The Faint-hearted Bolshevik Read Online Free Page A

lied.
    “It’s just routine. The computer has selected you as part of the Wealth Tax inspection. I’d like to know when you could have the paperwork ready to make a formal declaration.”
    “The paperwork … ”
    “For the last five years. All the paperwork relating to your tax returns.”
    “Oh, well, of course.”
    “And your answer?”
    “Well … I need a couple of days to get the paperwork in order.”
    “Absolutely, and you are self employed, if my notes are not mistaken?”
    “Yes. I’m a freelance architect.”
    “Exactly. And you use self-assessment.”
    “Yes, I think so. Yes.”
    Having discovered through sheer luck that Armando López-Díaz was a professional, it was easy as pie to figure out he had chosen the option that would allow him to deduct certain expenses, a taxi here, a telephone bill there, a rental car, claiming them as professional expenses. Until a tax inspector came along and forced him to get his act together. And there was another small disadvantage: he had to keep accounts.
    “You’ll also need to have all your accounts up-to-date.”
    “Of course, yes.”
    I was having the time of my life making Armando sweat. But I’m the impatient sort, and that wasn’t what I really wanted to do.
    “There’s one more thing, Don Armando.”
    “Yes?” he asked, so faintly I could barely hear him.
    “You have a daughter. Sonsoles López-Díaz García-Navarro.”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “I believe she lives with you?”
    “She’s not here at the moment. I don’t understand what … ”
    “And she’s single.”
    “But what does that matter to the tax office?”
    “Your daughter doesn’t work, is that correct?”
    “Yes, she does.”
    I let a couple of seconds of silence pass so that Don Armando would get anxious and be even less on the ball.
    “That can’t be the case, Don Armando. She doesn’t have any income declared under her personal tax number. Is it possible she’s being paid under the table?”
    “Under the table? What are you saying? My daughter works for the Ministry of Industry. She’s a Commercial Accountant for the Government.” I could clearly hear the damn capital letters civil servants and the parents of civil servants always use.
    “At the Ministry of Industry? That can’t be true. In Madrid?”
    “At the Ministry itself. Listen, what the hell is going on?”
    “There’s clearly something wrong. Please forgive me, Señor López-Díaz. We’re going to have to verify all your daughter’s information.”
    Armando’s brain was creaking. It happens with most pompous asses. Their mind moves about as fast as a pregnant tortoise.
    “I was under the impression that it was me you were after?” he tried to get himself together.
    “And your daughter too. You’ve both been selected. There’re no further complications as far as you’re concerned because we do have your tax returns. You show me the supporting paperwork and your books, we compare them, and we stop bugging you. If everything’s in order in half an hour we’ll sign the form saying we’ve checked them and they match. As far as your daughter is concerned, according to the computer she hasn’t paid any taxes. No tax returns, no deductions from her salary.”
    “That can’t be true.”
    “If she works at the Ministry it’s very strange that her income isn’t showing up on the system. You wouldn’t be covering up for her, would you?”
    “For Heaven’s sake. Why would I lie to you? If there’s a mistake on the computer system you’ll have to correct it.”
    “Fine. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Tell your daughter to call this number at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. She’ll need to give her name and say that she was selected on this month’s list. Take note of the number.”
    I gave him the number for the Association of Marxist Lesbians and repeated it for him. Armando wrote it down, then assured me yet again in a barely audible voice like a little boy who never sticks his tongue out