A Darker Night

by P J Brooke

  Max turned to Margarita. ‘Why on earth is he asking this conference to support an Easter procession? This lot look more like a bunch of pagans.’

  ‘Sí, but Francisco is not your normal lefty. He’s Catholic. Theology of Liberation, and all that. It’s what keeps him going.’

  But before Francisco could speak, a guy stood up to propose an amendment to be voted on immediately.

  ‘Amendment: those who wish to join the Procession of the Virgin of All Beings are very welcome to do so. But it is not the business of this conference to offer support to a religious procession.’

  The Chair looked at his watch. ‘Given the fact that this plenary is already running late,’ he said, ‘I suggest we move immediately to a vote. Please remember that the next session is closed. Please have your delegate authorization with you, and show it at the door.’

  Francisco’s proposal was defeated by an overwhelming majority. Margarita sighed, then smiled at Max.

  ‘How about that drink you promised me?’

  Chapter 14

  Max and Margarita took the little bus from outside the trade union centre into Realejo, the ancient Jewish quarter of Granada.

  ‘Let’s start off in Campo del Príncipe,’ suggested Margarita. ‘A glass or two of vino in La Ninfa to get us started, and on from there. And if we end up in Plaza Nueva, it’s not far to my flat.’

  In La Ninfa, they ordered two Riojas. Max hadn’t been there for years. The walls were still covered with old bullfight posters and green and yellow pottery from Níjar. Purple glass grapes clustered on the ceiling like stalactites. An elderly wood oven burned brightly in the kitchen behind the groaning bar, and the owner still displayed the fish, fruit and vegetables for the restaurant above as proudly as his wine. Their table was a tree trunk split in half. The tapa was a plate of raw mountain ham, jamón serrano, served with black olives and fresh bread.

  ‘That wine is good,’ said Margarita as she sipped it quickly. ‘It’s been one of those weeks.’

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Max. ‘It’s been one of those weeks.’ He raised his glass. ‘Salud, Margarita! Here’s to you. And thanks for the loan. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ asked Max.

  ‘Not much really. I’ve nearly finished my degree in English Lit. Just the thesis to hand in now. And what do you do?’

  Max hesitated.

  ‘Let me guess.’ Margarita laughed again, a warm generous laugh. ‘You’re a cop,’ she said. ‘I recognized you from the TV a couple of years ago. The famous terrorist case. You looked cute on the box.’

  Max blushed. ‘I thought my disguise was good.’

  ‘Not really. There is always police infiltration at conferences like this. We were just surprised they sent you.’

  ‘Me too. But the boss needed someone with English, and I’m the only bilingual officer they’ve got right now.’ Max had another sip of wine. ‘How come you’re not at the closed session?’

  ‘No big deal. It’s a delegate meeting. Only two delegates are allowed per group, and I wasn’t chosen.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So what would be happening in that session, then?’

  ‘Probably the stuff you really need to know. Agreements on tactics for the demo, slogans, marching order, that sort of thing … and of course, the surprise tactic.’

  ‘I see. And what would the “surprise” be?’

  She laughed again. ‘You really are a poli. Don’t you already know? Anyway, just between you and me, I’ve heard they may be planning something outside the Regional Council offices.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Pity about the conference vote. Some groups from out of town are itching for a fight, so there’s bound to be a bit of trouble. But most of the local folk are sound so, provided the cops don’t overreact, it shouldn’t be too bad.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Max.

  ‘Make sure you pass it on.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about the guys who put up the amendment supporting violence.’

  ‘A bit. They’re local, from the Black Angel Anarchists. They’re all right really. They just think they’d look good on the barricades.’ She drained her glass. ‘Okay, time to move on. Next door is quite good.’

  Max paid, and received change from the fifty-euro note. The next bar had a framed newspaper article on the wall: ‘Ernest Hemingway Drank Here.’

  ‘Where didn’t he drink?’ commented Max.

  This time they tried one of the best local white wines for a change, the Calvente. The tapa was tuna, salted and sundried, served with a soft cheese. The wine was so good that Margarita ordered more before they had finished the first glass. The second round of drinks came with piping hot slices of tortilla, Spanish potato omelette, studded with spicy little green peppers.

