16 A WINNING STREAK
16
A W INNING S TREAK
She called Mamie Margaux again to say hello and ask how she was doing. The Viviani Retirement Home had decided that no matter what, no one could go out to the therapeutic garden. Much less out to the street. It wasn’t just a medical whim. The snow simply didn’t allow for it. Maybe not as much snow had fallen in the fifth arrondissement as on the hill that was Montmartre, but it really wasn’t a matter of comparison. There was no way to see from the Viviani ground floor how the oldest tree in Paris had held up. They could hardly make out the bell of the church of Saint-Julien-le Pauvre across Square Viviani, poking out from behind the shelf of snow mounded to the window. For once, “historic” was the adjective to describe reality without any sort of banal overexaggerating. In a city where in the last three hundred years, events with long encyclopedia entries had happened, “historic” was not a comfortable qualifier that worked for everything. Between revolutions, guillotines, and devastating wars, the Great Snowfall of the twenty-first century was a pause in time that didn’t cause older people who had lived through everything to lose too much sleep.
“Be patient, Barbara,” said Margaux, the telephone at her ear. “All kinds of things happen in life.”
“I’m happy to hear you’re taking it that way.”
“We can’t do anything about this. The snow, too, will melt.”
“One day or another, that’s true.”
“Go down to check on Jasper, see if he needs anything.”
“I was already thinking of doing that, don’t worry.”
“Make sure the snow on the roof doesn’t weigh too much.”
“I can’t even put my head outside to see it, Mamie. How do you want me to climb outside?”
“But be on the watch that the ceiling doesn’t start to cave in.”
Barbara looked up with the apathy of God when he counts sheep because he can’t sleep.
“The house is holding up for now. But if there is moisture damage, there’s no one I can call.”
“And don’t eat too much over these few days, because you can’t go out and burn it off.”
“Mamie, please. What’s gotten into you? I’m doing yoga, you know that. I haven’t stopped. I do it at home now. I know the routines. I close the door to my room, and—”
“Your room? Why don’t you do it in the living room?”
“Because I’m not alone.”
“You’d have more space.”
“There’s plenty of space in my room. I lay the mat near the foot of the bed, and—”
“You’re not alone?” Mamie elongated the question like she’d suddenly discovered something. “Who’s there? The guy who rents the bedroom? Uh ... what’s his name? The one from Barcelona?”
“Marcel.”
“And how is he? Because having to be shut up at home with a stranger ...”
“Well, Marcel isn’t here. His brother is here right now.”
“Brother?” She dragged out her tone even more.
“Mamie, I’ve already told you this. I called to see how you’re doing, not so you can tell me what to do. I am forty-one, you know.”
“Don’t be so sensitive. No one can tell you anything.”
“Hey, I’m not asking you how many show-off widowers you’re shut up with in your little hotel, am I?”
“What are you going on about? These old men stink when they get close to you.”
“Be careful, woman, they’ll hear you.”
“Who could even hear me here if they’re all deaf as a post?”
“Mamie, I think you’re being a little loose-lipped. If there’s nothing new, we’ll talk tomorrow to see how things are going.”
“They said on the radio that it’s not supposed to snow today. It’s the first day in who knows how many, they said.”
“Good. Let’s see if they are right, then. Kisses.”
“Big kisses.”
The day in that Montmartre apartment went by at a glacial pace. Barbara plunged headfirst into her work. She didn’t stop working and making calls to editors in countries the snowstorm had missed by a long shot or, if it had hit them, who were shut in at home. Everyone asked her about the strange situation in Paris. They’d seen it on the news, and she responded with her mamie’s words: “The snow, too, will melt.”
Roger hardly left his room. It had been weeks since he’d become used to the stench that sometimes climbed into the open air like a bitter burp. With his laptop on his bed, he navigated through pages that could shed some light on André Zucca and the photograph clippings in his treasure box, the tin box under the bed. The story actually seemed less confusing than he suspected. But he continued without discovering what was happening in the picture of Barbara’s grandmother, Mamie Margaux—so pretty, so young, so distinguished—that was hanging in the controversial exhibit. Judging by the internet comments, there was an ongoing debate about the insult of platforming Nazism sixty years after the occupation of Paris. “An Inappropriate Exhibit” was the softest term used on social media. Along with the rest of the paralyzed city, the BHVP was shut. In fact, all the libraries, museums, and public amenities had their blinds closed. No one was able to open them, just as no one was able to visit. Everyone was at home, and until when, nobody knew.
