The Loss of What We Never Had

by Carolyn Thorman

  Casey spun around. “Aha. Caught you red-handed. What have you got there?” A short laugh. “And to think you won’t write me a simple script for hydrocodone for my bad back.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not licensed in Spain. And right now, I’m not licensed at home, either, until the hearing in Texas. And even after that...” I blocked the thought. “I just have a few Valium from—never mind where.””

  “Come on. Out with it.”

  I sighed, knowing Casey would hound me until I told him. “The waiter in the restaurant.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Slow Boat to China.”

  “I mean, which waiter?”

  “Tall, thin, dreadlocks, one gold earring.”

  “Red hair?”

  I nodded.

  “That would be Diego.” Casey moved to the chair opposite the sofa. Mozart jumped down from beside me and ambled over to rest his muzzle on Casey’s knee. The Malaga felt thick as honey going down. “The girl on the beach was so young. Who could murder a kid for a breach of morals? Honor? Oh, please.”

  Casey cleared his throat, signaling I was in for in for an educational moment. “All societies,” he began, “have the right to enforce their social controls.”

  Typical Casey, driving me nuts with his indiscriminate approval of every dysfunctional social system in the universe, except our own, which he regularly trashed.

  “Honor killings however, are a no-no,” I said.

  “Only that’s not what this was. Because honor killings are meant to send a message. All you women better play by the rules.” Casey at his pompous best, raising his index finger. “Take stoning for adultery. The entire village is expected to grab a rock and pitch in. Whereas your victim’s murder was in secret, which tells me this was about something else.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass and waited for it to settle. “I’d bet my Gucci boots she was done in by the Catholic crazies. The so-called Knights of Constancia. You probably have no idea how many of these Franco- left-over fascists are hidden in plain sight? One might be your plumber, your cleaner or priest.”

  Casey probably exaggerating again; he tended to be histrionic. Although there was no ice in his glass, he stirred his drink with his finger, then wiped it on his thigh. “What gets me, you would think with social media, the world should become a unified whole. Instead, it’s breaking into a thousand mini-nations—Catalonia, the Basques, the South Sudanese. Every dialect wants its own flag. Every religion wants a seat in the UN. Now here come these daft Knights holding rallies, stirring up the unwashed unemployed, yelling ‘Espaňa por Espaňa,’ kick out Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Unitarians—every non-Catholic so we can have Queen Isabella all over again, the Iberian Hitler, the angel of genocide. Only sorry, gents, this isn’t the Fifteenth Century.” Casey eased Mozart’s head from his knee, stood and crossed the room to reach for my empty glass. “You look a tad better, either my ranting or the drink. “Want more?”

  “Please.”

  “More of my ranting?”

  “It’s therapeutic,” I said, wondering if for him, or for me.

  He filled the glass to the brim. “Furthermore, the Knights are gaining numbers. They’ve infiltered parliament, local governments, I even heard your elegant Spanish estate agent, Zak DeLeon, is one of their officers.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Among other roles in the organization, he’s a fund-raiser. The church is selling parish dinners at two-hundred euros a plate, collecting for the statue of the Virgin they’re putting up in full view of the Muslims villages along the Moroccan coast.” Casey shook his head slowly. Can you imagine? Talk about in your face. And the Virgin is not even wearing a veil.” Casey gave a snort of a laugh and finished his drink. “Want to know the cat’s ass? The Pope’s coming to the dedication. Whole thing’s political. King Filipe donated the land, although that little fact is strictly hush-hush.”

  I studied Casey’s face, the deceptively innocent blue eyes. “How do you know all this?”

  He gazed off in the distance, then faced me as if having settled on a credible reply. “My former colleagues in the Queen’s Madrid’s Office. We talk. I keep in touch. Weddings, awards ceremonies, holiday parties. That sort of thing, you know.”

  No, I didn’t. Since when did the British Foreign Office staff share inside information with a former mid-level bureaucrat, an ex-agent, ex-pat. This was more than collegial. Was Casey back on the agency’s payroll? If so, then say it.

