The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming

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СКАЧАТЬ museum, the week she spent recently in Gloucestershire with Julian’s ageing parents. Just enough chat to cover the span of time before her husband returns from the bar. When he does, all of his attention is focused on me.

      ‘Actually, Alec, it’s a good job we’ve bumped into each other.’ He clutches me round the shoulder. ‘Saul, can I leave you with my wife for five minutes? Need to talk shop.’

      Dispensing the drinks, he steers me into a cramped space beside the cigarette machine and assumes a graver tone. The need for secrecy is unclear, although I should still be able to eavesdrop on Saul’s conversation. I don’t want him leaking information to Sofía about my past. Things are nicely compartmentalized there. They are under control.

      ‘Look, as I said, I need you to go to San Sebastián early next week. Is that going to be a problem?’

      ‘Shouldn’t be.’

      ‘We can pay your expenses, normal form. It’s no different to your usual work. Just diligence. Just need you to look into something.’

      ‘Your email said it was about cars.’

      ‘Yes. Client wants to build a factory making parts near the border with Navarra. Don’t ask. Blindingly dull small town. But the workforce will be mostly Basque, so there might be union trouble. I need you to put together a document, interviews with local councillors, real-estate bigwigs, lawyers and so forth. Something to impress potential investors, calm any nerves. Sections about the tax position, the impact on exports of the strengthening euro, that sort of thing. Most importantly, what effect would Basque independence have on the project?’

      ‘Basque independence? They think that’s likely?’

      ‘Well, that’s what we need you to find out.’

      I’m tempted to tell Julian that Endiom would be better off buying a crystal ball and a subscription to The Economist, but if he wants to pay me 300 a day to stay in San Sebastian as a glorified journalist, I’m not going to argue. Saul has already mentioned that he wants to go to Cádiz to see a friend, so I’ll kick him out on Tuesday and take the car.

      ‘You want to fly there?’

      ‘I’ll drive.’

      ‘Up to you. There’s a file at the office. Why don’t you pick it up on Monday and we can go through all the bumph? Might have a spot of lunch.’

      ‘Done.’

      But Julian won’t let me go. Rather than return to Sofía and Saul, he lingers in the corner, engaging me in a mind-numbing conversation about Manchester United’s chances in this year’s Champions League.

      ‘If we can just see our way past Juventus in the second group phase, there’s every chance we’ll draw Madrid in the quarter-finals.’

      This goes on for ten minutes. Perhaps he is enjoying the male camaraderie, a chance to talk to somebody other than Sofía. Julian has always held me in the highest esteem, valuing my opinion on anything from Iraq to Nasser Hussain, and is strangely deferential in approach.

      Behind me, Saul is sounding enamoured of Sofía, laughing at her jokes and doing his best to talk me down.

      ‘Yeah, we were just saying how friends change in their twenties. It’s tough staying loyal to some of them.’ This is all very pointedly within my earshot. ‘I think people used to think I was a bit of an idiot for hanging out with Alec, you know, but I felt sorry for him. There was a time when he really tested me, when I felt like cutting the rope, only I didn’t want to be the sort of person who bailed out on his mates when they were in trouble, know what I mean?’

      I can’t hear Sofía’s response. Her voice is naturally quieter than Saul’s and she is speaking out into the room, with Julian in full flow leaning into me for greater emphasis.

      ‘I mean, most people would now agree that Roy Keane is not the player he was. Injuries have taken their toll–hip surgery, knee ligaments–he simply can’t get up and down like he used to. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes to Celtic next season.’

      ‘Really? You think so?’ It’s a struggle to remember the name of Manchester United’s manager. ‘Alex Ferguson would be prepared to sell him?’

      ‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question. With Becks almost certainly off, would he want to lose Keano as well?’

      Saul has started talking again and I try to pivot my body against the cigarette machine so that I can still hear his conversation. He’s saying that he’s known me since childhood, that he has no idea what I’m doing out here in Spain.

      ‘…one day he just upped and left and none of us have seen him since.’

      Sofía sounds understandably inquisitive, although it’s still impossible to hear what she’s saying. Now Julian is asking me if I want a couple of spare tickets to the Bernabéu. Was that a question about London? Saul’s answer contains the phrase ‘oil business’ and now I really start to worry. Somehow I have to break away from Julian and intrude to stop their conversation.

      ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

      I have turned and stepped up to them, my weight shifted awkwardly onto one leg, looking unguardedly at Saul as an instruction to make him shut up. He pauses mid-sentence, extracts a Camel Light and passes it to me saying, ‘Sure.’ Sofía looks startled–she has never seen me smoking–but Julian is too busy offering me a light to notice.

      ‘I thought you gave up?’ he asks.

      ‘I did. I just like having one every now and again. Late nights and weekends. What were you two talking about? My ears were burning.’

      ‘Your past,’ Sofía says, fanning smoke away from her face. ‘Saul says you’re a man of mystery, Alex. Did you know that, darling?’

      Julian, checking messages on his mobile phone, says, ‘Sí, yup,’ and heads outside in search of better reception.

      ‘He also said you worked in the oil business?’

      ‘Briefly. Very briefly. Then I got a job at Reuters and they shipped me out to Russia. What do you do, Sofía?’

      She grins and looks up at the ceiling.

      ‘I’m a clothes designer, Alex. For women. Didn’t you ask me that at the Christmas party?’

      The tone of the question is unambiguously flirtatious. She needs to cool it or Saul will cotton on. In an attempt to change the subject, I say that I once saw Pedro Almodóvar drinking in the bar, sitting at a table not too far from where we are standing. It’s a lie–a friend saw him–but enough to interest Saul.

      ‘Really? That’s like going to London and seeing the Queen.’

      ‘Qué?’ Sofía says, her English momentarily confused. ‘You saw the Queen here?’

      And, thankfully, the misunderstanding engenders the conversation I had hoped for: Saul’s lifelong distaste for Almodóvar’s movies perfectly at odds with Sofía’s loyal, madrileñian obsession.

      ‘My СКАЧАТЬ