Outlaws Read online

  For Raül Cercas and Mercè Mas.

  For the gang, for forty-odd years of friendship.

  We get so used to disguising ourselves to others that, in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.

  François de la Rochefoucauld

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Translator’s Note

  A Note on the Author

  A Note on the Translator

  By the Same Author

  Part I

  Over There

  Chapter 1

  ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘Yes, but first let me ask one more question. The last one.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Why have you agreed to write this book?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you already? For the money. I’m a writer, that’s how I make my living.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but is that the only reason you agreed?’

  ‘Well, it’s not every day you get an opportunity to write about a character like El Zarco, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You mean you were interested in Zarco before you were asked to write about him?’

  ‘Of course, isn’t everybody?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, the story I’m going to tell you isn’t Zarco’s story but the story of my relationship with Zarco; with Zarco and with . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know, we’ve talked about that too. Can we begin?’

  ‘We can.’

  ‘Tell me when you met Zarco.’

  ‘At the beginning of the summer of 1978. It was a strange time. Or that’s how I remember it. Franco had died three years earlier, but the country was still governed by Franco’s laws and still smelled exactly the same as it did under Franco: like shit. I was sixteen years old back then, and so was Zarco. We lived very near each other, and very far away from each other.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you know the city?’

  ‘Roughly.’

  ‘That’s almost better: the city today has very little in common with what it was back then. In its way, Gerona at that time was still a post-war city, a dark, ecclesiastical dump, encircled by the countryside and covered in fog all winter; I’m not saying that today’s Gerona is better – in some ways it’s worse – I’m only saying it’s different. At that time, for example, the city was surrounded by outlying neighbourhoods where the charnegos lived. The word’s fallen out of fashion, but in those days it was used to refer to immigrants from other parts of Spain who’d come to Catalonia, incomers, people who generally didn’t have a cent to their name and who’d come here to try to get by . . . Though you already know all this. What you might not know is, as I was saying, at the end of the seventies the city was ringed by charnego neighbourhoods: Salt, Pont Major, Germans Sàbat, Vilarroja. That’s where the dregs accumulated.’

  ‘That’s where Zarco lived?’

  ‘No: Zarco lived with the dregs of the dregs, in the prefabs, los albergues provisionales, temporary housing on the city’s north-east border, set up in the fifties for the influx of workers and still in use somehow. And I lived barely two hundred metres away: the difference is that he lived over the border, across from where the River Ter and La Devesa Park marked the divide. I lived on Caterina Albert Street, in the neighbourhood now called La Devesa but back then it was nothing or almost nothing, a bunch of gardens and vacant lots where the city petered out; there, ten years earlier, at the end of the sixties, they’d put up a couple of isolated tower blocks where my parents had rented a flat. In a way it was also an incomer neighbourhood, but the people who lived there weren’t as poor as most charnegos usually were: most of the families were those of middle-class civil servants, like mine – my father had a low-level position working for the council – families who weren’t originally from the city but who didn’t consider themselves charnegos and in any case didn’t want anything to do with real charnegos or at least with the poor ones, the ones in Salt, Pont Major, Germans Sàbat and Vilarroja. Or, of course, with the people who still lived in the prefabs. In fact, I’m sure that the majority of the people who lived on Caterina Albert (not to mention the people from the city) never set foot anywhere near the prefabs. Some perhaps didn’t even know they existed, or pretended not to know. I did know. I didn’t really know quite what they were and I’d never been there, but I knew they were there or that it was said they were there, like a legend that nobody had confirmed or denied: actually, I think that for us, the neighbourhood kids, the very name of los albergues added a touch of prestige by evoking an image of refuge in inhospitable times, like an inn or a hostel in a tale of epic adventure. And all this is why I told you that back then I lived very near and very far away from Zarco: because there was a border separating us.’

  ‘And how did you cross it? I mean, how did a middle-class kid make friends with a kid like Zarco?’

  ‘Because at sixteen all borders are porous, or at least they were then. And also by chance. But before I tell you that story I should tell you another one.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I’ve never told anybody this; well, nobody except my analyst. But unless I do you won’t understand how and why I met Zarco.’

  ‘Don’t worry: if you don’t want it to go in the book, I won’t use it; if I do use it and you don’t like how it sounds, I’ll cut it. That was the deal, and I’m not going to break it.’

  ‘OK. You know what? People always say that childhood is cruel, but I think adolescence is much crueller. In my case it was. I had a group of friends on Caterina Albert: my best friend was Matías Giral, but there was also Canales, Ruiz, Intxausti, the Boix brothers, Herrero and one or two others. We were all more or less the same age, had all known each other since we were eight or nine, lived our lives in the street and went to the school run by the Marist Brothers, which was the closest one; and of course we were all charnegos, except for the Boix brothers, who were from Sabadell and spoke Catalan among themselves. In short: I didn’t have any brothers, just one sister, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating if I say that in practice those friends filled the vacant role of brothers in my childhood.

