by Simon Brown
“No Spanish. Catalan,” she corrected me.
The woman came round and sat next to me. With a broad smile she took the knitting needles from my hands and showed me the stitch on the pattern. She kept pointing to the pattern and then very slowly knitted a row. She passed the knitting back to me and I tried. With a little help I found the rhythm of the new stitch. The Catalan woman watched me smiling as I sped up a little.
“Si, si,” she said encouragingly.
I thought how women used to have activities that could unite us and even without a common language bring us together. I imagined we might have cooked together, made pickles in groups, taken our children to play together and here we were with knitting as our common currency. Modern life could be very cold and lonely.
I returned to Bar Fornos the next day taking the now familiar route from my hotel. As I approached the bar I made a conscious effort to feel every step and each breath. I wanted to remain centred this time.
I greeted Francesc at the bar. He took my hand. Francesc summoned Josep and we sat at the same table. Where Francesc was warm and friendly, Josep played a gruff, austere role. A line from Wilde’s writing flashed through my mind and I wondered what echo of someone else’s music Josep might be expressing. Was he still acting out a poorly written part? If I peeled off enough layers would I find a joyful, natural expression of love inside? When they finished talking, Francesc turned to me.
“Josep is still waiting for a reply. He has asked my uncle to make enquiries with our Catalan friends. People talk, yes, and maybe we will found out more about your husband. He has asked my aunt to come and talk to you about Ramon.”
“Muchas gracias,” I said to Josep. He nodded and got up slowly. He spoke to Francesc and walked to the bar.
“Josep would like you to have a drink and food,” Francesc said smiling. “Do you want your mint tea and apple?”
“Yes, please.”
Francesc returned after a few minutes, also bringing a coffee for himself.
“Maybe Josep did not like Ramon. I think he finds it difficult to talk about him. Also my aunt speaks English.”
Francesc stood up as his aunt arrived. They embraced and kissed each other on the cheeks. Francesc went to get his aunt a coffee and water. I stood and we shook hands.
“Hello, I am Rosa. You want to talk about Ramon?”
Her hand seemed to hug my smaller hand. Rosa smiled at me warmly. She looked to be about fifty and had a motherly air.
Francesc returned, gave his aunt her drink and sat sipping his espresso. Rosa turned and said something and he got up, said goodbye, and took up his place behind the bar. Rosa had a large round face with full rosy cheeks. Her long black hair was tied back.
“What do you want to know?”
“I only know about Ramon from the time he met Veronica here at the bar and went to England. I want to know more about his life from before.”
“This is good. I only know Ramon until he met Veronica. Together we can make his history. Where do I start?”
“Please go back as far as you can.”
“His parents were from here in Barcelona. They moved to Buenos Aries and Ramon was born. He grew up in Argentina. He married when he was young and later had a son.”
My heart leapt. A son! Why had Mathew never mentioned this? Rosa continued.
“Then his marriage did not work and he came here. He did not talk about it, so I only hear gossip. When he came to Barcelona he lived with, Josep’s brother, Carles.”
Rosa looked at me.
“Are you fine?”
“No, it is the first time I heard Mathew had a son. I am a bit shocked.”
“He did not say?”
“No, nothing. Please continue. I am sure there will be more surprises.”
“Then he worked here. He was a good worker and good with the women.”
I felt myself flush. Rosa put her hand on my forearm.
“I am sorry. I am sure you do not want to hear this.”
“No, please tell me everything.”
Rosa drank some of her coffee and knocked it back with some water.
“One night each week he comes here to play his guitar. Some Spanish style, sometimes jazz and he liked to sing some blues. He is also a good dancer. Many women like him. Then he is with Josep’s best friend’s youngest sister, Montserrat. When I see them together I think they are much in love. Maybe Montserrat thinks they will marry. Ramon rents an apartment and they make a home together. I am thinking, when will they marry? Ramon is waiting to get a better job, more money.”
Rosa paused and took a sip of coffee and shot of water. I took a bite of my apple. Rosa looked at me quizzically.
“Why do you have this tea and apple? Are you sick?”
“No, I like the taste and I do feel better when I eat like this. I have not had coffee for so long, it would probably send my head spinning off into a distant orbit.”
Rosa looked at me for a moment, smiled sympathetically and then continued.
“Then something is wrong. Montserrat has a big depression. She does not talk to anyone. After a few days Ramon leaves with an English woman.”
Rosa pauses and looks at me.
“I am not sure how much to say.”
“Please don’t worry. Tell me everything.”
“This is just my mind, okay?”
I nodded.
“I think Ramon likes money. Josep say his parents in Argentina has many difficulties with money. Maybe a child with little money need it too much when a man. I am saying this because Montserrat did not have money and the English woman did.”
“I have met Veronica, she lives in Venice. She is recovering from a stroke. Mathew – I mean Ramon – left her after a few years.”
“Yes, we heard from Enric in London. So, Ramon leave Barcelona with Veronica for England after five years with us, and we do not hear from him again. He leaves very quickly. I don’t know if he is running away or running to his new love. Montserrat is really, really upset, she cannot say what happens. Josep is angry, and we think, why? We welcome him into our family, support him, give him work, introduced him to friends and then nothing.”