They agreed on the menu for lunch. Roger put on his apron and made a big plate of potatoes and vegetables for the two of them. They didn’t feel like eating anything else. They finished the bottle of Beaujolais they’d opened the day before, cracked some nuts, and, once finished, returned to their own worlds. Throughout the day, neither mentioned Roger’s father or Marcel. Barbara, who was anxious to know how the story continued, knew to wait until the night. Seated on the red sofa, each on opposite ends, with a nail-shaped moon spying through the window, she dared begin the conversation once the tea had cooled.
“We left off yesterday with your father at an interesting moment. He was winning money, a lot of money, at the poker table.”
Roger was expecting it. The low light of the living room—only the reading light was on—invited trust. He undid a button on his shirt and ran a hand along his shoulder, searching for a thread of concentration.
He took a sip of green tea and began. “Practically without realizing it, Pep Narbona had entered into a dangerous spiral. My father waited for Thursdays to come so he could go to Peralada and play a game of poker. He’d spend some time at the roulette table, lose some money he’d never see again, and sitting on the high stool in the first row, he waited for the game to be announced. Someone would come look for him, he’d follow them discreetly into the back room, and once he passed through the door with the privacy sign, his Fontclara friends lost sight of him. Some days, the poker game lasted so long that they didn’t even wait for him before heading home. My father knew to call a taxi to take him back if he finished a game and couldn’t find his friends when the casino closed.
“One day, the taxi braked in front of the house when the roosters were crowing. My father asked the driver to park out on the stone path outside the doorway and wait for a moment. He didn’t have a penny on him. The casino had emptied his pockets. He entered the house, opened my mother’s bag, and took two bills out of her wallet, the price of the ride. My mother, who noticed everything, realized someone had gone through her things. At the very least, it wasn’t the way she had left them. If she hadn’t found the two bills missing, she wouldn’t have said anything, but because money had disappeared without anyone letting her know, she tried to find out what had happened. She waited until lunchtime, and before we could finish the first course, she accused Marcel and me of having stolen one hundred euros in the form of two fifty-euro bills. It was either one of us, or both. She didn’t suspect anyone else. Seated at the head of the table, my father continued eating his pasta soup and stayed quiet as a mouse. After, without getting flustered one bit by the incident and as tired as he was, he crossed his arms over the table and took a nap. We could yell, we could clink the dishes as loud as possible in the sink, we could raise the television volume, because once he ate, he slept like a log, his head on his arms. That day, not even the episode of Mother’s missing money made him lose sleep.
“We don’t know how long those poker games lasted. Years, probably. Marcel has slowly traced our father’s running accounts and investments. In the last years, more money left than came in. Every month, he dipped into the well, and each time he got closer to running dry. When he ran out of personal savings, he dug into the company money. Narbona Fruits, the best in Girona, was a good business. They’d been lucky because of the apples, and they were even luckier because they hadn’t had a bad year. But when Marcel asked for the books once my father was dead, he looked back and saw some strange settlements. Unexplainable movements. Consignments where they didn’t belong. Just all-around disorder. Pep himself had set up a scheme so no one could tell he was playing card games to settle his debts.
“For you to understand what I’m about to tell you, Barbara, there’s one thing you have to know. Before tourism discovered the Costa Brava and they built oceanfront apartments, Narbona Fruits had a nice tradition. Once the taxes were paid, the company directed part of its profits to buying a waterfront apartment on the beach of Pals. Every year, a new one. Instead of spreading dividends, they’d buy apartments to rent to tourists. In one building, my father’s company ended up with all the ground-floor apartments and all the penthouses with the best views. Eight in total. But they were lost just as they’d come in, one by one. To everyone’s surprise, the penthouses were sold first to make money he could keep on burning. But when it came to the ground-floor apartments, he gambled those in card games. And he lost them. And when there were no apartments left, he also bet a machine he used in the fields. And after, some piece of my mother’s jewelry, one of those jewels from back in the day, art deco, with big stones you would have loved to see—because the more rural the farmer, the bigger the diamond. A way to demonstrate they weren’t less than anyone—the real rural spirit.
