'Tomato sauce?' Bill says, directing his comment at Angela.
'I think not,' she says, cutting her own roll in half.
We fall into silence, each absorbed with their food.
At Bill's elbow is yesterday's edition of El Diario de Lanzarote. Although his command of the language is minimal, he insists the only way to learn is full immersion. The front page is given over to more news about the tropical storm. A burnt-out car has been found at an intersection near Mancha Blanca. My belly lurches. Mancha Blanca? Isn't that where the Swedish doctor, Erik lives? I read on. The police are unable to identify the vehicle's owner or find a trace of the driver, who may have died at the scene. It wasn't unusual, the reporter said, as the heat in a car fire will turn bones to powder. The police are seeking witnesses.
'Have you seen this?' I say, addressing my father.
'What is it?' Bill glances over. 'Ah, yes.'
'I should call the police. It could be Celestino's car.'
'I think you're being paranoid, Paula. Stop jumping at every little thing.'
'But when I went to the studio, the commission for the doctor wasn't there. What if Celestino went to deliver it.'
'In Saturday's weather? Hardly likely.'
I have to agree, and besides, Shirley said she saw Celestino leaving the house at about one-thirty, so wherever he was heading, it was not to Mancha Blanca, for if he went there at that time he would have missed the birthday party. Celestino would not have done that. He just wouldn't.
That gnawing anxiety intensifies. Keen for a distraction, I scan the other articles on the front page. Another headline concerns the demolition of the illegal hotels in Playa Blanca, a story Bill is following with keen interest after considering the volumes of concrete involved.
They're hardly going to ship the stuff to somewhere else, he said the other week. I imagined the expense, the enormous scale of the work involved. In a fanciful moment, I suggested recycling or reusing, but he scoffed away my ideas. You can't demolish those hotels brick by brick. Eyesores, he calls them. And they are. Celestino even created a 'kickback in your favour' Chance card for his Lanzapoly game, providing the acquisition of an illegal hotel for which rent can be gained, along with another Chance card that finds the owner of said hotel guilty of corruption and lands them in jail, and a third which requires payment of a vast demolition sum which generally bankrupts the player.
Preferring not to get into a heated discussion about who is responsible and therefore who should pay for what amounts to an exercise as monolithic as the buildings themselves, I observe Gloria's antics, privately decrying her table manners, certain Angela never let me make such a mess. She's arranged strips of bread and slivers of fish around the edge of her plate and is busy decorating the fish slivers with the bits of salad greens that she's strewn on the table along with a few rounds of tomato. She's consumed by her task and no one stops her. After a while, Angela fetches a cloth to wipe her hands.
'Did he end up entering that competition you mentioned?' she says without preface, directing her question to me.
'Celestino? He did.'
'Only I think I read somewhere they'll be announcing the winner on Monday.'
'Angela, leave it.'
'Well.'
'Angela, you know full well Celestino's disappearance has nothing to do with that painting competition.'
'That's as may be, but he'll need to be here to accept the prize, won't he? Or they'll give it to someone else.' It's her rising inflexion that grates.
I say nothing. Her words are as stodgy to swallow as the fish rolls. Maybe Gloria has the right idea.
It isn't until I've laboured through to the last bite that I'm able to relate the events of my morning. When I get to the part about the necklace, my voice rising on a string of speculations, each dourer than the last, Bill cuts in with, 'Hey, now. Calm down. Sounds like he left in a hurry, that's all. Don't let your imagination run away with you.'
Chastened, I lower my tone and continue with a short account of my conversation with Pedro.
'None the wiser, then,' Bill says.
'I need to talk to Fernando.'
'Are you sure? You're not a detective, Paula,' Angela says. 'If he does have something to do with this, aren't you putting yourself at risk?'
'At risk of what?'
She doesn't respond.
'If you do speak to him, avoid telling him you know about the painting,' Bill says. 'Find some other way of seeing if he had the opportunity. Do you have any idea when the painting turned up at that restaurant?'
