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a bad mood, and when I say dwarf, I mean it in a friendly way, Pepiño, because I like Biscuter. But what you said just then really hurt, Pepe.’
    ‘What was that, Bromide?’
    ‘When you said that my ways were different to yours.’
    ‘I wasn’t meaning to put you down.’
    ‘I know, Pepe. You’re not talking with some little old lady, you know. You’re talking with a gentleman legionnaire and a veteran of the Russian campaign. And that’s the whole problem. I can still talk to
you
about the Russian campaign, even though you are a commie — or
used
to be a commie — because at least you remember how things were. But I don’t know what’s happening to the world, Pepiño. People have lost the ability to remember, and it’s as if they don’t want to be reminded of things. As if there’s nopoint in remembering. No point? If you take away my memories, what’s left of me? As far as I’m concerned, this is all a conspiracy of those bloody stupid socialists. They want everyone to think that everything started with them. But they’re just like all the rest. I don’t recognize anything any more. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, and I feel very strongly about this … Pepiño, we’re surrounded.’
    ‘If you say so …’
    ‘I don’t know … I guess I’ve been talking to myself. I didn’t dare talk openly when you saw me earlier, because walls have ears. I don’t even feel at home in the places where I used to feel at home. In the old days, Pepe, I used to know every criminal in this city, every one of them. They were like my family. They were in and out of prison, and they stole whatever they could lay their hands on, and Bromide was like their memory. Up in my head I’ve got all the shit that’s ever happened in this city. But it hurts, Pepe, it hurts, what’s going on now. They’ve colonized us.’
    ‘I presume you’re referring to American imperialism.’
    ‘The hell I am. I’m referring to the new class of criminals. There’s not a single Spaniard among them. It’s all split between the blacks, the Arabs and the Asians, and our own Spanish criminals have to go and work for them, and God help anyone who tries to set up for himself. Do you remember “Golden Hammer”, the pimp I introduced you to one time? Well, two months ago they found him dead as a doornail on a demolition site. He thought he was going to be in the game for life, but he wasn’t watching what was going on around him. And don’t go thinking that the blacks and Arabs you find round Barcelona are the kind who’ve come off the farms. Not a bit of it. They’re ready-made mafiosos, with good connections with the police. The other day I was talking to an old soldier who comes from the same village as me. Valverde is his name, José Valverde Cifuentes. Well, he told me: “What can we do, Bromide? The bloody blacks and the Arabs all look the same. Supposing one of them mugs you, what are you going todo at the ID parade? You could identify someone who came from Calahorra, or Marbella, or Stockholm, but they stick ten blacks in front of you, or ten Arabs, and you can’t tell one from the other. And if you do happen to point one out, it’ll be curtains for you. The police prefer to turn a blind eye, because what happens if they arrest them? The case finally comes to court, and they know that it’s going to cost them more to put them on an aeroplane out of the country, or keep them in prison, than it will to leave them on the streets, so they pretend they don’t know what’s going on. Or they do a deal with the gang bosses: don’t stir it up for us, and we won’t stir it up for you. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. You know what I mean, Pepe? If a Spanish bank robber does a job — say El Macareno, or El Nen, or La Mapi — then the cops just go round and pick them up, because they know exactly where to find them. But nobody’s going to touch one of the immigrants. And that’s where my problem