The Perfect Mother: A Novel

by Nina Darnton

  Her head began to throb, so she reached into her bag and took out the bottle of Advil she had taken to carrying for just such moments. She shook out three pills and washed them down with a big swig of wine. Then she paid her bill and walked back to her apartment to wait for Roberto.

  He came a few minutes early and rang the bell. Instead of pressing the buzzer to let him in, she took the stairs and met him in front of the building. She was relieved to see that he seemed refreshed, all traces of his recent vulnerability buried. It was a beautiful night, and he suggested that since they were early, they should go on foot, about a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk. She fell into step with him and they discussed their plan. She explained that Julia seemed very wary of Paco’s friend, even a little frightened, and very much didn’t want anyone to know she had identified him. Roberto quickly agreed to protect her anonymity.

  They passed small groups of people on their way to dinner, overhearing snippets of conversation, a shrill complaint or a burst of raucous laughter echoing down an alleyway. At one point, Jennifer heard the soulful strains of a flamenco guitar even before she saw the musician, an elderly Gypsy with long black hair and deeply lined leathery skin wearing a blue shirt and a beat-up leather vest. He was sitting on a wooden box, a paper cup set in front of him. She stopped to put some money in while Roberto waited. The Gypsy smiled at her, flashing two gold teeth. They kept walking, and as they turned the corner and crossed the street, she could still hear the haunting chords of the guitar, getting softer and softer.

  When they reached the bridge and crossed over to the Triana steps, Jennifer spotted Julia right away. She was sitting in the center of a group of four other young women, laughing and talking, a bottle of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. When she saw Jennifer, she looked surprised, as though she wasn’t expecting her yet, but then caught herself, stubbed out her cigarette, and walked toward her. Jennifer started to introduce her to Roberto, but, uncharacteristically impolite, Julia cut her off.

  “He’s here,” she whispered nervously. “He’s behind me, on the top of the staircase, standing alone to the right. He’s the guy with the shaved head and a black T-shirt. Please don’t go to him right now. Wait till I’m back with my friends so he doesn’t know I pointed him out.”

  “What’s his name?” Roberto asked.

  “Everyone calls him Raul. I don’t know his last name.”

  Jennifer and Roberto looked up as casually as they could manage and studied him. He looked much older than the others, probably in his midthirties. His forearms were covered with tattoos, the nature of which Jennifer couldn’t make out from that distance, but she could see that they were multicolored and seemed to include several geometric designs that looked like symbols. He wore three gold hoops in one ear and a gold necklace. He was talking to a very blond Scandinavian-looking man in jeans and a Real Madrid T-shirt, and after a minute or so, the blond man nodded and walked away.

  “He’s selling drugs,” Roberto said softly. “He just passed a packet to the blond kid.”

  Jennifer checked Julia’s group and saw them getting up and beginning to walk away together toward the line of bars and restaurants at the top of the stairs.

  “Stay here,” Roberto ordered, and moved toward the man in the black T-shirt. But Jennifer ignored his instruction and walked up to join him. He looked annoyed but said nothing. As soon as Raul noticed two well-dressed adults walking in his direction he bent his head to obscure his face and started to walk away, but Roberto caught up with him, greeted him by name, and said he’d had business with Paco.

  “Cómo se llama?” the man asked. “What is your name?”

  Roberto told him, placing his hand in a restraining gesture on his arm.

  “Are you a cop?” Raul mumbled suspiciously, switching to English as if he were a foreigner and pulling his arm free.

  Roberto shook his head. “I am worse than a cop as far as you’re concerned, chulo,” he said in a voice so hard that Jennifer barely recognized it. “I’m a dissatisfied customer.”

  Raul looked around nervously, but seeing no one else who looked threatening, he jerked his head in the direction of Jennifer. “And her?”

  “We’re together,” Roberto said, reverting to Spanish. “I am doing business with Paco for friends in Madrid. A big order for people muy importante, you understand? We were supposed to meet here. But he has not arrived. I need to find his partner in his village. Where is it?”

  “What makes you think I know him?” Raul said, turning to go.

  Roberto blocked him and moved closer. He talked softly but with great intensity. “I think you won’t want to get involved in this any more than you have to, niño,” he said, continuing in Spanish. “I know you know him. Tell me where he is or my people will come for you instead of him. I don’t think you want to cross them.”

  “Look, I don’t know the guy well. I’ve done business with him from time to time, that’s all. But he’s been arrested. I heard he was involved in the murder of that rich kid at the university. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Where does he come from?”

  “I don’t know. Some village.”

  “Where?” Roberto’s face looked frightening. He had moved so close to Raul, their faces were practically touching.

  “I don’t know. I swear.”

  Roberto pressed on. “The next guy who questions you won’t ask so nicely. So I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is he from?”

  Raul shrugged and stepped back to create more space between them.

  “If I tell you, will that be the end of it?”

  “That depends on whether what you say is true.” Roberto stepped closer to him again.

  “Granada. He’s from the outskirts of Granada,” Raul mumbled.

  “What is his family name? Is it Romero?”

