The Blind Man of Seville

‘Where does it come from?’

‘I don’t ever ask that question.’

‘Drug money?’

‘Let’s just call it “undeclared”.’

‘OK. So they clean it. Why do they clean it?’

‘Why do they clean it now, should be your question.’

‘All right, I’ll ask that.’

‘Next year the euro arrives and it’s the end of the peseta. You have to declare your pesetas to get your euros. If they’re black, that could be uncomfortable.’

‘What do they do with them?’

‘Buy art, amongst other things, and property,’ said Salgado. ‘Try buying an apartment in Seville at the moment.’

‘I’m not in the market.’

‘And art?’

‘Tampoco.’

‘Have you got round to cleaning out your father’s studio yet?’

There it was. The question. Falcon couldn’t believe he’d fallen for Salgado’s pathetic act in the cemetery. This was what Salgado slipped in to every conversation they ever had, which was why he didn’t want to spend any time with him. Now the wheedling would start, unless he came down hard or just changed the subject.

‘There’s a lot of black money in the restaurant business, isn’t there, Ramon?’

‘Why do you think he was moving house?’ said Salgado.

‘That’s almost interesting.’

‘Nobody ever bought a painting from your father with a cheque,’ said Salgado. ‘And you’re right about the restaurant business, especially tourist restaurants serving reasonable meals paid for in cash with no invoices. Hardly any of that money reaches the books that the taxman sees.’

‘So that’s what’s happening now … What about back in 1992?’

‘That’s all been and gone. I was just being illustrative.’

‘I wasn’t here, but I heard there was a lot of corruption.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, but it was ten years ago.’

‘You sound as if you’ve got something to hide, Ramon. You weren’t …?’

‘Me?’ he said, outraged. ‘An art dealer? If you think I had any opportunity to cash in on Expo ‘92, you’re mad.’

‘Do you know anything, Ramon? I mean, are we gathered here just for you to air your generalities or do you have something specific that will help me find Raul Jimenez’s murderer? What about all these people who come to your shows? I bet they talk about “real” things, once they’ve stopped talking all that shit about the pictures.’

“‘All that shit about the pictures”? Javier, I’m surprised at you, of all people.’

We’re getting to it now, thought Falcon. This is a trade. Information for what Salgado wants more than anything else: the chance to rummage through my father’s studio. It wasn’t about money either. It was the prestige. It would be the crowning moment of this man’s inglorious life to mount one final exhibition of the unseen work of the great Francisco Falcon. The collectors who would come. The Americans. The museum curators. Suddenly he would be the centre again, as he had been forty years ago.

Falcon bit into a large, fleshy olive. Salgado nipped the bud off a caper and twiddled the stalk in his fingers.

‘Is this information cast iron, Ramon?’

‘I’ve overheard some things to which others have added, unaware of what I already know. Over the years I have built a picture. A tableau vivant.’

‘And does this picture have a title?’

‘Orange Blossom and Horseshit — I think that would be an apposite title.’

‘And you’d give me a print of this outstanding work if I were to give you access to my father’s studio and what …? Let you put on a show of his …?’

‘Oh, no, no, no, que no, Javier, hombre. I would never demand such a thing. Of course, it would be very nice to have a nostalgic trip around his abstract landscapes, but it’s all passe now. If he had some hidden nudes like the one in the Reina Sofia, the two in the Guggenheim and the one that Barbara Hutton donated to MOMA, then that would be a different matter. But you and I know …’

‘Then I’m puzzled, Ramon.’

‘I just want to spend a day alone in his studio,’ he said, nipping off another caper. ‘You can lock me in. You can search me when I come out. All I ask is a day amongst his paintbrushes, his rolls of canvas, his stretchers and oils.’

Falcon stared at the old man, his glass of manzanilla halfway to his mouth, trying to see inside, the inner workings, the springs and cogs. Salgado turned his glass round by the stem, making a circular mark on the wooden slats of the barrel top. He looked sad, because that was how he always looked. And he was impenetrable, his