Free Southern Seas by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page A

Marquess of Munt had a graceful sort of voice, like that of a Catalan radio actor who is continually trying to conceal his accent and ends up with a weird Castilian pronunciation. The mulatto brought two dishes full of morteruelo, two sets of cutlery, and two baskets containing small rolls.
    ‘Drink, Señor Carvalho, before the wine comes to an end, before the world comes to an end. Remember what Stendhal said: you do not know what it means to live unless you have lived before the revolution.’
    ‘Are we living before the revolution?’
    ‘Without a shadow of a doubt. A revolution will come soon. Its shape still has to be decided. But it will come. I know, because I have devoted a lot of time to political science. And then I have Richard, my Jamaican servant. He’s a great expert in drawing up astrological charts. A great revolution is approaching. Is something disturbing you? The Carbero sculpture?’
    The menacing needle was a sculpture. Carvalho felt more secure.
    ‘I’ve spent years and years trying to educate my class by force of example. They’ve defended themselves by accusing me of being an exhibitionist. While I was racing hot-rods, my classmates were begging in Madrid for permission to import an Opel or a Buick. When I separated from my wife and went to live withsome gypsies in Sacromonte, word went out to all the high-class homes in Barcelona that I was never to be received again.’
    ‘Where did you live in Sacromonte?’
    A shadow of vexation passed across the marquess’s eyes, as if Carvalho had tried to cast obscure doubts on something as clear as crystal.
    ‘In my cave.’
    He drank some more wine, and contentedly watched Carvalho do the same.
    ‘The aristocracy and high bourgeoisie of Barcelona are scouting for servants in Almunecar or Dos Hermanas. I look for mine in Jamaica. Rich people have to display what they’re made of. Here everyone’s afraid of displaying it. During the civil war, some FAI people came looking for me here, and I received them in my best silk dressing-gown. Their leader asked me: “Don’t you feel ashamed to be living a life like this, with everything that’s happening in the country?” I answered that I’d feel ashamed to be going round dressed up as a worker without being one. He was so impressed that he allowed me twenty-four hours to pack and leave. I went over to the
nacionales
and was unlucky enough to get involved with the Catalan group in Burgos. A bunch of upstarts who changed sides in order to remain ambassadors. As soon as I entered Barcelona with the
nacionales
, I lost interest in their whole operation and took advantage of World War Two to do some spying for the Allies. I have the Légion d’Honneur, and every 14th July I go to Paris for the Champs d’Elysée parade. My style of life ought to merit some attention from this fat ruling class in Catalonia. But not a bit of it. Now they’ve discovered bottled wine and goose with pears. They’re a million miles from their grandparents. The ones who made Barcelona a modernist city, big tuna fish in a land of sardines. They too were rather uncouth, but their blood pounded in rhythms that were Wagnerian. Nowadays it pounds to the rhythm of some TV jingle. You are a plebeian who drinks chablis in fine style. I have been watching you.’
    ‘Did you pay a low rent for your cave in Sacromonte?’
    ‘It was the biggest one I could find with no one in it. I went to a luxury shop in Granada and bought a turn-of-the-century English iron bed at three times the price that I paid for the cave. I put the bed in the cave, and spent some very happy years trying to promote gypsy singers and dancers. Once I collected a folk group and took them to London in their performing clothes. Imagine: flowing dresses, thick country boots, Cordoban sombreros, false beauty marks, carnations blossoming from their hair. At London Airport, they wouldn’t let us through immigration. “You’re not coming into the country looking like