Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  ‘Hello, Sara, I’ve come here to see you because I want you to tell me about your husband and your son.’

  The smile on the woman’s face vanished.

  ‘Didn’t you know? My baby died!’ she wailed, burying her face in her hands. Amaia turned to the orderly, who was watching them from across the room. He gestured for them to continue.

  ‘Sara, we didn’t come here to talk about your baby. We want to know about your grown-up son, and your husband.’

  The woman stopped weeping.

  ‘You’re mistaken, madam, I have no son, I only had my baby, my baby who died,’ she said, pulling a sad face.

  Amaia took out her phone and showed her a photograph of Markina.

  The woman beamed.

  ‘Ah, yes, isn’t he handsome? But why do you call him my son? This my husband.’

  ‘No, this isn’t your husband, it’s your son.’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid! Do you think I don’t know my own husband?’ she screeched, snatching the phone from Amaia and gazing at the image. She smiled again. ‘Of course this is my husband. How handsome he is! So beautiful, his eyes, his mouth, his hands, his skin,’ she said, touching the screen with her fingertips. ‘I can’t resist him. You understand that, don’t you? You can’t resist him either, but I don’t blame you, nobody can. I’ve never forgotten him, I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved him. I still love him, I still desire him, even though he never comes to see me. He doesn’t love me any more, he doesn’t love me any more.’ She started sobbing again. ‘But I don’t care, I’ve never stopped loving him.’

  Amaia looked at her with pity. She had come across several Alzheimer’s victims who didn’t recognise their own children, or mistook them for younger versions of people they had known in the past. She wondered if it was worth trying to explain to her that the reason her husband didn’t visit her was because he was dead, or whether it was kinder to spare her the shock, even though it would last only as long as it took her to forget it.

  ‘Sara, this is your son. I imagine he bears a strong resemblance to your husband.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is that what he told you? That I’m his mother? Of course, I must look a sight,’ she muttered, rubbing her hands over her wrinkled face. ‘They won’t let me look in the mirror … Could you talk to them, persuade them to put a mirror in my room? I won’t cut myself again. I promise,’ she said, showing them her wrist, criss-crossed with scars.

  Once more, the woman focused her attention on the photograph.

  ‘How handsome he is! He still drives me crazy, I never could resist him.’ She hiked up her nightdress, placing her other hand between her legs and rubbing herself rhythmically. ‘I still can’t.’

  Amaia snatched the phone off her, motioning to the orderly to come over.

  ‘Don’t you remember your son, Sara?’

  The orderly was standing beside Sara, giving her reproving looks. She stopped moving her hand, turned irately to Amaia and said:

  ‘I have no son. My baby died, that’s why I’m doomed. Because no matter how hard I’ve tried all these years, not a day passes when I don’t think about him, even though he’s never been to see me, even though I know he doesn’t love me, and that he was my downfall. Despite all that, I still want him to fuck me,’ she said, rubbing herself again beneath her nightdress.

  ‘Sara!’ the orderly shouted, at which she stopped. ‘I think that’s enough now; she’s very excitable,’ he said, turning to them.

  As they stood up to leave, the woman turned to Amaia, a hideous, demented expression on her face.

  ‘And so do you!’ she screamed, as the orderly restrained her by the arms. ‘You want him to fuck you too.’ She paused, as though struck by a sudden realisation, then cried out: ‘No, you don’t. He’s already fucked you hasn’t he? Now he’s in your cunt and in your head, and you’ll never get rid of him!’

  As they reached the stairs, they heard the woman’s screams start up again. Suddenly she appeared, running towards them. When she drew level, she seized Amaia’s wrist and thrust a small, hard walnut into her palm. Then she turned to face the orderly, who was coming towards her, and spread her arms in a gesture of surrender.

  Amaia observed the tiny, compact walnut, glistening with sweat, or possibly something else.

  ‘Hey, Sara!’ she called out.