  While refilling his glass, he spoke over his shoulder. “Be prepared. You, me, the Knights will kick us out of Spain, too.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m Catholic.”

  “American Catholics don’t count.” Carrying his drink in one hand, Casey headed to the small TV mounted on the wall. “Let’s help Barcelona beat the shit out of Berlin.”

  Mozart’s was dozing at the end of the sofa. “Time to go home,” I told him as the band played the last note of the Spanish national anthem. “Kibbles,” I shouted over the roar of the crowd.

  4

  Zak DeLeon jumped from the dock down onto the deck of the Strega, his

  Valencia 36, the high-freeboard sloop he commissioned from Davila Maritime, four generations of Cadiz shipbuilders. He paused at the ping of his phone. A text from Paige, ‘Change of plans,’ she wrote. ‘Stuck in Spain, possibly for the rest of my life. We need to get together.’

  He’d get back to her later. Standing before the open hatch, he shook his head in annoyance, the third time this week Candy forgot to close the door. He snapped on the cabin light.

  “Turn that off.” Candy lay on the bunk, her arm shielding her eyes from the overhead. She was in her ‘Nebraska is Corny oversized tee-shirt. “Shit, Zako, you woke me up. Where’ve you been?”

  Zak crossed the narrow passageway to the galley that was nothing more than a microwave atop a mini-fridge you had to stoop to open. He stared at the half-eaten wheel of brie, a Styrofoam box, and bottle of Bushmills. He lifted the whiskey and unscrewed the cap.

  “I saved leftover takeout.” Candy swung her feet to the floor. “You want I should heat it up?” She tugged at the hem of her skimpy denim shorts. A tall blonde, she had the sharp bones of a model. Going to fat, but she still carried hints of her glory days as a runner-up for Miss Omaha.

  A year ago, they met on the beach in Marbella. Candy, a drop-out from a Spanish language study group: Zak, on a roll. A real estate boom and northern Europeans snapped up every condo and villa on his inventory. Brits with tiny dogs, Swedes with bottled water, and Japanese with videos to capture it all. Americans came for flamenco workshops, wine-tastings and self-improvement programs like the language-immersion group that brought Candy.

  At first, charmed by her naiveté, Zak gradually realized her shallowness was not necessarily stupidity, but an inability to sequence facts into cause and effect. Useless and empty, her brain was a camera without film.

  “There’s cheese, too. Where’ve you been?” she repeated.

  “Kurt and I were ironing out a work-scope.” Zak splashed whiskey into a glass and took it to the chart table where he sat on the leatherette bench. “For a contract with a woman from Texas who’s renovating her dad’s finca.”

  “You knew her from school in the States?”

  “Actually, years ago my father worked for her father when the old guy entertained his

  American doctor friends in what he called his villa.” Zak shrugged. “It’s not a villa. It’s just a house. I hadn’t met the daughter until last week.”

  Candy groped for her sneakers under the bed. “What’s Miss Texas look like?”

  Zak lowered his gla
ss.

  “So’s I know what I’m up against.”

  “Candy, this is business, like, making a living.”

  “I bet she’s thin.”

  He pictured Paige’s slim legs exiting gracefully from the passenger seat of his

  Porsche. “I didn’t notice.”

  Candy leaned over him. “Because you like them skinny.” As if in danger of being overheard, she whispered, “You two getting it on?”

  The breeze from shore carried the accordion strains of Red Sails in the Sunset’ The Italian guy serenading the tables on the promenade.

  “Candy....” Zak pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “This is my first big contract in months. My stock’s down the toilet, no bids on the high-rise I’ve put up for sale, my back’s kicking up again. And you’re giving me a hard time?”