  “No, it’s Frias. Paco Rodriguez Frias.”

  Roberto nodded and moved back, making room for Raul to pass. Raul took advantage of it and slithered away as quickly as he could.

  Jennifer had understood very little of their conversation, but she’d heard the name. After Raul left, she questioned Roberto. “Did he say Paco Romero? Is that Paco’s real name?”

  “I don’t know if it’s his real name, but it’s clearly another name he uses,” Roberto said. His voice had returned to its familiar smooth timbre.

  “You sounded like a different person when you spoke to him.”

  “Ah, that is because I am speaking Spanish. You’re used to my bad English.”

  “No. Your English is perfect, and I’ve heard you speak Spanish. It was different. Hard. Ruthless. It frightened me.”

  He laughed and put his hand under her elbow to steer her back over the bridge toward her apartment. “Well, it seems to have frightened him too—enough to get him to give us some information, so it’s useful, no?”

  She smiled tentatively. “I guess so.”

  They agreed during the walk back that Roberto would go to Granada to find out more about Paco and his family. He wanted to learn why he had changed his name and lied about where he came from. He doubted it, but now that he knew where Paco’s family was, he wanted to know if he was really giving them and others who were struggling any money.

  “We need to prove two things,” Roberto said. “I think you only are aware of one of them.”

  “What are they?” she asked. “I mean, I know we need to prove to Emma that Paco is using her and that she need feel no loyalty to him.”

  “Yes. That’s what we need to prove to Emma. But we also need to prove something to the police,” he said. “And also to me,” he murmured almost inaudibly.

  Jennifer felt a rush of anxiety. “What is it? What are you talking about?”

  “We need to prove that Emma never knew or had any relationship with the murdered boy until he threatened her at the door of her apartment that night. We are pretty sure she lied about the Algerian, but we must not let anyone believe she lied about the attempted rape.”
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  Jennifer stopped short and turned to face him. “She wouldn’t do that, Roberto,” she said earnestly. “Look, I know she’s been acting strangely. You never knew her before, so you don’t know what she’s really like. I wish you did. I have to ask you to trust me and take my word for it about her. She’s gotten herself involved in something she doesn’t understand, and I know her behavior is haywire. One day she needs me, another she wants to be completely independent, another time she wants to show off how much she’s learned and how sophisticated she’s become, and yet another she wants to tell me how spoiled and privileged and unworthy I am. She goes from hot to cold to hot again. Sometimes I feel like she’s been invaded, like in that film, The Exorcist. But not by the devil—by Paco, and the ideas he’s filled her head with. It’s confusing, and it’s been painful to me to see how quickly something like this could happen and reverse twenty years of living with us and sharing our values. But she’s my child and I know her. I know her deep down. And she’s a good person. She wouldn’t accuse a dead boy whose family is grieving of something so terrible if he hadn’t done it. Not even to protect Paco. You have to believe me.”

  Roberto started to walk again and Jennifer caught up with him. “I told you once I believe in evidence,” he said, “not in faith.” He paused and, seeing her worried face, he added, “But I hope you are right.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Now that she had left the hotel, there was no morning newspaper delivery, so it wasn’t until she had showered and dressed and made her way to the closest kiosk that she saw the photograph. As she reached for the Diario, her eye was caught by a two-column photo on the front page. She froze. Her heart felt as though it had been detached and was in free fall, plunging down through her body like an elevator car whose cables had snapped. She was looking at a close-up of her and Roberto, taken the day before when she had expressed her relief at his return by an impulsive kiss. She recalled that when she had flung her arms around him, he had turned his head in surprise so that her lips, which had been aimed at his cheek, had grazed his. That was the moment that the camera caught. It was clear that although he had pushed her back and held her at arms’ length, it had been too late. The headline, in large bold letters, screamed DE TAL PALO, TAL ASTILLA. She didn’t understand it so she looked it up. Roughly translated it meant “Like Mother, Like Daughter.”

  She was mortified. It wasn’t bad enough, she thought, that they were portraying Emma as some sort of femme fatale, a promiscuous predator who engaged in random casual sex, a characterization that was completely false. Now she had stupidly and unwittingly given them more—a mother who appeared to be sexually involved with the man she entrusted with managing her daughter’s case. She could imagine what they would do with it, how they would make her look, how they would use it to hurt Emma.

  It was too early to call Mark. She knew she’d have to explain the photo to him and ask the public-relations company they had hired to counter the bad publicity it was sure to bring. She wasn’t worried about Mark’s reaction, because having seen how the local press was vilifying Emma, he would know that it was not to be trusted. She did worry that it would be picked up by the tabloids in the States and that the kids would see it, or hear of it from friends, so she needed to talk to them too. It was so frustrating to wait. They were all still sleeping, having no idea of the new bomb that had fallen out of the sky, sending its deadly shrapnel out in all directions.

  She needed to see Emma. She hadn’t been allowed in for almost a week, and she also realized that with the close press scrutiny of her, the reporters knew that. But maybe they didn’t know how hard she’d been trying and how the prison had restricted Emma’s visitors. She wondered if she ought to try to explain that.

