Felicidad, in Spanish. Hortelano’s English was poor, but he knew that much. An absurdly optimistic name, under the circumstances. He hoped it would help her on the rough road ahead.
In the morning, when the banks unlocked their doors, he went to his branch and opened an account in the child’s name. Happiness Akpan — he’d got the surname from the mother’s medical chart. He didn’t quite believe what he was doing. He deposited a hundred euros and clutched the passbook in his hand as he left. Happiness’s parents would possess this tiny crack in the wall that was Europe, this evidence, perhaps, of their intent to become law-abiding citizens. He wouldn’t tell Luisa, of course.
But when he went back in the afternoon the mother wasn’t there. The nurse on duty, fidgeting, pretended to be studying something on her computer screen. No, the woman hadn’t been taken to the detention camp.
–She’s an illegal! Coño! How the hell’d she get out?
She’d walked out, apparently. With the baby, during the night. It had been with her for feeding.
–We’re not her jailers, capitán. A senior nurse, her tone somewhere between apologetic and defiant, had joined the other at the desk. –We’re understaffed, you know, since the cutbacks. We can’t be constantly checking.
Perhaps she’d had help from some sympathetic orderly, a fellow countryman, a former migrant. Even planned it with her husband, the day he’d been brought to see her, though the chances of him escaping were small. Flee into the countryside with her child, find some hidden migrant camp; god knew there were enough of them. Fury bit into Hortelano as he stood there holding the passbook, anger at them, their ingratitude, their stupidity. How could she risk her health like that, her child’s?
Yet if it had been him and Luisa, he’d have done the same thing. He threw the passbook on the desk and walked out, only to go back half an hour later, shamefaced, to retrieve it.
The next day was his day off. He wandered for miles through the streets, bearing a melancholy he couldn’t shake, and stopped for a coffee and brandy late in the afternoon in a bar in a mostly north African neighbourhood. The gutturality of Arabic wound round him, men hunched over their games of chess and backgammon, strenuously not looking at him. Even out of uniform he was a type — casual polo shirt, hair cut short, his air of authority, of self-possession. The spreading warmth of a second brandy restored him, but only a little. He might as well have POLICÍA tattooed on his forehead. Wherever Adebayo and Olabisi and Happiness had gone, no one was going to tell him.
He had to go to Madrid for a meeting of SEMAR heads of station. At two-fifteen in the morning his cellphone rang. Luisa, sobbing hysterically. All he could make out was Felipe, Felipe. It was Marisol who took the phone, who said with a kind of urgent calm –He had an accident, Papá, we’re going to the hospital right now, we don’t know anything, we’ll call you.
He dressed with one hand, phoned Carmona, the head of the Seccíon de Tráfico back home. Carmona phoned back an-eternity-that-might-have-been-five-minutes later. Está bien, su hijo, está bien, pero malherido. He’s okay, your son — Hortelano breathed again for the first time in centuries — but he’s badly injured. A crushed leg, the paramedic had said, nose probably broken, concussion. A drunk driver, some British expat, had hit the Renault head on. Felipe hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. The others in the car, Felipe’s girlfriend Luz and another couple, had only minor injuries.
–Gracias, muchísimas gracias, hombre. ¿Se lo agradezco, se lo agradezco un montón, entiende? Grateful, incredibly grateful: such paltry words. Sobs erupted from somewhere in his stomach and he bent over, still clutching the phone, tears sliding down the screen.
Felipe was ridiculously fine. Had come round from the concussion and was already telling self-deprecating jokes from his hospital bed. It was the rest of the family who were a mess — Luisa shaking visibly, Marisol clutching her old teddy bear, Emilia (summoned from her teaching job in Ronda) furious. None of this would have happened if Felipe had gone home when he was supposed to, hadn’t missed his curfew.
–If only you’d grounded him the last time, she kept saying. –That’s what you’d have done with me. Why’s it different for boys?
Marisol had flung herself at her father when he came in and he had to gently disengage from her before leaning over the bed. –Hola, chaval. ¿Qué hostias es eso?