  He couldn’t tell Candy he could have murdered his employee, Bassem, the little shit of an Egyptian, coming into the restaurant demanding money while the mother of the baby, the Knight’s hostage, was right behind him. Earlier in the day, Zak had been out of the office when Kurt, his manager, had allowed Bessem to take the company van to drive the mother to see her kid. A decision so stupid, it boggled Zak’s mind. Kurt had probably fallen for Bassem’s pitch about a kid needing its mother. Sentimental drivel.

  ” Why’s your face all scrunchy?” Candy asked.

  “Kurt overstepped his authority.” Zak held the bottle of Bushmills to the light and emptied the last of it into his glass. “Approved something behind my back.”

  Candy gave a melodramatic yawn and reached for her pack of Davidoff’s. “Back to Miss Texas.” She slowly unwound the cellophane strip, stopped and looked up. “So, what is it with you two? I mean, regarding you and me?” She slid the pack of cigarettes aside. “I got rights.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  The accordionist swung into Lady of Spain and Candy crossed her arms over her chest.

  Christ, here come the sulks.

  To his relief, she unfolded her arms. “She got big hair? Spray stuff?”

  “I think she wears it in a knot in back.” No need to mention the sexy loose strands Paige tried to keep pinned. “Her name’s Doctor Glasgow, and she’s actually on the mousy side.”

  “A doctor doctor?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “So, where’s Mr. Glasgow?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “If she’s fixing the place up, I bet there’s a boyfriend. See, she sets up housekeeping ‘way outside the States so no one back home will find out.”

  “I told you she’s renovating her dad’s finca for sale.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Sucker.”

  He studied Candy through wisps of her cigarette smoke, wondering why he was so pissed when he had already decided to dump her. Easier said than done; easiest if he, himself, simply walked out. That’s exactly what he’d do. Walk out. Then he remembered he owned the boat.

  He finished his drink and headed down the narrow passageway toward the hanging locker. Candy opened the DVD and sat cross-legged on the bunk, staring at a re-run of ‘The Death of Life,’ a novella with English subtitles. The Strega rocked gently in the wake of a passing cruiser. When the hull steadied, Zak rummaged for a tee-shirt.

  An hour later, Candy unfolded the bunk-extender and made up the mattress with sheets and a quilt. “You coming to bed? Yes? Or no?”

  God, she grated on his nerves. “Don’t shout.”

  Lying beside her, Zak wondered how to gather the strength to weather her tantrums, come the breakup. She could be nasty. It might be tricky to kick her out without screams for money, possibly from a lawyer. He rolled away and listened to the whispery rustle of her nightgown as she gathered it above her waist, a signal he was expected to obey. She flung her leg over his, her fingers scampering up and down his spine.

  “Quit that.”

  The hand went away. “What’s the matter? Miss Texas squeeze it out of you?”

  “Give it a rest, Candy.”

  Her breath in his ear. “Tell me, you been a dipshit all your life? Or did an attack just come on.”

  She climbed over him to get out of bed. In the galley, she slammed a cabinet door, and he concentrated on the accordion melody drifting through the porthole. The scent of Paige’s Chanel filled the air, and Zak wondered if it were possible to hallucinate a smell.

  Candy coughed. Zak sighed, punched the pillow into shape, and lay back. That Candy was an idiot, wasn’t her fault. He started to rehearse his breakup speech, his explanation, and apology before remembering he had nothing to apologize for.

  . . . . .

  Four in the morning and unable to sleep, Zak sat in the galley staring at the computer. He glanced at Candy stretched flat out and snoring, turned back to the screen and brought up his e-mail. Ads: Corte Ingles, Lidle’s sale on hamburgesa. Nothing yet from Family Heritage, the genealogy service he hired to document what he already knew. What was taking so long? All they had to do was chart the branches of the tree connecting the Valdez’s to the DeLeons. Written proof and Zak could inherit the realm.

