A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

'A table for two, please,' he says to the maître d', who plucks two menus from his lectern and leads them to a table, laid out with white linen and polished cutlery.

  Richard looks forward to a pleasant meal. Once seated, he drinks in the view of the marina then he scans the menu. Flicking through the pages he thinks he might order the goujons of chicken with asparagus and a nice berry jus. Hoping to consult Paula, he looks up to find she's using her menu to bury her face. She must have seen him try to gain her attention because she promptly leans forward, and moving the menu to one side, she hisses, 'Richard, this place is too expensive.'

  'Nonsense,' he says, although eyeing the prices, he privately agrees.

  She again shields her face with her menu. She's behaving in the most ridiculous manner and Richard worries she's bringing undue attention to their table. A couple seated nearby have already exchanged glances.

  He returns to his own menu. A short while later, she moves hers to the other side and reaches forward with her free hand.

  'I really think we should leave.'

  There's surprising desperation in her voice.

  She pauses, eyeing the back of the restaurant behind him. Then she stands up abruptly and rushes to the door. Richard shrugs apologetically at the other diners and follows her outside.

  'What was that about?' he says, hurrying to her side as she heads off. 'I told you I would have paid.'

  'Twenty euros for tapas!'

  He opens his mouth to protest.

  'Richard, I brought you to Puerto Calero to show you how the rich and famous holiday on Lanzarote for inspiration for your novel. Personally, I can't stand the place.'

  Her explanation is paltry in consideration of the excessively furtive behaviour she just displayed. She reminds him of Trish. Or rather a curious inversion, for his wife would never cast aspersions on a village as fine as Puerto Calero.

  'Can we go back now?'

  'But I'm hungry.'

  'It won't take long to drive to Haría.'

  'Paula, I'm famished. I think I'll faint behind the wheel.'

  She pauses.

  'There's a little fishing village nearby.'

  'How far is it?'

  'Not far.'

  She directs him back to the highway and south towards Yaiza. At the next roundabout, she instructs him to follow the sign to La Quemada, and they are heading for the coast again, leaving Richard wondering why someone hasn't thought to build a coast road to link to two locales. As he nears La Quemada he realises why. The village is small and run down and has little to commend it save for the view of the mountains and the rugged coastline to the south. Caravans litter the hillsides on the village outskirts. The buildings look basic, and the beach is strewn with large pebbles. He can't see why anyone would bother with the place. They drive through the main drag and are soon out the other side. He wants to make a U turn but she has him pull up in a car park and points out a rustic-looking restaurant, set back from the shore and probably family run.

  'Why here?' he says reproachfully, eyeing the two pleasant-looking shore side eateries they just passed.

  'Trust me,' she says and heads off across the street.

  Before he can protest she's greeted the waitress, a plump, round-faced woman in her forties, selected a table on the patio outside, and sat down and ordered the menu of the day and a bottle of beer. Too hungry to care any longer what he eats, he orders the same.

  He considers confiding his gruesome discovery at the mareta, weighing up the restraint he's been practicing in deference to her situation and not wanting to cause her alarm, against the literary value in her reaction if he does. He's about to confess when he hears a high-pitched beep and watches Paula extract her phone. She reads the message and puts her phone away without comment. It's then he notices the restaurant door opening, and out strides a middle-aged man, notable for thinning sandy hair combed over a balding pate. Richard recognises him immediately as that irritatingly sycophantic fan, Fred Spice, who accosted him one time at a music concert and has been popping up on the island ever since. He looks ludicrously garish in a red shirt and matching pants, as though he belongs in a carnival. His wife trails behind. Richard bows his head, suddenly wishing for that large menu Paula used to cover her face, but it's no use.

  'I don't believe it!' And the pint-sized Brummie comes over to their table.

  'Hello, Fred,' Richard says, raising a faint smile as he proffers his hand.

  'Aren't you going to introduce us to your lovely lady?'

  'Paula, this is Fred Spice and his wife.' He pauses, straining. Failing to recall her name, he says, 'I'm sorry.'

  'Margaret.'

  They exchange polite greetings. There's a brief moment of silence.

