A Darker Night

by P J Brooke

  ‘Fuck off, Max. Véte a la puta mierda. And I bet they’re a bunch of poofter Barcelona supporters too.’

  Max laughed, and moved down the procession. Next was a group of women in black, all holding candles. Most of them, like Tomasito’s mother, were going to walk the whole route, through the long night, without shoes. Further back there was a group of Bolivian and Ecuadorian immigrants, Granadino parishioners in their Sunday best, and right at the back, some lefties from the conference. Nearly everyone was wearing a green scarf and carrying a sprig of rosemary for remembrance. Max walked back to the head of the procession, and took his position by the palio of the Virgin.

  To shouts of Olé, they set off, marching past the bus station, then the huge hypermarket, Al Campo, the Granada bull ring in Plaza de Torros and down to Avenida de la Constitución. Max had another swig from his bottle of water. The barefoot women’s feet were already bleeding, but they smiled calmly though the pain. This was going to be a long night for everyone.

  The procession stopped on Gran Vía, then marched into Plaza de la Trinidad. A small improvised stage had been placed in the plaza, which rapidly filled up with people.

  Father Oscar led a prayer for the heretics, Jews and Muslims who had been burnt at the stake in Granada. The crowd solemnly intoned, ‘Amen,’ then sang a short psalm.

  The procession set off again, with a new team of costaleros, as Margarita and her team took a break. Max felt like going up to Margarita and hugging her. She glanced at him, smiled, but stayed with her costaleras.

  They walked behind the cathedral, into Plaza de San Juan de la Cruz, then into Plaza Nueva, where more people were waiting to join them. From Plaza Nueva, the procession snaked up into the dark streets and the ancient white houses of the Albayzín. Max couldn’t stop yawning. And, of course, Pedro spotted him.

  ‘Max, you idiot. There’s press photographers all over the place. A yawning cop would look great on the front page of Ideal.’

  ‘You’re right, man. I need coffee.’

  ‘I’ve got caffeine tabs. They help.’

  ‘Pedro, you’re a bloody saint. Gracias.’

  Margarita came up to him. ‘Max, you look shattered.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired out.’

  She laughed. ‘You could have fooled me. Vale. This is my big moment. The San Miguel Alto section. That will be some climb. But it will be worth it, Max. See you at the top.’

  The procession halted outside the Convent of Santa Isabel la Real, close to his flat. A cordon of police with Chávez in front stretched across the cobbled street. Francisco went up to speak to Chávez, and then returned to his procession.

  ‘I have just spoken to the police. The Procession of the Brotherhood of the Bell is running late, and they have still to cross in front of us to climb up to the Mirador de San Nicolás. We will have to wait here for a few minutes.’

  There were cat calls, and then, ‘Why can’t those bastards be halted, and let us go on?’

  ‘We don’t go near the buggers anyway. The cops are just taking the piss.’

  ‘Bloody speculators.’

  ‘Opus Dei fascists.’

  ‘Let’s just go on. Screw them,’ other voices called out.

  Francisco raised his mace. ‘We must let them pass. We all need a rest. So let us sing and rest.’

  There were boos and cries of ‘Sell-out’ from the back of the crowd. But most seemed glad of a break. Max looked around. His flat was so close. But Chávez had a job for him.

  ‘Max,’ he said, ‘go over to the Brotherhood of the Bell and ring me when they are all up in the Mirador.’

  Max trudged to the corner of the Carril de San Agustín. The flickering candles of the Brotherhood of the Bell were climbing up the hill towards the Convento de Santo Tomás. The only sound was the tolling of a solitary bell, and the clinking of chains carried by the penitents. The first light of dawn gleamed pale above the Alhambra, silhouetting a huge cross. There was no sound but that of the bell, chiming in the dark street.

  Then a penitent winked at Max through the slits of the purple-hooded mask, and a hand rose in salute.

  The Procession of the Brotherhood of the Bell halted at the Aljibe de las Tomasas where los costaleros changed shift. Isabel was waiting, digital camera at the ready.

  Juan took off his hood, and came over to join them.