“My father lost all of it. When it wasn’t the fault of three jacks, it was because the four aces he wanted never turned up. He was convinced that everything the cards took, the cards would return to him. He just needed a stroke of luck. A winning streak. He thought fortune was like this: it could favor you just as suddenly as it could turn its back on you. He believed in chance. Wholeheartedly. But he was so blinded he didn’t realize this was another thing altogether. They were fooling him, game after game, Thursday after Thursday. And even though his friends from town warned him and said, ‘Pep, don’t you think you’re crossing the line?’ ‘Pep, maybe you should slow down.’ ‘Pep, this is snowballing. Don’t you think you’re getting into dangerous waters?’ there he was, hard-headed, more stubborn than a mule.
“Around that time, I started to work as a photographer. That’s one way of putting it. I had moved to Pals, to the town center, to work as an assistant at a longstanding store where they developed film and primarily took driver’s license photos on the spot. When from time to time someone entered the establishment, which was run by a woman who was drier than day-old bread, the ritual always went the same way. ‘Sit on the stool, button up, look in the camera ...’ You shoot, and they leave with four copies of a close-up. Using the paper cutter, I separated the images, cutting along the white mark like when you trim your nails. I slipped the pictures into a sleeve with the store’s name, and they’d go to the commissioner’s office in Palafrugell to get their passport and go on a trip.
“One afternoon, around when it was time to close up shop, a man entered asking if we shot wedding photos. I didn’t know the response, but I didn’t say no. He explained that his niece was getting married, and he was paying for her wedding photos as a gift. He wanted a whole album, with pictures at the bride’s house while she got ready, the godfather delivering the bouquet, the arrival of the car at the chapel of S’Agaró, the whole ceremony in full detail, the rice throwing, and after, the guests in the gardens of la Gavina, a hotel where the richest of the rich got married. I spoke to the store owner. She asked if I was brave enough to take it on, and I said of course. I ended up earning good money. Because one thing leads to another, ten days after delivering the album to his niece, the uncle returned to the store. Before thanking me for the project, he told me he was some head honcho at the Diari de Girona . It must have been an important position, because I didn’t end up understanding him. He was the type to give you a business card with his name at the first hello to impress you, like they are someone worth knowing. But he did tell me he had come back to make me a proposal. His newspaper needed a photography correspondent in Lower Empordà. The previous one had left, and they wanted someone who was a short motorcycle drive away from taking a picture and doing all sorts of things. Someone who could photograph the lineup of the Palamós CF team or cover the fire in Montgrí and, five minutes later, be in Bisbal because the minister of health was inaugurating a primary-care center. I didn’t have to think about it too long. I said yes to the head honcho. All of a sudden, I liked that bride’s uncle a lot more. No one had ever entrusted me with anything. I left the little shop in Pals, where, honestly, I spent more time yawning than photographing. But working for the newspaper for two years had me on the brink of ruin. They reimbursed me for my transport and the motorcycle gas separately. To make anything close to a living wage, I needed them to send me on several small assignments every day, in a county where, nine months out of the year, nothing much happens. There was very little news. Even less news of interest. Local photojournalism is like that. For every somewhat brilliant photograph, you shoot loads of shit at a million never-ending events. You don’t know how much mayors love appearing in the newspaper with their name in the caption. The smaller the town, the more columns they dream of appearing in. I can imagine the same thing happens here in France, but back home, the sheer number of speeches, municipal plenary sessions, inaugurations, and commemorations paralyzes the country. They don’t have agendas for many of these events. In short, when I figured out the situation, I tried to turn my job into something more engaging. I sweet-talked the local police officers of all the bigger towns, the ones with at least a thousand inhabitants, into telling me first if anything noteworthy, anything outside the norm, happened.
