I've always known Celestino is staunch and outspoken when it comes to protecting the island's interests. Although at first, I had no idea the extent of his passion, the lengths he would take to expose shady deals, especially when, as they invariably do, those deals impact adversely on the environment. Having worked in the tourism industry my whole adult life and seen first-hand the way the holiday mentality changes people into amoral pleasure seekers, I share his discontent. I have even started to help translate into English some of his reportage and exposés, which he posts on his anti-corruption blog under the pseudonym 'Dana', after he pointed out that the mainstream media pump out pro-tourism propaganda.
'Someone has to get the word out.'
Yes, but why you?
I study the phone in my hand, run a finger over the buttons. What if Fernando is wrong and Celestino isn't going to turn up? The thought that his disappearance has nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with his anti-corruption campaigns begins to insinuate itself into my mind. I should be looking for him but I'm strangely frozen. How dangerous is it to take his stance? I've often heard references to the island's mafia but up until now I've never taken it all that seriously, despite the scandals. That an island so small, with a local population miniscule by global standards, could have the lucrative wherewithal to support the operations of the mafia has always seemed to me ludicrous. If the mafia does exist, it couldn't compare to the real mafia of, say, Russia or Albania.
Only the once did I express this view to Celestino. I expressed it with a laugh, thinking how quaint, but my mirth fell away when I saw the outrage spread across my husband's face. I'm embarrassed thinking about it. Have I underestimated the gravity of the island's shady dealings all along? I've often wondered if his campaigns would put him in danger but he's always reassured me that no one knows who Dana is. But any hacker with an ounce of know-how could discover the identity of a blogger. Celestino is being naïve. What would become of him if those corrupt officials did find out? I can only surmise it wouldn't be pleasant.
The phone is still in my hand. I clasp it as if it alone will bring him back to me. But there is no one else to call.
Richard Parry pops into my mind and I despatch him immediately. An old acquaintance of Celestino's after he purchased several of his large paintings, Richard is a temporary resident who uses his island home to compose his books. Since we married, Celestino has had little to do with the author. Richard no longer seeks him out on market days, and ever since he took offence at not having received an invitation to our wedding, things have been strained. He was at home in Bunton at the time, dealing with his irascible wife Trish, and we saw no point in posting an invitation. Once, I even saw Richard skirt the markets warily, and on another occasion, upon sighting Celestino's stall he about faced and headed in the direction of his home. For an inexplicable reason, Richard chooses to hold Celestino responsible for what he conceives a personal snub, which allows him, conveniently perhaps, to remain on cordial terms with me. Although I suspect his animosity is due to the flop of Ico's Promise, a book Richard hoped Celestino would help him research after his friend and local potter, Domingo, moved to Gran Canaria. His hopes were in vain. Whatever the reason for their strained relations, Richard will know nothing of Celestino's whereabouts.
I return the phone to the console. Hoping to locate the spare key to the mill house, I rummage through the bottom kitchen drawer. After some time shunting about tea towels, oven gloves, aprons, plastic bags, boxes of matches and candles, a roll of cling wrap, several cork screws and a never-used rolling pin gifted by my mother, I kneel down and extract the contents item by item, shaking and rattling until I find the key lodged in a small leather pouch. I shove everything back and close the drawer, ignoring the fingers of a rubber glove poking out.
Wasting no time, I thread the mill house key onto my keyring and leave the house.
Facing down the street I hesitate, thinking I might walk. But I might need my car; for what I can't imagine, but I choose to drive instead.
Pulling up outside the mill house I feel subtly changed, as though the key in my hand represents a turning of much more than a lock.
I enter the vestibule half expecting to find Celestino emerging from his studio. I'm met with silence. Paying acute attention to things I normally take for granted, I notice the dirt and grime coating the tiled floor, the scrunched paper in the far corner, and a small bag of rubbish no one has had the presence of mind to take to the bin.