  The Valdez family’s claim-to-fame-was the Duke who fought with the Spanish Armada that went down when the British took Gibraltar. As if anyone gave a rat’s ass about the obese stone fit only for off-shore investors and Barbary Apes—assuming there was a difference. For his loyalty, the Duke was awarded vineyards, a river, and an entire village. If Zak was lucky, he’d wind up owning the shawl of brilliant white houses draped over the hillside. A town with a church with a Mudejar tower, a Citroen dealership, four tapas bars and narrow streets winding up from the valley to the castle atop the hill.

  The castle generated income from visitors paying to see the torture chamber that existed only in the imagination of the Spanish Tourism Office. Imaginary, that is, until the Office hired a contractor to install cells, loop chains from iron rings in the wall, and build a gallows purportedly of oak but with the sheen of freshly hewn plastic.

  Sometimes on his way to Jerez, Zak would turn off the 381 and inch his Porsche through the alleys snaking up to the ramparts. Run his hand over the walls and breathe the chalky smell of damp stones. Gaze over his plains where the family-owned every bodega, dressage horse, and pedigreed bull from the mouth of the Guadalquivir to the Costa del Sol. His, all of it. His. No matter that he wasn’t the landowner of record. The deed was in his DNA.

  And although knowing the interior of the Valdez castle like the back of his hand, Zak would take the tour. He mingled with the busloads of sightseer women in sleek polyester, and the sightseer men in vests fitted with the important straps and pockets seen on war correspondents.

  Guides would point out the pint-sized chair built for a sixteenth-century physique where the nobleman sat while he ordered the slaughter of peasants. A crock of shit. One more deception promoting the god-awful packaged tourism that cheapened history and trivialized art.

  Candy stirred. “You’re up. Sick or something?”

  “Go back to sleep,” he said.

  Candy yanked the quilt over her head. If it were possible to flounce laying down, she flounced onto her side.

  Zak closed the genealogy site and opened an email from Kurt, his name above his title, Fiscal Officer, Great Estates. Kurt also served as a volunteer, the fiscal director of the Knights. Zak brought up the template designed for authorization for acquisitions. It showed two crates of AK 47s from Huan Lee imports, and a shipment of Kevlar body-armor from a supplier in Munich whose name was new to Zak. Nevertheless, he entered his electronic signature.

 
He exited the site and opened the resumes for the Knights’ new recruits. All heavy hitters: a vice-president of Valencia’s Ford Motors, the owner of Los Cosas boutique, a lawyer from Opus Dei, and Doctor Ramon Garvez, Chief of Surgery at Marbella General.

  The welcome packet they would send included the Archbishop’s blessing under a photo of his Excellency taken at the summer palace where years ago—right after the Madrid bombing—Zak and Archbishop Raphael De Alba had created the Knights of Constancia.

  . . . . .

  Hours after the Islamic terrorists struck the Atocha station, Zak stood behind the police barrier as rescue teams picked through the wreckage. Watched them drag bodies and body parts from the crumbled cement, tangled wire, and rebar sticking straight up like index fingers accusing God. Smoke curled to the yellow sky. The rubble exhaled its foul breath of cordite, diesel, and burnt rubber. Sickened, Zak turned away, then forced himself to turn back as medics salvaged limbs and guts. Slowly Zak began to realize how carefully the rescuers gathered and examined each fragment of flesh. Then it dawned on him, the medics were attempting to reassemble remains into a semblance of a whole. Or, if that wasn’t possible, the rescuers were placing each limb and each organ on its own separate gurney. One stretcher. One life. With a sudden burst of pride Zak saw this as a symbol, a revelation, one small gesture that defined his people, his nation’s desperate attempt to maintain its integrity despite the attacks of invaders. And they’re back, he thought. Back to reclaim what they call their Andalusian heritage. Fuck ‘em.

  The next day Zak gained an audience with Archbishop de Alba, who upon hearing Zak out, explained, ‘Time’s come to revive the famous, infamous Inquisition. Not necessarily the torture and gore, unless—never mind. But to foster a new militant movement, a push-back initiative. Unfortunately,” Father went on. “The popular focus is on the previous Inquisition’s downside.”