Woes of the True Policeman Read Free Page B

wondering how he had come to confide in him so easily, how he had learned to trust him in a way that he hardly ever trusted anyone. Amalfitano, meanwhile, usually made the trip half-asleep, watching through half-closed eyes the empty streets, the yellow signs, the dark and bright windows, at peace with himself in Carrera’s car, sure of arriving home safe and sound, of coming in the door quietly, jacket on the coatrack, glass of water, and before getting into bed, a last glance into Rosa’s room, out of pure habit.
    And now the rector and the department head, always so prudent, so circumspect, had assigned Carrera—because you see him socially, one might call him your friend, he’ll listen to you (was there a threat there? a joke that only the rector and the department head understood?)—this delicate mission which had to be carried out tactfully, with decorum, persuasively, and at the same time firmly. With unshakable firmness. And who better than you, Antoni. Who better than you to find a solution to this problem.
    So Amalfitano wasn’t surprised when Carrera told him that he had to leave the university. Jordi, under instructions from his parents, had taken Rosa to his room, and from the end of the hallway came the faint sound of the stereo. For a while Amalfitano was quiet, looking down at the rug and at the feet of the Carreras sitting one next to the other on the sofa. So they want to get rid of me, he said at last.
    “They want you to go voluntarily, as quietly as possible,” said Antoni Carrera.
    “If you don’t they’ll take you to court,” said Anna Carrera.
    “I’ve been talking to some people in the department and it’s the best you can hope for,” said Antoni Carrera. “Otherwise, you risk everything.”
    “What’s everything?” Amalfitano wanted to know.
    The Carreras gave him looks of pity. Then Anna got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with three glasses. When her husband, the night before, had told her that Amalfitano’s days at the university were numbered, and why they were numbered, she had begun to cry. Where’s the cognac? she asked. After a few seconds in which Amalfitano couldn’t understand what the hell this woman wanted, he answered that he didn’t drink cognac anymore. I gave it up, he said, closing his eyes, his lungs filling with air like someone about to scale a hill. Not a hill, thought Amalfitano as he imagined the whole faculty hearing about his indiscretions, a mountain. The mountain of my guilt. On the sideboard there was a bottle of apple brandy.
    “Don’t complain now,” said Antoni Carrera, as if reading his thoughts. “After all, it’s your own fault. You should have been more careful choosing your friends.”
    “I didn’t choose them,” said Amalfitano, smiling. “They chose me, or life did.”
    “Don’t wax poetic, for God’s sake,” said Anna Carrera, secretly angry that a man who was still handsome—and she really did find him handsome, tall and lean as he was, like a matinee idol, with that shock of white hair—would rather sleep with boys (probably pimply ones) than women. “You fucked up and now you have to suffer the consequences, do what’s best for you, and for your daughter, especially. If you fight it, the literature department will bury you in shit,” she said as she filled three glasses to overflowing with Viuda Canseco.
    What a nice, blunt way to put it, thought Antoni Carrera, admiringly and gloomily.
    Anna handed them the glasses: “Drink up, we’ll need it. What we should really do is send the kids to the movies and get drunk.”
    “That’s not a bad idea,” said Amalfitano.
    “The university is rotten,” said Antoni Carrera without conviction.
    “But what does that mean?” asked Amalfitano.
    “It means that in the best of cases, you’ll be left with a near-indelible stain on your record. Worst case, you could end up in jail as a corruptor of minors.”
    Who was the minor, my God? thought Amalfitano, and he