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the government puts in the water.’
    Bromide looked round to make sure nobody was listening.
    ‘Why do you think Franco lasted so long? Because we were all confused. Our heads were in a mess, and it was all because of the bromide they were putting in our water. And in the bread.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t like bread or water.’
    ‘Well in the coffee, then. Anyway, what’s coffee made from, wine? The water in your coffee—that’s where the bromide gets you! I’m telling you, Pepiño, if I had any power in politics—which I haven’t—I would make it my business to denounce the scandal of how they were using the bromides under Franco. I thought we were supposed to be living in changing times? Can you imagine a greater abuse of human rights than forcing a whole population to take bromides?’
    With his brush in one hand and his rhetoric in the other, even when he was down on his knees polishing people’s shoes Bromide’s gestures and features took on a certain senatorial dignity.
    ‘I’m going to put you up for the next elections. We’ll collect signatures in the barrio , and you’ll be Senator for the Ramblas.’
    ‘And I’ll represent the whores, and the tramps, and the private detectives.’
    ‘Be careful you don’t overdo the bromide business, though. They might take you for a Green.’
    ‘What’s a Green?’
    ‘They’re the people who protest about pollution. . . air pollution, river pollution, that sort of thing.’
    ‘That’s peanuts compared with this bromide business. Why should I worry about whether or not there’s trout in the rivers? How many trout have you eaten in your life, Pepe? Come on, how many?’
    ‘Twenty or so.’
    ‘Jesus—and you kick up all this fuss for twenty trout!’
    ‘Bromide, the last thing I need is an argument with you about ecology. Forget it. Let’s get back to the corpse, eh?’
    ‘I know, I know. . . mind your own business. . . That’s always the way it is with you “gentlemen”. The minute someone steps on your territory, it’s “Hey, you, Bromide, get back where you belong.” And that way people end up staying silent all their lives, even though they have things to say. As I live and breathe, I wrote a letter to General Munoz Grande, because people said he was an honest man, and he was my commanding general during the Russian campaign. I told him—man to man, old soldier to old soldier—everything I knew about the bromides. Well, you didn’t want to know, and neither did he.’
    A thousand-peseta note emerged from Carvalho’s pocket. Bromide caught it without interrupting the violin-bow action of his brush, and he gave it a look that said he would find it a safe resting place.
    ‘Don’t worry—your word is my command..
    When the final flourishes were over, Carvalho stretched his legs, admired his shoes, and descended from the throne. He deposited fifty pesetas in the shoe shine’s hand, and made his way past the darkened billiard tables. A light hood hung over the table in the corner, where the balls were conscious of their colour as they rolled—sumptuously faded whites and menacing reds. An ageing hustler was chalking his cue with ritual solemnity as his frog-like eyes lined up the next shot. He had a billiard-player’s pot belly. The sort of pot belly that has to be hoisted up before every shot so as to get it over the edge of the table. The player took a measured walk round the table while his opponent sipped a glass of pastis without taking his eyes off the green baize. There’s no way of telling whether the light is coming down from the conical metallic lampshade onto the green baize, or vice-versa. What is certain is that this little theatre is created by the darkness, and the fat billiard player drives a ball, follows its crisp course, and as he watches it collide and click against the others he raises his hand in the hope of preventing some unforeseen deflection of the ball and in order to reach for the magic cube of blue chalk