Revenge in Barcelona

by Kathryn Lane

  Once he cleared the checkpoint, he headed for the café on the waterfront where he had been instructed to wait. Hungry again, he ordered a red fish stew and a double espresso. Heavy on garlic and cumin, the stew contained more potato than fish. He dunked the crusty bread that came with his meal into the stew to soften it. He finished eating, wiped his mouth, pushed his bowl away, and replaced it with his coffee cup. As he stirred the heavy espresso, a thin man of about thirty years of age with curly, shoulder-length black hair entered the café. The young man scanned the tables and then strode toward Taiwo.

  Taiwo held his espresso cup with both hands and passed it under his nose as if to overcome his garlicky breath with the aroma of coffee. He continued watching the young man. He half smiled as he took a sip.

  “As-salamu alaikum,” the man said, his right hand over his heart as he approached the table.

  “Wa alaikumu as-salaam,” Taiwo responded spreading his hand over his heart. Still contemplating the man, Taiwo gestured with his head for the young man to join him at the table.

  The man’s sullen eyes beneath bushy, black eyebrows accented his thin face. Those eyes bored into Taiwo’s in a piercing manner.

  “I’m Hassan. I’m to take you to the next location. Insha Allah—God willing, I’ll help you with the assignment.”

  Together they walked to the train station. Hassan purchased one-way tickets to Valencia, where they would spend the night at a mosque near the center of town. Further instructions would be given once they reported in at the mosque.

  On the train, after a few formalities, Taiwo tried to converse with his companion, but soon discovered Hassan was not interested in talking.

  After that, Taiwo pretty much ignored Hassan. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine with me, he thought. It’s just a job. Besides, Taiwo would keep his information secret, like his stolen passport. He turned to view the landscape as the train clacked away.

  Despite the strong espresso he had consumed, Taiwo felt sleepy. Usually a good sleeper, he’d been on vigil to confront Kenny and obtain his passport the night before. Now he felt the effects of sleep deficit. The landscape reminded him of the West African desert. Even the dry, hot climate seemed reminiscent of his homeland. The passing olive groves and the occasional highly irrigated vegetable farms and greenhouses that dotted the hills soon hypnotized him. After what seemed like an interminable period, he checked the time on his phone. Realizing they still had four more hours of train ride, he propped his duffle bag against the window and the back of the seat and leaned his head against it. Closing his eyes, he thought how good it would be to dream about Olani’s face when she found Kehinde. My brother never considered I’d get even with him for marrying her.

  Chapter Nine

  Barcelona—Carrer de Provença

  Saturday Evening

  A fresh flower arrangement of crimson stargazer lilies and white hydrangeas set a festive tone at the dining room table. Yet no one sat at the table. Nikki, Eduardo, and Fadi were outside on the balcony, where Carmen labored over the portable grill. She stood half hidden from sight behind two clay pots hanging from the rafters.

  “There’s nothing worse than overcooked, soggy rice,” Carmen declared, lowering the heat on the portable barbecue and emerging from behind the greenery.

  “You’ve never served soggy paella,” Fadi countered.

  Carmen smiled and nodded. “But it could be tonight.”

  Paula had called to say she would be late. Fadi, Nikki, and Eduardo indulged their palates with big, fat olives Carmen had filled with roasted Marcona almonds, plus fresh boquerones—white anchovies—she had prepared in a traditional Spanish pickled style with vinegar and spices before patting them dry to place on toast tips. As soon as Carmen brought a dish of steamed clams from the kitchen, they helped themselves to the buttery shellfish.

  “Clams are my favorite tapa,” Carmen said. She discarded an empty shell in a bowl she’d placed for that purpose.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Paula said as she swept onto the balcony. “I had to finish a report. Plus, I had to pick up the baklava I keep in my freezer for spontaneous occasions like this.”

  “Stop apologizing and greet your relatives,” Carmen said.

  Introductions, hugs, and cheek kisses made the rounds. For a while, Nikki and Paula stood by the table on the balcony and engaged in conversation. First, they exchanged small talk on the number of years since they had seen each other. Shortly the conversation became more intimate, discussing the upcoming weddings.

