Revenge in Barcelona

by Kathryn Lane

  As the queue moved forward, the Nigerian handed his passport and attached work visa to the border official, who nodded to him in recognition.

  “Buenos días.”

  Taiwo mumbled his greeting and looked away, avoiding direct contact with the official’s eyes. He wanted to prevent being drawn into conversation, as his Spanish skills were not as good as his dead brother’s.

  The official returned the passport and waved him on. His eyes followed the Nigerian for a few seconds, as if the immigration officer found something a bit odd about the polite, soft-spoken man who entered Melilla every morning and left every night to return home.

  “Kehinde,” the official yelled after him.

  A soldier standing near the gate on the Spanish side held his arm out to stop him. “The officer is calling you,” the soldier said, pointing to the border gate the Nigerian had entered moments before.

  Taiwo froze. He turned with trepidation to face the immigration officer.

  “Is your family okay?” the official asked loudly.

  “We’re fine,” Taiwo said as he gave the official a thumbs-up. Then he remembered his brother’s habit of wearing a smile and quickly pasted one on.

  For the second time in less than thirty seconds, the officer waved the Nigerian on as he took the passport from the next person in line and inspected it.

  Once he stepped away from the gate and distanced himself from the soldier who had stopped him, Taiwo wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Moving a safe distance away from other people, he returned the passport to his shirt pocket. He reached into his duffle bag to retrieve his cell phone and spoke four words into it—a code to give notice of his whereabouts. Those people who wanted him in Barcelona had told him they could arrange passage for him and provide false documents that appeared authentic. Taiwo had opted to start with his brother’s Nigerian passport and current work visa. It allowed him not only a temporary convenience but also provided him a way to avenge himself on his brother for marrying the woman Taiwo wanted for himself.

  After his arrival in Spain, his people could produce additional identification documents, a task made both easier and more difficult by technology. It was simple to produce false papers, but if he were caught, authorities could easily check their authenticity. Pleased he had made it to Spanish soil so easily, he walked toward the port, stopping at a corner store to purchase a Coke and two small rolls of bread topped with grilled eggplant and onions. The aroma of the onions made his mouth water, but he was anxious to buy his ticket for the next ferry to the mainland. He waited to eat until he boarded the ferry.

  After the ferry departed, Taiwo relaxed. He looked out over the ocean toward Melilla and watched the steep, rugged mountains appear to shrink as they grew distant.

  Chapter Seven

  Barcelona—Eixample District

  Saturday Very Early Morning

  Eduardo awoke to the terrifying sound of Nikki’s scream. He fumbled around the bedside lamp until he managed to switch on the light. Nikki was sitting on her side of the bed. He sat next to her.

  “A nightmare,” she said.

  Eduardo took her hand. It was cold and clammy. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Murky images, a premonition of something bad, but I don’t know what. A dim place, a sinister figure hiding behind pillars. Evil, I could feel an evil spirit, like someone out to get us.”

  “Not the recurring nightmare?” Eduardo sometimes heard Nikki sobbing after dreams about her son’s death several years ago.”

  “No,” Nikki said. “You and me in a meadow, which became a cave. I walked up worn staircases with large stone pillars on one side. You climbed right behind me. A figure lurched at me, then lunged at you. He had a dagger.”

  “A dagger?”

  “He didn’t have a face. Only a skull,” she said. Then she described it like the one they saw at Bishop’s Bridge, attached to a threatening figure that slithered off into the darkness, hiding behind large pillars in a cavern-like structure. The dream had gone from bright sunlight to a murky hell.

  “It’s been a while since you had a nightmare. Your mind is releasing the stress from that kidnapping case. And the Bishop’s Bridge skull triggered it. Would it be relaxing if I read to you?” Eduardo asked.

  She nodded.

  Eduardo walked back to his side and arranged two pillows against the headboard. Leaning against the goose down, he picked up his tablet and opened an e-book he had been reading on Paleolithic cave art in Spain. But reading about caves would not calm Nikki’s nerves. Instead, he opened an e-version of a guidebook on Barcelona and picked up on an explanation of La Seu Cathedral where they had been the afternoon before.