  ‘So what’s with Francisco?’

  ‘Francisco? He’s brilliant. Just so full of energy. He’s a volunteer with Granada Verde pretty much full-time, and he also does stuff with the radical Catholics. Most of us can’t keep up with him.’

  ‘So does he have a day job?’

  ‘He’s a freelancer for an IT consultancy, but he lives very modestly so he can afford to spend most of his time campaigning.’

  ‘And Catalina Maya?’

  ‘She’s great. Tragic what happened to her. But she’s a real fighter. Never lets it get her down.’

  ‘Yeah. But how come Catalina and Francisco know each other?’

  ‘Know each other? They were an item once.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘I think so. We’ll give the next bar a miss,’ said Margarita. ‘Their tapas aren’t great, but the bar over the square is really nice. It’s owned by a countryman of yours, an Englishman called Frank.’

  ‘I’m Scottish,’ protested Max. ‘And we Scots aren’t English. I think I’d better slow down; that’s three glasses already.’

  ‘Come on. We’ve hardly started. I thought you cops are all serious boozehounds.’

  ‘Only in detective novels. And the hero tends to be a miserable, divorced git with issues.’

  ‘Have you noticed, cops in books never seem to have family?’ said Margarita.

  ‘Lucky buggers. Me, I never seem to get away from mine.’

  ‘Me too. Friends you can choose. Family you’re stuck with. My bloody father.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s in the construction business. Another damn speculator.’

  ‘I can see the problem there,’ said Max.

  ‘Given half a chance, he’d convert the Alhambra into luxury apartments, and put a golf course on top of the Alhambra hill. He just doesn’t care about anything or anyone. You get in his way, and you’ve got problems.’

  Margarita put her arm through his, and they made their way to the Bar Paradiso at the end of Campo del Príncipe.

  ‘Do you dance, Max?’ she asked as they went in.

  ‘Badly,’ he replied. ‘Embarrassingly badly.’

  The owner welcomed her as they entered the bar. Frank was a big guy from Newcastle who’d come to Granada on holiday, dropped out of college, and stayed on.

  ‘Margarita,’ he said in English. ‘How are you?’

  ‘No bad,’ she replied in English.

  ‘So you speak English,’ Max said in English. ‘And it should be “not bad”.’

  Frank turned to Max. ‘I wish my Spanish was as good as her English. Complicated language, Spanish. I’ve been here five years, and I’m still rubbish.’

  ‘Hombre, your Spanish is fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘If only,’ said Frank. ‘I still can’t get my head round the fact that every bloody noun’s gendered.’ Frank was warming to his topic. Margarita smiled broadly. ‘And look at your bloody verbs, different endings depending on whether you’re being matey or polite … so many bloody tenses it’s untrue. And my school said Spanish was the soft option.’

 
‘When you’re brought up in it, it’s easy,’ Margarita said.

  Frank laughed. ‘If you’re brought up in English, so is English.’

  ‘Shall we go now, guapetón?’ Margarita said to Max.

  ‘Where to now, guapetona?’

  ‘Next stop, La Tana, then AjoBlanco. I’ve known the owner forever. Then there’s, well, Puccini.’

  ‘Lead on, Macduff. And damn be him who cries enough.’

  ‘Max … it’s “Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries hold, enough.”’

  ‘You cheeky wee thing. How come you know Macbeth?’

  ‘Because it’s one of my set texts, stupid.’

  When they walked out into the cool night air, Max remembered he’d had four, or was it five, generous glasses of wine already. But Margarita seemed as steady as a rock. They walked down Calle Mondujár, and round the side of the Convent of las Comendatores de Santiago. La Tana was packed as usual, and they couldn’t get a seat. So they stood at the bar and had a glass of Señorío de Nevada with a tapa of spicy morcilla, a rich black pudding made with almonds and raisins.

  ‘Margarita, this is great, but I really need to sit down.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  They walked up Calle Palacios and into Plaza Santo Domingo. Max pointed up to the fresco of Queen Isabel la Católica in the porch of the Dominican church.