A quick reckoning and I surmise it may have been put there anywhere between late Sunday night and sometime Monday morning, before Shirley and I walked in to find Redoto in a state. That was about noon, leaving a period of twelve hours, assuming the restaurant closed late. A pity I can't narrow it down any further.
Casting around for a change of subject, I forego my earlier reticence and gesture at his newspaper. 'Any news?'
'Only the first anniversary of the opening of the underwater sculpture.' He says it with a sneer and I do my best not to sigh. Almost everyone else on the island is rapt that Lanzarote secured the talents of world-renowned British sculptor, Jason deCaires Taylor, and now has a series of life-sized human figures in various poses, submerged twelve metres beneath the ocean, there to create an artificial reef to attract marine life and to make a critical comment on rising sea levels: Thirty-five people in a botanical garden walking towards a gate representing a point of no return. It is novel, ingenious, the artist's brand; the Lanzarote version building on the success of a similar sculpture in Mexico. The sculpture is a draw card, something to add to the buffet of tourist treats. Celestino and Bill are wont to complain that it cost many hundreds of thousands of Euros of public as well as private money; that the negotiations had proceeded behind closed doors and therefore without due public scrutiny; and that the sculpture is located in the heartland of the island's corruption, all reasons why it should never have been allowed to go ahead. I want to scream at them sometimes. What sort of utopian world do they imagine possible on the island, or anywhere else for that matter?
I reach for my water, suddenly thirsty. Bill attends to Gloria who has resumed playing with her food.
In the face of their relentless tirades about how the wealthy are taking over the island and making it theirs, I find myself defending tourism more and more, in spite of my own misgivings that it's out of control. Despite the corruption, Lanzarote strives to maintain and build on its uniqueness, undoubtedly driven by the knowledge that without tourism, the island's economy would wither away. It's a constant battle of competing interests. I understand that DRAT, along with many others in high places, want to attract what they consider to be a better sort of tourist, those who can afford the 5-star resorts. Those who come to the island in their yachts, the sorts of tourists Manrique initially envisaged would be the island's mainstay, and not the regular sort of holidaymaker, the average Brit or German or Swede seeking sun and sand and plenty of booze. I'm torn in all directions just thinking about it, my mind suddenly crowded with a recollection of the day Celestino tossed his copy of El Diario across the room in disgust after reading the announcement that the underwater sculpture was to proceed. For Celestino it was an obscenely expensive outrage that had little to do with the environment and everything to do with big money showing off. I tried to defend the project, citing the sculptor's credentials, but Celestino glared at me. 'Might as well toss all that money in the water.' He paused before adding, 'It should be spent on solar power.'
I hear his voice as though he is right here by my side, and I'm reminded of the solar panels in his painting. Solar power crucified, but in the name of what? Although something starts to make more sense.
I take my plate to the sink.
'Do you mind if…'
'Go. Do what you have to do.'
'Oh, Bill.'
I drive more quickly than I normally would, first through Máguez and then on through
Haría, taking the Peñas del Chache route to Teguise, slowing only at the switchbacks. Once I crest the mountain and the road flattens out I put my foot down again, swerving past two cyclists rounding the sweeping bends down into Los Valles. Why the urgency? I'm not looking forward to confronting Fernando one bit. I have no idea how I'll broach the matter of his whereabouts on Sunday night and Monday morning. It seems somewhat ridiculous to even be trying. I'm not cut out for detective work, yet I don't question the role, far preferable as it is to sitting at home thumb twiddling as the hours slide by. I have to keep busy, even if it means driving first here then there like a wayward goose.
I enter Teguise and turn into Calle Garajonay, parking behind the old church where Celestino likes to have his market stall. A black sedan pulls up at the other end of the near empty car park as I lock the driver's side door. A tourist grabbing what little there is left of the warmth of the day, maybe. My thoughts wander back to the black sedan I saw earlier in the day parked up the street from Celestino's studio. I tell myself not to be ridiculous. I didn't notice I was being followed. Then again, I can't be all that sure. I was in such a hurry to get here.