  As the woman spun round to look at her, Amaia dropped the walnut on the floor, crushing it underfoot, the mould inside left a circle of black spores around the shell.

  The woman burst into tears.

  Eugenia Narvaez was waiting for them in reception.

  ‘Oh dear, that can’t have been very pleasant,’ she said, noticing the way Amaia was holding her hands away from her sides.

  ‘Don’t worry. There is one other thing. We’ll need to see the files covering Sara’s admission; we’d also like to know who pays her fees, and if her son has ever been to see her.’

  ‘I’m afraid that information is confidential. As for her having a son, the only child I know about is the baby girl who died.’

  ‘A baby girl? I thought she said it was a boy …’

  ‘She always calls her “my baby”, but it was a girl; everyone here knows that – she tells anyone who will listen. Besides, it’s written in her medical notes.’

  ‘Do you recognise this person?’ Zabalza showed her the photograph of Markina.

  The woman smiled. ‘No. And, believe me, I wouldn’t forget a man like that in a hurry.’

  ‘Señora Narvaez, we aren’t asking to see medical information,’ said Amaia. ‘All we’re interested in is the date she was admitted, and who pays the bill. This clinic of yours seems like a nice little business, clearly you have a lot of residents, all of whom, as far as I can see, are still in their bedclothes at five in the afternoon, and Sara doesn’t appear to have had a bath for several days. I have no jurisdiction here, but I can inform my colleagues in Madrid, who will be here in an instant to turn this place upside down. Whether or not you comply with the rules, I’m sure it would be most inconvenient … wouldn’t it?’

  The woman’s smile vanished. Without a word, she turned her back on them and marched off in the direction of her office. Three minutes later, during which time Amaia was able to wash her hands, the woman returned with a photocopy.

  ‘This is a copy of her admission sheet. As for who pays, I’ve no idea, but the money comes out of this account,’ she said, pointing to a row of figures entered in pen at the bottom of the page.

  They took great gulps of fresh air as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  ‘I think that smell will stay with me for weeks,’ said Zabalza, studying the contents of the piece of paper. ‘The bank account is in Navarre, the sort code is Pamplona, and the admission sheet is signed by Xabier Tabese in 1995.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Amaia’s phone rang. It was Markina. She took the call, but didn’t put it on speakerphone.

  The tone of his voice was one of regret and disappointment.

  ‘Amaia, what’s happening? I’ve just received a call from the clinic in Madrid where my mother is being cared for, and they told me you went to see her.’

  Well, well, for someone who didn’t know who was paying the fees, she didn’t waste much time! Amaia thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘Amaia, anything you wanted to know, you could have asked me.’

  She still said nothing.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. They told me this morning that you’d been at the Opus Dei hospital. I went there for the removal of the body, but you’d already left, and you’re not taking my calls. Here I am worrying about you, and it turns out you’re off solving imaginary mysteries, which I could have explained if you would only talk to me.’ Still she said nothing. ‘Amaia, answer me. I’m going crazy. Why won’t you talk to me? What have I done wrong?’

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Because I told you she’d died? All right, well, you’ve met her
now, so you’ll understand why. I’ve been telling everyone that she died when I was a kid. After all, I’m dead to her, so why not return the insult?’ She remained silent. He was almost shouting. She could see from Zabalza’s expression that he could hear what Markina was saying. ‘Why is it so hard for you to understand? You told me yourself that for years you let everyone assume your mother was dead when in fact she was in a mental hospital … Look at your reaction today, you won’t even talk about it, you’re incapable of facing up to the fact that she’s dead, that you’re free of her. Instead, you go running off to Madrid to dig up bodies from my past. Doesn’t what goes for you also go for everyone else?’ You said something to me the other day, and you were right: this is who you are and I have to accept that. Amaia, I know who you are, I know the way you work, but I can’t help wondering, what more do you need, why are you still looking?… You have your mother, and now you have mine. How many more demons must you exorcise before you are at peace? Or perhaps this is a game that excites you more than you care to admit?’ he said, ending the call without giving her the chance to respond.