  ‘Here,’ said Isabel. ‘Let me get a photo of you in those robes. Nita and Leo won’t believe you did this. This really will be one for the family album.’

  She took a few pictures, and then examined them critically.

  ‘There’s not enough light,’ she said. ‘Could you stand by the candles over there? I want some of you with and without that hood.’

  Juan walked dramatically over towards the candles. Three men were talking earnestly close by. They turned round, disturbed by the camera flash. Max thought he recognized them, but his eyes were too tired to focus. One was a man wearing the black cloak of the Priestly Society of the Holy Cross, the clergy of Opus Dei.

  The priest and the guy in the dark suit pointedly walked away from the lights but the tall, masked man, carrying the silver staff of El Capataz of the Brotherhood of the Bell, walked towards Juan.

  ‘Don Faustino,’ Juan called out. ‘Come and have your photo taken with me.’

  ‘Don Juan, where is your hood? No photos. Remember the Brotherhood code. We do not disclose identities to those outside. Remember the rule.’

  A couple of minutes later, Davila and Navarro sauntered by.

  Davila stared at Max. ‘Romero, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were on duty with the hippy lot.’

  ‘Chávez wants me to phone him when you are all up in the Mirador.’

  ‘I see. I’m still chasing up that tip you gave me on Francisco Gómez. My contact will get me the info first thing Monday morning. Ah, there’s the lady wife.’

  Max spotted Davila’s wife, dripping with jewellery and mink.

  ‘I’d better go and have a word,’ said Davila. And he disappeared into the mob of fur coats.

  Five minutes later Davila emerged, and joined a group of men talking to El Capataz of the Brotherhood of the Bell. It was dark, but Max could have sworn one of them was Teniente Patricio Grandes, adjutant to the Alcalde. Another was definitely Che Navarro.

  Eventually El Capataz raised his staff and lowered it dramatically, and the costaleros faced their final challenge, the hill leading to the Mirador of San Nicolás. As dawn broke, the windows of the Convent of Las Tomases opened wide, and a choir of nuns sang: ‘En una noche oscura, con ansias en amores inflamada … On a dark night, my heart was filled with love and longing …’

  The Cross of the Brotherhood of the Bell was carefully lowered as the costaleros manoeuvred it into the church of San Nicolás. Max phoned Chávez when the Brotherhood and their supporters were safely up at the Mirador then rejoined the Virgin of All Beings.

  Francisco’s procession was preparing to split into two. The heavy traditional image of the Christ was to go along the road, the easier route to the church of San Miguel, but the lighter image of the Virgin of All Beings was going the hard way, the steep pilgrims’ path, climbing the front of the hill of San Miguel Alto.

  Chávez turned to Max. ‘So far so good, but there’s quite a crowd at the top already. I’ll head off to San Miguel Alto. See you there.’

  The smaller group with the image of the Virgin crossed Calle Pages, and into the streets of Albayzín Alto. At the pilgrims’ cross of La Rueda, the costaleros changed formation and grip for the final stretch. From there, some five hundred steps climbed through the cactus scrubland to the church of San Miguel Alto looming high above them, a sentry post on the ancient city walls. The dawn suddenly turned colder, and a chill little wind ruffled the embroideries of the Virgin’s cloak.

  Max turned to Pedro. ‘Ay dios mío, it’s going to bucket and there’s no way they can turn back once they’re committed to the hill.’

  ‘Sí. We have st
op them here.’

  Max hurried up to Francisco. ‘Francisco, it’s going to rain. Those steps will be bloody treacherous. Call it off.’

  ‘I always finish what I begin. We’re going up. It’s steep, but not far. And the Virgin will protect us.’

  ‘I strongly advise …’

  But Francisco turned, and shouted, ‘Onwards and upwards! Arribad compañeros y compañeras. Venceremos.’

  Chávez phoned. Things had suddenly turned tricky at the church. A group of traditionalists were determined to prevent the Virgin of All Beings from entering.

  The procession of the Virgin toiled up the hill at first slowly and carefully. But then the heavens opened and rain poured down. The costaleros speeded up. Suddenly, on a steep incline, there were screams, shouts of panic. The palio collapsed and the Virgin tumbled down, crashing on to the hillside. Pedro and Max ran to the palio. There were shouts, screams, cries for help. Max, Pedro and the costaleros finally managed to lift the palio up, and move it away from the crumpled body underneath.

