A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  'Good riddance. He was a property-developing shyster implicated in numerous scandals involving the island's mafia.'

  'Shirley must miss him.'

  Celestino sat down in the chair opposite. 'I'm sure she does. She blames me too. I never liked Mobad. After the boundary dispute, I worked doubly hard to expose his involvement in a corruption scandal.'

  'What did he do?'

  'Money laundering. He was arrested during a wide scale anti-corruption sweep of the island.'

  'Did he stand trial?'

  'The cases against the others involved were protracted. Before he was due to stand, Mobad was found at the bottom of El Risco, or rather, bits of him.'

  The way he said it seemed callous. Shirley has never recovered from his suicide. If it was in fact suicide. It's impossible to tell. Fourteen kilometres of cliff, all of it remote, much inaccessible; if he'd been pushed, there'd have been no witnesses. After his death, Shirley became exceptionally extroverted, her days brimming with distractions. Once in a private moment she confided that if she didn't keep busy she'd go off the rails.

  I wanted to take Celestino's side—I'm as opposed to corruption as the next person—but I felt sorry for Shirley. Behind Celestino's back, I forged a cordial if secret friendship with my neighbour. Besides, we had something in common; having married local men placed us both in a cultural void. We were neither properly local nor properly expat. We were allies, despite the history between Shirley and Celestino. Although I was well aware he never wanted 'that woman' to ever set foot in his house.

  Later, as Gloria became a toddler and a handful, I would even, on occasion, ask Shirley to mind Gloria during her afternoon nap, while I dashed to the supermarket in the fishing village of Arrieta.

  It's a short drive and the supermarket favourably priced, and well stocked too, unlike those catering for a much smaller clientele in Haría. Grocery shopping is much easier without grabbing hands. I'm cautious never to let the childminding occur when Gloria is awake, in case she lets something slip to her father. Come to think of it, I'm amazed I take the risk and admonish myself over the deception, quickly justifying it to myself along the lines of 'needs must'.

  Shirley is facing the window. The men, huddled together at the front table, burst into laughter. I shift my gaze. The woman in the red, wide-brimmed hat lowers her newspaper, revealing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. There is something furtive about her. I catch her eye and she quickly looks away.

  While Shirley exchanges some loose change for the brown paper bag Antonio proffers, I think I might seize the opportunity and slip to the bathroom to escape her notice. But instead of turning towards the plaza, Shirley faces into the café.

  'I thought I saw you there,' she says loudly and marches over, pulling up a chair. Before she sits she plants a customary kiss in the air beside each of my cheeks and drops a large bunch of keys on the table. One of her earrings, an oversized faux silver hoop, snags on the collar of her velour top. She tilts her head to free it.

  'Survive the storm up at Máguez?' she says, searching my face.

  'The house is on a rise,' I say lightly.

  'Rotten luck it came on little Miss Gloria's birthday. Was she awfully upset?'

  'She had a ball, actually.'

  'People came then? In that weather?'

  'No one came. My father kept her entertained.'

  'Good for him! I expect you all rallied. It's what families do.'

  It's a strange remark, as though Shirley is voicing envy when she's always maintained she is childless and loving it.

  'We did our best, given the circumstances,' I say, not wanting to sound evasive or give her the impression family life is a joy, at the same time rueing that I've already revealed more than I wanted. We might be allies, but I strive to keep my guard in deference to Celestino.

  I'm aware I've failed when Shirley says, 'And what circumstances are those?' Quick off the mark, she adds, 'I sense you mean more than just the weather.'

  I wring my hands in my lap. 'Celestino didn't show up,' I say bluntly.

  'To his own daughter's birthday party! That's outrageous.'

  'I'm sure he had good cause.'

  'That's as may be but he should at least have made an appearance, come what may.'

  Noticing that the woman in the red hat has again lowered her newspaper and seems to be paying close attention to our exchange, I drop my voice.

  'All I know is I can't find him.'

  'You've been to the house and the studio, naturally.'

  'Yes.'

  'And you've tried his phone?'

  'It's dead.' I shudder as I say it.

  Shirley doesn't seem to notice. 'What time did you say he was due at your parents?'

