Free The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

printed on it. One could say that a wonderful synthesis was effected between the paper and the article in leaving his arse suitably prepared for the final act of ablution in the bidet. Having taken his trousers off, Carvalho decided to go the whole hog and strip off. He grabbed a dressing gown off the toilet door and decided to broach the question of what to eat. As he gazed at a cupboardful of tinned food, he was caught between the simplicity of just having hot milk and the alchemical possibilities of actually cooking something at that hour of the night. What could he have? How about pasta? He sought out the necessary ingredients from the fridge and from the little larder next to the cupboard. The pork chop was salted slightly, and then subjected to the rigour of a small quantity of oil sizzling in the earthenware casserole. Then came a diced potato, grated onion, pepper and tomato. Once the frying was under way, Carvalho added a little salt and paprika before putting in the pasta and giving it a turn in the pan. It was time to pour in the broth, to a depth of about half an inch. When the broth began to simmer, Carvalho added four slices of thick butifarra sausage and just before removing the pan from the flame he gave the final touch, a pinch of garlic and pimento fried separately. He had learned this way of cooking pasta with black butifarra from the nuns in a convent where he had gone into hiding at the end of the 1950s after the discovery of his party’s printing press. The nuns would leave his food on a long, scrubbed wooden table, the most beautiful table Carvalho had ever seen in his life. Carvalho still had a soft spot for nuns, a throwback to his childhood days, when he had attended a school run by the nuns of St Vincent of Paul.
    ‘Jose, what do you want to be when you grow up?’
    ‘A saint.’
    ‘Like St Tarsicio?’
    ‘Yes, like St Tarsicio. Or like St Genevieve of Brabant.’
    ‘You’d have to be like St Tarsicio, because you’re a boy. St Genevieve was a woman.’
    At that time he’d had no idea that angels were one sex or the other.
    ‘Pardon me, sir. Excuse my asking. . . would you happen to be going to Barcelona?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘My car’s broken down. I saw you pulling in to eat, and I wondered whether you could give me a lift.’
    The owner of the voice was short and, in the opinion of Dieter Rhomberg, had too much hair. He ran his eye over the man’s neatly-trimmed beard and unassuming suit.
    ‘I’m a traveling rep for a sports equipment firm, and I’ve seen everyone I had to see round here. I was on my way home, and I thought, if it’s no bother for you. . .’
    ‘No, no bother at all.’
    ‘I fancy a bite too. I’ll sit at that table over there, and when you’re ready to go, you just tell me.’ ‘Why don’t you join me at my table?’ That’s very kind of you. I’d be delighted.’ The man gave a sigh of relief as he sat down. ‘You’ve saved my life, you know. If I don’t get home tonight I’d have a hell of a job convincing the wife that it was because the car broke down.’
    ‘Doesn’t she trust you?’
    ‘No. And with good reason.’
    He gave a knowing wink. A huge gold Signet ring and a slender wedding ring glittered side by side on one finger.
    ‘It’s because of my job. Swimming pools, tennis courts, and so on. Would you like my card?’
    ‘It’s unlikely that I’ll ever need it. I’m a foreigner. Just passing through.’
    ‘I thought you sounded a bit foreign. You speak very good Spanish, though.’
    ‘I come here quite often.’
    ‘Well keep my card anyway. One of these days you might want to buy a villa in Spain. Just ring me. Juan Higueras Fernandez, at your service.’
    ‘Peter Herzen.’
    ‘Peter? That sounds English.’
    ‘I’m German. Peter’s the same in English and in German.’
    The waiter brought Rhomberg his steak and salad.
    ‘I’ll have just a portion of cod. I have an ulcer.’
    Two different types of pill appeared on the