by MB Austin
“If you like,” Celeste replied. “It seems you have hit a wall. And here I thought it was designed to fall away.”
Erlea looked puzzled, then smiled. “Oh, you’re being funny. Got it.”
“Sorry. I’m rusty at humor,” Celeste said. “I got tired of being put down for that along with everything else.”
“Well, some people just aren’t smart enough to appreciate your quirky side. I think you’re great.” Erlea blushed but didn’t take it back. “And just in time. I’ve got the hang of going up, but every time the damn cord tugs me back, I flail around.”
“Can you demonstrate?”
Erlea looked to Maji. “Would you?”
“I’ll try.” Maji looked at the wall as if gauging it, then walked away before running at it. She lifted off and stretched forward, then pedaled in the air as the cord and gravity brought her back. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Erlea said. “You’re not a flailer. I don’t know why I am.”
“Will you get hurt if you try again?” Celeste asked.
“Only my pride.” Erlea closed her eyes and spoke softly. “Fall down seven times, get up eight.” She opened them and said, “Here goes. Don’t laugh.”
Celeste didn’t find Erlea’s attempt comical, but the comparison was helpful. “You seem to be anticipating the return, trying to see the ground.”
“Yeah, you twisted to look,” Maji added.
“I did?” Erlea considered. “Maybe that’s where the flail comes in.”
“When you fall backward in Aikido, you don’t look,” Celeste said.
Erlea eyes grew wide. “Alejandro and his damn camera. Did he show you the video from this morning?”
“No,” Celeste confessed. “I stopped in briefly. I didn’t want to disturb you, but it was wonderful to observe. You are both very graceful.”
“Oh. Thanks. Twelve years of practice will do that for you.” Erlea looked thoughtful. “I don’t need to look back in the dojo. I just know where the ground is.”
They played with this premise for a while, Maji demonstrating and Erlea observing.
“Now you know you can, because you have seen yourself do it,” Celeste said when Erlea’s expression finally showed not just comprehension but enthusiasm. “Like Harry Potter casting the Patronus across the lake.”
Erlea gaped at her. “Time travel—he met himself.”
“And saved his own life,” Celeste said, grinning.
I love how she gets me. Erlea turned to Maji. “Can we have a couple minutes in private?”
“Course,” Maji said. Removing her gear, she added, “The caterers are due in ten. Just don’t hold up lunch.”
Erlea exchanged a look with Celeste, and they both laughed.
“I wouldn’t dare keep you from a meal,” Celeste joked.
Maji didn’t laugh. “Don’t be late.” She left without elaborating.
Seeing Celeste’s puzzlement, Erlea explained, “We’re going out this afternoon. I’m meeting with my father.”
“He’s alive?” Celeste blinked. “That’s wonderful. Right?”
“I guess. I mean, of course.” Erlea fiddled with the bungee harness. “But it’s been forever. And he never reached out, not once. What the hell do I say to him?”
Celeste put her arm on Erlea’s shoulder. “May I?”
Erlea welcomed the hug. She tucked her head by Celeste’s chin, drinking in her scent. “I don’t want to be mad at him,” she confessed. “But what if he doesn’t have a good reason? What if he doesn’t love us anymore? Mom got remarried. Maybe he gave up, too.”
“Ah,” Celeste said, “what if he stays out of reach, even now you’ve found him? I see.”
Erlea pulled back and pointed up at the empty window in the prop wall. “Everybody thinks the song is about a lost love. Even Imane does—she assumes I wrote it for Laura. But it’s not that. It’s for whatever we can’t get back.” She shook her head. “I grew up without him. Without even knowing if he was alive. Or innocent, and dead.”
“He lost all those years with you, too,” Celeste said. “Did he love you when you were little?”
Erlea didn’t have to think. “Yes. I felt very loved.”
“Then he never stopped.” Celeste made an arc with her arm, reaching toward the wall. “You reach for what is past, but you cannot grasp it, cannot change it.” She smiled at Erlea. “Still you land back on your feet.”