I felt heavy. Mathew had a history of dumping women when it suited him. My suspicions were confirmed again. It added to the feeling that, after five years of marriage, he was getting ready to leave me. Was it all for my money? The little nest egg that I inherited bought him a lifestyle he seemed to aspire to. Then I thought of his expeditions to the blues club.
“Ramon used to go to play his guitar and sing at a club in London.”
“Did you go with him?”
“No, not my scene.”
Rosa pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. I guessed she thought Mathew was meeting new women there. She asked me if we had children and I told her that Mathew kept finding excuses. Her facial expression gave away her suspicion that Mathew was looking for something else. I looked into Rosa’s eyes for a moment. I hesitated but then said it anyway.
“Since Ramon was murdered, I have had threatening letters from someone who says he wants to kill me. I have also been attacked. Do you think any of the people who Ramon upset would still have such bad feeling towards him?”
Rosa eyes flared and her face reddened slightly with indignation.
“We are not murderers.”
“I’m very sorry. I did not mean to upset you. I just want all this to stop.”
Rosa let out a long audible sigh. I noticed her shoulder drop slightly.
“Josep say Enric will ask in London. But why would anyone hurt you? It is not your fault Ramon was the way he was. I do not understand why anybody kills Ramon after all this time. We are not that kind of people.”
I smiled and put my hand on hers.
Rosa asked me lots of questions about our life in England. My tales of Mathew running a shop and all our travels fascinated her.
After, I walked towards the sea feeling slightly depressed. Inspector Pride’s claim that I mig
ht have upset someone by starting my relationship with Mathew rung an alarm in my head. Most of all I was finding it hard to come to accept that Mathew had a son. This information stirred up a deep recurring sadness in my heart, taking me back to that question of why he had not wanted to have a child with me. At the same time I was astonished that he had never mentioned his son, and as far as I knew, had no contact with him.
My legs felt tired, there was a feeling of anxiety in my stomach and my mind felt fuzzy. When I reached the beach I looked out across the water. That great expanse of open sea in front of me felt uplifting. No barriers, limitations or restrictions. A cool breeze blew gently across my face. I wondered whether people living by the ocean had a bigger vision of life compared to communities living in the woods. I took off my socks and shoes and walked across the damp sand to the still sea. I stood in the cold water and felt the sand shifting under the soles of my feet.
I wasted the rest of the day in a state of limbo. Part of me wanted to go back to the hotel and curl up in bed, and another to enjoy and explore Barcelona. I had lost my appetite and ended up wandering aimlessly for a while, then went back to my hotel and fell asleep in the late afternoon. I did not wake until early evening. Now I was hungry. I shook off my drowsiness and walked out into the evening air. I went back to the Japanese restaurant and sat in the corner watching the chef assemble his sushi.
In the morning I packed and checked out. I left my bag in the hotel luggage room. Then I followed my usual routine and arrived at Bar Fornos. Francesc came out from behind the bar to greet me. He kissed me on each cheek and ushered me to the same table. Without asking he brought me a mint tea and apple. He sat down with his espresso and bread.
“Josep say he is sorry. He is not here today. Did Rosa help?”
“Yes, thank you. I learnt a lot more about Ramon. Not particularly good things, but I think I understand better.”
“Maybe he makes mistakes, but he was also fun, musical and athletic. You say half full or half empty glass.”
I laughed.
“Yes, we do. Sorry, I’m just feeling a bit low.”
“Josep asked me to tell you something.”
Francesc looked at me and I smiled.
“He say, my uncle Enric will find this man and then we will tell you. He say, until then be safe. Maybe you take a holiday or go to live with friends for while.”
My heart jumped slightly as I felt fear spread from my stomach to my chest.
“What do you mean?”
“We will find the man who hurts you and then you will be safe.”
“But how will you find him? Do you know who he is?”
Francesc leant back in his chair.
“I can only say what Josep tell me. I don’t know who he is. Maybe Enric know, or maybe he know who to ask.”
“And what will you do when you find him?”
Francesc shrugged.
“I think we talk and say we know who he is and he must stop.”
The way Francesc spoke it all sounded so innocent. To find the man who had shot Mathew, sent me all those threats, physically attacked me, and say I know who you are and now you must stop, and for him to then peacefully accept that ultimatum, sounded naive. Perhaps I had seen too many violent films not to imagine their plan included some kind of threat or violence should they ever find Mathew’s killer.
Francesc changed the subject before I could ask more questions. We talked about London. He told me about the clubs he liked, his love of Indian food and how much money his friend in London earned working for a bank. I asked him where his uncle lived. He became slightly guarded.
“Near Ealing. It is not important.”
“How will I know when your uncle has found the man?”
“You will give me your email and phone and I will contact you.”
“What’s your uncle’s last name?”
Francesc became more assertive.
“He is a busy man. You talk to me. I give you my email.”