The vestibule leads to an internal patio; visible from where I stand is a stone staircase winding to the upper level. The balustrade is in good condition and looks freshly painted, but the steps are crumbling. Piles of rubble litter the paving at its base. I doubt anyone has ventured up those stairs in a long time.
'Celestino?'
I turn to my left and open the studio door.
A smell of fresh paint hangs in the air. At the flick of a light I see a new work on the easel. Celestino's palette lies beside it on the long bench that lines the near wall. I go over. The paint splodges look dry. A single clean brush, separate from the others stored in old jars, rests next to a dirty rag. He must have stopped working on it sometime yesterday. There's no sign of the commission for the Swedish doctor. Did he take the commission to his house? He must have done. What other explanation is there?
I step away and cast an eye around the room. Rows of paintings are stacked against the far wall. Motes hover in bands of sunlight filtering in through dilapidated shutters. Between the window and the door, another bench, wider but not as long, is covered in jars and tubs of tools, notebooks, art books, an assortment of acrylics and other paints. On the floor are old scraps of timber, a roll of chicken wire, two saw horses, and an array of power tools. Nowhere, not anywhere, do I see his phone.
I recall Kathy's remark and know he didn't just pop up the road. He's vanished. I flick off the light and close the studio door.
'Celestino?'
The door opposite is kept locked. I try the handle but it won't open. I head through to the patio and call again, directing my voice first up the stone stairs and then at the rooms out the back.
No answer.
He'll answer. If he's here, he'll answer. Besides, as far as I know he never wanders about the building. Disappointed, I return to the vestibule and on outside, making sure to lock the door behind me.
Leaving the car safely parked with two wheels on the pavement, I cross Calle la Hoya and round the next corner, passing the small supermarket and entering the tree-lined plaza with its dense laurel leaf canopy. I stop outside the church to call my parents.
My father picks up.
'No news. Other than I can't find him anywhere.'
'Stay calm. Did you call his friends?'
'None of them have seen or heard from him.'
'Where's his car?'
'Not at home or the studio.'
'There'll be a perfectly reasonable explanation, Paula. Remember that.'
'I hope so.'
'What will you do next?'
'Ask around the plaza. Then I'll come back I suppose. How's Gloria?'
'Happy as Larry. Don't fret.'
I'm doing my best.
I hang up and slip my phone in my pocket. The plaza is quiet. Down at the other end, tables, arranged four-deep outside the two cafes, are mostly empty. I make for the second, the one on the corner, the only café Celestino will frequent.
La Cacharra is owned by the Bandala family, originally from Guinate. The Bandalas were fortunate enough to make sufficient pesetas from the sale of their land to the developer of the former Guinate Tropical Park—once home to thousands of exotic birds and other animals—to open a restaurant. La Cacharra has been a success from the start, not only having the best location in the village, but also the best chef. Tío Pepe prided himself on the finest roasted meats and authentic local stews—potajes, lentejas, estofados, or various kinds of stew to the uninitiated—building on the notoriety of old Inez of Calle
Cruz de Ferrer, who for decades gave over her home to feed the locals.
The Bandalas make a significant contribution to the community. One Bandala or other can be found on the committees of all of Haría's community groups, from sporting clubs and festivals to the arts. And they're generous with their donations. But never, Celestino has it on good authority, when it comes to filling the coffers of unscrupulous mayors.
Antonio, son of old Tío Pepe, is wiping down the counter when I walk in. He's spritely for his age, although his closely cropped beard is more grey than black, and in the few years I've been here he's thickened at the waist, but nothing can detract from his ebullient charm. His face lights up when he sees me.
'Hola, Paula. ¿Como estas?'
I force a smile in return, wanting to tell him I'm fine, but I must have betrayed my concern as Antonio's own face falls.
'¿Qué pasa?'
'¿Ha visto Celestino?' I say in my clunky Spanish, preparing to concentrate on his response.
'¿Hoy? No.' He shakes his head and says in very clear Spanish, 'Celestino no ha pasado por aquí.'
Somehow, I didn't think he'd been here. Even so, I can't help asking, '¿Estás seguro?'