  “So here we are at La Seu,” he said, reading aloud.

  The tourist should definitely visit the cathedral’s cloister with its small chapels, gardens, fountains, medieval tombstones, and even geese whose chatter you can hear from the church building.

  The thirteen white geese are said to symbolize the age of Eulàlia when she suffered her martyrdom. That may well be true, but the existence of this tradition of goose husbandry is due to a very practical feature of the geese: their deafening noise is a good barrier against unwanted intruders and thieves.

  Eduardo turned to look at Nikki. She had already fallen asleep. He turned his tablet off, rearranged the pillows, and crawled back under the covers.

  A long city block past the Majestic Hotel, Nikki shrieked in delight.

  “It’s more incredible than I remember.” She hugged Eduardo, took a step away, and looked up at him. Her face glowed at the thought of being a bride. “This is so exciting. Let’s climb to the roof and see the place where we met as kids. It was here you promised me a castle. Remember?”

  Hand in hand, they walked across the street to the front of Casa Milà. The main entrance sat on the iconic diagonal slice of the building. As they approached the famous door, they found the building still closed and noticed a sign indicating the offices opened at ten a.m., typical Spanish time.

  They strolled to Carmen’s condominium on Carrer de Provença, a cross street to Passeig de Gràcia, just a block away from Casa Milà. When the elevator door opened on the fifth floor, Nikki whispered in Eduardo’s ear before they stepped into the hallway. “My aunt does not need to know what I do for a living. We’d have to explain too much to her.”

  “I’d never give away our clandestine lives,” Eduardo said, stepping out of the elevator. “Our secrets are safe.”

  Nikki looked at a framed photograph on the wall and studied her reflection in the glass, thinking her freshly colored and styled hair made her attractive again.

  “You look very sexy,” he said. “Grrrr…”

  A petite woman in her early sixties, Carmen Cardoso Azar had graying hair and a smile that conveyed a tranquil, happy soul. She opened the door and gave Nikki a warm embrace, gently pulling her niece into the condo and welcoming them both. Carmen had not seen her niece for almost two decades, though they had stayed in touch by phone and email throughout the years.

  After Nikki introduced Eduardo and Carmen, the three exchanged pleasantries. Then Carmen suggested moving to the outdoor terrace. Flowering plants splashed color all over the space. They were hanging from baskets, falling like canopies over the sides of ceramic planters of diverse shapes and sizes, and growing in flower boxes built into the half wall enclosing the bottom section of the balcony. The terrace took on the aroma and atmosphere of a landscaped gallery.

  Eduardo whistled. “Someone must be a gardener. Up till now, I thought the balcony of my condo in Medellín had a lot of color.” He stood wide-eyed, admiring the variety of blooming plants surrounding him.

  “I’m a frustrated architect,” Carmen said. “I came to Barcelona to study architecture. This city is a masterpiece stamped with the best Modernist and Art Nouveau designs by the patriarchs of Catalan architecture. Their buildings sit like sentinels at every street corner reminding us of the city’s glorious history. What could
I have contributed?”

  “You added flowers,” Eduardo said.

  His words brought an expression of astonishment to Carmen’s face, giving her the look of a mystified child despite her gray hair. “Nikki, did you tell Eduardo about my work in this city?”

  “Not at all. How could I? Both times we visited, I was young and did not understand much about you, other than you’d left Mexico for Spain.”

  Carmen gazed at Eduardo. “In my working days, I designed and supervised the plantings along the main boulevards and the parks of the inner city.”

  “Do I hear a hint of disillusion?” Nikki asked.

  “Not at all. Barcelona stole my heart. I dreamed of staying here instead of returning to Mexico. Then I fell in love with a fellow student and became a wife, mother, and landscape architect when I completed my degree.”

  “Casa Milà is down the street,” Eduardo said, a comment that brought a long explanation about Carmen’s late husband, Luis, who had decided they should live near La Pedrera, the name given to Casa Milà by the locals, due to its resemblance to a stone quarry.