“God, you’re smart,” Erlea said, wrapping Celeste in a hug before she could stop to think. Celeste squeezed her back. “Sorry,” Erlea said. “I didn’t ask.” She let Celeste go.
“No harm done,” Celeste said, taking her hand. “Just promise to tell me all about it tonight.”
“It’s a date,” Erlea declared. “I mean, yes, all the stories. For all three of you. And tomorrow I leap for that wall with no fear in my heart.”
* * *
Two black vans waited in the parking garage under the hotel. Romero stood by one, Dave and Echeverra by the other.
“Where are you going?” Erlea asked.
Maji looked her in the eye. “The Real Cartuja. You and your father are going with Dave to a secure location until I get back safe and sound.”
“He’s in there?” Erlea pointed at the Dave’s van. “It’s really happening now.”
Maji gave her a hug. “You’ll be fine.”
Erlea eyed Maji. “I will. But why is the Real Cartuja not safe? Are you putting yourself in danger?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got training,” Maji replied. “And other protection.” Like Kevlar.
Erlea climbed into Dave’s van. Maji watched it pull away before peering inside her ride to Valldemossa. “Hey, Alejandro. Sorry for the change in plans. We have a fake dad up there, too. Think you can get some touching footage without zooming in too much?”
He looked surprised. “Nigel may be pissed. But sure I can.”
There should have been one more guy in the car. “Where’s your backup?” Maji asked Romero.
“Running late. Upset stomach.” He looked past her to the elevators. “Don’t turn around. It’s Diaz, the loaner from National Police.”
“Does he know about the switch?”
“We thought it better not to tell him,” Romero replied. “Let me handle him.”
Maji leaned back into the van as if talking to Alejandro again. She put one finger to her lips and he nodded silently.
“Where is Garcia?” Romero asked as Diaz’s footsteps approached.
“Puking up his guts,” Diaz answered. “I volunteered to stand in.”
“No need,” Romero said. “I called a local asset while we waited. We’ll pick her up on the way. Don’t give me that look. She’s a regional police officer with military experience. And cute. Everyone will think she’s a groupie.”
“Well, I’m here and ready to go.”
“We’ve got it covered,” Romero reiterated, giving Maji a little push. “And now we have time to make up.”
Maji buckled up as Romero pulled away. She looked back through tinted windows at Diaz, standing in the lot with a phone to his ear. Wasn’t hard to guess who he was calling.
* * *
Erlea climbed into the back of the van, expecting to recognize her father. Was this man across the wide bench seat him? Only the eyes said yes, so familiar and also wet with tears.
“I never dreamed I would get to see you again,” he said.
“Daddy.” Erlea could barely catch her breath. The door’s slam jolted her, and she laughed. But still, no words. She reached her hands out, and he took them in a strong grasp she remembered well. His hands seemed smaller now but just as warm.
“You are so grown up. Maybe you would rather call me Arturo? And we begin again, two adults with a shared history.”
Erlea shook her head, “No. I want to have my daddy back.” She couldn’t stop the sobs, and she didn’t care. She leaned into him and let him fold her into a comforting embrace.
When she fi
nally sat up and looked around, the road was unfamiliar. “This is not the way to Valldemossa.”
“No,” her father confirmed. “I did spend some years there, and my things are there, but we will not retrieve them ourselves. Mr. Brown felt that would put you in too much danger.”
Erlea thought of Maji. Fooling the media was one thing, but this…“Brown, are you sure Maji will be okay? And where are we going while she risks her neck?”
Brown turned in the front passenger seat to look her in the eye. “Rios is trained and has a full detail watching her back.” He paused. “We’re going up a very long and twisty road. You don’t get carsick, do you?”
“Yes,” her father said at the same time Erlea said, “No.” They looked at each other and laughed. “I grew out of that,” she added.
* * *
Romero pulled off the highway at the sign for Inca, a town barely a third of the way to Valldemossa. “Anyone need a pit stop?” he asked as they pulled up in front of the Guardia Civil’s station house.