“One afternoon, the newspaper sent me to the castle of Púbol because they were exhibiting a Salvador Dalí painting at the painter’s museum and home. They’d purchased it, or recovered it, or whatever it was. The situation was that I was photographing the authorities in front of the oneiric scene, self-satisfied for having managed to bring the painting back home, and I noticed my cell phone vibrating in my back pocket. I didn’t even silence the call. I let it vibrate while I met all those people who were so happy to be seen. The phone stopped ringing, and then after a bit, it started up again. When I had a chance, I stepped away from the group, and I got on the phone. The Gualta police advised me to head to the Ter River estuary, that I’d find content for the newspaper. If I hurried, I’d be the first one there. Where exactly? I didn’t have to go as far as the beaches. I just had to follow the last stretch of the river. At the dike, he told me. You’ll find it. He didn’t give me any more clues. I’d never gone so fast on my motorcycle. I passed cars in a continuous line. I was aerodynamic. A Valentino Rossi of sorts. I felt important, like a journalist, for the first time. Starting at the Gualta cross, I guessed the rest of the way. At the plain, with the river always on my left side, I could already see the police car with the blue lights. I had it. I got off my motorcycle, took off my helmet, and prepared my camera. I let it hang over my jacket, and confidently, I went for my Pulitzer.
“‘What’s going on there?’ I asked.
“‘Exitus letalis.’
“I didn’t understand.
“‘A cadaver,’ he clarified.
“The police officer who had called me pretended he didn’t know me. The body was turned over, head in the water, feet floating. From where I stood, I couldn’t see the body very well. The scene was hidden by reeds. To take the picture, I would have to walk into the marsh.
“‘We can’t touch him until the judge arrives,’ the youngest officer said.
“‘But maybe he’s not dead,’ I said.
“‘Why do you think—’
“‘How do you know? How can you be so sure?’
“I’d made them hesitate. I saw how they looked at each other, and without saying anything further, I guessed what they were about to do. Both officers walked with their boots into the water. They had decided to let the head surface. I was prepared. As soon as they turned him over, I would photograph nonstop. I put the viewfinder to my eye and my finger on the shutter. It was hard for them to carry the man’s body, and it was as heavy as a ... One, two, three. They coordinated their movements and turned him, and I began photographing. It was my father. His face had been disfigured by blows. There was blood everywhere. They immediately let him fall back into the water.
“‘You convinced enough, man?’ my police friend asked, drying his hands on his thighs.
“‘Killed dead. That’s a murder,’ said the other one.
“‘Are you okay? You’ve gone pale.’
“I sat on the ground with my face in my hands. I don’t remember anything else. Only the horror of seeing my father, of seeing him in that way, and of having photographed him as if he were a piece of meat for the news. My father. I had said good night to him before bed, and the next time I saw him ...
“‘What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a dead man before?’
“‘They really roughed this guy up.’
“With my head between my knees, I was crying so hard that I had no air left.
“‘It’s no big deal. What’d you know him, or something?’
“I shook my head between sobs. Desperate. It was three days later—after the burial, the funeral orations, and the last ‘Our Father’—that Marcel began to put things together. With time, patience, and perseverance and by speaking with everyone, he chased the truth. Our father hadn’t known how to stop. Caught up in the game, his debts had hanged him. In the end, his Fontclara friends were right. ‘Pep, this is snowballing.’ My father had paid the price of not returning everything he’d owed. He’d lost it all, and he still owed a ton. And someone wanted to call in his debts. Who did it? Marcel hopes one day it’ll all come to light. Poor innocent man.”
“And what about you? What’d you do to your film?” Barbara asked, putting her hand on top of his.
“I blurred it. Immediately. When I got home that same afternoon, I grabbed my camera and opened it so everything would go black. I didn’t have the gall to develop it. I didn’t want to see my father’s face destroyed again. I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish I hadn’t gone. They would have killed him either way, but the memory would be completely different. He’d had a problem, and we didn’t know how to help him.”
“Oh my god, Roger.” Barbara took her hand off of his, slid closer to him, and put her hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “You have no idea how sorry I am to know this whole story.”
A new touch. Trust. All of a sudden, closeness.
“Throughout the years, you think about a lot of things. A lot. Addiction is one thing, an obsessive disorder. It’s another thing for your father to be murdered.”
“And for them to tell you to just let it go.”
“Narbona Fruits.” He smiled resignedly. “The best in Girona. And the rotten apple at home. And we didn’t know how to see it. You know what the saddest part is? You ask yourself at what point your father went from being a hero to an obituary in an announcements page of a local newspaper.”
“Don’t get angry at yourself.”
“It’s easy to say, but ...”
“The scars, huh?”
“They’re always there.”
“They stop hurting eventually, but they always sting to remind us of who we are.”