“Easy for you to say.”
Kurt knew better than to argue with an Egyptian, all of them hysterical, overwrought, and contaminated by imagination. Kurt played around with a metaphor about turning anthills into pyramids, but couldn’t quite work it out. He leaned to brush sand from his starched chinos he’d pressed last night, the crease razor-sharp despite the wind plastering the cloth to his knees. He straightened and shouted as the tractor churned past. “We need it leveled by noon.” The driver waved and aimed the bucket at a tree stump. Kurt turned to Bassem. “Figure the concrete needs twenty-four hours to set, and allowing another two days for the plinth, plus a whole day to haul the statue from Genil providing you, meaning you, Bassem, get the forklift.”
“I can’t. I’ll be a prisoner.”
Kurt closed his eyes. “What part of ‘she didn’t see you’ don’t you understand?”
Bassem touched his head. “It’s not in here.” He tapped his heart. “In here says she told the Guardia Civil she saw me murder the kid’s mother.”
“For Christ’s sake, you didn’t murder anyone, and she didn’t see anything.”
Bassem’s face flushed. “There’ll be a Spanish judge, a Spanish court, and there’s me, a small little Arab.”
“Small as an ox.”
“With no papers. No money. Spaniards hate Egyptians because our history has better buildings.”
“Then get out of Spain,” Kurt said.
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
Kurt slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course, you did, you moron, you felt sorry for that weepy Arab woman. If you’re this worried, lawyer up.”
Bassem’s eyes followed the tractor as the driver scooped up a sapling and hold the loader high in the air. Roots dangled from the sides.
“There’s a cheaper solution,” Bassem said.
“Go for it.”
His eyes following the backhoe, Bassem said, “Juan’s supposed to take the American doctor-woman to Rocio to buy a picture from Alfonso.”
Kurt had to think a minute before he remembered he was the one who suggested original art over the fireplace would help sell the house. “Tell Juan to not let her buy one of Afonso’s Picasso knock-offs,” Kurt said. “The blue robots.”
“You made me lose my train of thought.” Bassem eased up his baseball cap and scratched the back of his head. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, Zak told me the American’s nervous about driving on the Autopista. Since the American woman saw me at the restaurant with the kid’s mother, Zak ordered Juan to be the chauffeur.”
Kurt backed away from Bassam’s garlicky breath.
“To drop her off at Alfonso’s house he calls his studio,” Bassem said. “Then Juan will make an excuse to leave. Maybe he has a cousin nearby, a friend, whatever, leaving the American alone with Alfonso. When Juan comes back Alfonso will tell him she decided to take the overnight swamp-buggy tour and Zak will pick her up the next day. Juan doesn’t know or suspect anything’s fishy. But Alfonso will make sure she’s gone for good. No person. No problem, I always say. “
“Gone where?”
“You shouldn’t ask.”
“The police will.”
“Who’s to ask Alfonso anything? Not all the pigeons are in the barn.” Bassem tapped his head. “I, myself, will haul the lady’s stuff from her apartment. No rent comes next month, her landlord finds the place empty and thinks she’s back in the States. No one could connect an American doctor with a crazy artist in Rocio three hundred kilometers away.”
“Let me get this straight. You set it up for Alfonso to kill someone just because you think—think, not know—the person witnessed something you didn’t do.” One look at the set of Bassem’s chin beneath the stupid grin said it all. This was serious. Furthermore, Kurt suddenly realized he knew more than he wanted to know. “Why are you telling me?”
“I need the keys to your boat because Alfonso’s borrowing it.”
Kurt got the picture. “No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ll get the Guardia Civil.”
“I think you’ll think again.” Bassem turned back to the tractor, then as if making a decision, spun around to face Kurt. “Because why? Juan’s a computer geek, and you’re the accountant. He hacked into our books and showed me the spread-sheets the audit people will never see. He printed it out, and man, if you saw the numbers.”
I earned it, Kurt almost said.
