The Faint-hearted Bolshevik Read Free Page B

Sonsoles López-Díaz. Her surname’s double-barrelled. She lives on Calle Moreto, at number 46.”
    “There’s no one by that name, sir.”
    “Is there anyone else by the last name López-Díaz or López at that address?”
    “I can’t give you that information, sir.”
    “Okay, thanks, Mata Hari.”
    I hung up and dialled again.
    “Your call will be served by operator seven … three … one.” This time I got a man. “Good morning, Information Department.”
    “Good morning. I’d like the telephone number for Señor López-Díaz.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not Colombo,” joked the operator.
    “It’s not that difficult. He lives at 46 Calle Moreto.”
    There was the sound of a computer keyboard. A second later the operator was back.
    “Armando López-Díaz. Have a pen and paper ready.”
    The voice of the other computer, the one that greeted you and clicked on the numbers, dictated a telephone number. If I hadn’t hung up it would have kept dictating numbers to me until every last one of my teeth fell out.
    I dialled the seven digits. A young woman answered.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello. Who’s that speaking?”
    “Lucía.”
    “Ah. I’d like to speak to Sonsoles.”
    “She’s out.”
    “When will she be back?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Antonio. I work with Don Armando.”
    “And why do you want to talk to Sonsoles?”
    It was obvious that I had cleared the first hurdle. I’d planned to amuse myself for longer, but I threw myself into the next one, one I knew she wouldn’t fall for:
    “You see, I met Sonsoles about a month ago. She came back to my place, had a bit much to drink, and, well, you know how these things happen … I wanted to use a condom because I’m bisexual and some of my friends sleep around, but she wouldn’t let me. Now I’ve had a blood test and according to the results … ”
    “That’s not funny, you jerk.”
    “Don’t hang up on me, this is important for your sister.”
    “She’s not my sister. I work here.”
    “It doesn’t matter, she needs to know anyway.”
    “To know what? You’ve got AIDS, right? And I’m the Empress of Iran.”
    “Not exactly.”
    “What then?”
    “Look, now I think about it, it’s a very delicate matter. I’m going to give you my phone number. Tell her to call me.”
    I took out my collection of carefully chosen telephone numbers and after wavering between the Archbishopric of Madrid-Alcalá and the Ministry for Social Affairs, I gave her the number for the police station in Tetuán.
    “If you think I’m going to take down that number you’ve got another thing coming,” she replied.
    “Write it down and give it to her. What could happen?”
    “They might fire me, for starters.”
    “Tell her I’m a prank caller. You’ll see how seriously she takes it.”
    “Fine, tell me the number again. That way we’ll have something to give the police.”
    I repeated it.
    “And please, don’t let her husband find out,” I snivelled.
    “She doesn’t have a husband. Goodbye, you jerk.”
    Lucía slammed the phone down on me, as they say in American detective novels, which is to say I had the phone pressed to my ear when she hung up, opening a couple of cracks in my eardrum.
    Whether it was a stroke of luck or because I’m a fucking genius, that brief phone call had helped me confirm a number of things. Sonsoles was single. She lived with her father, a certain Don Armando who must be quite a big shot and who could very well have a colleague named Antonio, and someone called Lucía as a maid, who wasn’t in the least intimidated by talk of bisexuals and venereal diseases.
    That morning I had more than enough work to keep me busy, things I had left half-finished on Friday night and others I’d been putting off but couldn’t put off any longer without my boss calling to ask who did I think I was and being unable to tell him the truth. Since I get pissed off when I have to lie unless I’m doing it for fun, I plunged back