Felipe’s unconquerable grin hadn’t changed despite the blackened and puffed-up eyes, the wad of bandages across the bridge of his nose. Hey, Papá. Look what I had to do to get you to come home. At eighteen you were invulnerable, of course. It could have been so different. A wet night, the roads slick with rain, the boy was staggeringly lucky, considering the state of the car. One of the paramedics had phoned him, no doubt on Carmona’s instructions, said it looked like an accordion.
Outside he and Luisa and Emilia spoke to the doctor. A set of ligaments in the right knee — he couldn’t, afterwards, remember the medical term — had been severed when the car keys were driven in. A very common injury in such cases, the doctor said. The boy’s right foot had been forced up by the accelerator pedal, the metatarsal bones pushed sideways, several toe bones crushed. There would be surgeries, a long recovery. Yes, of course, he’d walk again, even run again, though squats might be difficult. He was young, healthy, he’d heal rapidly.
–Stupid, stupid, stupid, said Emilia when the doctor had gone, flinging her hands in the air, turning on her parents. –Why weren’t you paying attention?
It was forty-eight hours later before he remembered about the Nigerian family. This time he called Victoria Beltrán Sokol at the Centro de Refugiados. The last time they’d met was at some local government meeting about dealing with migrants. –You haven’t changed, you Guardia, she’d told him afterwards, shouldering a hefty briefcase. –You think you’ve been rehabilitated, but your minds haven’t. Especially you old ones.
Her insult had stung him into rudeness. –Keep helping them and how many do you think we’ll have here? A million? Two? Five? They take advantage of people like you.
–And you, how do you suppose you got here? Some Berber way back fucked some Christian girl when they invaded, and twelve hundred years later you’re the result. Her high heels went snapping out of the meeting room before he could think of an answer.
Now, on the phone, he said –It’s Hortelano. The cop. You know, the one with that Berber ancestor who fucked a Christian.
He could have sworn she was smiling, but her voice was cool. –To what do I owe the pleasure?
–I’m acting in a civilian capacity. You can believe me or not. I’m looking for a Nigerian couple with a newborn baby. They left the Hospital Santa Catarina last Thursday.
–I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. You know that.
–I opened a bank account in the baby’s name. Can I leave the passbook with you?
A silence on the other end, either stunned or wary. At last she said –Is this some new kind of snare you’ve come up with?
–¡Dios mío, mujer! Does it sound like one to you? Once you have the passbook you can check with the bank yourself.
Another silence. –All right. But don’t come here in person. Even as a civilian. You’ll scare people off. Is there someone you can send instead?
There was only Marisol, since he wasn’t about to let Luisa in on what he’d done. He needed a document delivered over on the other side of town, could she drop it off when she went to her cousin’s on Friday? She and Lola were about the same age and close.
His brother-in-law drove Marisol home just before midnight, in a Guardia car this time, he must have just got off shift. –You should have told me, she said, letting her school bag drop to the floor. Through the window Diego gave a brief wave before driving off.
–Tell you what, chiquita?
–I opened it, I wanted to see. Uncle Diego says —
–You showed it to him?
–He says it’s illegal, what you’re doing. He says you ought to be careful.
He grabbed her, more roughly than he’d intended. –Where’s it now, coño? She cried out and wrenched herself from his grip and stood glaring at him.
–Don’t worry, I took it to the Centro. Your precious little black baby. You never opened a bank account for me — She broke off in tears and ran upstairs.
He sat for hours, or so it seemed, with his head in his hands. What was the matter with him? Taking a stupid risk like that — did he want to be caught? Retire before you hate your uniform, his old staff sergeant Berenguer had told him back when he was still a young sergeant. But he didn’t hate, and besides at fifty-four he was too young to retire. Didn’t love his pistol more than his wife, either, despite what Luisa might think. Out of the group of six friends who’d gone through basic training together, two were dead — one to suicide — and three divorced. He was the only one still married to the same woman.