  I didn't. 'At two.'

  'Two o'clock? Hmm. I thought the party would have been much earlier. You left in the morning, I recall.'

  I had no idea I have a nosy neighbour. Or maybe Shirley just happened to have been by her front window at the time.

  'Now I'm confused,' Shirley says, leaning forward in her seat. I lean forward as well, preferring to keep the conversation away from curious ears. 'I definitely saw him leave the house between one and two.' She pauses. 'Must have been about one thirty.'

  'You did?'

  'I'm sure of it. Can't miss the sound of that old bomb of his.'

  'Which way was he heading? Do you recall?'

  'There's only one way down our street, Paula.'

  'But did you see him turn left, or did he head straight into the village?' My thoughts are racing. Left means Máguez, and straight on means his studio, or on down to Arrieta. From there he could have gone anywhere south.

  Shirley looks thoughtful. 'Right,' she says, nodding slowly. 'Yes, he definitely turned right.'

  'Right? But that's crazy.'

  Shirley sits back and shrugs. 'I wouldn't know.'

  'In that direction, he could only have been heading up the switchbacks to Teguise, or down to Tabayesco. Either route would have been a nightmare yesterday.'

  'Dangerous, true. It's a wonder he didn't get himself killed, but then again, he's a local. Maybe he thinks he's indestructible.'

  'Shirley,' I say reproachfully.

  'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Look, he didn't, or you would have heard by now.'

  'Even so. I should check the hospital.' I should have thought to do that before.

  'If it'll put your mind at rest.' She sounds vague. She eyes me appraisingly before she goes on. 'I have to say you look dreadful, Paula. He'll turn up. They always do.'

  'Who? Who always turns up?' I say with sudden irritation.

  'Just a figure of speech.' She furnishes me with a sympathetic smile, collects her bunch of keys and stands. 'Pop round for a coffee later. You look like you could do with some company.'

  'I'm staying with my parents,' I mutter. 'While Celestino's missing, I mean. They're looking after Gloria.'

  'Bit melodramatic, don't you think?'

  'At least this way I only have to worry about one person, not two.'

  'Fair enough. Tomorrow then. Promise. You've got me worrying now.'

  I don't believe her. I watch her swan out of the café and head off down the plaza. I remain seated, taking in her revelation. Celestino left the house at about one-thirty, she said. He should have been heading for Máguez but Shirley insisted she saw him driving towards the mountain. Why would he go in that direction and at that time? He wouldn't have been heading to Mancha Blanca to deliver that painting to the Swedish doctor at one thirty, for he'd never have made it back to Máguez for Gloria's party, so I suppose I can rule that scenario out. He might have been heading to Kathy and Pedro in Tabayesco, or to Pilar and Miguel in Los Valles, but both couples and their children were meant to be at the party. And both sensibly stayed home in that storm, when the switchbacks and the sweeping bends would have been treacherous. There could have been a landslide. If Celestino headed that way then maybe he was swept off the road and had hurtled down the mountainsi
de, and now he lay broken in a heap at the bottom. Somewhere obscure where no one could see. A large clean up must be underway, the whole island was inundated. They could easily overlook a lone car half buried by silt, rocks and debris.

  I grab my pastry, take a bite and return it to the plate. The woman in the red wide-brimmed hat stuffs her newspaper in her large handbag and stands abruptly. She seems young, early thirties maybe, although it's hard to tell. She has on a polka dot, wasp-waisted, wiggle skirt and figure-hugging top, an outfit entirely incongruous with the setting. She belongs in a film. As she walks away her stiletto heels make sharp taps on the floor, faintly audible over the background noise.

  Cautious without reason, I wait for the woman to disappear before I leave.

  'Gracias, Antonio,' I say, catching his eye on my way out.

  I skirt a group of tourists dithering around one of the outdoor tables, and rush down the plaza, annoyed with myself for having left the car parked outside the studio, making a mental note not to do anything like it again, not under current circumstances.

  I'm breathless when I reach it. I put the key in the lock with an unsteady hand.