  ‘Just look at that,’ he said. ‘Her Highness trying to look like the Holy Virgin Mary. Cracking piece of propaganda.’

  ‘Nothing changes,’ said Margarita. ‘See how the portraits of Che Guevara made him look more and more like Jesus Christ as time went on.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Great thing, iconography. Fascinating. Image is everything. Hey, Max – do you remember the Charlie Chaplin film, The Great Dictator?’

  ‘Sí,’ said Max. ‘It was great, wasn’t it?’ And then he giggled. ‘Great, great … get it?’

  Margarita laughed as if it were a really funny joke.

  Around the corner they could hear a roll of drums and the shrill blast of cornets.

  ‘Ay, coño,’ said Max. ‘I forgot. Bloody Easter.’

  ‘Coño,’ echoed Margarita. ‘Let’s get into AjoBlanco fast.’

  Max held her hand, and they dashed between the battered stone lions and down the steps into the cosy basement bar.

  ‘Bloody Virgins,’ said Max. ‘They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Not many of us left any more,’ said Margarita, giggling.

  The owner, Pepe Caravalho, emerged from his bottle-lined lair to greet Margarita.

  ‘How are you, hermosa? And how’s Don Faustino?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t know about my dad. Haven’t seen him for a bit.’

  Pepe peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘He was in last week, and he was complaining about the company you keep. He said you’ve joined an even madder bunch of lefties and he isn’t exactly pleased.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  Max remained silent. He was having a bit of a problem focusing. And he hadn’t been introduced.

  ‘All right,’ said Pepe. ‘Seeing as it’s you, I’ll get my best red, a Marquesado del Zenete. And the morcilla is home-produced, and just right. Made by my sainted mother herself.’

  Neither Max nor Margarita was in a state to appreciate the excellent wine or the morcilla. They kept laughing at each other’s bad jokes. Max was impressed. She was so wild and free, but cultured. And she made him laugh so much.

  ‘I like your T-shirt,’ he said.

  ‘Sure it’s just the T-shirt? Right. Now for the best cocktails in Granada.’

  There was a large crowd in the plaza, waiting for the jewelled image representing la Virgen de la Misericordia to return to her home church.

  ‘Quick. This way,’ said Margarita. ‘Or else we’ll get stuck in the crowd. Puccini’s quite a place. They play opera all the time.’

  They zigzagged through the back streets to a bar tucked behind the Imperial Church of San Matias. Max had passed it before, but thought it looked a bit exotic. He remained dubious. The place was sumptuous, all soft green velvet, candles, stained glass, gilded mirrors and painted angels. The sound system was playing Bach’s Italian Concerto. And then the overture of Gounod’s Faust filled the bar.

  ‘Bloody dad. He’s called Faustino, and he goes and calls his little girl Margarita. He hadn’t read the bloody Goethe. Innocent girl sacrificed to the god of power.’

  ‘Well, I had these friends in Glasgow, and they had a wee boy and they called him Tristan, which is fair enough. But when they had a little girl they wanted to call her Isolde. Should have called the poor little buggers Romeo and Juliet and got it over with. Had to finish a whole bottle of whisky with Jamie to get him to change his mind. Talisker it was. Damn nice.’

  Somewhat belatedly, Max realized he had made a mistake in ordering another large Lepanto brandy. Margarita was saying something interesting. Something about a novel he had read, A Heart so White.

  ‘Bit heavy for my taste. Murder and family secrets. Nothing much seems to happen after the beginning … rambles on and on …’ Max lost the train of his thought.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I loved it. The way Javier Marías used the Macbeth texts was amazing. It doesn’t matter who has actually done the deed; it’s the one who planned it that’s guilty. “My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white.”’

  ‘Who said that? Bloody Hamlet?’

  ‘No. Lady Macbeth. Hey, Max, how come you’re bilingual?’

  ‘My mother. One of the Maxwells. Scottish.’

  ‘Like Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘Always off somewhere. I hardly see her. She’s a musician. Harpsichord. Got a job and buggered off back to Glasgow with my sister when I was twelve.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘Well, could’ve been worse. Left me with my abuelo and abuela in Diva … but me and my cousin Juan had a good time. How about you?’