“The huge deposits in your pocket. The buyers’ payments on condos under construction Señor Zak sells on spec.”
“Impossible. The Excel sheets are encrypted and password protected.”
“We knew that.” Bassem beamed.
The backhoe lurched from a copse of trees and roared toward a boulder a stone’s throw from where Kurt and Bassem stood. Kurt leaned to hear what Bassem was explaining. “… boat for one day… garbage bag… hauling away old furniture and tires.” The motor stopped, catching Bassem in mid-shout. “The neighbors are happy. No more trash in Alfonso’s yard.”
“If murder were as easy as you make out, there would be no one alive on the planet,” Kurt said. “What about blackmail? Alfonso holds this over your head.”
“He’s too crazy. He talks to the television set and thinks he has a black parrot he’s teaching to count. The birdcage is empty.”
Kurt nodded slowly.
“A worker from a mental health clinic stops by with pills that Alfonso feeds to his cat. The pills don’t work, the cat’s crazier than he is.”
“And you trust him?”
The driver of the tractor put the machine in neutral while he lit a cigarette.
“Alfonso listens to me because I listen to him,” Bassem said. “The American lady-doctor will wind up in the Guadalquivir that’s already full of dead drug dealers, and dead mayors.” Bassem laughed. “And enough dead Russians to make another Moscow.”
“What about the dog.?” Kurt said.
“What dog?”
“That the American keeps in the apartment.”
Bassam made a gun with his thumb and index finger.
The driver engaged the backhoe and headed toward the pile of debris at the edge of the clearing. Kurt shook his head as if to loosen the words inside it. “What does Zak say about all this?
“He doesn’t know.”
“You do remember he’s seeing the woman.”
Bassam’s grin morphed into a leer. “A love is only love,” he sang.
Kurt interrupted before Bassem could move on to the next stanza. “Don’t do this to the American,” Kurt said, surprised at the sharp pang of regret he felt. He, himself, was attracted to the pretty little lady who liked Bach. She was smart, too, the only woman Kurt knew who understood drywall. “You and Alfonso could get in very deep shit.”
Kurt sighed, drew out his Marlboros, and said he needed a cigarette, when what he really needed was a break from Bassem, the little shit. “Watch the driver doesn’t plow into that tree.”
Kurt walked back to the Great Estate’s Jeep, climbed inside, and turned on the air conditioner. He tapped out a Marlboro while thinking, suppose tourists on a guided swamp tour see a man slide a human-sized bag over the stern. Or the body washes up too soon, instantly recognizable. Or Alfonso blabs to his health aide.
One screw up and the plan goes splat like an egg dropped on tile.
What if the police discover the owner of the boat? I’m a co-conspirator, Kurt thought. Or an accomplice, or whatever they call them on TV’s “Crime Beat.” He felt for his lighter that must be somewhere in an inside pocket.
If the Guardia Civil came around to investigate, it was critical that he and Zak stay on the same sheet of music. Zak had to understand Bassem was behind all of it. Like any right-hand man, Kurt knew more of the rank and file employees than the boss himself. For instance, Kurt knew Bassem’s father was a well-respected Coptic Christian, why the Muslim Brotherhood fire-bombed their house in Cairo. Bassem confessed to Kurt that he had found an upscale trafficker who ran a cabin cruiser to Spain from Libya to Malaga via Tangier. Kurt wanted the trafficker’s name. You never knew, he thought, when that information could come in handy, Bassem wouldn’t say. He did tell Kurt about the two other passengers aboard, three, if you counted the infant. There was Tariq, an imam, his sexy Berber wife, and their baby. According to Bassem, at sea he and Tariq killed time debating Knights versus the Emir’s Army. Some argument that must have been, Kurt thought.