  “Looks like you’ve had prenuptial tests,” Eduardo said, pointing to a self-adhesive elastic wrap around Fadi’s elbow.

  “No. It’s a genetic test I had done to placate my dad. He has Parkinson’s and wants to make certain I did not inherit the genes from him. Not that I would necessarily get Parkinson’s even if I did inherit the markers.”

  Eduardo expressed sympathy for the father’s health condition, and the conversation turned to soccer—specifically the Barcelona team. Soon the two men were talking as if they had been lifelong friends.

  Carmen interrupted by asking her guests to take a seat at the table in the dining room. She moved indoors holding the hot paella pan with heavy kitchen gloves. Paula took a large spoon to serve the succulent rice and seafood delicacy on each dinner plate as she and her mother walked around the table. Once they finished serving, Carmen returned the paella pan to the outdoor grill. Mother and daughter joined their guests at the table.

  “Tía Carmen, your table setting looks very elegant. I assume you arranged the centerpiece?” Eduardo asked.

  “You know I need to be surrounded by flowers,” she said. She looked happy.

  “Besides growing flowers, my future mother-in-law is a great cook. I think I’ve told you she prepares the best paella in the world,” Fadi said, looking across the table at Carmen. The contrast of Fadi’s jet-black hair against his pale ivory skin, combined with almost perfectly symmetrical facial features, gave him the appearance of a movie star.

  Carmen smiled and nodded ever so slightly to acknowledge the compliment.

  “You are a lucky man,” Eduardo said.

  Fadi nodded in agreement as he took Paula’s hand and kissed it. With his other hand, he lifted his wine glass for a toast.

  As he did so, Nikki’s eyes flickered in confusion.

  “I saw that.” Fadi laughed as he held the wine glass up high. “I’m a Spanish Muslim, which explains why I drink wine. My ancestors enjoyed wine with their meals, so I’m honoring a family tradition. To a fine wine!”

  “To a fine wine,” Eduardo echoed.

  Fadi took another sip, lingering a few seconds as if to appreciate the flavor before placing the glass on the table. “This tinto is truly exquisite. Wines from the Rioja region are known for their structure and tannins, yet the connoisseur will detect a fruity, cherry characteristic in this red.”

  “If Fadi can discuss Spanish wine, I want to explain another purely Spanish tradition—paella,” Carmen said, “even though each region has its own version. Valencia claims theirs is best since they invented it.”

  “Ah, but the Spanish would not have invented paella,” Paula said, “if the Arabs had not brought rice to Spain. Rice is one of the many gifts brought here by the Arabs.” Changing her gaze from the guests to her plate, she took a forkful of shrimp-laden paella to her mouth and turned apprehensively to face her mother.

  For a few seconds everyone was quiet as each indulged in the saffron-infused rice with shrimp, mussels, chunks of lobster, and Spanish sausage.

  “Nikki, do you like flamenco?” Fadi asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, but I’ve never seen much of it,” Nikki responded, as she turned to Carmen. “Mmm, this is the most delicious paella I’ve ever eaten.”

  “We thought a good flamenco show would be the perfect way for the three of us to welcome you and Eduardo to Spain,” Carmen said. “We will go after dinner tonight.”

  “I love the idea,” Ni
kki said. She touched Eduardo’s hand under the table and squeezed it to let him know how happy she felt.

  As the five people around the table continued to eat and sip and laugh, Fadi pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Nikki.

  “Tickets for you and Eduardo to attend a jazz concert on Monday night at the Casa Milà rooftop.”

  “How did you get them?” Eduardo asked. “The event was sold out.”

  “Connections. Fadi is like a magician,” Carmen said. “Our plan is for the two of you to fall so madly in love with Spain, you won’t want to return home.”

  “I’m already in love with Spanish food,” Eduardo said.

  “For dessert, you will sample Paula’s baklava,” Carmen said. “She’s mastered the technique of layering phyllo dough.”

  “Her pastry is exquisite,” Fadi added, smiling at his fiancée. “And after dessert, the most sought-after show in town: Tablao Flamenco Cordobés. The dancers are quite good, though Tablao is best known for their world class cantaores—singers of cante jondo.”