  ‘But in adolescence they stopped doing so. The change began almost a year before I met Zarco, when a new kid came to the school. His name was Narciso Batista and he was repeating his second year of high school. His father was chairman of the council and my father’s boss; we knew each other from having crossed paths a couple of times. So, also because our surnames meant we sat at the same desk (in the class list Cañas followed Batista), I was his first friend at the school; thanks to me he made friends with Matías, and thanks to Matías and me he made friends with the rest of my friends. He also turned into the leader of the group, a group that up till then had never had a leader (or I hadn’t been aware that it did) and perhaps needed one, because the essential feeling of adolescence is fear and fear needs leaders with which to fight it. Batista was a couple of years older than us, physically strong and knew how to make himself heard; besides, he had everything any teenage charnego might desire: to start with, a solid, rich, Catalan family (although he considered himself very Spanish and despised everything Catalan, not to mention catalanista, especially if it came f
rom Barcelona); also, a large apartment in the new part of the city, a tennis-club membership, a summer house in S’Agaró and a winter one in La Molina, a 75cc Lobito to get around on and his own place on La Rutlla Street, a tumbledown old garage to spend the evenings listening to rock and roll, smoking and drinking beer.

  ‘Up to here, everything’s normal; from here on in, nothing was. I mean in just a few months Batista’s attitude towards me changed, his sympathy turned into antipathy, his antipathy into hatred and his hatred into violence. Why? I don’t know. I’ve often thought I was simply the scapegoat Batista invented to ward off the group’s essential fear. But I really don’t know; the only thing I know is that in a very short time I went from being his friend to being his victim.

  ‘The word victim is melodramatic, but I prefer the risk of melodrama to that of lying. Batista began taunting me: although his mother tongue was Catalan, he laughed at me for speaking Catalan, not because I spoke it badly, but because he despised those who spoke Catalan without being Catalan; he laughed at my appearance and called me Dumbo, because he said I had ears as big as the Disney elephant’s; he also laughed at my awkwardness with girls, at my studious-looking glasses, my studious-looking grades. These taunts became increasingly ferocious, and I couldn’t stop them, and my friends, who just laughed at first, ended up joining in. Soon words were not enough. Batista got a taste for half-joking and half-seriously punching me in the shoulders or ribs and giving me an occasional slap; perplexed, I answered with laughter, playing at returning the blows, trying to take the gravity out of the violence and turn it into a joke. That was at the start. Later, when it was no longer possible to disguise the brutality as fun, my laughter turned into tears and the desire for escape. Batista, I insist, was not alone: he was the big bully, the origin and catalyst of the violence, but the rest of my friends (with the occasional exception of Matías, who sometimes tried to put the brakes on Batista) at times turned into a pack of hounds. For years I wanted to forget that time, until not long ago I forced myself to remember it and realized I still had some of those scenes stuck in my head like a knife in the guts. Once Batista threw me into a freezing stream that runs through, or used to run through, La Devesa Park. Another time, one afternoon when we were at his place on La Rutlla, my friends stripped me and locked me in the darkness of the loft, and for hours all I could do was hold back my tears and listen through the wall to their laughter, their shouts, their conversations and the music they put on. Another time – a Saturday I’d told my parents I was sleeping over at Batista’s parents’ place in S’Agaró – they left me again at the place on La Rutlla, and I had to spend almost twenty-four hours there – from Saturday afternoon to midday on Sunday – alone and in the dark, with nothing to eat or drink. Another time, towards the end of term, when I was no longer doing anything but avoiding Batista, I got so scared I thought he was trying to kill me, because he and Canales, Herrero, the Boix brothers and another one or two trapped me in the washrooms off the patio at school and, for what must have been a few seconds but felt like a very, very long time, held my face inside a toilet they’d all just pissed in, while I listened to my friends’ laughter behind me. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to. But if it makes you feel better, go ahead.’

  ‘No, talking about it doesn’t make me feel any better; not any more. I’m surprised to be telling you, though, which feels different. The Batista thing has become like so many things from that time: it’s not like I lived through them but more like I dreamt them. Although you’ll be wondering what all this has to do with Zarco.’

  ‘No: I was wondering why you didn’t report the bullying.’

  ‘Who was I supposed to report it to? My teachers? I had a good reputation at school, but I didn’t have any proof of what was going on, and reporting it would have turned me into a liar or a snitch (or both), and that was the best way to make everything worse. Or my parents? My father and mother were good people; they loved me and I loved them, but over those months our relationship had deteriorated so much that I wouldn’t have dared tell them. Besides, how would I have told them? And what would I have told them? On top of everything else, as I already said, my father was subordinate to Batista’s father at work, so if I told him what was going on, aside from turning into a liar and a snitch, I would have put my father in an impossible situation. In spite of that, more than once I was tempted to tell him, more than once I was on the brink of telling him, but in the end I always shied away. And if I wasn’t going to report it to them, who was I going to tell?

  ‘The thing is that going to school every day turned into an ordeal for me. For months I cried myself to sleep. I was scared. I felt enraged and embittered and humiliated and most of all guilty, because the worst thing about humiliation is that it makes the one who suffers it feel guilty. I felt trapped. I wanted to die. And don’t think what you’re thinking: all that shit didn’t teach me a thing. Knowing absolute evil – that’s what Batista was to me – earlier than most, doesn’t make you better than others; it makes you worse. And it’s absolutely no use whatsoever.’

