The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘Where would a red lily, a carnation, a white rose and a gardenia be found together?’

  Outside, twilight had descended and already he could see the glittering sea as the train swept down the coastline towards Spain. They had folded out the seats into narrow sleeping berths opposite each other, pillow end at the window of the carriage. August, in his own bed, was lying on his front staring up at the darkening horizon that was rolling across the sky in a great wave of purples and blues pushing out the crimson of the setting sun. Unspeakable beauty of the eternal and, for a moment, he was out there sailing in the air with that night wind streaming over his wings and face. If only. He turned on his side, the dusk rushing by now filling his whole vision, and thought about Charlie, the three times he had come to him in the mazes, trying to piece together those lost moments – Charlie, did you know I had been ordered to execute you? Was that what you were trying to tell me in those last minutes in the forest? Who had actually fired the gun? Myself or you yourself? For the first time ever, August wondered if he had really killed his closest friend.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Izarra, in just a singlet, swung her long tanned legs out of her own bed, her breasts swaying under the white cotton.

  In lieu of an answer August threw back the coverlet and she slipped in beside him. It was a tight squeeze, the length of her warm and soft pushed up against him. He turned and faced her, his sex now hard against his belly, her nipples insistent against his chest. They smiled into each other’s eyes and the rest of the world fell away as lightly as pollen lifted by a breeze. The train bounced over a bump, pushing them even closer together; it was a cue that made them kiss, his lips brushing across her full mouth, his tongue finding both strength and surrender. Izarra rolled on top of him, pinning down his wrists. They lay like that for a moment, her moist sex touching the tip of his, their mouths locked, the topography of her body undulating like water over his muscularity. It was a delicious submission and he was ready to let her take him. The train accelerated and, as if infected by its speed, Izarra hoisted herself up and lowered herself slowly over him, deeply, deliciously; faster and faster she rode him, her head thrown back in undisguised pleasure, the long hair now a wild mane, until he could lay there no longer. As the train entered a tunnel he lifted himself and, wrapping his broad hands around her buttocks, thrust deeper and quicker, her legs now around his hips, the cabin plunged into total darkness, broken only by the staccato of bright electric lights that punctuated the tunnel wall. The two of them wound around each other like there was no tomorrow, the wetness of her pulsating in him and around him, tighter and tighter, her heaving breath beating in his ears, the rhythm of the train becoming their own, faster and faster, until they were the train roaring towards a collision of the senses, a great streaming silver tube of light shooting across the Navarra, until they both came shouting and the train shuddered to a sudden halt.

  August opened his eyes, staring into the flushed olive skin of Izarra’s shoulder. Then he realised that the train had actually come to a standstill.

  ‘August … the window.’ Izarra sounded pensive.

  He turned away from her and found himself looking straight into the shocked faces of a gaggle of young nuns clustered on a small rural railway platform.

  ‘Oops.’ He pulled the blind down.

  ‘Now I know I’m going to hell,’ Izarra murmured, and they both burst out laughing.

  They lay there, in the blissful afterglow, Izarra’s head resting against his shoulder as he cradled her, already the outside world crowding back into his consciousness. What would he do if he finally discovered the secret of the chronicle? What was going to happen to Izarra and Gabirel? He couldn’t imagine his life returning to how it was before – too much had changed. He thought Izarra was sleeping when she abruptly spoke out loud.

  ‘I think, with you I fall.’

  He understood immediately. In lieu of a reply he pulled her closer as a familiar panic closed around his throat.

  Reading his hesitation, she took his hand; he still hadn’t looked down at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, this terrifies me as much as you,’ she told him, in Spanish. ‘I don’t love because, for me, this is loss, and you and I have both lost enough for ten lifetimes.’

  Pushing down his fear, his heart pounding uncomfortably, he lifted her chin. ‘No more loss, I promise,’ he finally said, and kissed her.

  The next morning they got ready to change trains at Barcelona. As they gathered their things, August overheard some commotion happening further down the first-class carriage. He cautiously opened the door and peered down the corridor at a man arguing with a couple of officials, his face flushed in outrage.

