Free Tattoo by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

through football, and that they had met up some Sunday afternoons in Amsterdam. He sensed that the other man was upset at not being the centre of attention any more, and threw him a lifeline: he questioned Julio Chesma’s character, making him a scapegoat on the altar of morality.
    ‘He was a lazy bastard.’
    ‘You’re right there,’ agreed the other, catching the line.
    ‘A scatterbrain,’ the Galician went on, sacrificing an absent friend in order to keep in with the one sitting next to him.
    ‘In Amsterdam he shacked up with a woman and found money from somewhere, though I’ve no idea where. He lived in a very nice boarding house in that street I mentioned. He had a room to himself with a bathroom and all mod cons.’
    ‘What did he do?’
    ‘He lived off women.’
    The man from León saw an opportunity to refocus attention on him.
    ‘Lots of them do that. The women here think we’re dying for it, so when they get together with a Spaniard or a Turk it’s a serious business. It’s easy to get into it, but you need to use your brain. Which is what your friend never did.’
    ‘He wasn’t really a friend. I knew him from football and he was good fun. You can’t deny that.’
    ‘His sort are always good fun. They don’t make any demands on themselves, so they demand nothing of anyone else either.’
    Carvalho couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for the man from León. He obviously had the ideology he needed to prevent him thinking his own life was shit. And by now he had the bit between his teeth.
    ‘That’s why they never feel under any obligation to anyone. So they don’t make any demands, and they always seem wonderful. You, for example, are not married, but you help keep your mother, and you send money back so they can improve the house. If they need a cow, or a sister gets married, or someone falls ill, you chip in, however hard it might be for you.’
    At this, the Galician’s eyes turned misty. He nodded in agreement. Carvalho caught himself agreeing as well,remembering how he had contributed to his own family home in Galicia thanks to the two five-thousand-peseta money orders he had sent his aunt and uncle. But soon he was cursing himself and the other two as he reflected how pathetic it was for the three of them to be sitting in Holland, so pleased with themselves for having helped buy a cow or pay for a daughter’s typing lessons.
    ‘It’s not easy being Spanish,’ said Carvalho, to see what would happen. And something did happen. The man from León stared at him, and thrust his face forward. He put a hand on Carvalho’s arm as though to get his point across more effectively or to convince him of his error. He said emphatically:
    ‘But it’s the best thing in the world. Right now if there was a war between Holland and Spain, I’d go back and fight to defend my country.’
    He turned to the Galician, who still seemed to be lost in his evocation of cows bought and sisters married.
    ‘I don’t know about you, but that’s what I’d do.’
    ‘So would I, of course,’ the Galician assured him. At the same time, he looked at Carvalho as if hoping that this knowledgeable gentleman would deny all possibility of war being declared between Spain and Holland in the next thirty years, give or take a few, that the three of them had left to live.
    ‘There’s not much chance of a war,’ said Carvalho, coming to his aid.
    ‘Of course not, it was just an example.’
    The man from León glanced at his watch, and told his companion it was time they were getting back to work. Carvalho accompanied them to the factory gate and shook hands with a warmth that took him by surprise.
    ‘Are you spending Christmas in León this year?’
    The married man from León shook his head.
    ‘No, it’ll have to wait until next year.’
    With that, he turned his back on Carvalho, followed by his friend. The only trips those two would be taking were to nightclub windows where their cheap thrills were