  “It’s the chimneys I have such fond memories of,” Nikki said. “Do you remember when I visited here as a child? My father stood me up on the table so I could see those magical structures.”

  Carmen nodded. “We took you and Paula to admire the whimsical vents and chimneys up close. Paula was just a toddler.”

  “Casa Milà is an experience I’ve never forgotten. See that cluster of white Darth Vaders and the Greek cross?” Nikki pointed.

  “How could I ever forget?” Eduardo asked. “Though what you call white Darth Vaders look more like stormtroopers to me.”

  “It’s definitely out of this world,” Nikki said, smiling at Eduardo. “Tía Carmen took us to visit, and a mischievous boy got me in trouble with my mother.”

  Nikki shared their chance encounter as kids at Casa Milà with Carmen.

  “On our very first meeting, he convinced me to explore the crawlspace. My mother was livid, thinking he was endangering me.”

  “It was obvious I was smitten by you, and maybe she thought I would steal a kiss as we hid in the crawlspace,” Eduardo said, smiling at the memory. “If she’d only known I was too shy.”

  “So you admit you did think of kissing me,” Nikki joked.

  They all laughed.

  Eduardo turned to face Carmen. He told her how he had returned to Casa Milà for the next two days hoping to see this exquisite girl again before returning to Colombia. His family left Spain and the adventure on the terrace had become a fantasy. But over time, he forgot it.

  “That’s very romantic,” Carmen said.

  “Twenty-five years later a remarkable woman arrived in Medellín. I fell in love with Nikki at first sight, which made no sense. You see, I didn’t make the connection with the impish ten-year-old who had stolen my heart.”

  “Destiny,” Carmen said, “works in strange ways. When is the wedding?”

  “We thought we’d visit Casa Milà later to see if we can arrange it as our venue,” Nikki said. “We’ll set the date once we see what’s available. We may have to make another trip to Barcelona if they can’t accommodate us this time.”

  “A rooftop ceremony will cement your childhood memories forever,” Carmen said. She added that Casa Milà scheduled rooftop concerts on summer evenings and suggested they see one. “Speaking of weddings, Paula is also getting married this month.”

  Carmen’s face changed from a joyful expression to one of concern.

  “Reservations about the marriage?” Nikki was surprised.

  Carmen hesitated. “He’s a well-educated young man, born and raised in Spain, but I worry. His parents are very nice, especially his mother. They are Muslim, and I know mixed marriages can create enormous challenges.”

  “All marriages have their challenges. If he’s a good man, that’s what counts,” Nikki said.

  “He seems to be. He’s agreed to marry Paula in a Catholic service at Sagrada Família.”

  “Sagrada Família? Really? My cousin is going to marry in the most famous church in Barcelona?”

  “In a crypt church built in the basement under the high altar of the basilica,” Carmen said. “As longtime parishioners, we are privileged to hold the wedding there. Paula and Fadi will also have a Muslim service.”

  “A month of weddings—I love it,” Eduardo said. He put an arm around Nikki and they both turned to face Carmen. “If we cannot arrange our wedding at Casa Milà, then this balcony, Tía Carmen, is our next choice.”

  Carmen gave him a warm hug. He glanced at Nikki, and she saw his eyes brimming over with love. He reached out to bring her in for the hug too.

  “If you have trouble renting the rooftop,” Carmen said, “Fadi knows people who might help you get it for an evening.”

  “Wonderful,” Nikki said.

  “I’ll see if Paula and Fadi can join us here for dinner tonight. I’ll make paella, Fadi’s favorite dish.”

  Carmen led them into the kitchen, where they sat at tall stools around a bistro table while she made cappuccino.

  From the black leather seat, a modern design in shiny chrome, Nikki looked through a doorway leading off the kitchen into a room with built-in bookcases and a desk piled high with books. A floor lamp was positioned next to a recliner.

  “You must still be an avid reader?” Nikki asked.

  “For sure. I use the recliner in the office, except when Paula is here. Then she takes the desk for her computer.”