  ‘Stuck alone with my dad. My mother – she killed herself.’ Margarita tried to suppress a sob.

  Max put his arm around her. ‘Pobrecita mía. I’m awf’y sorry … that’s really sad,’ he slurred consolingly.

  ‘Poor mum. Stuck in the house. Dad wouldn’t let her work And then if bloody dad hadn’t started playing around – but I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  Max bounced upright in his warm armchair. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Thunder, said the barman.

  Outside, the rain fell as heavily as a tropical storm.

  ‘We can’t go out in that,’ said Margarita. ‘Another one, Max?’

  ‘Sí, why not? The same again, that …’ He peered into his glass, befuddled. ‘Some bloody battle. What the …’

  ‘Lepanto,’ said Margarita.

  ‘Yeah, bloody battle of Lepanto. Don John of Austria. Stopped the bloody Moors, he did.’

  ‘Maximiliano, you’re getting very drunk. Borrachísimo.’

  ‘You sound just like mi abuela.’

  ‘The rain’s eased off. We’d better run for it. There’s bound to be another storm in a minute,’ said Margarita, decisively.

  She put on her coat. Max tried to fasten up his worn mountain jacket, but the zip got stuck.

  ‘What the hell. And no bloody umbrella,’ he muttered. ‘Some fucking cop nicked it. If I catch the bastard I’ll –’

  ‘Have you paid, Max?’

  ‘No.’ Max went to the bar and handed over all the money he had left.

  ‘Un poco más, señor. Short by forty-two euros,’ said the barman.

  ‘Bloody hell. That’s daylight robbery. What the … I don’t have any more,’ he said, leaning over towards the barman.

  ‘Here’s the forty-two euros,’ Margarita said to the barman, and she pushed Max towards the door. ‘Let’s run.’

  They set off down the dark, narrow street, the wet cobblestones glistening in yellow lamplight. Max slipped, stumbled and sat d
own hard in the stream of water pouring downhill.

  ‘Hell,’ he said. ‘That’s my jeans bloody soaked.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Margarita, helping him up. ‘I’ll help you get them off.’

  Another thunderclap, closer this time.

  ‘Come on, we haven’t long. Run. Run, corre,’ said Margarita.

  Max started running, but his legs felt as if they had been cast in concrete. He started to wheeze.

  ‘Wait,’ he gasped. ‘I need … my inhaler.’

  He stopped, and took two quick puffs of his inhaler.

  ‘How on earth did you get into the cops? I thought they had strict medicals.’

  ‘They do. Wasn’t a problem at the time.’

  ‘Christ, what have I ended up with? Un poli, who can’t hold his drink, and asthmatic with it. Are you okay to make a dash for it?’

  ‘Sí. Think so.’

  The rain came down like stair-rods. The streets were deserted, the bars full.

  Max wheezed. ‘But I could do with another wee dram.’

  ‘No chance.’

  They slithered across the marble flagstones of Plaza Nueva, past the fountain, its water playing with the rain, and splashed along the stream of water which filled most of Paseo de los Tristes.

  Margarita pointed at the signboard outside a building site. ‘Construcciones Azules. That’s one of my dad’s …’

  ‘Your dad … not …’

  ‘Sí, Faustino Azul.’

  ‘The Faustino Azul?’ said Max.

  ‘Sí.’

  They splashed up Calle Zafra, paused at a huge sixteenth-century door with a tiny modern lock almost hidden among the ancient metalwork.

  ‘In we go. I share the top floor, but the girls are away.’

  They climbed the stairs, Max taking them slowly.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ he said. ‘Just have to … careful … take everything slowly.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s fine with me. This is it. Thank God, I left some heating on.’

  ‘Coño,’ said Max, impressed. ‘That’s some place you’ve got here.’

  ‘Yes, a friend of my mother’s rents it to us. Here, let’s get dry. I’ll light the wood fire. It’s a Salamander, so it shouldn’t take long to heat up. I’ll put on some music. Do you like Manu Chao? Let me find one especially for you. Here it is, “Mr Bobby”.’