He crossed his legs.

The doctor terminated the meeting.

‘Is that it?’ said Falcon. ‘Don’t you have to tell me something?’

‘I write a report. It’s not up to me to tell you anything. That is in the hands of your superiors. I am not your employer.’

‘But what are you going to tell them?’

‘That is not a subject for discussion.’

‘Give me the general idea,’ said Falcon. ‘ “Stick him in the madhouse” or “Tell him to take a holiday”?’

‘This is not multiple choice.’

‘Are you going to recommend me for a full psychological assessment?’

‘This was an initial inquiry following some outside concerns.’

It’s Calderon, thought Falcon. That business outside his apartment with Ines.

‘Tell me what you’re going to say in your report.’

‘The meeting is over, Inspector Jefe.’

It was more by luck than judgement that Falcon came out of the bullpens of the Maestranza with Biensolo in his lote for Pepe to fight that afternoon. He’d nearly hit a moped on his way from the Jefatura, and just missed shunting into the back of a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists. Seven bollards were now missing from the roadworks on Paseo de Cristobal Colon. The bull selection process had shot past him. There had been some vague talk about the horn wound in No.484, which had reached him, and the other confidants had taken advantage of his distraction to give him the lote that none of them wanted. He called Pepe at the Hotel Colon and gave him the news.

He went home. He was ready for nothing. His concentration fluttered like a blasted flag. His memory sieved disparate thoughts and images into his brain. He dragged himself up to his room and flung himself face up on the bed. His body shuddered with each sob that lifted his shoulders. The pressure was just too great. Tears ran down his face into the pillow. He gagged against the massive thing that wanted to come up through his throat. Then he slept. No sleeping pill. Pure exhaustion.

His mobile woke him. His eyes felt like hot stones, his lids thick as leather. Paco told him they were down at the restaurant and he was about to eat all his chuletillas for him. He showered like a gaping inmate. He dressed and it returned some of his equilibrium. He even felt mildly positive, as if his breakdown had repaired some small but vital mechanism.

During the Feria de Abril the area outside the Hotel Colon was always busy. The bellboys never stopped as cars and minibuses glided in and managers and promoters and team members got out. Fans always hovered around the cafes opposite. There were fewer today because there were no big names on the bill — Pepin Liria was the best known, followed by Vicente Bejarano and then the unknown Pepe Leal.

Falcon went up to Pepe’s room. One of his banderilleros was standing in the corridor outside, hands behind his back. He opened the door, as if on a mourning wife. He murmured something to Pepe and let Falcon in.

Pepe was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. His shirt was undone and outside his trousers. He wore no jacket, tie, shoes or socks. His hair was a mess from where he’d been gripping his head. There was a slick of sweat on his forehead and in the middle of his chest. He was white. His fear was naked.

‘You shouldn’t see me like this,’ he said.

He took a sip from a glass of water on the floor and embraced Javier, then he ran for the bathroom and retched into the lavatory.

‘You’ve caught me on the way down,’ he said. ‘I’m nearly at the bottom of my fear. In a moment I’ll be blabbing and in half an hour I’ll be a different man.’

They embraced again. Falcon caught the sharp smell of his vomit.

‘Don’t worry about me, Javier,’ he said. ‘It’s good. Things are coming together. I can feel it. Today will be my day. La Puerta del Principe will be mine.’

He was gabbling. They embraced again and Falcon left.

Both the bar and restaurant were heaving with people. The noise was cacophonous. He squeezed into the comedor and kissed and embraced his way around the table. He sat down, wolfed the tuna and onions, dipped his bread in the juice of the roasted peppers, gnawed on the slim bones of the chuletillas and drank glasses of dark-red Marques de Arienzo. He felt whole again, full and solid. His nerves were intact. There’d been some release in being found out. He didn’t care any more. Seeing Pepe so profoundly scared had marshalled him. He would embrace everything, including his fate.

At five o’clock they made their way through the warm streets to La Maestranza. The smell of cheap and expensive cigars mingled with cologne, hair oil and perfume. The sun was still high and there was the lightest of