  Carmen moved around the kitchen with the efficiency of a barista as she ground coffee and arranged pastissets, small Spanish cookies filled with caramelized fruit paste, on an elegant porcelain plate with gold trim around the edges.

  “You haven’t seen Paula since the second time you visited. She was about four years old then,” Carmen said as she removed cups, saucers, and napkins from a cupboard and spoons from a cabinet drawer.

  “Paula is younger than I am,” Nikki told Eduardo as she watched Carmen’s efficient movements in the kitchen. “She was like a little sister to me during that trip. Tell us about her. Is she still working at the university?”

  A pint-sized milk carton from the refrigerator poured into a small glass container became pure froth seconds later under a nozzle of the espresso machine.

  “She works with the United Nations at the Institute for Globalization, Culture and Mobility. It seems to suit her perfectly,” Carmen said as she poured espresso into each cup and topped it with frothy milk. She sprinkled a little cinnamon on the froth and arranged the coffee, sugar bowl, and the plate of pastissets on a silver tray. She led them back to the balcony, balancing the tray through the open sliding doors and placing it on the table. “Primarily research, but she reaches out to migrant groups in the community as part of her work.”

  “Does Paula work to integrate these migrants into Spanish society?” Nikki asked.

  “Exactly. Though I worry her idealism will collapse under the realities of cultural diversity,” Carmen said. She placed a napkin, a cup of coffee, and a spoon around the table for each of them.

  “Love this cappuccino,” Eduardo said after a second sip. He nibbled on a cookie and added, “the cookies too.”

  Carmen beamed at the compliment.

  Eduardo continued. “Paula’s work sounds interesting and certainly worthwhile.”

  “Many of the migrants she works with are young men in ghettos. It’s satisfying to bring hope to them, she claims.”

  “That’s what counts,” Nikki said.

  “It’s consuming her life. She’s even given up her dancing to work longer hours. She’s studied flamenco since she was six years old, and she’s pretty good.”

  Nikki murmured sympathetically.

  “But I need to call Fadi to arrange a celebration for your visit,” Carmen said, returning to the kitchen. When she rejoined her guests on the balcony, she beamed and announced that Fadi and Paula would join them that evening for her world-famous
paella.

  Chapter Eight

  Almería, Andalucía, Spain

  Saturday Midday

  “This land belongs to the caliphate,” Taiwo whispered to himself when he got his first glimpse of the Almería port and its surroundings as the ferry approached. “We will regain this land in the name of Allah.”

  Taiwo, not usually appreciative of nature, was impressed by the Andalusian town nestled on a cove overlooking the Mediterranean. Before undertaking his trip to Spain, he’d studied a bit of Spanish history, especially places he would pass through. He’d learned that this area had formed part of the Caliphate of Córdoba in the tenth century. The nearby Moorish castle, Alcazaba de Almería, was second in grandeur and importance only to the Alhambra in Granada. Due to the Alcazaba’s strategic location, it saw countless sieges during the Christian–Muslim wars until it fell into Christian hands in 1489 under Ferdinand and Isabella.

  The land of Andalusia, he had read, was as harsh and rugged as the history it had witnessed over three millennia. Going back to its origins, the native Iberians were conquered by many peoples—Greeks, Romans, Visigoths, Byzantines, and Moorish Muslims to name a few—all of whom left an imprint of their customs and traditions imbedded in the local culture. Later the Muslim conquerors fought against the Iberian Christians for almost eight millennia, the longest war in history. Eventually the Christians, he knew, had reclaimed the territory. The Reconquista, as the war was named, finally concluded in 1492 in Granada. The Christian victory coincided with Spain’s expansion into the New World.

  As a harbor pilot escorted the ferry into port, Taiwo pulled both his cell phone and the stolen passport from his pocket.

  “The ferry is almost in port.” He listened to instructions before hanging up. As he moved to the front of the ferry he picked up his duffle bag and looked over the seaport with disgust at the pleasure boats in the harbor. Those boats are owned by infidels.