  It was Margarita.

  She lay still and deadly pale. Max knelt beside her, his own heart racing.

  ‘She’s still breathing. Una ambulancia, rápido.’

  ‘I’ve already phoned for one. It’s on its way,’ said Pedro.

  The Virgin lay in the cactus scrub, her crown askew, her cloak torn and muddy. Max fetched the Virgin’s cloak and laid it carefully over Margarita, as photographers jostled for shots around the body lying on the path, the collapsed palio, and the Virgin lying in the scrub.

  ‘Stand back, stand back. Give her air and for God’s sake don’t move her. She may have damaged her spine,’ Max shouted.

  Maite just sat in the mud holding her friend’s hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Max turned to the nearest costalero. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘We were doing great. Then the back of the palio suddenly dipped, the weight shifted and the whole bloody thing came crashing down.’

  ‘Mierda. What a mess,’ said Pedro. ‘Let’s start getting statements.’

  Max questioned the two men who had been at the back of the palio. ‘Okay. Diego Elvira and Salvador Lozano. Where exactly were you located under the palio?’

  ‘We were right at the back. With all this rain, it was really slippery. We stumbled, and had to let go our grips,’ volunteered Diego.

  ‘Both at the same time?’

  ‘We both slipped at the same time,’ said Salvador.

  ‘An accident or a coincidence then?’

  ‘Un accidente.’

  The shrill of an ambulance siren came closer and closer, then two paramedics ran up the steep path towards the fallen Virgin. They lifted Margarita carefully on to the stretcher, and hurried back to the waiting ambulance. It sped away, siren shrilling again, as Chávez arrived from the top of the hill.

  ‘Max, what the hell happened?’

  Max explained briefly.

  ‘Okay. Full report on my desk first thing Monday morning. I’ll go and deal with the press.’

  Francisco sat on the muddy ground in a trance. The rain poured on to his upraised face and streamed down his long dark hair. Then he stood up, raised his arms to the heavens, and cried out to the dawn sky.

  Chapter 17

  Max finally got back to his flat at 6 a.m. If only he’d been able to stop that damn procession, this wouldn’t have happened. He rang the Hospital Virgen de los Nieves, and waited again. Finally somebody answered the phone.

  ‘Dígame?’ a sleepy girl’s voice said.

  ‘Por favor, mi amiga. My friend Margarita Azul was admitted a couple of hours ago following an accident. Can you tell me how she is?’

  ‘Un momento.’

  Max chewed a hangnail till it bled. It was only five minutes before the girl came back on the phone. But it seemed much longer.

  ‘I spoke to the doctor and he said her condition is stable. Your friend is a very lucky girl indeed.’

  ‘Thank God. So she’ll be all right?’

  ‘Sí. I think so, but I can only give details to close family.’

  ‘Gracias. What time are visiting hours?’

  ‘She’s in a private room, so visiting is fairly flexible. I suggest you phone first, any time after twelve noon today.’

  Max collapsed gratefully on to his bed. He awoke at two, the sun streaming into his bedroom. He phoned the hospital again. It was a different girl this time.

  ‘Señorita Azul? Bueno. Afternoon visiting hours are between four and seven, and then later in the evening after eight.’

  Max brewed a pot of coffee, and slipped two slices of bread into his toaster. He’d need to think about the report on the procession. Those guys could have slipped, but then? No, it made no sense. His phone rang. It was Paula.

  ‘Max, hijo,’ she said, ‘I was so worried about you. It was on the lunchtime news. I heard what happened to the procession. That poor girl. Were you there, Max?’

  ‘I was on duty, abuela. It could have been worse, but the girl is out of danger. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’

  Max had forgotten that it was Easter Sunday. He paused. ‘I’ll be there. I’d never miss Easter Sunday.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Max. You know how I worry.’

  ‘Sí, abuelita, I understand. Everything’s all right.’