He woke partway through the night, muscles nagging, having fallen asleep on the sofa. Olabisi stood there in the dark, her face gleaming in a stray band of light from a streetlamp. She held Happiness in the crook of her arm, the passbook in her hand. –Thank you, she said, softly, in English. –When she grow up, I tell her about you. About money from heaven. She pressed the passbook to her chest, and disappeared.
It was stress, his doctor told him — a new one, young, young enough to be his son. He’d been working too hard, and what with the business with Felipe — well, it wasn’t surprising.
–Take a week off, relax, the doctor said, handing him a note. –Bet you don’t know how, do you, capitán?
Which wasn’t quite true. He dutifully took two weeks in the summer, went with Luisa to London or Paris, though he checked his phone for calls from Arregui when she wasn’t looking. While she shopped at Liberty’s or Galeries Lafayette he wandered through the amphibian and reptile collections in the natural history museums, becoming again that small boy with a net and a jam jar in the marshes of the Guadalquivir estuary.
The first day off he slept in, met Luisa in town for lunch and afterwards visited Felipe, who shot down the ward in a wheelchair, tipped back on the wheels and spun himself round.
–You’ve been here too long, Hortelano told him, and cuffed him lightly on the head.
–How about a jailbreak, Papá?
–Maybe I can take you out for an hour. I’ll check with the nurse.
At a nearby bar, where Hortelano wrestled the chair over the narrow doorsill, Felipe ordered a beer and a plate of his favourite pinchos morunos. Food and drink, noisy vibrant life — things Felipe, and he himself, took for granted. He’d drop in to the nearest church that evening, maybe even go to mass. Light a candle of gratitude for his son’s survival. He hadn’t felt such pleasure watching the boy eat since Felipe was a baby.
The church held perhaps a dozen people, mostly old, for the seven o’clock mass. No one he knew — other than, occasionally, Luisa — went to church anymore, except at Christmas and Easter. Still, he found himself automatically murmuring the old responses, and afterwards, leaving the church, stopped to speak to the priest.
–My boy was in a car accident, came through okay. He felt embarrassed, caught out. –We’ve lived in the neighbourhood for years.
The priest nodded, face lit with understanding. Horte-lano felt even smaller. God, he remembered, too late, was a sneaky bugger who figured out exactly how to prick your conscience.
–Come again, the priest said. –Bring the boy when he’s well enough. It was an invitation, not an admonition. Hortelano liked the priest’s young face, his firm and slightly sweaty grip. Where were the corpulent ones of his youth, bringing down their stinging paddles on his palms?
Victoria emailed him three days later. Could they meet somewhere? She had something to tell him. He chose the north African bar on the edge of town, no one would know him there. She arrived in jeans and a sweatshirt and track shoes, not the suits she wore to court. Hair surprisingly dishevelled. He was momentarily aroused.
–We’ve found them, your Nigerians.
–Where? He surprised himself with his urgency.
–Let’s just say they’re safe for the time being. She twisted an unruly curl behind an ear. –We’re launching an action to have the baby declared a Spanish citizen. The lawyer thinks we have a plausible case.
Was this why she’d emailed? Simply to let him know, to put his mind at rest? It seemed unlikely. Or maybe she was softening, too. The baby’s influence was remarkable.
–If you said you’d be willing to employ Olabisi as a domestic, it would increase her chances.
He stared dumbly at her, flung his arms out, exasperated. –You know I can’t.
–You opened that account, remember? She straightened, though she still came only to his shoulder. –Or are you chickening out?
He’d had to pull strings, of course. Victoria would know that. The name was obviously foreign, and he’d had no ID for the child.
–I’ve done what I could. More than I should have, in fact.
–If you hired Olabisi, you’d see the baby every day.
Was she being deliberately disingenuous? Behind her dark glasses he couldn’t read her expression.
–I could have you brought into the station. Charged with assisting illegals. Carries a six-year sentence, as you know.
–We could have you subpoenaed.
–Give me a break, Victoria, all right? My plate’s full these days. My son was injured a couple of weeks back.
–Yes, I heard. Car accident. With a British immigrant. She pushed her glasses up on her head, met his gaze and held it. –All life’s an ongoing accident, hadn’t you heard? Only for some people more than others.