  'Working on anything special?' Fred says.

  'How's your holiday?' he says in reply.

  'We've just done the bodega tour in the hire car.' Fred is beaming. 'Do you mind if we…?' and they both draw up chairs and sit down. 'Fascinating, you know. Got some terrific shots.' He extracts his phone and commences a long ritual of scroll and show, first to Paula, whose plastic smile never wavers, then Richard. 'Almost got a parking ticket pulling up at the camel roundabout though.' He emits a chuckle.

  'The camel sculptures?' Paula says.

  'On the roundabout, yes. Bloody marvellous what this island gets up to.'

  'On Rosa's roundabout.'

  'I don't follow.' Fred looks confused.

  'That's the name of the businessman who owns a farm there,' she says. 'Going into cheese I believe.'

  'You are well informed,' Richard says, genuinely impressed.

  'My father mentioned it.'

  'We saw it,' says Fred. 'There are goats and sheep and cows. In feedlots mind you. Quite remarkable what he's done there. No expense spared. Those milking cows have their own custom-built shade canopies. You'd need that here,' he adds, turning to his wife who bobs her head in concord.

  'I'm not a fan,' Paula says ironically.

  'Of Rosa? Why? He throws a lot of money at his ventures. And he's a good employer of the locals. The owner of our favourite tea rooms was telling us all about it only this morning, wasn't he Margaret. Adventurous too. If you want my opinion, I think he's picked on by those jealous of him. Always happens to us entrepreneurial types. Think of Richard Branson.'

  'Must I?'

  Feeling awkward Richard fumbles with his keys. He dearly wishes Paula wouldn't encourage the man. Fortunately, Spice took that last remark as a rebuke. Then the restaurant door swings open, the waitress coming with their beers.

  'We better be going, Margaret. Leave these two to their lunch.'

  'Enjoy the rest of your stay,' Paula says.

  'We'll make sure of it.'

  After they leave, Paula's phone beeps again and she attends to the message. Richard is left with his beer and his thoughts. He refuses to let Fred Spice's intrusion interfere with his flow. Uppermost in his mind is their whistle stop at Puerto Calero and he begins to conjure scenarios to link the marina to the La Mareta building in Costa Teguise. Sleuth Paula, unlike the real Paula, will have no objection to fine dining. She might meet a good-looking yachtsman. Go out on his boat. Maybe they'll head off to Cape Verde together, although that might be better in a sequel.

  He drifts in his thoughts, leaving Paula to sulk behind her sunglasses. Since she's slipped back into a recalcitrant mood, when the food arrives he ignores her and occupies himself with his meal.

  The entrée of sardines in a tasty vinaigrette, served with bread and dipping sauces, proves surprisingly palatable. The green sauce has certainly been made on the premises. When the main course comes he's equally pleased, the fish fillet grilled with skill, and the fries homemade. He anticipates the usual set custard that any tourist would expect to find on a Spanish special's board, but instead for dessert they both receive a scoop of light-brown ice cream in a metal dish.

  He takes a mouthful of the creamy nutty dessert and is pleasantly surprised. He asks Paula if she knows what
it is.

  'Gofio ice cream,' she says, tucking into hers. 'Gloria's favourite.'

  'I've never come across it before.'

  'You have to go to the right restaurants.'

  'You've been here before?'

  'You can get it in Arrieta, too.'

  Her phone emits several beeps. She sets down her spoon and reads through the messages.

  After a lengthy silence, she takes him by surprise by saying, 'How's Trish?'

  'She's fine, as far as I know.'

  'Meaning?'

  'I haven't spoken to her in a week. She was in a lather about the plumber turning up an hour late. She can't stand it when people are late. And she has a bee in her bonnet about my latest work. Whenever I speak to her she interrogates me then provides me with a blow by blow account of a plot of her own.' He stops talking when he realises Paula is no longer listening, her attention caught by some activity across the road.

  Seeing her in such a distracted state, he again feels sorry for her. It can't be easy not knowing where your husband has got to. The waiter comes to clear their table and he asks for the bill. Paula is already standing ready to leave when he pays it.