Antonio is certain. He's been working since they opened that morning. He glances at his watch. Two hours ago.
I persist. Thinking about the dried paint in the studio, I'm more interested in yesterday. '¿Y ayer?' I ask, watching him closely.
'¿Ayer? Yo estaba trabajando todo el día mas o menos en la lluvia, y yo no lo vi.'
I picture Antonio, shunting the chairs and tables under cover, then huddling under the canopy behind the al fresco servery, no doubt wondering why he bothered to open. If he was there all day, as he says, and Celestino did pass by, then he'd have seen him. And he hadn't. Although he did caveat his remark with 'more or less'. If he went inside, out the back to the bathroom or to the kitchen, Celestino might have passed by, or even called in. Unlikely, unless he had a message for someone or he dropped something off or picked something up. A rendezvous. Something so brief it occurred without Antonio's notice. I pull myself up. My thoughts are running off like headless chickens. And I can't think of a single reason why Celestino would do such a thing. It's too out of character. Besides, the other staff will have seen him, I only need inquire and I'll know for certain. And Antonio will surely ask around. It's human nature. Pre-empting the obvious I ask him who was working yesterday.
'Yo y Carmen.'
Seeing my concern, he goes to the kitchen door and calls out. Moments later, Carmen rushes into the restaurant. A strapping woman in her twenties, Carmen is Antonio's second daughter. She's training to be a chef and, he hopes, will one day take over the restaurant. She prides herself on turning traditional cuisine into dishes favoured by the tourists and the locals alike. Since she's taken over the kitchen, the café has outcompeted every other eatery in town.
'Estoy cocinando, Papa,' she says reproachfully, her hands coated in flour.
'Carmen, espera. ¿Ha visto a Celestino?'
'¿Cuándo?'
'Hoy o ayer.'
She hesitates, thinking back. Then she shrugs her shoulders and says, 'No.' She stares at me, puzzled. 'Why?'
Antonio stands beside his daughter. '¿Sí, why?'
'Celestino ha desaparecido.' Disappeared—it sounds even worse in Spanish. Maybe 'disappeared' is the wrong word. I should have said 'missing'. He's missing. It's less dramatic, less emphatic, less ominous somehow. But it's too late, the word is spoken.
Antonio and Carmen exchange glances.
I try to look nonchalant, then I smile and fob off my remark with quips and suppositions. Must have used a barranco as a waterslide and washed up on Graciosa. Probably busy helping some poor farmer clean out his goat shed after a mudslide. It's no use. I'm suddenly acutely aware that my interrogation of the Bandalas means word will spread throughout the village, embellished no doubt with speculations on the state of our marriage, and told-you-so references to the time he spends away from his family at his studio. There's nothing I can do to arrest that flow. I add somewhat lamely, 'I can't find him. I mean, no puedo encontralo.'
Antonio gives me a sympathetic look. '¿Café?' he says, leading me to a table in the far corner. 'Siéntese aquí.' I sit with my back to the wall.
The café has an old and worn feel with tables and chairs of solid wood, a high counter displaying an array of tapas, and glass shelves lining the back bar, filled with bottles of spirits. The walls are covered in brown and blue patterned tiles. Three old men have taken up the table near the entrance. At the next table, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat of vivid red is reading a newspaper. Outside, a middle-aged couple are seated at one of the tables under the trees. An ordinary scene on an ordinary day, yet for me existing in a strange new reality, nothing looks as it did the day before.
Antonio comes over with my coffee and a small pastry. I reach for my purse but he raises his hand and walks away, his attention caught by a party of six entering the café, followed closely behind by two couples. He herds them all to the seating outside. 'But it's windy,' I hear one of the women complain. 'It's better, it's better,' Antonio says in thickly accented English.