  Max took the bus to the hospital. He bought a bunch of margaritas, large Spanish daisies, from the shop outside the entrance and then hurried to the private ward. Margarita lay propped up in bed, a surgical collar around her neck. She was still very pale, and her eyes were half closed. A man was sitting beside her bed, his manicured hand resting on her arm. He turned his head and looked questioningly at Max. He was a big man, with flattened, slightly feline features. His grey hair was combed back, like a gentleman, but his eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks slightly roughened. Margarita opened her eyes and smiled.

  ‘Max, so nice of you to come. And you’ve brought flowers. Who said all cops are pigs? Papá, this is Sub-Inspector Max Romero of the Policía Nacional.’

  Faustino Azul stood up and shook Max firmly by the hand.

  ‘I was just about to leave,’ he said. ‘She’s been very, very lucky. One of the poles of the palio took the impact. That bloody fanático, Francisco Gómez, is to blame. He should be in jail. And she’s to drop all this politics nonsense right now, and concentrate on her thesis. You tell her that, officer.’

  Max nodded.

  ‘And you, señorita, will be staying with me once you are discharged. I’m getting a nurse for you.’

  Margarita grinned at Max as her father left. ‘That’s great. Just what I needed. A wet nurse.’ She winced as she tried to sit up. ‘So now you’ve met mi padre, Faustino Azul. You can see what I have to put up with. Didn’t ask if I wanted to stay with him. Just makes his mind up, and that’s that.’

  ‘Parents can be like that, and rich guys are usually worse. But how are you, Margarita? Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Bloody lucky. I was admitted with concussion, and I’m bruised to hell, but there are no bones broken.’

  ‘So how are you feeling?’

  ‘Sore. The painkillers make me woozy, and my shoulder looks awful. But it was just a simple dislocation, and they’ve fixed that already. So I’m okay.’

  ‘That’s great. So you could manage to answer a few questions, then?’

  ‘So it’s Official Business? And here’s me thinking it might be something else.’

  ‘Well, it’s that also. But I’ve a report to write. Could you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I don’t really know. It started raining, you remember, and the steps were maybe a bit slippery, but we were doing fine.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well … suddenly the weight shifted, and the palio tilted and collapsed on top of me. I don’t remember anything after that.’

  ‘Do you remember mu
d or leaves on the path?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. How well do you know Diego and Salvador?’

  ‘The guys behind me? I don’t really know them. They were in the team for only a few weeks. I think Maite knew them. We were really glad when they turned up as we were a couple of people short.’

  The nurse returned. ‘You’re looking very tired,’ she said to Margarita. ‘You should rest now.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m off to see mi abuela tomorrow, and then I’m on duty for your bloody demo on Monday.’

  ‘Thanks for coming, Max. Good luck on the demo. Be careful. Some of the anarchists may be planning something stupid. Make sure the cops don’t overreact.’

  Max took the bus back to Gran Vía, and walked to his flat. He finished his preliminary report for Chávez quickly. There was time for a walk to the end of the Sacromonte road before seeing Abbot Jorge. The recent rain had left the hills beyond the Alhambra a lush green, and the sun shone on the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada in the distance. The doves were out in force, circling around the cliffs below the Alhambra. The bars on the Sacromonte road were filling up with tourists, and there was a crowd of kids on bicycles. He thought he recognized Tomasito. Those blond streaks on dark hair were very distinctive.

  Below him in the valley the little river Darro sparkled, full of fresh clean water, and the old white houses under the city walls looked newly painted. Max came to the small square where the steep cobbled paths of Barranco de los Negros joined the main Sacromonte road. He could do with a beer. Music poured out of one of the flamenco bars. Fortunately, Kiki’s bar with its pretty terrace was open and quiet. And Kiki knew everything about the gypsy clans. Maybe Kiki had some useful gossip on the Maya family.

  Max climbed the short incline to the venerable cave, filled with pictures of Sacromonte in the old days, when it was an impoverished village of donkeys and barefoot children, and memorabilia of all the famous names who had performed there.

  ‘Kiki,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Max. Amigo. It’s been a while …’

  ‘I know. Horribly busy, Kiki.’

  ‘Una cervecita? Inside or outside?’