The King of Spain

by Robert Ford

  ‘This way - I think it’s got to be this way,’ said Sam, tilting Komiko’s small scrawled map in the hope that it might bear some relation to the streets ahead.

  ‘Do you think he’ll look like Hal?’ Megan asked, pottering along beside him.

  ‘Who?’ Sam’s attention was fixed on the directions.

  Megan’s nose crinkled a little, like she had smelt something bad. ‘Luis?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’m sure he will. An old ram like Hal no doubt had remarkably potent genes, don’t you think?’

  ‘Guess so,’ said Megan as they reached the end of the road and took a left, squeezing along an alleyway that led in turn to a broad, tree-lined road.

  ‘La Guardia.’ Sam pointed to a street sign a short way up the first in a terrace of tall grey townhouses that lined the other side of the street.

  ‘Good old Komiko,’ Megan said sarcastically; it had, after all, taken them some time to get there, although they couldn’t have been all that far from the hotel.

  They crossed the quiet, sun-dappled road, following the house numbers as they went. The Calle La Guardia ran along the edge of the quarter, a major road in its own diminutive way, and one that clung to the calmness of the tiny streets that it bordered. An occasional vehicle drove past, crawling, while here and there people sat on benches, strolled, or stood talking in twos and threes.

  Number 515 was in the middle of the terrace, a three-storey building like the others, slate-grey with white detail around the coving and thick, green leafed plants protruding from each of the small balconies.

  Sat in a small plastic chair in front of the house was an old woman, a woman who had not undergone any significant cosmetic refurbishment and as such looked her age, roughly one hundred years old. Her body was small and brittle, her face framed by a thick wisp of white hair that looked something like petrified smoke, caught in the instant it was lifting off from her head, escaping. She was dressed in a grey blouse and long black skirt, from the bottom of which winked large white orthopaedic shoes. The most striking element of her outfit, however, was the huge pair of dark glasses that she wore, great plastic frames that were sufficiently dense as to be impenetrable from the point of view of the onlooker.

  They walked over and stood in front of the woman, who for her part continued to sit perfectly still.

  Sam cleared his throat, throwing a sideways glance to Megan.

  ‘Excuse me...’

  The woman grabbed the white stick and started to bang it on the ground beside her, braying as she did; an awful noise.

  Sam and Megan took a couple of startled steps backwards, standing out of reach for a few moments until the flapping abated.

  ‘Hola... pardon...’ Sam tried again from the relative safety of the kerbside.

  ‘What? What?’ cried the woman, her accent hard to place, American perhaps.

  On first meeting Mrs Skeets at Edge Hill, Sam had thought her rather like an ostrich. This woman was more compact, aggressive it seemed - and perched there, she reminded Sam of a great glum seagull.

  ‘Hola, Señora,’ said Megan, stepping towards the woman.

  ‘What? What is it?’ said the Seagull.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ called Sam, a short distance behind Megan now.

  ‘What country do you think this is?’

  Silence.

  ‘Spain?’ Megan ventured after the pause.

  ‘Ha! What?’

  ‘We’re here to see a Señor Luis Martinez.’ Megan continued. ‘Would you happen to know where we might be able to find him?’

  The Seagull gathered the stick across her lap, striking a thoughtful, curious pose.

  ‘Luis, Luis, Luis...’ she muttered. ‘Who is Luis?’

  ‘Luis Martinez,’ said Sam. ‘He lives here, I think. Or perhaps he used to?’

  ‘Luis Martinez. Five-one-five. Lafayete and Broadway. New York City. New York.’ The Seagull’s accent became more broadly American with each passing word.

  ‘No. No. Here in Seville... Luis?’ said Megan.

  ‘Seville? Pah!’

  Silence. Just the traffic going by and somewhere far away a shout and a whistle, a police car and a dog’s lazy bark.

  ‘We really need to find Luis, Señora. If you could help us...’ Sam said, frustration registering now in the tightness of his voice.

  The Seagull appeared to consider Sam’s entreaty, making sharp clucking noises with her tongue. ‘You should go see José.’

  ‘José? Who is José?’ asked Megan.