  As they head back to the car she stops as though she's spotted something of interest and her manner changes dramatically. She rushes past the car and corners the bottom of the street. Perhaps she's spotted Celestino. He hurries after her but by the time he reaches the corner she's already standing at the end of a beachfront lane, hands on hips. She has her back to him and there's no one else in sight. Before he has a chance to catch her up she's rushing back towards him.

  'Come on,' she says breathlessly on her way past.

  Baffled, he follows her back to the car.

  Her strange mood persists all the way back to Arrecife. She spends most of the drive pulling at a loose thread on the hem of her shirtsleeve.

  As they approach the ring road she says, 'Can you turn off at the next roundabout, please?'

  'Where are we going?'

  'I'll direct you.'

  She navigates him through a quarter of Arrecife he's never had recourse to enter, a sprawling industrial area and adjoining housing estates. Construction is going on all over the place, with all the road works, cranes and dump trucks commensurate with the development. It's an area where rendered walls are left unpainted, where workers having a break sit on the pavement. He can see that the ring road cuts off from the rest of the city from this downbeat looking hinterland, this ghetto.

  She has him pull up on the forecourt of the garage.

  'What are we doing here?'

  'Shirley's car is in for repair.'

  'That woman I met the other day?'

  'Yes. I've come to collect it.'

  'Was that what those messages were about?'

  Paula faces him abruptly. 'Thanks for lunch, Richard,' she says, cutting off further enquiry. 'I hope you now have some inspiration for your book.'

  'I hope you find Celestino.'

  'Thanks.'

  He watches the smooth way she manoeuvres herself out of his car, swinging her legs round first, ducking as she leans forward and standing with no need of a hand on the seat's backrest for support. He feels old and stiff in comparison. All the more reason to hurry home and crack on with his new plot. Progress smells sweet, masking the unpleasantness of his present surroundings. He forgets about the real Paula and lets the sleuth Paula consume him. Feeling the intoxicating thrill of a new work at his fingertips, he drives off.

  Tabayesco

  Richard's car disappears under the ring road bridge. I hope he'll find his way through Arrecife's complex grid of one-way streets and back north without too much hassle. I'm glad I accepted his offer to accompany him. Sighting in the Haría plaza that bald-headed man I'm sure I saw in Teguise the day I went to the timple museum in the hope of encountering Fernando, I thought it a good idea to escape watchful eyes. Richard provided a reprieve of sorts, too. It wasn't until I was in Richard's car that an opportunity to visit Puerto Calero sprang to mind. The adventure wasn't onerous, and for the most part Richard left me to my musings. Perhaps I should show him more respect. Value his insights. He might be inept in some ways, many ways, but he still has talent. It's something he said about false trails and being led astray. That just about sums up the events of the last week.

  I spy Shirley's Maserati parked on the forecourt, looking a little dusty but strikingly out of place. This part of Arrecife is representative of the first square on Celestino's Lanzapoly board, the local equivalent of Old Kent Road, whereas Puerto Calero, I think with grim irony, is the equivalent of Mayfair. I scan the commercial buildings and vacant lots, the abundance of trucks and almost total lack of trees, thinking the locale reveals more of the reality of the island than the charming streetscapes of the tourist enclaves. An underbelly area maybe, yet here, like everywhere else on the island, the locals pay their taxes. And all that money is funnelled elsewhere. Not for the poor the wide tree-lined streets and the parks and the promenades. It strikes me that there are two Lanzarotes, an outer face and an inner truth. What would the likes of Fred Spice make of that?

  I walk along the forecourt, passing the office entrance and on to the open roller door, removing my sunglasses on my way in. The building is cavernous and grimy. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of the petrol, oil and grease, fumes that have no doubt penetrated every atom of the place.

  I notice Miguel beneath a hoist, working on the bowels of a van.

  'Hola,' I say as I approach.

  He glances over, surprise lighting his face. He downs his wrench and offers his hand, then emits a short laugh as he looks at the grime and the grease and pulls it back.

  'Pilar told me,' he says, observing my reaction. 'Still no sign?'