I make my way down through the warren of cobbled streets that is old Teguise, not taking much notice of the fine old architecture that surrounds me, buildings that on a normal day capture my interest. The village is how I like it, quiet. Most of the shops look closed.
Situated in one of Teguise's grander plazas, the timple museum where Fernando works is housed in the Palacio Spínola. The Spanish colonial building has been beautifully restored; whenever I come here I always admire the decorative panelling of the windows, carved out of ancient wood and stained a dark brown. Even today, their size and complexity catch my eye. I head for the entrance doors, equally impressive, as a party of eight holidaymakers file their way outside.
They seem to be taking an age. I turn around and look back at the plaza, allowing myself a few moments to soak in the almost medieval vibe, wondering if anyone lives behind all the closed shutters, peeking out at the near empty plaza. A tall, wiry-looking man in black leather over dark denim appears and stands in the centre of the plaza as though waiting for someone. With his bald head and dark glasses, he doesn't have the demeanour of a tourist. More that of a local businessman. Teguise attracts an interesting mix of folk. As the man turns in my direction I look away, and seeing the others have moved on, head inside.
My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dim, the stone floor, high wooden ceiling, and walls of deep red absorbing what little lighting there is. The foyer is empty so I take a few steps in the direction of the main exhibition room. I've never visited the museum before and I stand in awe, gazing at the rectangular room, with its impressive wooden ceiling and polished floorboards, timples and other string instruments housed in glass display cabinets set in two long rows. The room leads on to a second through another set of ornately panelled doors at the end. I'm about to walk through the room when behind me someone makes a discrete cough.
I turn to find a young woman standing beside a small easel. 'El museo está cerrando,' she says. 'Closing,' she adds in English.
My words almost lodge in my throat. 'Puedo hablar con Fernando, por favor.'
The woman looks doubtful.
'Fernando Brena.'
'I'm sorry,' she says, choosing to speak in English. 'I am new here.'
'Fernando works here as curator.'
'Wait a moment.'
The woman disappears through a side door, discretely obscured behind an easel used to display the museum's events. I read the information board without taking in anything on it. I picture Richard strolling through the building, enjoying the elegance, making a show of reading the displays, hands behind his back, all sage and pretentious. I shift from one foot to the other, clasp my own hands behind my back, tilt my head to one side as if in reflection. My neck soon goes stiff and I decide the posture unwise, so I lean against the wall, hoping the red paint won't rub off on my blouse.
Ten minutes pass before the young woman reappears with a colleague in tow, a remarkably sour faced old man.
'I'm sorry, and you are?' he says with a cool stare.
'Paula. Paula Diaz.'
'Do you have an appointment?'
'With Fernando? No. I am a friend. I came to see him, that's all.'
'He isn't here.'
'I see. Do you know when he will return?'
'He no longer works here.'
'Does he have another job?' Masking my disappointment, I smile as if to demonstrate that I know Fernando hated working at the museum. From the little I've experienced of the staff, I'm surprised he stuck it out for the however-many years that he did. I wouldn't have lasted a day, working for that old trout.
'Another job,' he repeats. 'I believe that is the case.'
'And where might that be?'
He looks me up and down. 'You are his friend. Why don't you ask him yourself?' And he walks away.
I drive back to Máguez, humiliated and dispirited by turns. I have no idea where Fernando lives, and now I have no idea where he works.
Respite
Tenesar feels safer at night. The near total darkness, the sky lit only by the stars and a sliver of moon, and I assure myself my pursuer, whoever he is, and the dog, whose ever it is, won't be visiting. To some extent, I can relax.
I gaze into the void of starlight and listen to the ocean but fatigue soon sets in again and I retreat behind my barricade.
Huddled in the corner on the cold concrete, I doze. Before long the grey light of dawn lightens the room and I'm on guard again.