  Once seated I pause and make myself wait and catch my breath. The chances are I won't find Celestino's old bomb on its side halfway down the mountainside. I let a few cars pass before starting the car.

  Heading for the mountain I take the first right and wend up Calle las Eras, past rows of old farmhouses, some freshly renovated, others old, dilapidated, crumbling. And small black fields, cultivated with maize and potatoes. The sight of the land in use instils in my frazzled mind a moment of normalcy. Further on, and the farmhouses give way to low walls, rendered white. On the high side, a newer-style farmhouse is set amid large cultivated fields, the picón weed-free. It all looks so cared for.

  At the next intersection, I turn left and head up and out of the village. Rows of canary palms flank the road for a stretch. Then the road makes its steady incline up towards Peñas del Chache. Here and there picón and silt have spilled onto the tarmac. Otherwise there's little evidence of yesterday's storm. I slow, careful, keeping an eye out for rockfalls on the road ahead, snatching glances at the fields on the low side beside me, just in case, wishing I had a passenger, a second pair of eyes, ones that didn't need to watch the road. I slow even further when I reach the turnoff to Tabayesco, unsure which route I should take first.

  I carry straight on towards the mountain. The terrain on the lower slopes is a carpet of green, sprinkled with the pretty pinks, yellows, blues and whites of the wild flowers in springtime bloom. The undamaged crash barriers indicate no one has recently tumbled to their death. In places where the crash barriers are absent, I slip gear down to second and crane my neck, ignoring the car on my tail.

  At the first switchback, at the sight of a small rockfall in the cutting, I brake and change down to first, crawling round the curve in case I meet oncoming traffic. In my rear vision mirror I catch the driver in the car behind gesticulating. I ignore him and approach each switchback in the same manner.

  My zigzag journey up the mountainside proves uneventful. There's little debris on the road and the crash barriers are all intact.

  I pull into the car park of the restaurant Los Helechos, perching on the crest just after the last switchback. The car behind me roars up the road ahead.

  The restaurant is closed. The location, one of numerous island lookouts, is especially magnificent for its view of the crags and deep gullies nearby and of the massif and the volcanoes that are the restaurant's namesake. From here I have an almost aerial view of the valle de Temisa, with the tiny village of Tabayesco in the distance. I go over to the railing and look down, scanning below. Nothing.

  The last time I stood in this spot was on my wedding day. I was so heavily pregnant we couldn't risk a picnic at bosquecillo, the little wood tucked in the folds of the mountain beside the cliff edge with its panoramic ocean views. Instead, we drove up here for photos and I threw my bouquet into the wind. That day I became Paula Diaz, witnessed only by our few friends, a special day in anyone's life, momentous, and I was ecstatic. Only, we announced the event to our respective families after the fact, ostensibly to avoid a fuss. We agreed it was for the best, but ever since I've harboured secret feelings of rejection, as though as far as his family are concerned, I'm the estranjera who carried his child out of wedlock.

  Fluffy clouds, low lying, scud by. The wind is strong, stronger up high. I face into it, letting my hair fly from my face, letting that indifferent wind blow away my memories.

  I walk back to my car, realising it would be ridiculous to drive on. If Celestino had been in a car accident, someone would have found him by now. It's hard on this island to disappear. There are few secret clefts and crevices. No dense undergrowth or thick forest. Only the caves and they are inhospitable. Besides, I haven't eaten save for that one bite of pastry and my stomach aches from hunger.

  Alone and wretched, as though I've reached the end of my search and face into a void, the passion that I haven't felt for my man in years wells up in me.

  I pull out of the car park heading for Máguez, staying in low gears on the descent to save driving down on the brake. Fifteen minutes and I'm opening my parents' front door.

  Angela rushes forward as soon as she sees me.

  'Any news?'

  'I … I need to…' I can't finish my sentence. Instead, I go straight through to the kitchen to the phone. I pick up the receiver then put it back in the cradle. 'Can I have your phone book?' Angela fetches it and I locate the number I want.

  I have to wade through the options menu and then I'm left on hold for what seems like an age. At last a woman answers and I put my query. Another wait and finally the woman says in an authoritative voice that no Celestino Diaz has been admitted in the last two days. She hangs up.

