Southern Seas by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Read Free Book Online Page A

look behind it, and examined every item of clothing in the wardrobe.
    ‘Did you have a particularly close relationship with Señor Stuart Pedrell?’
    ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
    ‘Did you ever discuss personal things, apart from the daily routine of work?’
    ‘Sometimes.’
    ‘What sort of things?’
    ‘The usual.’
    ‘What do you mean by “usual”?’
    ‘Politics. Or a film, perhaps.’
    ‘How did he vote in the June 1977 elections?
    ‘He didn’t tell me.’
    ‘UCD?’
    ‘I don’t think so. Something more radical, I would imagine.’
    ‘And you?’
    ‘I don’t see why that should be of any interest to you.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘I voted for the Republican Left of Catalonia, if you really want to know.’
    They left Stuart Pedrell’s crypt, and through the real world of the house there wafted the distant chords of a well-tuned piano. Hands that moved with discipline, but not much feeling.
    ‘Who’s playing?’
    ‘Señorita Yes,’ the butler replied, struggling to keep up as Carvalho strode rapidly towards the source of the music.
    ‘Yes? What, like in the English?’
    ‘It’s Yésica.’
    ‘Ah, Jésica.’
    Carvalho opened the door. A red belt accentuated the narrowness of the girl’s waist. Jean-clad buttocks rested their tense and rounded youth on the piano stool. Her back was arched with a studied delicacy. A blonde ponytail hung from a head thrown back as if to accompany the notes on their journey through the house. The butler cleared his throat. Without turning round or interrupting her playing, the girl asked:
    ‘What is it, Joanet?’
    ‘Excuse me, Señorita Yes, but this gentleman would like to have a word with you.’
    She swung round on the stool. She had grey eyes, a skier’s complexion, a large soft mouth, cheeks that were a picture of health, and the arms of a fully-formed woman. Her eyebrows were perhaps a little too thick, but they underlined the basic features of a girl who would not have looked out of place in an American TV commercial. Carvalho felt himself also coming under scrutiny, but it was a general scrutiny, rather than the detailed examination to which he had subjected her. Get a Gary Cooper in your life, girl, thought Carvalho, as he shook the hand that she offered with a seeming reluctance.
    ‘Pepe Carvalho. I’m a private investigator.’
    ‘Oh. I suppose it’s about Daddy. Can’t you people let him rest in peace?’
    The glamour-girl façade crumbled. Her voice quivered, and her eyes flashed at him, full of tears.
    ‘It was Mummy and that dreadful Viladecans who started all this.’
    The sound of the door closing suggested that the butler had heard as much as he wanted to hear.
    ‘Dead people don’t need to rest, because they don’t get tired.’
    ‘How would you know?’
    ‘Do you know otherwise?’
    ‘My father is alive—here in this house. I can feel him around me. I talk to him. Come here. Look what I found.’
    She took Carvalho’s hand and led him to a lectern in a corner of the room. A large photo album was lying open on it. The girl slowly turned the pages, one after another, as if they were fragile between her fingers. She placed a grey-framed photograph in front of Carvalho. It showed Stuart Pedrell as a dark-skinned young man in shirt-sleeves, flexing Mr Universe muscles.
    ‘He’s handsome, isn’t he.’
    The room smelt of marijuana, and so did she. With her eyes closed, she smiled ecstatically at the vision in her mind’s eye.
    ‘Did you have a close relationship with your father?’
    ‘Not before he died. When he left home, I’d been studying in England for about two years. We used to see each other in the summer, but not for long. I only got to know my father after he’d died. It was a beautiful escape. The South Seas.’
    ‘He never reached the South Seas.’
    ‘How would you know? Where are the South Seas?’
    There was a will to fight in her wild eyes, her pursed lips and her whole body that seemed turned in on