  Again he was right. She had avoided talking about her mother for years. To the point where many people close to her assumed she was dead. She had hidden her past beneath a veneer of normality, even while dreaming every night of the monster looming over her bed threatening to devour her. She understood him perfectly.

  ‘He seems a bit pissed off,’ said Zabalza after a few seconds.

  ‘… And that’s without knowing we’re investigating his father,’ she said irritably.

  51

  Iriarte’s call came through an hour later. He was in a good mood. The woman from Igantzi had been extremely cooperative; she was divorced from her husband – an architect for whom things had started to look up after the death of their daughter, the only child they had together. Apparently, he remarried and had two sons; she hated him for that. She was convinced he had left her because she refused to have another child after their baby died. Their little girl was a month old at the time, and not yet baptised. Since then, the girl’s remains had lain in her family vault. Iriarte and Montes had told her about the Esparza case; she didn’t recall Nurse Hidalgo, but she’d given birth at the clinic in Río Bidasoa during the period when Fina worked there. They’d visited the cemetery with her that afternoon, and she had spoken to the gravedigger about opening the tomb the following day.

  ‘As for the two women in Hondarribia, she claims she saw something strange on the day of her daughter’s funeral. Unfortunately the coffin, which she suspects is empty, lies in the tomb of her ex-husband’s family. The other divorcee from Hondarribia has given us permission to open her family tomb. It seems that when the girl died, a big row broke out over where her final resting place should be. Her husband’s lawyers, Lejarreta & Andía, got involved, and in the end it was agreed she should be buried in the mother’s family tomb. I don’t think we’ll have much trouble with that one: the woman’s father is a Justice of the Peace in Irún.’

  ‘That’s excellent news,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, boss. As for Tabese, we’ve requested the death certificate, which will hopefully arrive tomorrow. In the meantime, the cemetery showed us the funeral records, and the date matches the one on the slab, so he’s been dead fifteen years. Cause of death is recorded as drowning. I’ve emailed you an image of the document, as well as some photos we took of Tabese’s tomb, which by the way is pretty impressive.’

  She opened the files to discover a rather grand, old-fashioned pantheon surrounded by four pillars and a heavy chain with links the size of fists; an abundance of flowers partially obscured the only name on the tomb.

  ‘Apparently the doctor is gone but not forgotten. Find out who sends the flowers; they all look the same, but I can’t tell from the photo.’

  ‘Yes, they’re orchids. The gravedigger told us that a florist’s van arrives each week with fresh flowers from Irún. We’ve left a message asking the florist to call us.’

  ‘Good. Zabalza and I will be late getting back to Elizondo, so let’s aim to set off for Igantzi at ten tomorrow morning.’

  She had dropped Zabalza off at the police station so he could pick up his car, and now, parked outside her aunt’s house, she felt incapable of going inside, of facing Engrasi and her sisters, who had left dozens of messages telling her they would wait up for her. She sat for a while, collecting her thoughts, jotting down a few questions she wanted to ask Montes and Iriarte in the morning, until she started to feel ridiculous putting off entering the warm house that stood waiting for her with the lights on.