  “But Tablao’s singers have been outdone lately by a flamenco dancer who is all the rage. A Gypsy named Selena,” Carmen said. “And sitting with us here is a wonderful flamenco dancer—”

  “Mama,” Paula said, “don’t start—”

  “Let us give them a taste of flamenco,” Fadi said, interrupting his fiancée. He grabbed Paula’s hand and pulled her to standing.

  She shook her head. “I’m out of practice. Let’s leave it to the pros.”

  “Paula took dance lessons until six months ago,” Carmen said. She looked down at her plate. “Unfortunately, she’s lost interest in dancing.”

  “I don’t have time anymore,” Paula responded swiftly. “The coffee should be ready.” She walked to the kitchen.

  “I feel like such a foreigner in this country,” Nikki said. “The culture is so different despite the many ways Spain is linked with Latin America. I’ve never given much thought to flamenco.”

  “The history behind it is compelling,” Paula said as she poured coffee into demitasse cups already set on the table.

  “True,” Fadi said, waiting for Paula to finish filling his cup. He took a sip. “It’s the melding of Arab song and string instruments, Jewish synagogue chants, and ancient north Indian classical music. And Gypsy women dance with such passion. It’s become the fiery, passionate Gypsy sound of Spain.”

  “We should say Rom or Roma instead of Gypsy,” Paula said, smiling as she corrected her fiancé.

  “As I was saying,” Fadi said with a wide grin, “impassioned Rom women dancing does not sound right. The word Gypsy is beautiful. It sounds spirited and energetic. Gypsy women dance in provocative blouses and long skirts. It’s all wrapped up in the Andalusian folk tradition of song and dance where flamenco and cante jondo originated.”

  “I’ve read of the golden age of Spain when Christians, Muslims, and Jews were at peace and influenced each other in positive ways,” Eduardo said. “Would you say music brought people together?”

  “Music no doubt is partly responsible, but a thriving business environment remains the common denominator,” Fadi said.

  “How is that?” Nikki asked.

  “Spain offered commodities in much demand at the time—silver, gold, spices,” Fadi said as he reached for one more piece of baklava. “Trade with other countries thrived. Christians and Muslims needed money to expand their businesses, yet both religions condemned usurious practices, like charging interest. As demand grew for financing loans, the Jewish community resolved the issue by becoming bankers.”

  “So everyone was happy, and business flourished,” Eduardo said.

  “And everyone got along,” Paula said, “and the Muslims were not marginalized as they are today.”

  “We live in different times, Paula,” Carmen said. “We cannot compare what happened centuries ago to our world today. The cultures came together and pieces of each one contributed to the rich tapestry of Spanish heritage.”

  “But those golden years of cultural understanding,” Paula said, “as you called them, Eduardo, happened before the Christian reconquest of Spain. The longest war in history.”

  “And by 1492, when Christopher Columbus went to the Americas, Christian Spain reigned supreme,” Nikki said.

  “After the reconquest, we all know how the Moors, the Muslims, either converted to Christianity or were expelled from Spain. Sometimes both,” Paula said. “Of course, a number of them converted to Christianity and remained here, like my father’s family.”

  “And the Jews met the same fate. They converted, and some were still driven out of the country,” Carmen added. “My understanding, Paula, is that your father’s family was already Christian Lebanese before they migrated to Spain.”

  Paula visibly stiffened.

  “We’re digressing,” Fadi said, attempting to take the conversation to more neutral ground. “About flamenco, we don’t know when it originated, but its earliest roots can be traced back to music and dance traditions from northern India.”

  “Northern India? Amazing,” Nikki said. “I had no clue.”

  “Gypsies,” Fadi said, glancing at his fiancée, “or as Paula prefers, the Roma people, first moved westward about two thousand years ago, bringing their folklife with them. Their musical traditions melded with ours even when the Roma themselves did not integrate into our society.”

  “All I know is the vibrancy of the dance. Stomping of feet, clapping of hands, the deep, sonorous voice of the cantaor, and guitar music are a feast for the eye and ear,” Carmen said. “The very spirit of Spain.”

