The Blind Man of Seville

‘As you know, I live in El Porvenir. When he opened that restaurant of his, I was one of his first clients.’

‘You didn’t know him before?’

They were walking briskly and Salgado’s long limbs had a tendency to flail. His foot caught the side of Falcon’s and he would have been sent sprawling if Falcon hadn’t saved him.

‘My God, thank you, Javier. I don’t want to fall at my age, break a hip and end up housebound and growing vague.’

‘You’re fine, Ramon.’

‘No, no, it’s a great fear of mine. One silly mistake and a few months later I’ll be a lonely old fool gaping in a dark corner of some unvisited home.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ramon.’

‘It’s happened to my sister. I’m going to San Sebastian next week to bring her down to Madrid. She’s had it. Fell over, knocked her head, broke her knee and had to go into a home. I can’t go all the way up there every month so I’m bringing her further south. Terrible. Anyway, look, why not let’s go and have a fino?’

Falcon patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t want to spend any time with Salgado, but he was feeling sorry for him now, which had probably been his intention.

‘I’m working.’

‘On a Saturday afternoon?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Ah, yes, I forgot,’ said Salgado, looking around him, mourners passing on both sides. ‘You’ll have your work cut out just drawing up the list of his enemies, let alone talking to them all.’

‘Will I?’ said Falcon, knowing Salgado’s powers of exaggeration.

‘A powerful businessman like that doesn’t go to his grave without dragging a few along with him.’

‘Murder is a substantial step.’

‘Not for the people he used to deal with.’

‘And who are these people?’

‘Let’s not talk about this at the cemetery gates, Javier.’

Falcon had a quick word with Ramirez and got into Salgado’s large Mercedes. They drove to Calle Betis down by the river, between the bridges, where Salgado parked up on the pavement shunting an old Seat forward half a metre to fit himself in. They walked along the pavement, which was some metres above the river, until Salgado stopped and made a show of breathing in the Sevillian air, which at this point was not at its sweetest.

‘Sevilla!’ he said, happy now that he was assured of company. ‘La puta del Moro — that’s what your father called it. Don’t you remember, Javier?’

‘I remember, Ramon,’ he said, depressed now that he’d volunteered to expose himself to what he was sure was going to be some of Salgado’s famous wheedling.

‘I miss him, Javier. I miss him very much. He had such a penetrating eye, you know. He said to me once: “There are two smells that make Seville, Ramon, and my trick is — no, my great open secret is that now, at the end of my life, I only paint one of them, which is why I always sell.” He was playing, of course. I know that. These scenes of Seville he painted were nothing to him. They were his little game, now that his reputation was assured. I said: “So now the great Francisco Falcon can paint smells. What do you dip your brush in?” And he replied, “Only the orange blossom, Ramon, never the horseshit.” I laughed, Javier, and I thought that was the end of it, but after a long pause he added: “I’ve spent most of my life painting the latter.” What do you think of that, Javier?’

‘Let’s go and have a manzanilla,’ said Falcon.

They crossed the road and went into La Bodega de la Albariza and stood at one of the large black barrels, ordered the manzanilla and a plate of olives, which came with capers and pickled garlic, white as teeth. They sipped the pale sherry, which Falcon preferred to fino because of the sea zest in the grapes down at Sanlucar de Barrameda.

‘Tell me about Raul Jimenez’s enemies,’ said Falcon, before Salgado leapt into another pool of reminiscence.

‘It’s all happening again as we speak, as we sip our manzanilla. It’s all happening just as it did back in 1992,’ he said, enjoying being oblique as he held the complete attention of Javier Falcon. ‘I feel it. Here I am at seventy years of age and I’m making more money than I have done in my life.’

‘Business is good,’ said Javier, on the edge of boredom.

‘This is off the record, isn’t it?’ Salgado said. ‘You know, I shouldn’t …’

‘There’s no record, Ramon,’ said Falcon, showing his empty hands.

‘It’s illegal, of course … ‘

‘As long as it’s not criminal.’

‘Ah, yes, a fine distinction, Javier. Your father said you were the bright one. “They all think it’s Manuela,” he used to say, “but Javier’s the one who sees things clearly.”’

‘The anticipation’s killing me, Ramon.’

‘La Gran Limpeza,’ said Salgado. The Big Cleaning.

‘What are they washing?’

‘Money, of course. What else gets that dirty? They don’t call it “black money” for nothing.’