  ‘I don’t care who you are, I’ve already had my passport checked at the border. I refuse to wake my wife over some ridiculous search.’

  August noticed the taller of the officials had that sleek look that he recognised as Interpol. Before they had a chance to see him, August had ducked back into their compartment.

  ‘Get rid of the pregnancy.’ He threw her the blonde wig. ‘Here! Make yourself unrecognisable, they’re only a few compartments away.’

  Within seconds Izarra had rid herself of the false pregnancy, donned the blonde wig and sunglasses, while August pulled a beret low over his hair.

  They hoisted their bags over their shoulders and waited until the two officials had entered the next compartment along and the corridor was empty.

  ‘Quick, to the end of the train, but don’t run, don’t attract attention.’ August ushered Izarra out and as fast as they could, without looking as if they were running, they made their way down to the last carriage. It had begun to slow as the front of the train began to pull into the central station of Barcelona.

  At the end of the carriage August pushed open the train door – the industrial outskirts of Barcelona streamed by as he helped Izarra down onto the foot rail on the side of the train. He joined her after slamming shut the door. Hanging to handrails set into the side, they both rode the foot rail as the train entered the station, then jumped off as it pulled in, hopping over the railroad tracks to the opposite platform. Within minutes they had been absorbed into the milling crowd of commuters.

  They took a local train to Valencia then onto Alicante and Albacete, then a small train inland to Córdoba. As they travelled, August noticed that Izarra had deliberately disguised her Basque accent with a rural Spanish one that sounded as if she might come from near Madrid. He copied her, although he was convinced he sounded hopelessly inauthentic. Finally, on the train to Córdoba he relaxed, convinced they had lost the men tailing them.

  They arrived at Córdoba mid-morning the next day. The train station, located at the edge of the old city and built in the thirties, appeared to be the only modern building in the surrounding area. As they disembarked a group of young soldiers, their dark-blue and white uniforms identifying them as Guardia Civil, heads shorn, rifles slung over their shoulders, brazen and olive-skinned, milled around the platform, obviously waiting to climb aboard the next train. Izarra turned to August, a panicked expression on her face.

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, you can. I have your hand, walk with your eyes down and head up. We look like a normal couple to them, but you have to stay calm.’

  They began to walk swiftly towards the exit, but Izarra’s blonde hair caught the attention of one of the soldiers, who wolf-whistled. ‘¡Oye, guapa!’

  Izarra swung around. He looked about seventeen, with pimples. He grinned at her, revealing a missing tooth. August tensed. Don’t panic, don’t panic, he prayed, knowing how terrified Izarra must be. Standing on the other side of the ticket barrier at some distance were several policemen; one of them had turned at the whistle.

  ‘Behave yourself!’ she snapped back, in a perfect Madrid accent. ‘I’m old enough to be your mother!”

  The boy looked sheepish and several of his companions broke up laughing around him. August, keeping his gaze ahead, us
hered Izarra through the barrier and in the opposite direction of the policemen, towards an exit marked ‘The Old City’. They were only a few feet away when August noticed that the policeman who had noticed Izarra was now looking at him.

  ‘I’ve been spotted, let’s speed it up. But don’t run – yet,’ he urged. They picked up the pace and headed out the exit. Behind him August could hear the deadly sound of a police whistle. He glanced back; the police were running towards them. Just then a large group of American tourists wandered across the exit. On the other side of the sightseers a tram was pulling up.

  ‘Quick!’ August propelled Izarra through the crowd of tourists, pushing and shoving until they were on the other side, then after leaping onto the footboard of the tram, grabbed Izarra’s arm and hauled her inside. Ducking behind one of the windows, they watched as the three policemen emerged from the exit, still pinned by the entrance of the tourists. Helpless, the police scanned the crowd for August and Izarra as the tram trundled away.