“Yes,” Alejandro said, sounding grateful. He hopped out.
The front passenger door opened and a woman got in. Cute, and dressed like a groupie. “Military experience, huh?” Maji asked.
Romero shrugged. “Best to stay close to the truth. Ms. Rios, this is my old friend Amelia.”
Maji leaned toward the front seat and shook their backup’s hand. “Con gusto.”
“Likewise,” Amelia replied. “Wow, you’re convincing. Except your voice.”
“And here’s the last of our crew,” Romero said as a Guardia Civil motorcycle cop pulled up alongside the van. “Thanks for outfitting him, Meli.” He added, “That guy’s one of my team, with borrowed gear. Speaking of which, reach into the back. There’s a jacket for you.”
Maji twisted herself over the back seat into the storage area and fished out a heavy leather jacket. Extra heavy. “Kevlar?”
“Please tell me it fits properly. I only have the one.”
Maji shrugged it on and zipped it up, folding the flap over the zipper. No point wearing bulletproof clothes if you left a long section of your front unprotected. She patted the front down, checking the placement of the panels. “Feels right. Everybody else covered, too?”
“So far. We’ll get vests on Alejandro and the docent at the Real Cartuja when we arrive.”
Alejandro climbed back in, looking refreshed. “Thanks so much.” As Romero pulled back onto the highway, the motorcycle cop just behind them, he asked, “So what’s at the Cartuja Real? I mean, I know it’s an old monastery and Chopin stayed there once, and Rubén Darío wrote a famous poem there, too, but why meet Erlea’s father there?”
“To hear Chopin played in the Palace of King Sancho and see the monastery, of course,” Romero answered, giving nothing away. “And apparently Echeverra was a docent for several years, knows all the nooks and crannies. We just have to take a VIP tour of the place and he will find us.” There, Maji realized, was his grain of truth.
“Clever,” Alejandro said. “Hope he won’t mind when he figures out we brought the double. No offense,” he added to Maji.
“None taken.”
When Romero pulled off the main road to Valldemossa and began winding his way down little cobbled streets filled with pedestrians, Maji realized just how popular this site must be with tourists. She hoped they wouldn’t be treasure-hunting for Echeverra’s hidden evidence while also dealing with paparazzi and fans. Romero ignored a no-entry sign and tooted his horn at the tourists ambling along the tiny lane. He parked by a nondescript door in a stone wall, where a gray-haired man in a tweed jacket waited for them.
They all piled out and Romero went to greet the docent. Romero’s teammate in the Guardia uniform parked the motorcycle behind the van and wrote a ticket out. As he placed it under the windshield wiper, Romero assured the docent, “Don’t worry. He’s with us. Now no one will tow the van.”
Inside, Alejandro and the docent were shown how to properly adjust the vests before putting their shirts and jackets back on. Alejandro seemed to find the experience an adventure, but the older man did not. Maji noticed how similar his build was to Echeverra’s and wondered how much Romero had told him about the purpose behind their tour.
“Ms. Echeverra, it is such a pleasure to have you here,” he said after recovering his clothing and dignity. “I am Pedro Salazar y Muntaña, and I have given tours to heads of state, but never to a rock star.”
Maji smiled and shook his hand, whispering, “Thank you, Don Pedro.”
He beamed at her use of the honorific. “Ah, the laryngitis. Just the body’s way of saying it is time to take a day off. I will not bother you to speak again, young lady.”
They began in King Sancho’s palace, a stately home of the island’s signature sandy colored stone. Don Pedro insisted they take front row seats for the piano recital only a few minutes away. Maji silently admired the painted walls and ceiling, already feeling a bit too warm in the heavy jacket. After the pianist played Chopin for an appreciative crowd, they let the tourists exit before strolling through the walls hung with portraits, the little chapel, and the ornate dining and sitting rooms. In each section, Romero shooed the tourists ahead of them on to the next section while his uniformed teammate blocked anyone from coming in after them.