  'No.'

  'She's tried to contact you. She's been leaving messages.'

  'Tell her I'm sorry. I've been searching for him for days.'

  I feel awful, knowing that Pilar and Celestino are cousins. I should have returned those calls.

  He hovers, looking awkward. I've interrupted his work. It's Friday and he's probably keen to get on.

  'The Maserati?'

  'Follow me.'

  He leads me to a side door and retrieves a set of keys hanging on the back.

  'This neighbour of yours,' he says, toying with the remote control.

  'What about her?'

  'Que raro. I didn't know they made these cars fully automatic. Le sobra dinero pero le falta sentido común.'

  I smile. It's true; Shirley does have more money than sense.

  'What was wrong with it?'

  'A loose connection.'

  I take the keys along with the invoice and make my way to the car. Opening the driver's side door, I wonder how I'll manage to handle the elongated foot pedals without getting into a tangle. I sit down to find the seat has been pushed right back. I adjust it forward a fraction. Then I switch on the ignition and the engine purrs to life.

  Driving proves easy, although it isn't until I'm on the road heading north to Arrieta that I'm able to think back over the day.

  Richard must believe I'm going slowly nuts, considering how strangely I behaved throughout our little adventure. I certainly didn't anticipate I would stumble on Redoto's other restaurant after trawling the promenade without a glimpse of him or Maria. Although for all I know they spend little time at this second restaurant. Seeing him standing at the bar gesticulating with a glass of wine in hand didn't phase me; we only met once and in all likelihood he wouldn't recognise me, considering how preoccupied he'd been. I could easily have stayed seated and let Richard pay for an expensive lunch. I did consider doing just that when Redoto's companion turned in his seat and I saw him in profile. With his shaven head and his leather jacket he was unmistakable. He appeared unmoved by Redoto's gesticulations. The man just sat there, gazing at the back-bar mirror. I kept my face buried in my menu, as ridiculous as that must have seemed, while I came to terms with his presence in the Haría plaza not two
hours before. It took me a few moments to realise he was staring at the reflection of the room, possibly at me. I managed a few more discrete glimpses and when I saw the man walk off, I took my chance and forced Richard out of the restaurant.

  Could he be the man in the black sedan? Instinctively I check the rear vision mirror. There's no one behind.

  Seeing the turn off for Guatiza up ahead, I flick the indicator. A slip road leads down to a roundabout. I exit at the petrol station, alone on its own corner, and park on the forecourt as far from the bowsers as I can. There are few cars about. Two volcanoes rise out of the coastal plain, one close by, the other partially obscured by the embankment of the main road. No trees. The wind gusts, forcing a sideways lean on the roadside weeds, but I can't feel it buffeting the car. It's a surreal environment in the Maserati, the calm, the silence, and the smell of leather and Shirley's aromatic air freshener.

  Have I been betrayed by my instincts or guided by them? Seeing that man talking to Redoto alarmed me but I have no solid justification for that alarm, just a nagging sense of danger. I was taken by surprise, that's all. That he was in Haría hours before means nothing. The island is small. People get around.

  Did unexpected discoveries feature in Richard's stories? Is that allowed? Or is it only in real life that a supposed sleuth stumbles on evidence when they least expect it?

  Le Quemada was an obvious antidote to Puerto Calero, a quaint, unspoilt village where the locals go to enjoy a holiday. It's a village so special to Celestino he refused to feature it on his Lanzapoly board. I couldn't have known I was leading myself straight towards the location of one of his paintings. It was only on the way back to Richard's car after lunch that I saw the formation of the slopes of Los Ajaches, just as Celestino depicted them in his rendition of a gated resort, and when I went down to the end of the beachside lane and saw the little beach all secluded on the far side of a bluff, a beach of black sand cut off from those of La Quemada at high tide, I knew I'd found the location of his solar panel crucifixes as well. It was one of his favourite places on the island. Back when I was pregnant and the romance in our relationship vibrant, he often talked of taking me there. It was as though through that painting he provided me with a secret message. Wanted me, and me alone to discover the truth. Why didn't I think to go there before?