  They sat back onto one of the tram seats, an old woman opposite, in a headscarf and shawl, a bag of fruit at her feet, watching them with curiosity. She took off her headscarf, then leaned over and put it on Izarra’s head, tying it under the chin. ‘That’s better,’ the woman told Izarra in a low voice. ‘This way you disappear when you want, much better than to have them disappear you.’

  Izarra squeezed her hand. ‘Gracias, la madre.’ She then glanced back at August. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘La Juderia, the Jewish quarter of the old city, where Shimon Ruiz de Luna grew up, and the centre of medieval kabbalism. There has to be some kind of clue to the last maze there.’

  The tram took them to a huge stone entrance to the walled city, at the end of a short street called Puerta Almodova – one of the gates of the old city. As soon as they passed through the old wall, the street transformed into a labyrinth of narrow lanes flanked by high white-painted walls, broken only by the blazing red of a window box full of geraniums beneath a shuttered window. Each building was crammed next to its neighbour; whole villas, temples, community halls hidden behind the high walls. The lanes were packed with sightseers, Americans mainly, some British and a few Italian. August wove a path through the crowd, now swept up by an urgency. He felt intuition propel him forward, guiding his feet, as if he knew where he were going, as if he’d been there before. Noticing how sure-footed he appeared, Izarra followed but asked no questions.

  ‘This is good, we blend in here,’ he told her, as they emerged from behind yet another group of tourists led by a guide, and turned into a narrow lane called Almanzor Romero. They passed a small ancient synagogue, the Star of David carved in stone above the tall iron gate studded in decoration. A small girl of about six, her head covered in a headscarf, olive-skinned with huge black eyes, stepped out, revealing for a moment a gravelled interior courtyard planted with orange trees and beyond the courtyard an ornate doorway to the temple itself. I know I am in the right place, it is almost as if I can see Shimon running as a boy through these lanes, carrying the merchandise of his father. I can feel his exhilaration, his happiness at going home, August reassured himself. They walked on and an old painted wooden coat of arms hung over an old doorway caught August’s eye. It had four flowers clearly embedded in its design. He grabbed Izarra’s arm.

  ‘There it is, the magnolia, the carnation, the gardenia and a white rose!’

  They both stared up, fascinated – the four flowers had been painted in the centre of a garland of bay and laurel leaves, beneath which appeared a family name.

  They stepped into a marbled entrance hall of what must have once been a palatial mansion dating back centuries, but the decor was seventeenth century. A young woman with jet-black hair pulled back severely and the beginnings of a moustache sat behind a desk covered in tourist guides and maps.

  ‘Are you interested in a tour?’ she asked, in Spanish. Izarra approached.

  ‘I’m interested in the design of the coat of arms above the entrance. It was of the family that once lived here?’

  ‘Si, this was the shield of the Ruiz de Lunas.’

  Izarra paled, and August stepped forward. ‘Are you sure?’

  The girl smiled patronisingly back. ‘Absolutely. This was a local family who for centuries were associated with the Alhambra in Granada before this region was Christian. We suspect, however, the family were conversos, originally Jews. They disappeared in the last years of the Inquisition. But the myth is that one of their ancestors was one of the Caliph’s favourite women in the harem, and that he bequeathed her this house as a gift on his death. The house was then given as a gift by King Philip to the Marquis of Carmona, a Catholic aristocrat, for his part in the crusades against the Dutch.’

  August fought hard to contain his excitement. ‘Is there any grounds or gardens in this building?’

  ‘None, except the small interior courtyard you see before you. But there is a country estate that was part of the original Ruiz de Luna estate, also still owned by the Marquis’s descendants. It’s just outside of Córdoba, south of the city.’

  Izarra gripped August’s arm and he glanced over at her reassuringly then turned back to the girl.

  ‘Can I have the address?’