  I stare in disbelief at the handset. Perhaps the hospital is swamped with admissions, although I doubt that straight away. It isn't, it couldn't be, because of my accent. I tell myself at least he hasn't come to harm. Or at least it's a little easier to assume he hasn't come to harm. How many hours have passed since Kathy's insinuation that I was overreacting when I mentioned calling the police? Not many. Not nearly enough for them to take me seriously. It's less than twenty-four hours since Celestino disappeared. Or apparently disappeared. A grown man. They would be right to dismiss my inquiry.

  'I ought to be getting Gloria home.'

  'I'll fetch her.' She goes out to the patio.

  Moments later Bill appears with Gloria on his hip. He lets her slide down to the floor. Taking a discerning look at me he says, 'Might be best if you spend another night with us.'

  'What if Celestino comes back?'

  'If he does, and he finds you not there, then he'll phone here. He's bound to. If you go back you'll never settle. You'll be jumping at every noise.'

  'I don't want to be a burden.'

  'You will be if you leave, it seems,' Angela says, 'to yourself, I mean. Anyway, your father has set up the cubby house on the patio. He's teaching Gloria to count to twenty.'

  'Ten.'

  'Twenty.'

  'She's one smart little girl,' Bill says. 'Takes after her …'

  'Don't.'

  But I relent. The company will make the time pass. Give me a chance to pull myself together. For I'm overreacting, surely? And this reaction isn't helping anyone. It won't influence the outcome whatever that turns out to be.

  My self-talk proves of small comfort.

  Survival

  I squint. Sunrise brightens the otherwise dingy room. I should be grateful I'm awake, but I'm stiff limbed, adding to the darts of pain shooting down my arm. The leg is not much better. I reach for the water bottle, careful to take only a sip, then rummage in the rucksack for the other half of the protein bar I ate last night. Feeling around inside, not wanting to extract Gloria's present, my knuckles press against something in the interior pocket. I realise in a flash it's the document folder. At first, I'm puz
zled. Then I cast my mind back. I put it there last week planning to visit Pedro to discuss a strategy for dealing with the situation. Neither of us was keen to hand over the documents—copies of an illegal development plan, emails, transcripts of text message exchanges—to the police. Besides, I wasn't sure we had enough to prove anything, hence the meeting. Only, what with the birthday party, the commission and the imminent storm, our meeting was forgotten, by me at least, and I've been carrying those documents around in the rucksack ever since.

  It suddenly occurs to me the oversight has put both Pedro and Paula in even greater danger. If whoever has been sent to recover the documents were to find them, then maybe he would leave, satisfied. Maybe. No chance of that now. A wave of anxiety and self-recrimination washes through me. I'm an idiot.

  An idiot who has to be practical.

  I heave myself up using my good leg. The dog could be out there, watching, but I have no choice. A puncture wound, and the leg might heal, but the animal tore at my flesh and would have bitten a chunk right off if it hadn't been for my pants. I need to do something with the wound or infection will set in, if it hasn't already. I don't like to think of what was last in that animal's mouth before it bit me.

  I scan the beach and the reef through the window cavity. No dog. No guarantee it isn't out there. I grab the plank of wood and hobble outside.

  As I head towards the beach I keep an eye on the steps leading up to the street above. The ocean is calmer, the tide low, and I take a few tentative steps on the soft black sand before it dawns on me I can't use the beach if I want to avoid leaving a trail. I walk backwards, obliterating the evidence of my footsteps as I go, then head across the rocky reef to the water's edge.

  The going is uneven. I need to walk slowly and watch each step, yet I'm acutely aware of the exposure and keep turning back to scan the village and the ridge behind me. In any one of those windows an eye might be sighting me down the barrel of a gun.

  I kneel close to the waterline, not trusting the ocean much either, knowing how easy it would be for me to fall in if a wave takes me by surprise. I release Gloria's scarf, pull up my trouser leg and bathe the wound as methodically and quickly as I am able. I wash out the scarf, then I unzip my fly and release my pee into the ocean, and hobble back to the safety of my hideout. Letting the wound and the scarf dry, I turn my attention to my arm.