  She pressed her hands to her face to try to ease the tension on her facial muscles. As she took them away, she remembered the sensation of the walnut Sara had placed in her palm, recalling in a flash what had been eluding her all afternoon. She started the car and drove along the Alduides road until she reached the cemetery. There was no street lighting along that stretch of road, and in the cold, night sky the stars barely glimmered. She parked facing the gates, leaving her headlights on to illuminate the cemetery. This didn’t work as well as she had hoped, as the beam hit the sloping path, losing depth. Pausing to retrieve the powerful torch she kept in the boot, she entered the cemetery. The grave she was searching for was to the right of the path that ran in a straight line from the gates. She recognised it from the angel perched on top, which caught in her headlights, cast a winged shadow on to the top of the tomb. She swept the torch beam over it until she found the walnut hidden among the flowerpots. As she picked it up, she noticed that it was cold and damp from the night dew. She placed it in her pocket, and left the cemetery. She drove back to Engrasi’s house and this time she got straight out of the car. She detested the hushed voices at wakes, the tone people used to speak of the recently deceased. She had encountered these atmospheres all too often recently: at the Ballarenas’ farmhouse when the little girl died, in the waiting room at the Navarre Institute of Forensic Medicine when, heads lowered, her colleagues had talked about Jonan, and now she could hear the same whispers coming from the mouths of her aunt and sisters. Hearing her arrive, they fell silent. She took off her coat and hung it up in the hallway, then stuck her head round the sitting room door. Ros was the first to stand up and fling her arms about her.

  ‘Oh, Amaia, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! As always, you were right; how foolish we were not to listen to you.’

  Rising from her chair, Flora started towards her, halting before their bodies touched. Ros withdrew, leaving her sisters facing one another.

  ‘Well, as Ros said, it seems you were right after all.’

  Amaia nodded. Coming from Flora, this was far more than she would have expected; she imagined her sister would rather die than admit that she was wrong. Ros then looked significantly at Flora, urging her to continue. Uneasy, Flora moistened her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Amaia, not just because I didn’t listen to you, but because of what you’ve had to endure all these years. The only good thing we can take from this is that your suffering is finally over.’

  ‘Thank you, Flora,’ she said, from the heart – not because she believed her sister was sincere, but because she recognised the effort it must have taken for her to say those words.

  Her aunt came over to embrace her.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  ‘I’m fine, Auntie. Please don’t worry about me, any of you, I’m fine.’

  ‘You didn’t answer our calls …’

  ‘The truth is, this has been a very strange day. In spite of everything this isn’t the ending I would have expected.’

  Flora sat down again, visibly relieved at Amaia’s calm demeanour, as if she’d been anticipating an emotional outburst.

  ‘I imagine they’ll release the body tomorrow. I think we ought to hold some sort of ceremony.’

  ‘You can count me out, Flora,’ Amaia cut in. ‘We’ve held more than enough ceremonies for our mother. I’m sure you’ll be only too happy
to deal with her remains and to ensure she has a proper funeral. Just spare me the details, please.’

  Flora opened her mouth to reply, but Engrasi looked daggers at her, and said:

  ‘Now then, girls, why not take this opportunity to tell your sister the good news.’

  Amaia looked at them, expectantly.

  ‘Flora can tell her. After all, it was her idea,’ said Ros.

  This drew a stern glare from Flora, but she turned to Amaia and said, ‘Well, the fact is, I’ve given a lot of thought to this over the past few days, weighing up the pros and cons of taking the bakery over again, and I’ve realised it would leave me with very little time to pursue the many other important projects I have planned, not to mention my television career. So, I’ve decided that since Ros has shown herself more than capable of running the family business on her own, it’s best if she remains at the helm. We’ll sign the paperwork in a few day’s time, and from then on Ros will be the sole owner of Mantecadas Salazar.’

  Amaia looked at Ros, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, Amaia! Flora came to see me yesterday to tell me – I was as surprised as you are.’

  ‘Well then, congratulations to you both,’ said Amaia, noting the hostile glances they kept exchanging, and Ros’s clear command of the situation.

  ‘Now you must excuse me. As Amaia said, it’s been a long and very strange day. I’m tired, as I’m sure you are.’ Flora took her leave, stopping to kiss Aunt Engrasi on her way out.

  Amaia followed her to the front door.

  ‘Wait, Flora, I’ll walk you home. I need to talk to you,’ she said, gathering up her coat and bag, then telling the others not to wait up for her. ‘Above all you,’ she added, wagging a finger at her aunt.

  ‘I’m too old to be taking orders from a baby like you. And don’t be late, or I’ll call the cops,’ she replied, chuckling.