We exchanged email addresses and phone numbers. I was beginning to feel hot and beads of sweat ran down my sides. I had to remind myself of my conversation with Rosa, to feel safer. Francesc stood up and kissed me on each cheek. I felt uneasy and slightly queasy. I walked out in a kind of daze. Images of Catalan gangsters roaming London filled my mind. I was glad to get back out into the fresh air. It took me a moment to adjust to the sunlight. Then I looked up at the sky and took in some deep breaths. I tried to focus on Rosa and her claim that they were not murderers, not that kind of people.
I walked back letting the conversations in Bar Fornos spin around my head. Francesc’s suggestion that I should take a holiday sounded ominous. What did they know that I didn’t? I wondered whether the police could track Enric down and question him? In reality I had nothing concrete to tell the police. The conversations in the bar expressed no more than an intention to find out who was threatening me and warn him off – hardly illegal.
I collected my bag from the hotel and made my way to the airport. I still could not find my happy state of contentment on the flight home. Each time I tried to meditate my imagination pushed its way back into my mind.
I returned home in the early evening and felt very happy to see Dorothy. We hugged and I didn’t want to let go. I felt so relieved to be home again.
“What is it, dear?”
I started to explain about Mathew and his son, but jumped into the middle of the story, so it made little sense.
“Sit down and relax, Amanda. Just start at the beginning.”
I told her about the bar conversations. Then, when I finally stopped talking, Dorothy spoke.
“I’ll make us a warm, relaxing dinner and then we can talk more.”
Dorothy made us a vegetable soup, a bean dish with brown rice, stir fried vegetables and a salad. We sat and ate. Dorothy wanted to know all about my excursions around Barcelona and my impression of the Gaudi architecture. I showed her my knitting and gave her the wool I had bought for her.
After dinner Dorothy asked me to repeat all the conversations again. She sat with her eyes closed and her head leant back against the cushion. Then she asked me to say it all again one more time. When I finished we sat in silence for a few minutes.
“If you don’t mind I will now go to sleep on that and see how I feel tomorrow. I suggest you try the same.”
Sleep did not come easily. I couldn’t calm my mind. My feet felt too hot, my lower back too cold. Then my ankles itched incessantly. I cried out, “Fiddlesticks,” as I rolled onto my other side again, an image of my father trying to start the lawnmower flooded my mind. There he was pulling a white rope with a plastic handle repeatedly. Every now and again he stopped to fiddle with the settings on the carburettor. Then he would start his frantic snatching at the handled rope. I remembered sitting in our car with him once when it would not start. I experienced a fatal sinking feeling, as I knew the car battery had lost too much energy to turn the engine. I sat listening to the churning sound of the starter motor slow to a feeble grunt, not daring to look at my father. The old television would lose its signal, sending my father scurrying up to the loft to adjust the aerial. The soundtrack to all these events was fiddlesticks. Sometimes my father would say it under his breath, other time out loud and when things got really bad he would scream it out with the worst expletive he could conjure up as a prefix.
Was I now really saying fiddlesticks of my own volition, or was my father saying it through me, having implanted the seed of that expression during my childhood? Who was saying it me or him?
After a while I got up and tried writing. The best I could do was to write a list of the people I met at the bar with a brief description of what each said.
CHAPTER 24
Dorothy and I sat in the kitchen for breakfast.
“You know, dear, I did have a thought this morning. It occurred to me that we might be looking for a young relation of Mathew’s. Did you say he had a son in Argentina?”
“Yes, Rosa sa
id he left his wife and son in Buenos Aries.”
“I wonder…” Dorothy went back to her porridge.
Later, when we sat in the living room with our knitting Dorothy returned to the subject.
“It might explain the style of the letters, the way you were attacked, and why the family in Barcelona were so concerned to help. Perhaps they were worried about a wayward son. How old would Mathew’s son be now do you think?”
“Rosa told me he married young, so if his son was born when Mathew was twenty-five, he would now be twenty-three.”
“For me, a son would better explain why the killer took his watch and the photographs. If you wanted a memento of your father, what would you take?”
“But why come here after all those years? Mathew must have left Argentina over seventeen years ago.”
“Yes, there is still much to ponder on,” Dorothy mused.
I had a message to call Inspector Williams. He wanted me to meet him at the station, as he had more news.
“I followed up your suspicions of Miss Tagliabue and interviewed her. She eventually admitted to being in England and following you both when the picture was taken. She claimed she had bad feelings towards you after you took Mr Blake away from her friend, and hated Mr Blake for taking her friend’s money. She met up with your husband and demanded the money back. She admits she may have made threats but denies murder and sending you the letters.”
“But don’t you see, this fits exactly. Was she here when Mathew was murdered?”
“Yes, she was in London on a shopping trip staying with a friend. However, she was in Italy when you were attacked in Covent Garden. Given the gun used then was the same as the one that killed your husband I think it is unlikely she killed your husband, unless there was another person involved.”
“Doesn’t she come from a violent family?”
“Don’t worry, we will explore those avenues. Have you received any more threatening letters?”
“Not since Venice. Do you think I need protection again?”
“I think we have narrowed down your attacker to Edward or Claudia, and both of them know that. They may now feel that further action is not worth the risk. I suggest you take reasonable precautions and call me if you notice anything suspicious.”