  ‘It was useful to you in that it led you to meet Zarco.’

  ‘That’s true, but that was its only use. That happened not long after term finished, when I’d gone for a while without seeing my friends. With the classrooms closed there were more possibilities of hiding from them, although the truth is, in a city as small as Gerona, there weren’t really that many either and it wasn’t easy to drop out of circulation, which is what I needed to do so my friends would forget about me. I had to avoid bumping into them in the neighbourhood, avoid the places we used to hang out, avoid going near Batista’s place on La Rutlla, even avoid or evade visits or phone calls from Matías, who kept inviting me to come out with them, probably to ease his guilty conscience and hide the actual harassment they were subjecting me to behind his apparent generosity. Anyway: my plan that summer was to go outside as little as possible until August when we’d go away on holiday, and to spend those weeks staying in reading and watching TV. That was the idea. But the reality is that, no matter how dejected or cowardly, a sixteen-year-old kid is incapable of spending all day at home, or at least I was incapable of it. So I soon started venturing out into the street, and one afternoon I went into the Vilaró games arcade.

  ‘That was where I saw Zarco for the first time. The Vilaró arcade was on Bonastruc de Porta Street, still in La Devesa neighbourhood, across from the railway overpass. It was one of those amusement arcades for teenagers that proliferated in the seventies and eighties. What I remember of that one is a big warehouse with bare walls and a six-lane Scalextric track; I also remember several table-football games, a few Space Invaders consoles and six or seven pinball machines lined up against one of the side walls; at the back there was a drinks machine and the washrooms, and at the entrance was the glass-walled booth where Señor Tomàs sat, a stooped, balding, round-bellied old man who was only distracted from his crossword-puzzle books by the odd practical problem (a jammed machine, a clogged toilet) or, in the case of an altercation, to throw out the troublemakers or re-establish order with his shrill voice. I used to go there with my friends, but more or less since Batista showed up I’d stopped going; my friends had too and, maybe for that reason, it seemed like a safe place, like the hole where a shell had just landed during a bombardment.

  ‘The afternoon I met Zarco I’d arrived at the arcade not long after Señor Tomàs opened up and started playing my favourite pinball machine – Rocky Balboa. A good machine: five balls, an extra ball for not many points and at the end bonus points that let you make the next level easily. For a while I was the only one playing in the empty place, but soon a group of kids came in and headed over to the Scalextric track. A little while later a couple more showed up. A guy and a girl, who looked older than sixteen but younger than nineteen, and my first impression when I saw them was that they seemed like they might be related somehow, but mostly that they were a couple of tough charnegos, from the
outskirts, maybe even quinquis or delinquents. Señor Tomàs sensed the threat as soon as they walked past his window. Hey, you two, he called after them, opening the door to his booth. Where’re you going? They both stopped short. What’s up, chief?, asked the guy, raising his hands as if offering to be searched; he wasn’t smiling, but gave the impression that the situation amused him. He said: We just want to have a game. Can we? Señor Tomàs looked them both up and down with suspicion, and when he finished his examination said something that I didn’t quite catch; then realized what it was: I don’t want any trouble. Anyone who gives me trouble is out. Is that clear? Absolutely, said the guy, gesturing in a conciliatory way and lowering his hands. Don’t worry about us, boss. Señor Tomàs seemed to be half satisfied with the reply, returned to his booth and must have gone back to his crossword puzzle while the pair walked into the arcade.’

  ‘It was them.’

  ‘Yes: the guy was Zarco; the girl was Tere.’

  ‘Tere was Zarco’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Good question: if I’d known the answer in time I would have saved myself a lot of trouble; I’ll come to that later. The thing is that, like Señor Tomàs, as soon as I saw Zarco and Tere walk in I immediately felt wary, felt that from this moment on anything might happen in the arcade, and my first instinct was to abandon Rocky Balboa and split.

  ‘I stayed. I tried to forget the pair, act like they weren’t there, and carry on playing. I didn’t manage it, and a moment later felt a slap on my shoulder that made me stagger. What’s up, Gafitas?, asked Zarco, taking my place at the controls of the machine. He looked me in my bespectacled eyes with his very blue ones, spoke with a husky voice, had a centre parting in his hair and wore a tight denim jacket over a tight beige T-shirt. He repeated, defiantly, What’s up? I was scared. Holding up my hands I said: I just finished. I turned to leave, but at that moment Tere stepped in my way and my face was a handspan from hers. My first impression was surprise; my second, of being completely dazzled. Like Zarco, Tere was very thin, dark, not very tall, with that springy outdoors air quinquis used to have back then. She had straight dark hair and cruel green eyes, and a beauty spot beside her nose. Her whole body radiated the composure of a young woman who was very sure of herself, except for one tic: her left leg moved up and down like a piston. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and her handbag strap crossed her chest. Going already?, she asked, smiling with her full, strawberry-red lips. I couldn’t answer because Zarco grabbed my arm and forced me to turn back around. You stay right there, Gafitas, he ordered, and started playing pinball on the Rocky Balboa machine.