Safe in Spain, Bassem, the rat, was the one who suggested the Knights kidnap Tariq’s kid as collateral to assure the Muslims would leave the statue alone. This was no problem. Bassem told Kurt the child was snatched while the sexy mom was hanging clothes on the roof. As Tariq’s friend, Bassem had offered useless advice and sympathy along with hints to the mother that he could help. She begged him to take her to her baby. In his rented room she gave him anything, everything. And everything would have worked out just fine, had the Emir’s men not caught up with her and Bassem and run them off the road. The little shit Bassem, Kurt thought, probably pushed her from the car. He knew what the Army of the Emir does to guys who mess with their women. Next day the shit remembered he lost his money clip. Where was it?
Kurt lit his cigarette, exhaled, and watched the smoke curl toward the pines. But the next morning instead of the money clip, what does Bassem find? The remains. Now the idiot believed the only way out was to take out the American. Where I come in, Kurt thought. If the police ask about the boat? Kurt studied the tip of the Marlboro. He’d say he’d loaned Bassem his keys to the office, forgetting a duplicate car, house and boat key were on the ring. Never mind his statement would kick Bassem under the bus. As they say, “Inshallah.”
15
The fender of the Great Estates Jeep was scraped like every fender in Spain is scarred by the walls of the narrow village streets, and the tunnels leading to the crypts they call underground garages. After a cursory good morning to Juan, I tossed my bag in the car and climbed into the passenger seat. “Does Alfonso know we’re coming?”
“Who knows what’s in that crazy brain?” Juan laughed and added, “You bought doughnuts for me?” I fussed with my seatbelt, unwilling to share my one cheese Danish.
Juan patted his stomach. “As if I need them.” He laughed and backed out of the parking lot.
Juan was fat. Not muscle heavy, but roly-poly fat with plump cheeks and pudgy fingers wrapped around the wheel. Eight in the morning and already his jolly good humor was getting on my nerves. Phony, I suspected. Not surprising. Zak said before Juan came to work for Great Estates and the Knights, he trained as a dental assistant. Maybe his was the voice that said, “You may experience discomfort,” while lighting a fire in a mosque.
The original plan was for Zak to drive me to Rocio. Instead, he foisted me off on an employee. Maybe avoiding the hours in the car when I might ask, “Were your Catholic colleagues responsible for the mosque bombings? Shooting refugees wading in from shore?”
On the other hand, maybe Zak actually did have a property closing in Marbella.
The traffic was light, and Juan sailed through the roundabout. Making small talk, I asked, “You mentioned you knew Zak since he was a kid.”
Juan began in his excellent English. “My great grandmother’s aunt married this soldier from Cadiz, who was Zak’s great someone.”
“His mom and dad still alive?”
“Alive? Yes. His dad, Emil, bought a place in Mijas after he signed over Great Estates to Zak. Emil might even like Mijas if he didn’t hate the neighbors so much. Can you imagine being the only card-carrying commie in a gated community?”
“The party still gives out cards? Interesting,” I said. “Leftist father, right-wing son. Polar opposites.”
“Wrong.” Juan looked in the rear-view mirror and accelerated. “Not opposites, both hot-tempered like all men of serious convictions.”
“Fanatics,” I said.
Juan laughed softly. “If you knew how he takes care of his family. Supports Alfonso since he went bonkers in the army. Even rented the exhibition Center in Marbella thinking an art show would make Alfonso famous. Can you imagine?” Juan continued, “I’ll never forget how he dragged us to see “The Obama Triptych. To me it looked like three sticks. But what do I know? After the show, his sales took off. Then—” Juan gave a thumbs-down.
I braced myself for an afternoon of awful art. “I just need something pretty for over a fireplace.”
I half dozed, and half followed the landscape as it rolled past. Bach’s Brandenburg on the CD played to the dressage horses grazing under the rosy sun. Steam curled from a glassy lake, its surface reflecting a single chubby cloud. A castle loomed over the valley. Approaching Seville, we crossed the Guadalquivir. West of the city, the fields of sunflowers gave way to scrubby undergrowth. A few miles farther, strange pines appeared. Their trunks smooth poles that rose to hold perfectly round globes of needles on top. Sticks balancing green balls. Lollipop trees in a fairy-tale world.