My plans to walk back to Mancha Blanca are compromised by the dog bite. The wound is angry and, together with the broken arm, the hunger, the dehydration, I'm too weak to make it. If I'm attacked again, the animal will kill me. But I can't stay here. I have no food save for that packet of peanuts. The water will run out today too.
In a sudden burst of determination, I grab the weapon and leave the sanctuary of the hut and hobble around the village, venturing further this time, on the lookout for houses with some sort of rear entrance.
My search seems in vain. There are few houses accessible via their rear and every back door I try is well and truly locked. Pushing aside the sense of futility that seeps into my being with every footstep, I keep trying, heading up to the larger, better maintained buildings below the cliff.
I walk down a narrow passage between two houses that I failed to notice when I searched the village before and arrive in a concrete driveway. To the right and left are high walls with no point of entry. It occurs to me I could have scaled that wall and broken into the house through the rear, but not in my current state. It's hopeless. I should be conserving energy. I'll need to leave Tenesar in the afternoon, and head back to Erik's house before I am no longer physically able to do so.
Before leaving the driveway, I round the corner and face a garage door. I try the handle, not expecting it to open. But to my astonishment it does and it's empty. In the rear wall, there's a door leading through to the house.
Surely no one has left that open as well?
I turn the handle and a second later I'm standing in the patio of someone's holiday home. I'm incredulous. I can scarcely believe my luck. The door to the house is open as well. Amazement gives way to practical common sense. I hobble back to my hut and grab my things, making sure to leave no trace of my stay. I hobble back as fast as I am able and as I shut the garage door and lock it from the inside, relief washes through me and I almost collapse. The feeling passes and I lock the other door, cross the patio and enter the house.
I find myself in a kitchen. There's fresh water, some cans of food with ring pulls, a carton of juice, another of long life milk, tea, coffee, jars of sugar and cocoa and an unopened packet of crackers. Heaven! The stove is fed by bottled gas. The fridge is switched off. No power, which means no running water. There's a sense no one has been here for a while. They probably shut the house up for the winter and someon
e forgot to lock the doors on their way out. I look forward to a feast, but first, I head to the bathroom on the hunt for a first aid kit.
There's nothing, not even a plaster. The food might help fight the infection, but it won't be enough.
On my way back to the kitchen I glance out at the patio and a lone drago tree catches my eye. My ancestors would use the sap of that tree as a cure all. Dragon's blood, they call it. With nothing to lose and the possibility of a cure, I search the kitchen and find a cleaver and a plastic container for the sap.
I could do with both arms to wield the cleaver but after a few blows, I manage to break through the skin of the trunk. Sap oozes and I capture what I can and take it back to the kitchen where I find a clean tea towel in a drawer. Then I sit at the table, roll up my trouser leg and gaze at the swollen, mangled flesh. I have no idea how to apply the sap so I smear it all over and wait for it to dry on my skin before wrapping the wound in the tea towel and tying it off with Gloria's scarf. Now, all I can do is hope.
I put a saucepan of milk on the stove and cocoa and sugar in a cup and open a can of tuna. Basic, but I'm surviving. If the dragon's blood works, I'll get out of here. I'll be in Paula's arms in days.
Poor Paula. She must be worried sick.
Yaiza
Gloria has taken up the greater part of the bed again. I wake to find her splayed out, arms akimbo, one hand as usual gripping her rabbit's ear. The serene look of the sleeping child reveals no sign of the tantrum she threw the previous afternoon.
She was fractious the moment I returned from Teguise frustrated by the lack of progress, realising as I entered my parents' house that I might as well consider myself a single parent, the sooner to get used to my new and lonely future.
'Where's Daddy?' Gloria asked, glowering at me, her large brown eyes filled with hurt. I couldn't contain my own worry a second longer. A single spasm and the tears flowed before I had a chance to hide my face.
Shocked at the sight of me distressed, Gloria ran off to seek comfort in the arms of her grandfather.
A Matter of Latitude Page 14