  ‘Yeah, José,’ she cawed.

  ‘And where is José?’ Sam asked, his palm starting to sweat from holding on to the bubble wrapped journal so tightly and for so long.

  ‘José... José...’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam, creeping forward.

  ‘The Crab. Couple of blocks down.’

  ‘Blocks?’

  The quarter was not arranged on a block system by any means.

  ‘Hmm. Down here. Take a left. Then another left. Then I think it’s another couple of lefts.’

  ‘Four lefts?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes.’

  The Seagull seemed very definite on this.

  ‘But isn’t that a circle, or a square I mean... won’t that just bring us back to where we started?’

  ‘Who is this clown?’ she said, almost to herself as she stood up from the chair and began to swing about with her stick once more, her swipes so aggressive that each one threatened to topple her over onto the floor.

  ‘OK! OK! Thanks!’ Megan shouted as they backed away, heading across the road and into the smaller streets of the old quarter. Looking over his shoulder as they went, Sam just caught sight of the Seagull returning to her nest, a final flourish of the stick before sitting back down, flustered.

  Despite the dearth of people on the streets they were able to obtain more accurate directions, arriving a little while later at La Cangrejo, the Crab. A bright pink neon sign hung outside, above the glass-fronted restaurant where a largely male clientele sat scattered amongst cheap plastic chairs and shiny round metallic tables. While Megan loitered just inside the entrance Sam went to the long bar at the back and spoke to the bow-tied waiter, who was good enough to point out a large man sat across the room, near the corner. Sam turned and gave Megan the thumbs up and they both made their own way across the room to the table.

  The man in front of them was short and round, his great bulk crammed into a shiny black suit, beneath which lurked a white, sweat-stained T-shirt. His head was pear-shaped, with great stubbled jowls at one end and a thick tuft of short black hair at the other, whilst in between sat smallish features - dark eyes, a snub nose and a puckered, bow shaped mouth.

  Sam and Megan stood there as the man continued to wade through his substantial lunch, oblivious to their presence.

  ‘José?’

  The man put down his fork and dabbed at the sides of his mouth with a ragged paper napkin.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, squinting up towards them.

  ‘You’re José?’ said Sam.

  ‘My friend. You are in a city of Josés.’ He drawled, his voice a mixture of rough and smooth, molasses on a shingle beach.

  ‘We’re looking for Luis. A Luis Martinez,’ Megan said, flashing a disarming smile.

  José gestured for them to sit down, a meaty palm upturned towards the spare seats around the table.

  Sam and Megan accepted the invitation as Jose poured them some red wine. ‘Salut,’ he said before gulping at the small glass.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch,’ said Sam. ‘But we were told you might know where to find Luis Martinez?’

  Jose smacked his lips, contemplating their question.

  ‘So yes, maybe I know this.’ He lit a cigarette, inhaling with great satisfaction. ‘Why you want Luis?’

  Sam tightened his grip around the journal.

  ‘We need to give him something. It’s from his father, from England.’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Yes.’r />
  José breathed a huge plume of smoke into the air above him. He looked content, jovial somehow, but behind his small dark eyes was a glint of menace, as if he could in fact turn at any minute.

  ‘What is it that you have for Luis?’ José went on in a low voice, leaning forward.

  ‘Well, it’s...’ To Sam it suddenly seemed ridiculous to have come all this way to give someone a notebook.

  Jose looked over both shoulders, checking that the coast was clear.

  ‘Drugs? You have drugs for Luis?’ José growled, starting to really enjoy their conversation.

  ‘No. No drugs.’ Sam looked over at Megan for support.

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ chimed José, his tiny mouth set into something like a grin.

  ‘No, really. It’s not drugs,’ said Megan, her tone quite serious.

  ‘This is what you have here,’ he said, motioning with his hand at the journal, obscured as it was by the copious bubble wrap.

  ‘Yes. It really isn’t drugs though. Here, I’ll...’

  Sam started to unwrap the journal, but José threw up a fat hand to stop him.

  ‘Please. Please. Not here. We have police in Spain too, you know?’