One of the men puts an affectionate arm around his partner's waist and gives her a squeeze before she sits down. He takes up the chair opposite then reaches for her hand. Young love? Well, not so young. He has grey hair and she has to be over fifty. But their love has the fresh spontaneity of youth. Were Celestino and I ever like that? All lovey dovey and holding hands? In the days after we met he was kind and considerate and transparently in love, and in those first weeks after I moved to the island we were certainly close and Celestino attentive, yet his is not a demonstrable, ardent kind of love. What has grown between us is more a mellow affection born of respect and an enduring tolerance of each other's differences. Even through the burden of Gloria's quick arrival and the ensuing financial hardship—the sale of my house back in Ispwich paid out the mortgage and the estate agent's fees, little more—our love was never in question. We don't fight and, apart from that awful day when I confronted him over the La Mareta commission, rarely argue. But, there's little togetherness. Gloria takes up most of my attention and Celestino spends most of his time at the studio or upstairs in his corner of our bedroom, immersed in his latest anti-corruption campaign.
There are days I crave his company, his undivided attention, but I've learned to bury the yearning in domestic and motherly routines. I keep telling myself I need an interest of my own, a fulfilling occupation of some kind, but I've no idea what that might be. I do my best to follow the issues associated with the island's tourism but only at a distance. Almost all the in-depth material written on the history and culture of the island is in Spanish and not seeing any role for myself in terms of employment, my enthusiasm has waned. And I'm too full of Gloria's needs to nurture any pursuits of my own.
I drink my coffee in a few large gulps and leave the pastry untouched. I'm about to stand when in walks my neighbour, Shirley, sashaying to the counter in a long-sleeved velour pantsuit of deep purple, a diamante clutch bag in hand. She has an assertive gait for her age—late sixties I surmise—her figure straight-backed and trim. She's a whole head and shoulders shorter than me, and she dyes her short fine hair a smoky blonde. I've never seen her without one of those matching and garish earring and necklace sets adorning her personage. On this occasion, it's a pearl and crystal choker with globular pendants. She's an energetic woman too, the sort with somewhere to go, something to do, someone to meet. A busy body in the literal and metaphoric senses of the word. And despite her age and independent means, she works part-time for a local estate agent, work that suits her personality.
Shirley hasn't noticed me seated in the back corner, and I decide not to attract her attention. Of all the people in the village, she's the last person Celestino will have told of his whereabouts. I find her harmless but Celestino loathes her.
Once, as we were arriving home from a trip to Gra
n Canaria to show Celestino's family the baby, Shirley pulled up in her Maserati right behind his car, coming to an abrupt stop a few inches from his rear bumper. I was standing on the pavement watching Celestino extract the baby carrier from the back seat. Alarm shot through me. I was about to say something when Shirley said, 'Whoopsie daisy,' and scurried across the road to her house, disappearing inside before Celestino had manoeuvred himself and Gloria out of the car. He was livid.
Inside the kitchen, I put Gloria, asleep in her carrier, on the floor by my feet. Celestino set about making coffee. It was then he told me the trouble Shirley had caused him after she came to Haría in the late 1990s. The trouble started a few years after her arrival, when he was in his early twenties and had just graduated in fine art, and with both parents recently deceased.
'Shirley claimed that the adjoining property boundary extended well into my backyard and that in fact, my shed was illegal and would have to be demolished.' I caught his eye, pointed at Gloria and pressed my fingers to my lips. He lowered his voice. 'She argued for months over the boundary, then came the lawyer's letters and eventually the matter ended up in court. I had to represent myself.'
'How did it go?'
'She won. The site plans for her property did in fact include half of my shed. And the plans for mine were so old and poorly drawn that it didn't matter that the shed in question had existed in that spot for two hundred years. I had to demolish it and move twenty metres of dry stone wall.' He stood with his back to the bench. 'She was victorious.'
'I can imagine.'
'Steer clear of her, Paula. She's dangerous by association. She won that boundary dispute because she was married to Juan Mobad.'
The coffee burbled. He waited a moment before turning off the flame. Then he put two cups on the table and poured.
'He died, didn't he?' I said, taking my cup.
A Matter of Latitude Page 5