Don Pedro narrated the story of King Sancho, the decor, the art, and the role of the palace in the politics of the time. Maji did her best to look interested and nod at the appropriate pauses. Finally they reached Rubén Darío’s writing room, with its glass-fronted bookcases, sedate artwork, and somewhat creepy manikin of Darío at work on his poem, “La Cartuja.”
Maji faked a coughing fit and Don Pedro hurried off to get her a bottle of water from the staff area. While he was gone, Maji stepped over the red velveteen cords keeping the public away from Darío’s desk and slipped the little metal key Echeverra had given her into the top drawer. Inside she found a computer disk, as promised. She tucked it inside her jacket and stepped back over the cord, resuming her coughing.
A moment later Don Pedro returned and Maji whispered her thanks. Hoarse from coughing and hot from sweating under the jacket, the water tasted delicious. She saved half the bottle for later, knowing she would be thirsty again soon.
To reach the monastery, there was no choice but to leave the palace and cross a large plaza to the entrance of the church. A few heads turned and voices murmured as tourists recognized Erlea in their midst. But before anyone could approach her, they passed through the tall heavy doors into the cavernous place of worship. Amelia kept up a show of helping Alejandro navigate safely while filming. But Maji could tell she saved some of her attention for their surroundings and potential threats. She made an effective, low-key bodyguard.
They exited the church into a long stone-floored hallway with whitewashed walls. The tourists taking photos of two twice-lifesize figures didn’t seem to notice the quiet entourage led by a policeman. At the apothecary, he entered first and cleared the small room, taking the far doorway while Romero stood sentry at the entrance. Maji admired the row after row of ceramic and glass containers used to store medicines that the Carthusian monks used to treat the villagers centuries before. While Don Pedro provided his monologue, Maji gestured to Amelia and Alejandro to direct his attention to the giant pestle and the basin of holy water on the far wall. While the docent turned to tell them about the items’ history and uses, Maji stretched up on her tiptoes for a specific blue-and-white china vessel. She took it down and reached a hand inside, hoping she had followed Echeverra’s precise instructions correctly.
Maji sighed in relief as her fingers touched the thumb drive, then nearly dropped the ancient urn when Don Pedro called out to her.
“Stop. That’s priceless. Hand it over, please. Carefully.”
Maji couldn’t close the thumb drive into her palm and still get her hand out, so she tilted the urn and let it slide into her hand. Then she turned and handed the urn over with a whispered apology.
Fortunately Romero encouraged their guide to bypass the Chopin rooms and breeze through the artifact room and gallery. The paintings of landscapes and pastoral scenes were lovely, but Maji had no desire to stand for a long lecture about the mountain range and the art it inspired.
* * *
Porto Cristo looked so small from their perch at the top of the hill holding the ruins of Castell de Santueri. Down there at the coast, only a few miles away across forests and farmland, happy families laughed by the protected harbor’s clear blue waters. Up here, only crumbling walls of the old castle and its empty cistern offered protection from the wind and sun. “How desperate would you have to be to seek refuge up here?” Erlea wondered aloud.
“Well, a sanctuary isn’t meant for living in long-term,” her father replied. “Still, there is beauty even here.” He pointed to the little yellow flowers poking from the dusty brown earth and the rocks.
They walked the rugged trail around the top of the hill together, arm in arm. Erlea held on as if he might disappear if she let go. They talked mostly of the missing years, trying to catch each other up on too much, in too little time.
Stopping to rest and drink in the shade of a cave-like room dug into one hillside, Erlea’s father took her face in his hands. “I am so proud of you. Such talent, and so much hard work. I am glad for your success.” He squinted, as if trying to see inside her. “Are you happy?”
Erlea pulled back, overcome by conflicting emotions and the intimacy after so much distance. She uncapped her drink, keeping her hands busy and her eyes averted.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve lost the right to say such things, to ask such things.”