The Angst-Ridden Executive Read Online Free PDF Page B

employment!’
    From that day to this Biscuter had not left the little Ramblas world that Carvalho inhabited. Occasionally he came in useful for detective work, looking as he did like a down-and-out.
    ‘I’ll keep your coffee hot, boss. Brrrm, brrrm!’
    Biscuter had the curious habit of accompanying his activities with the noise of a 750cc motorbike. His speciality had been stealing big cars and reselling them in Andorra, but the only thing that Biscuter now retained of his former glories was the language. When he was happy, his lips made a sound like a car exhaust at full throttle, and when he wanted to indicate that all was not well, the ‘brrrm brrrm’ turned into a disconsolate ‘pifff. . . pifff. . . pifff’.
    ‘Give me three quarters of a cup, and then take a look to see if Bromide’s about.’
    ‘Straight away, boss! Brrrm, brrrm!’
    Biscuter knew just how hot to make the coffee to suit Carvalho’s delicate palate. His boss didn’t like it over-hot. Carvalho drank the coffee slowly as he tried to get San Francisco on the phone. It appeared that Dieter Rhomberg was out of town, but he had an appointment for a business dinner at the Fairmont that night. The picture of the revolving restaurant on the top floor of the Fairmont, with its Scandinavian buffet and its waitresses who dressed like a cross between valkyries and the girl-next-door in a rather dated musical, unfolded before him. He saw himself going up in the external lift, which looked out over the city, and which slowly unfolded its mysteries—a city seated on pine clad hills, a city whose downward slopes rushed headlong into the bay below.
    ‘Rhomberg is a lovely man, as long as you don’t get put off by his intellectual manner.’ So had said the ‘lady from Valladolid’. ‘He was very fond of Antonio. He’ll be able to help you.’
    ‘Bromide’s gone to the doctor’s, boss. He left a note saying he won’t be back before one.’
    ‘What’s the matter with him?’
    ‘I don’t know. He’s gone for a urine analysis.’
    ‘He must be trying to find out about the bromides that he claims the government’s putting in everything we eat and drink so as to keep us all off sex.’
    ‘He could have a point there, boss. I haven’t had a decent hard-on for months.’
    Carvalho picked up the phone again:
    ‘Is that the Urquijo Bank? Can I have the research department. . . ? Colonel Parra, please. . . Sorry, I mean Pedro Parra. . .’
    At university Pedro Parra had been known as ‘Colonel’ Parra. He’d been obsessed with the idea of setting up an anti-fascist resistance movement in the mountains, and he used to go training every Sunday, in the hills. He never missed a chance to do a round of press-ups to show off his physique. He would arrange secret assignations in the mountains near the city, always at places which were a sweat to get to, with half your breath spent cursing him and the other half spent trying to get your breath back. There was not much of that Parra left now. These days he worked as an economic researcher for the Urquijo Bank, and the only hint of the call of the mountains was the triangle of suntan—the mark of the inveterate skier which his unbuttoned shirt revealed.
    ‘Pepiño—you still in the land of the living?’
    ‘I need your help, Pedro.’
    ‘Same old Pepiño—straight to the point. What’s up?’
    ‘I need you to prepare me a report on a multinational. Petnay, in fact. Their operations worldwide, and particularly in Spain. I want what’s public knowledge, and what’s not.’
    ‘Read any book about the fall of Allende and you’ll know all you need to know about Petnay. At least as regards the international side of things. For Spain, I should be able to help. We have people here who specialize in multinationals. What’s it all about? You getting back into politics?’
    ‘No way!’
    ‘Maybe we can take this chance for a bit of time together? How about a trip to the mountains, for old time’s