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about him. As he reached the door he was checked momentarily by Carvalho inquiring: ‘I imagine you must be pretty keen on football?’
    The PR man turned round and calculated the effect that his answer might provoke.
    ‘As a sport, I find it rather stupid and ordinary. But as a sociological phenomenon I find it fascinating.’
    So saying, he left, without giving himself time to hear Carvalho muttering to himself: ‘A sociologist. That’s all we need.’
    Carvalho brooded over the questions that he should have asked and hadn’t, but his musings were interrupted by the arrival of Biscuter, laden down with every kind of shopping imaginable. He was panting and puffing and each puff ruffled the few long red hairs remaining on his balding head.
    ‘That staircase is going to be the death of me, boss.’
    ‘You look like you’ve bought up half the market.’
    ‘The fridge was empty, boss, and I prefer to do it all in one trip … Those stairs’ll be the death of me … I’ve bought some
cap-i-pota
, and I’m going to make you some
farcellets
of
cap-i-pota
with truffles and prawns. Don’t worry, though, I’ll make it nice and light. Not too greasy. Mind you, I reckon the human body needs a bit of grease every once in a while. Otherwise it starts squeakinglike a rusty hinge. Then I’ll do you some figs
à la Syrienne
. Stuffed with nuts and cooked in orange juice. Low calorie. Instead of sugar I’ll use honey.’
    ‘You’re reading too much, Biscuter.’
    ‘You should take a look at the
Enciclopaedia Gastronomica
. I’ve been buying it in instalments. It’s incredible, the things that people dream up. Who do you reckon it was who first thought of stuffing figs with nuts and cooking them in orange juice?’
    ‘A Syrian, I suppose.’
    As the video came to an end the lights came on. There was a buzz of comment and small-talk, and the darkness gave way to a fervour of words and gestures. Behind the presidential table sat the club’s directors, headed by the chairman, Basté de Linyola, and in the centre, illuminated like a particularly pampered pet, sat Jack Mortimer, the golden-haired golden boy, with a face that was all smiles and freckles. The proceedings were opened by the club’s PR chief, Camps O’Shea, who reminded the journalists of the reasons for the press conference. He blinked slightly under the harsh lights of the various TV channels which were there to record the moment of the public presentation of a newly signed footballer. Camps O’Shea then informed them that he would be translating for Mortimer.
    ‘He’s been doing a crash course in Spanish, but he’s a bit shy about his conversational abilities, particularly when he’s in the lion’s den with the likes of you, gentlemen.’
    His attempt to break the ice was rewarded with a ripple of appreciative laughter, and from within the ripple the first questions began to emerge.
    ‘Will he be learning Catalan as well?’
    ‘Of course! També! També!’
    Mortimer contrived to answer partly in Catalan when the question was translated to him, and thereby won himself anotherripple of laughter and a round of applause.
    ‘How do you feel about signing for such a powerful club?’
    ‘What do you make of the fact that English footballers have never been a great success in Europe?’
    ‘Are you aware of the social and symbolic importance of the club that you have signed for?’
    ‘Do you expect to maintain your English average of thirty goals a year?’
    ‘Do you prefer to wait for the ball to come to you, or do you prefer to go out and get it?’
    ‘Mortimer, you were married a short while ago, and now you’re expecting a baby. Will you call it Jordi if it’s a boy? Or Núria if it’s a girl?’
    This time Camps did not translate the question, but offered the reply himself.
    ‘Señor Mortimer may well decide to choose a Catalan name, but that doesn’t mean that it has to be Núria or Jordi. There are other names.’
    ‘Such as