  “Centuries of dance forms converged in Andalucía, and over time flamenco emerged. The intensity of the cante jondo lyrics are deep-rooted,” Fadi said, looking at Paula. He winked at his fiancée.

  “The dance itself probably rose as an expression of defiance at the time Spain banished Moors, Roma, and Jews,” Paula said. “So, to respond to Eduardo’s question, flamenco music served to unite the outcasts of society in the new Christian Spain.”

  “We don’t know that flamenco united the outcasts,” Carmen said, moving her dessert plate toward the center of the table in an absent-minded gesture.

  “What else should Eduardo and I see while we’re here?” Nikki asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “You mean in Barcelona or in the whole of Spain?” Carmen asked.

  “The whole country,” Nikki said as she looked around the table, anticipating another long discussion. Her gaze fell upon her cousin, as if waiting for her to speak first.

  “Sights not to be missed are the Alhambra, the Moorish castle in the city of Granada, and the city of Toledo,” Paula said.

  “This country offers so much to the tourist,” Fadi said. “In antiquity, so many different tribes conquered Spain, each one left us a legacy, a delicious morsel of their own culture making each region different. But if I were visiting Spain for the first time, I’d start with the prehistory, our earliest ancestors. Yes, the Paleolithic cave art.”

  “Cave art?” Eduardo repeated.

  “That’s my choice, but there is so much to choose from,” Fadi said.

  “I’d love to see Paleolithic art,” Eduardo said. He reacted with so much enthusiasm, his body moved forward toward the table in an assertive gesture. “I’ve been reading a book on it.”

  “You should start at the Museum of Humanity in Burgos,” Fadi said. “Next you should visit Atapuerca where some of the earliest human remains have been found. By that point, you’d logically conclude you should visit a few caves.”

  “I suggested the idea, but Nikki does not like caves,” Eduardo said.

  Nikki nudged him under the table.

  “Some, like Altamira, are replicas, not actual caves. So you don’t get your feet dirty.”

  “It’s not fear of getting her feet dirty,” Eduardo said.

  “Replica caves? That sounds like fun,” Nikki said, pinching Eduardo’s thigh under the table. “Are t
he caves well-lit?”

  “Good lighting? Inside the caves? Fadi asked. “I think so. You can see the art very well. You’re allowed to bring your own flashlight to most of them.”

  “Our Paleolithic art goes back forty thousand years. Maybe even more. Recent studies take our art back to the Neanderthals,” Carmen said. “It’s truly a national treasure, as it is in France too.”

  Fadi checked the time on his smart watch. “It’s time for us to head over to Tablao and watch Selena take command of center stage.”

  “I thought you said it was all about the cante jondo.” Nikki said.

  Fadi smiled and held his hands up in a mock “you win” stance.

  Chapter Ten

  Beni Ensar, Morocco, North Africa

  Sunday Early Morning

  Awakened by her baby daughter at six in the morning, Olani discovered Kenny was not next to her in bed. When she had retired the night before, he had not yet returned home.

  She’d worried yesterday evening when Kenny did not get back. Yet she decided to get some sleep, deducing he’d gone to a café with Taiwo. The thought of Taiwo gave reason for her concern. She had considered going out to look for Kenny, but it was getting dark by the time she had started to worry. She had been busy in the kitchen, preparing and cooking lamb with vegetables for the week, taking care of the baby, and cleaning the house. Jobs that had kept her indoors. She had only stepped outside her house once yesterday morning, to throw kernels of corn to her chickens from the front door. Busy with cooking and household chores, she even forgot to collect any eggs they may have laid.

  With the aroma of cooked food still permeating the small house, she surmised her husband had returned home late and, not wanting to awaken her, had slept on cushions in the front room. She got up and walked into the kitchen only to discover it in the same condition as she had left it the night before. Kenny had not slept in the living area either. That’s when her worry slid into panic. Checking her cell phone to see if he had called, she found he had not. She dialed his number, but no one answered. Kenny had left for work yesterday at his usual early time, an hour before sunrise. Whatever the problem, she knew it involved Taiwo.