Free The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page A

table.
    ‘I keep my daily dose in my pocket. That way I don’t forget. Otherwise I find I’ve left them in my suitcase, or left them behind somewhere, and then I’m in trouble. When you have too many things banging around in your brain, that’s when you get ulcers, and worse! You look pretty healthy, though. You obviously look after yourself. Steak. . . salad. . . Do you do any sports?’
    ‘I do what I can. Swimming, mainly.’
    ‘Very healthy. A real all-round sport. Imagine it, though—I spend all my time round swimming pools and I can’t even swim. What kind of schooling did they ever give us? A bit of reading, a bit of arithmetic, and that was that. If you wanted physical exercise, you’d get it kicking a ball around in the street. Or a tin can on a bit of open space—in the days when you could still find a bit of open space. Kids today are something else, though. My boy’s taking swimming lessons. Twice a week. When we go to the beach in the summer I feel a bit of an idiot, because he takes to the water like a fish, and I’m left paddling about on the beach with my trousers rolled up.’
    He ate his meal quickly so as to catch up with Rhomberg.
    ‘There’s one thing I won’t give up, though—ulcer or no ulcer—and that’s my coffee.’
    He got up, excused himself, and went over to the waiter. Rhomberg saw him take out his wallet and point to the table, and realized that he was about to pay for their meal. The German got up to protest, but was too late to stop him.
    ‘It’s the least I can do, seeing you’ve just about saved my life.’
    The man commented on how comfortable the BMW was.
    ‘It’s not mine. It’s a hire car.’
    ‘You’ve started your holidays early! It’s still spring!’
    ‘This was the only time I could get free.’
    ‘Things don’t always turn out the way we want them, do they? Listen, would you mind if I stretch out on the back seat for a bit? It’s my ulcer. It helps if! can rest up for a while after a meal.’
    Rhomberg settled himself at the wheel. He carefully adjusted his seat belt and then turned around. The man fitted along the length of the seat just nicely. He had his hands folded on his stomach and gave him a contented smile.
    ‘This is brilliant. Like traveling in a sleeper-car.’
    They left the service area and joined the motorway. It was a good seventy kilometres to Barcelona. Dieter put his foot down, and glanced in the rearview mirror to check that his traveling companion wasn’t alarmed by the speed. The man seemed to be absorbed in staring at the roof, or perhaps he was dozing with his eyes half closed. Dieter would have liked to get his business with Carvalho over with as soon as possible, so as not to have to spend a night in Barcelona. He wanted to reach Valencia in one haul, and then, the next day, get the car on a ferry for Oran. In his mind he mulled over the best way to approach Carvalho—giving him enough information to convince him, but not so much as to compromise himself. He felt his whole body in the grip of a fear that was compounded by his sense of personal isolation. He felt the anxiety tighten in his throat, and found himself murmuring the name of his dead wife—Gertrude—under his breath. His eyes became misty with self-pity. Then he thought of his son, and the pain became too much.
    ‘The boy’s too attached to me,’ he said, more or less out loud.
    He had once read of a writer who had fled the Soviet Union. Before leaving, he had made a point of mistreating his son during their last year together so that the boy would remember him with loathing and not with longing. He had done more or less the same himself. He had cut the boy out of his life as if he was an encumbrance, but the boy had repaid him with idolatry. He kept his father’s letters and photos as if they were holy relics. He asked his aunt to alter his father’s jackets, so that he could wear them. He’d fallen under the same spell of love as Gertrude had.
    ‘I