were not worth all the hassle we would have to face if we put them on the market. We had lost a battle. We had lost battles before, just never to the powers that be. We would win others. Against the powerful, too. This was my reasoning, but I was kidding myself. Deep down I was cursing myself for having given in so quickly, and at the same time pleased because I could see my decision as the first step towards quitting one aspect of my job.
I had been thinking about it for quite a while, ever since my daughter had begun to talk. These days I felt something like shame at lying in wait to trap people at their most vulnerable. I’d already thought about stopping in order to concentrate on my portraits and perhapsdo some photojournalism. The money wouldn’t be the same, but did we really need more money, my little family and I? I had a nice portfolio of securities. If I sold my share in the firm, and if I found a good financial adviser, I would barely have to lift a finger for the rest of my life. Deep down, wouldn’t I like my daughter, in a few years’ time, to be able to look at me with pride and be able to talk about her father’s job without embarrassment? I felt rather relieved. I wasn’t exactly going to make a definitive decision that night in the cell, but I took a step or two in the right direction. People are fools. They think they can make decisions, but then discover that fate has shuffled the cards again.
But I managed to fall asleep, which is always a small miracle for me. I knew that things were up and running. I understood Spain well enough to know that it was a rich, civilised and modern country, but the Spanish still laboured under traditions and bureaucracy and everything took its time, so if I was given a telephone tomorrow I could just look at the next day as a day off.
And that’s what I did.
A new, younger warder appeared the next morning. He brought coffee and milk, bread and butter and the morning papers plus a radio. And not least a mobile phone which was fully charged and worked. This meant that the cell couldn’t have been completely insulated, unless it had been secured with an electronic filter which, in this day and age, they had been able to remove during the night. Because now I thought I could hear sounds: tapping, buzzing, clattering, a voice. It was as if I was no longer completely cut off from the world. Or perhaps it was a special telephone. It wasn’t mine, at any rate. It had a ringing tone, but neither a menu nor a memory like my phone, which also showed who had called and the name of the phone company. It was a Straightforward, modern device from which you could ring out, but couldn’t pass on the number. It occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’ta mobile phone at all, but a cordless, so that somewhere a pair of large, state ears were listening in. The new warder said that it was against all the rules, but that he had been instructed to let me have it for 15 minutes, then he would come and fetch it again.
I immediately rang Amelia. She picked up the telephone on the first ring and started crying when she heard my voice, but I calmed her down. I don’t think she had slept a wink. She was generally a calm and robust Spanish woman who was not easily unsettled, and she stopped crying so we could talk. I assumed the line was tapped, but they were welcome to hear me saying how much I missed and loved her and how much I looked forward to seeing her and Maria Luisa again. I was fine and would be home within 24 hours. I had a lump in my throat, but spoke in a calm voice and called her only Amelia and not Sugar, our little pet name for each other. She was the daughter of an intelligence officer, so she knew not to grill me. I explained the situation and the deal that had been made.
“The Danish woman has asked after you,” she said at one point.
“Who?”
“I can’t remember her name.”
“Oh, her,” I said.
“She asked about … yes. You know.”
“I’ve got other
I had been thinking about it for quite a while, ever since my daughter had begun to talk. These days I felt something like shame at lying in wait to trap people at their most vulnerable. I’d already thought about stopping in order to concentrate on my portraits and perhapsdo some photojournalism. The money wouldn’t be the same, but did we really need more money, my little family and I? I had a nice portfolio of securities. If I sold my share in the firm, and if I found a good financial adviser, I would barely have to lift a finger for the rest of my life. Deep down, wouldn’t I like my daughter, in a few years’ time, to be able to look at me with pride and be able to talk about her father’s job without embarrassment? I felt rather relieved. I wasn’t exactly going to make a definitive decision that night in the cell, but I took a step or two in the right direction. People are fools. They think they can make decisions, but then discover that fate has shuffled the cards again.
But I managed to fall asleep, which is always a small miracle for me. I knew that things were up and running. I understood Spain well enough to know that it was a rich, civilised and modern country, but the Spanish still laboured under traditions and bureaucracy and everything took its time, so if I was given a telephone tomorrow I could just look at the next day as a day off.
And that’s what I did.
A new, younger warder appeared the next morning. He brought coffee and milk, bread and butter and the morning papers plus a radio. And not least a mobile phone which was fully charged and worked. This meant that the cell couldn’t have been completely insulated, unless it had been secured with an electronic filter which, in this day and age, they had been able to remove during the night. Because now I thought I could hear sounds: tapping, buzzing, clattering, a voice. It was as if I was no longer completely cut off from the world. Or perhaps it was a special telephone. It wasn’t mine, at any rate. It had a ringing tone, but neither a menu nor a memory like my phone, which also showed who had called and the name of the phone company. It was a Straightforward, modern device from which you could ring out, but couldn’t pass on the number. It occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’ta mobile phone at all, but a cordless, so that somewhere a pair of large, state ears were listening in. The new warder said that it was against all the rules, but that he had been instructed to let me have it for 15 minutes, then he would come and fetch it again.
I immediately rang Amelia. She picked up the telephone on the first ring and started crying when she heard my voice, but I calmed her down. I don’t think she had slept a wink. She was generally a calm and robust Spanish woman who was not easily unsettled, and she stopped crying so we could talk. I assumed the line was tapped, but they were welcome to hear me saying how much I missed and loved her and how much I looked forward to seeing her and Maria Luisa again. I was fine and would be home within 24 hours. I had a lump in my throat, but spoke in a calm voice and called her only Amelia and not Sugar, our little pet name for each other. She was the daughter of an intelligence officer, so she knew not to grill me. I explained the situation and the deal that had been made.
“The Danish woman has asked after you,” she said at one point.
“Who?”
“I can’t remember her name.”
“Oh, her,” I said.
“She asked about … yes. You know.”
“I’ve got other
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