  The taxi headed past the city walls, out into the low hills and scrubland, the town streets thinning into ramshackle farms – more a group of white mud-brick huts and red-tiled roofs – and brown-green rows of olive groves, the trees themselves only just budding, the branches studded with bright green growth, yawning up from the ploughed earth like thin men with their arms flung high, entreating an invisible sky god. Last time August had seen olive groves like these was in March 1937, marching towards Jarama. Suddenly he found himself scanning the ground for ditches and hollows a man could throw himself into in case a German plane flew over and strafed the field. It was an impulse that had become forever associated with the terrain. Struggling with the memory, he looked over at the taxi driver, who had agreed to drive them for a hefty fare. He appeared a stoically quiet character, his broad face reddened and creased from hours in the sun, his black hair streaked with white, and shiny with a fragrant pomade that smelled like lemons, swept up into a quiff like a monument to his youth. They’d been on the road for fifteen minutes when he glanced into the rear mirror.

  ‘You have friends?’ he asked August, indicating the road behind. August looked out. He saw nothing until they had cleared a curve in the road – about a minute later August could just make out a black car following at some distance.

  ‘We have company,’ he said to Izarra, who swung around to study the car.

  ‘That guy’s been following us since town,’ the taxi driver interjected as he watched August through the mirror. ‘And just so you know, if they’re the Guarda Militar, they’re no friend of mine.’

  ‘Can you lose them?’

  ‘With pleasure, camarada.’ As the road turned into a tree-lined bend the taxi accelerated. Up ahead was a donkey pulling a cart stacked high with hay, the young farmhand perched on top, idly swishing at the animal’s haunches with a switch. Just before the high-banked track narrowed the taxi overtook the cart, then accelerated away. The Mercedes tried to follow but became trapped behind the cart and August turned to the driver in relief.

  ‘Gracias, amigo.’

  ‘No thanks necessary.’

  The estate was only a few miles further, set back from a lonely road with the hills of the Sierra Nevada behind. It stood opposite a field of cut wheat. The taxi driver agreed to wait for them, but at August’s insistence parked the taxi behind a large haystack near the edge of the track so that it wasn’t visible from the road. He settled down behind the wheel with one of August’s Lucky Strikes. August and Izarra climbed out and crossed the road, eerily empty of cars. Already the sound of crickets and cicadas could be heard among the olive trees in a field that ran alongside the road and the loud buzzing of bees from over the wall of the hacienda itself. They walked up to the low wall beyond which a paved
courtyard planted with orange trees stood in front of the impressive hacienda. There was a massive oak door, locked and barred, a stone arch stretched over it, from which another plaque painted with the family crest hung. Next to the large brass door handle, incongruous in its modernity, was a small electric bell with a single name written on white paper sellotaped under it. Izarra looked up at the plaque.

  ‘Seems like the right place.’ She peered over the wall into the courtyard. The orange trees were gnarled and neglected, and rotting fruit lay scattered in the dust beneath each tree. The two-storey hacienda beyond, although once grand, was badly in need of restoration, and there were patches of missing red tile on the sloped roof. Several feral-looking cats lounged in the sun and there was a line of eccentric-looking beehives running along a wall in one corner of the yard, from which came the audible sound of humming.

  ‘It looks deserted,’ Izarra observed.

  ‘Except for the beekeeper.’ August pressed the bell. Silence. They both peered over the wall, wondering whether it had actually rung out in the mansion beyond. Moments later a tall, thin, white-haired man dressed in a hunting jacket emerged at the entrance of the hacienda.

  ‘¡Hola!’ he shouted, from the shadow of the doorway.

  ‘¡Hola! We’re at the front gate,’ August shouted back, and the man emerged into the bright light of the courtyard, walking vigorously across, shooing the cats away as he approached them. August could now see he was wearing slippers under a pair of dress trousers.

  They moved politely back in front of the door as they heard the shuffle of the old man approaching, and then a small wooden window cut into the door opened. His mottled face peered through.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, gruffly.

  ‘Good morning, Señor. We have a historical interest in your property.’ August deliberately kept his tone friendly and polite.

  ‘Oh, you do, do you? Well, it’s not for sale, especially not to foreigners.’ He was about to slam shut the little window, when Izarra stepped forward, smiling at him, and almost seeming to curtsey, much to August’s amazement.