  ‘But...’

  ‘I will take you to Luis.’ José continued, addressing Sam. ‘You must come now. And you must come alone. This is the rules of my bargain for you, naughty boy.’

  ‘Naughty boy?’ said Sam, a little confused.

  ‘That’s very kind, José,’ Megan interjected, nudging Sam. ‘Very kind indeed.’

  Sam threw her a glance, not wanting to go anywhere with this man at all.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to see Luis today?’ José threw some cash on the table for his lunch. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’ With that José stood up from the table and attempted, without success, to button his suit jacket across his impressive midriff.

  ‘Wait. Sorry...’ Sam stood up also. ‘Yes. Please. I’ll come with you to Luis.’

  ‘OK. And she stays here,’ José said pointing at Megan, rather business-like now.

  Inside, Sam’s heart was sinking. Without Megan he was lost; not quite incapable, but capable only of floundering. ‘Sure. Fine,’ he said after a moment, trying as best as he could to sound confident.

  ‘So. We go then.’ José looked pleased with Sam’s decision. ‘Adiós, chica,’ he said, blowing a kiss in Megan’s direction.

  ‘Goodbye, José,’ said Megan as she stood from her chair. ‘And good luck!’

  They made their way out of the bar, Sam following Jose’s lead around the side of the building and along a narrow alleyway. From here they emerged into a small sun-filled square, in the middle of which was parked a low-slung muscle car, its pale grey bodywork somewhat chipped.

  Leaning against the passenger side was a tall blonde gentleman dressed in pale, fitted jeans and a denim shirt to match.

  ‘Yes, we go now,’ José called ahead.

  The man grunted and flicked what remained of his cigarette, before circling the car and climbing into the driver’s seat. José opened his door, ushering Sam into the back, towards the thin shelf that passed for a seat. In a way, Sam had half-expected a proper introduction to their driver now that they were in the car, but none was forthcoming. He was vaguely handsome, hirsute with a slim face and high-drawn cheekbones, a cross between Björn Borg and large ripe peach.

  ‘So. Luis...’ Sam croaked from the back as Björn started the car, its propulsion system squealing from the rear, like an angry hog shouting at a basketball match.

  ‘Yes. Luis. We take you to Luis,’ said the fat man, José. ‘But first we have maybe a one or two errands to run.’

  ‘Errands? I really think...’ Sam began to squirm.

  Before José could answer, Björn popped the car into gear and they thundered away through the square and into the tiny back streets beyond.

  Björn drove fast, too fast, throwing the car into the tight bends and through narrow passes, the sand-coloured walls of the houses on either side just inches from the car. José, meanwhile, seemed indifferent to their breakneck progress, scrolling through his phone, eventually finding the right contact and putting in a call - a short, sharp burst of aggressive Spanish, to which there seemed to be no response at the other end. Meanwhile in the back, Sam tried to hold on as best he could, a ridiculous task given the speed and severity of the car’s movements, not to mention the lack of purchase available to him about the sleek, plastic interior.

  With the same nonchalant disregard for his passengers, Björn slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop outside a small bar.

  ‘OK. OK. One minute,’ said José over his shoulder as he scrabbled out through he door and away, the soles of his black brogues clopping across the cobbled stone until he vanished inside.

  The car engine ticked over with a soft stuttering clip as they waited for José to conduct his business. Sam thought about trying to make conversation; however, looking ahead, this didn’t seem like such a good idea. Björn’s pale eyes darted this way and that, checking the streets behind them in his mirrors every few seconds.

  ‘We’re not being followed, are we?’ Sam said, chuckling.

  There was no answer from Björn and the longer they sat there, the more his obsessive itching twitches and tweaks began to make Sam feel even more on edge.

  A few minutes later José emerged from the bar, scampering back across the road and launching himself into the front of the car. He was sweating profusely, the smell of alcohol fresh on his lips. From under his jacket he produced a small package about the size of a brick, taped up, wrapped in plastic. Turning round, he threw it next to Sam, winking as it landed with a thud on the spare side of the back seat.