There was a weight on his chest. Some days it was lighter and some heavier. Felipe came home, his old self except for the crutches, but the weight didn’t change. Hortelano went back to his doctor, who sent him for a battery of tests that revealed nothing.
–You’ve got the blood pressure of a teenager, Enrique. Low cholesterol, healthy weight, excellent stamina — what’s the matter, you don’t live on coffee like the rest of them? Describe the pain again for me.
It wasn’t a pain but a heaviness, bearing down on him. At night sometimes he woke sweating, unable to breathe. At other times — he might just be walking down the street, taking a phone call — it had shape and movement and warmth. That was when it was most unbearable, when he wanted to tear his chest open and extract it, whatever it was. He had trouble swallowing, and for no reason he could fathom the smell of fresh bread made him gag. He went out of his way to avoid panaderías, and made excuses if Luisa asked him to pick up a baguette on weekend mornings.
At the physiotherapy clinic Felipe was working on the flexion of his right knee; the surgeon had talked of further surgery if it didn’t loosen up. Hortelano picked him up after one such session, the boy’s face reddened and sweaty. Felipe slid into the passenger seat and lay back, breathing hard, eyes closed.
–It hurts, Papá.
–Te oigo, hombre. Let’s go for a drive. Up in the hills.
They drove north out of the city, as though they were heading for the A-45 and the Alpujarran village where Enrique had spent his summers when his grandmother was still alive. He hadn’t been here in years, not since he was a young officer and hadn’t yet learned to leave the work behind. Stunted pine trees and gorse grew among the rocks and scrub. Below them, as the road climbed, the Mediterranean dwindled to a blue river. He opened the window, letting in the crisp air, the whistling chatter of a nightingale.
–Wow! What a drop! Felipe leaned across his father to peer over the edge. –I could bring the bike up here, it’d be a fantastic ride down.
–Sure. Wipe out and wreck the other knee. Your poor mother.
Felipe, his head now thrust out his own window, either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. –What’s that up there, Papá?
The remains of a shepherd hut, perhaps, a tumble of broken stones. Hortelano slowed the car. A movement caught their eye on th
e hillside above — two men in hooded jackets who almost immediately slipped into the trees.
–¡Joder! Felipe said, still staring out the window. –It’s illegal migrants, isn’t it?
Hortelano pulled over and parked. –Let’s find out.
They climbed slowly up through the scrub, Felipe limping awkwardly with his cane. Crickets clicked around them in the silence. Tucked among the trees near the top were scraps of plastic and cardboard and tin sheeting. A gaggle of children had gathered, two or three of them standing with thumbs in mouths. A thread of dirty smoke rose from a fire somewhere.
–What are you going to do, Papá? Arrest them?
His heart was hammering, as if from the climb, his mouth was dry, and that weight moved in his chest again. He wasn’t in uniform — he’d changed at the clinic — but he always carried his ID.
–I don’t know. Now keep quiet, all right?
A man who might have been Moroccan or Algerian was coming toward them, a scarf wrapped round his head. He held out a piece of paper, which turned out to be an employment contract. Agrupa Costera, S.L. — one of the companies growing tomatoes and cucumbers under those kilometres of plastic sheeting along the coast. Some of that sheeting must have made its way up here. The man watched, on edge, as Hortelano studied the document.
–No place to live down there. He flapped his hand at the curve of beach far below them, the white glitter of yachts. His eyes moved from Hortelano to Felipe and back again.
–I’m looking for a woman from Nigeria. Hortelano pulled out his badge. –Olabisi Akpan. She has a baby.
–No black people here. The man spread his hands, nervous, placating. –All here from Maroc, Tunisie, Algérie.
–Is there another camp near here?
–Lots of camps, the man said eagerly — too eagerly, perhaps. –Black people camps, many different camps. He folded the contract with precision and tucked it in an inside pocket. Perhaps he was the only one with a job, sent out as a decoy on behalf of all those who didn’t, who would never have one. Hortelano could go and check, of course. But that meant knowledge he’d have to act on.
Hour of the Crab Page 5