A sun-bleached wooden arrow pointed to an unpaved track. After bumping over exposed stone, we entered a landscape that could have been Mars. Ochre sand covered the road. “Why no paving?” I asked.
“They keep it soft for the horses’ hooves.” Juan said, plowing steadily ahead.
Relentless wind stirred gritty clouds over the hood. Metallic grains forced their way between my teeth. The Jeep slid into gullies between low dunes and rose to crest the next mound. The most bizarre town I’d ever seen gradually emerged through the tawny dust. Wide streets flanked by pink, yellow, and blue adobe buildings. Over each entrance, a sign read, Hermandades, then the name of a city.
“Brotherhoods,” Juan said. “Clubs that fix up the floats for the procession. Ever hear of New Orleans?”
“Vaguely,” I said with a smile.
“Hermandades are like the Mardi Gras’s Krews. Same idea.”
We passed Hermandades Madrid, Hermandades Barcelona, and Hermandades Burgos. A two-wheeled trailer was parked in front of the Hermandades Salamanca. Orange and pink paper flowers covered the entire vehicle. Why the wind didn’t blow the flowers clear to Portugal was beyond me.
“Leftover from the procession.” Juan pulled into a vast square, turned off the engine, and pointed to the cathedral. “Rebuilt in the Sixties after the earthquake.” The church was a mish-mosh of Mudejar towers, iron crosses, and gothic flourishes like the seashell patterned plaster over the entrance. The church too pretentious for this wild west of a town.
“It doesn’t fit,” I said. “The imitation Gothic and fake Mudejar in these rough and tumble streets.
Juan’s mouth tightened as he started the engine. “It’s perfectly normal.” After a minute of thought, he brightened. “You should come during the procession. It starts here and goes all the way to—I forget where. Hey, look at that guy.”
A caballero wearing a tight embroidered vest and round flat hat sat on a magnificent stallion. The horse pranced in place. The animal’s arched neck was held on a tight rein attached to a savage bit. I couldn’t look. A fairy tale world all right, where frightened children are lost in an evil forest. An unreasonable feeling of wanting to get out of here swept over me. We passed a raised wooden walkway of shops selling flamenco costumes and resin Virgins with plastic halos. A farrier’s workshop marked the entrance to a park on the shore of a lagoon. Startled
birds flapped up from the reeds. The beady heads of pink Flamingoes bobbed up and down as they fished in the algae. Juan turned onto a trail leading deeper into the lollipop forest.
“I should give Alfonso a heads-up. But no cell coverage out here.”
Maybe it was the howling wind. Or the sun glowering down at the cathedral. The place felt menacing. As if the grains of sand were the eyes of hungry insects. The word predatory made no sense. It took a minute to recall the last time I felt such a nameless anxiety.
Two in the morning after a twelve-hour stretch in the emergency room, I took the underground tunnel between Houston General and the parking lot. Midway through the passageway, the overhead fluorescent tubes went out. I move to the side of the cat-walk and keeping my hand on the rough cement wall, made my way through the tunnel with no light at the end. Footsteps clicked behind me, tap shoes on the heels of my steps. I stopped; the clicks stopped. I turn. No one there. I resumed. The clicks resumed. Muscle memory led my hand to the cell phone in my bag. No signal. The clicks become the heartbeats of the walls breathing in, breathing out. A faint glow ahead. I ran. My fear reached for the ray of light as a swimmer reaches for the raft. Safe under the lot’s halogen lamps, I looked behind me. No one. I fumbled with the car door, and although it was winter, my palms were slippery with sweat.
Get a painting and get out of Rocio.
The combative sun had turned the exterior of Alfonzo’s cottage to chalk. A palm with shaggy dead leaves leaned over the roof. Branches of a wily shrub groped for the door. Despite the dappled light filtering through the pines and the pleasant scent of rosemary, I resisted leaving the safety of the car. Juan rummaged around in the trunk for the bottle of Manzanilla he’d brought as a gift. I followed him up the path.
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 12