  A thick smear of impending doom began to invade Sam’s person, as it became apparent with their further progress that the suspect procedures at this first bar had in fact established something of a pattern, Bjorn slamming the car through the narrow streets of the old quarter, from bar to bar, the pile of packages increasing with each stop as José wobbled to and fro, making his rounds.

  Sam had to do something; this was getting out of hand. So at the next port of call he leaned forward and caught José’s shoulder before he could get out. ‘Look. José. I want to see Luis. Now.’ Sam’s eyes blinked uncontrollably.

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ replied José. ‘Last one. I promise.’

  Before Sam could reply, José had leapt from the car and made off across the street, a sweaty little cannon ball, glistening in the afternoon sun.

  As before, they waited. And waited. And waited. And still there was no sign of José.

  Björn looked at his watch, gunning the engine hard. Then from the bar they heard raised voices, shouting, and soon after, two pops, hard metallic sounds in quick succession followed by a female scream.

  ‘Was that a shot?’ Sam asked, eyes wide.

  Björn said nothing.

  ‘I think that was a gun...’

  Across the street, bright plastic furniture was strewn about as José sprinted from the bar straight into a seating area. Gathering himself up, he hobbled the rest of the way over and into the waiting car. Once again José had a package, but also this time, and much to Sam’s horror, a large pistol.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ José screamed and Björn floored the car away through the streets with a loud screech of the tyres.

  ‘What’s going on?’ shouted Sam from the back. Events had become so strange, so quickly, that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, to laugh or to cry.

  It was then that Björn broke his silence, reaching up a bony finger to the rear-view. ‘Police,’ he said in a clipped, Scandinavian monotone. ‘Undercover police.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed José. ‘Yes!’

  Sam spun round in his seat. They were being followed, of that there was no doubt, a slim red car hurtling after them at high speed - although quite contrary to what Sam had expected the driver was in fact dressed in the traditional outfit of a matador.

  ‘It’s a bullfighter. A bu
llfighter is behind us!’ Sam laughed, bordering on the hysterical.

  Leaning forward, José opened the glove box and pulled out another handgun. With practised skill he checked to make sure it was loaded and then turned to Sam. ‘Is possible you will need. Hold like this...’ José demonstrated, holding out the gun at an imaginary target. ‘And squeeze. Pow! Pow! Pow!’

  ‘I don’t want the gun. Why would I need the gun?’

  ‘Yes, we stop soon.’ José tried to light a cigarette even though their great speed made this simple task all but impossible.

  The chase continued, both cars weaving along the roads, left, right, left, until finally they sped into a sunlit square, scattering fat pigeons as they went.

  ‘Horunge!’ hissed Björn.

  The road ahead was far too narrow for them to pass - they were trapped. Björn slammed on the brakes, the car coming to rest just feet from the wall at the far end. Without saying a word to Sam, they both jumped out of the front, making off in separate directions, off into the city.

  It took Sam a moment to catch himself, to process what just happened. Then, clutching the journal close to his chest, he clambered over the seats and threw himself from the passenger door, just in time to see the matador screech into the square at high speed.

  Sam scrabbled up to his feet and sprinted away from the car, across the square and into an alleyway on the other side and he ran and ran and ran, as if his life depended on it, a malcoordinated, furious gallop along the labyrinthine network of half-lit passages and paths that criss-crossed the old quarter. He ran until he simply could not run any more, until he was exhausted, stumbling into the ornate doorway of a tall, silent house.

  Leaning in the shadows against the dark wooden frame, Sam craned his head, trying to listen for the steps of his pursuer above the considerable din of his racing heart, between great heaving hyperventilations.

  Nothing.

  Sam snuck a look back along the alleyway - still nothing.

  After several minutes it seemed that he was in the clear. Flushed with it all, giddy almost, Sam started to chuckle, a laugh that graduated into a full wheezing hoot as he tried to process the ridiculousness of the situation, raking back in his mind over the last few hours, the several days since leaving Edge Hill - the adventure as a whole. And with the laughter then came tears, a welcome, spontaneous outpour, caught somewhere between the remnants of grief and the euphoria of accomplishment, of self-discovery and escape.