  She finished her breakfast, gathered the papers, and returned to her apartment. Her first call was to Roberto, but she only reached his voice mail and this time he wasn’t picking up. She punched in José’s number, but it was still early and he wasn’t in the office yet. It was hard to wait, but she sat at her kitchen table and checked the NYT to see if it had covered the story. Relieved that there was nothing, she looked through El País and didn’t find either the story or the picture. Now she could turn to the Diario and try to translate the story. She brought out her Spanish dictionary but, although she managed to decipher a few words here and there, her fledgling Spanish was simply not up to the task. Finally, her phone rang.

  It was José. Yes, he had seen the picture, he reported in answer to her frantic question. She explained what had happened and he listened quietly, murmuring his regret in a worried tone. He said he had a call in to Roberto and they would try to work out a strategy together to counter the bad publicity. But he also had good news. He had arranged a meeting for Jennifer with Emma. He had complained at a high level about the illegal cessation of her visiting privileges and the officials at the prison had relented and agreed to let her come.

  She was so happy at the prospect of seeing Emma again that even this latest blow receded somewhat by comparison. “When can we go?” she asked.

  José said he would drive her to the prison and could pick her up in an hour. She was overjoyed and hurried out to buy some presents for Emma. She stopped at the charcutería to buy half a kilo of jamón serrano and at the bakery for some fresh bread. She made a trip to the English language bookstore and picked up a few paperbacks that she thought Emma might like. At a nearby bakery, she noticed some chocolate tarts, and knowing how much Emma loved chocolate, she picked up a dozen, thinking that maybe she could share them with people Emma liked. Maybe Jennifer could even give some to the guards to smooth her relationship with them. It wasn’t a bribe—it wasn’t enough for a bribe. It was more like the way a relative of a hospitalized person sometimes brings candy to the nurses on duty—a friendly gesture that one hopes will predispose them to be extra kind.

  When they arrived at the prison, they underwent the usual security procedures. The guards confiscated all the food Jennifer had brought, examined it thoroughly, and then returned it to her. But before they were led to the visiting area, Jennifer and José were told that they had to meet with the director of the facility. Jennifer looked nervously at José, trying to catch his eye, but he simply shrugged and whispered, “Don’t worry, we will see,” as they walked down the long hallway, past several closed doors, until they reached the comfortable, spacious office of the director. There were two upholstered chairs facing the central desk. The director rose to welcome them but did not engage in pleasantries. Looking straight at Jennifer, she got right to the point.

  “There has been some trouble involving your daughter,” she began.

  Jennifer’s face showed her alarm. She leaned forward, her body tense, her heart pounding. “What happened? Is she all right?”

  “Yes, yes, she is all right,” the director answered. “She is a bit bruised, but she has been to the infirmary and is now back in her room.”

  “What happened? When can I see her?”

  “You can see her as soon as we finish this conversation.”

  Jennifer could feel the heat rise to the surface of her skin. Her neck and face burned and she felt beads of perspiration on her face although the office was air-conditioned.

  “Is that why you finally allowed me to come?” she asked bitterly. “Did Emma’s refusal to cooperate finally frustrate someone and did a guard hurt her? Is that what happened?”

  José put a restraining hand on her arm. “Cálmate,” he murmured. Then, to the director, in a firm but polite voice, he said, “The mother, of course, is upset. Please tell us what has happened.”

  The director shifted once in her chair, straightened some papers on her desk, and plunged in.

  “I’m afraid that one of the other women in your daughter’s room made an unwelcome advance on her.”

  Jennifer stared at her, but she continued before Jennifer could speak, and José once again put his hand on her arm to calm her.

  “Apparently, this happened several times, and
although your daughter rebuffed these advances, the other woman continued to make them. Eventually, Emma reported this to one of the guards. That was what led to the trouble.”

  Jennifer could no longer be restrained. “What are you saying? That led to the trouble? Didn’t the trouble begin when a woman was allowed to make advances on Emma? I’m sure you knew that this woman had those interests. Why did you put them together? Was this more of your attempt to frighten her into cooperating with you?”

  The director looked pained, but continued. “Her roommate is a Gypsy, and she is part of our large romaní community. Probably about forty percent of the women here belong to it. When Emma complained and we responded by placing her roommate in a separate room and restricting her privileges, her friends were angry. I’m afraid they cornered Emma the next time they went to the shower and roughed her up a bit.”

  Jennifer sat stonily staring ahead of her. Part of her didn’t believe this was happening. There was a strange disconnect that had been operating for some time. Things were moving too fast and the only direction was down. How had she gone from being the mother of a Princeton junior to being the mother of an accused murderer beaten up by a group of Gypsies after one of them made a sexual pass at her? It was almost more than her mind could take in. But of course, she did take it in, and after a minute’s silence she responded.

  “‘Roughed her up a bit’? What does that mean?”

  “She has a black eye, a few bruises on her arms and chest, a cut on her lip. Nothing serious.”

  “Actually, that sounds serious to me. Maybe you are used to that here, but I am not.”