Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘Mmm. Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks. Cabo Guevarra will drive you back to town. Could you ask the father to ID the body?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see what I can do to help.’

  ‘Shall we go, sir?’ said Guevarra.

  Max got into the car beside her. He felt guilty that all he could think of was the waste of a lovely body.

  Guevarra was very pale.

  ‘Your first body?’

  ‘Sí. I suppose you get used to it.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You knew her then, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I saw her father this afternoon.’

  ‘A pretty girl. You couldn’t miss her in a town like this.’

  ‘Sí,very pretty.’

  ‘The Teniente won’t like it. He hates having to deal with the foreigners.’

  They arrived in silence at Ahmed’s house. Max rang the doorbell.

  ‘Max what a surprise! I’m still waiting for Leila. I hope you haven’t found a terrorist gang.’

  ‘Nothing like that. Can I come in?’

  ‘Certainly. The study again?’

  This time Max preferred to stand . . . Ahmed looked at him, waiting.

  ‘I’ve very bad news for you Ahmed.’ It was somehow reassuring to use his first name. ‘The police have just found Leila’s body. She’s—she’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? What do you mean? She can’t be—no, can’t be.’ His voice started to break.

  ‘It looks like murder.’

  ‘Murder? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do we. We suspect her neck was broken, and her body hidden in the Jola ravine.’

  ‘My precious Leila, my precious Leila.’ Ahmed tried to hold back the tears, but sobs came.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Max put his arm around the crumpled shoulders. There was nothing he could say. ‘I’m so sorry, Ahmed. When you feel up to it, we would like you to formally identify the body. You can do it now or later, whatever you prefer. If now, we can do it before she’s taken away. Or we could go to the mortuary in Granada in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Now . . . but . . . I must have a few minutes alone to pray.’

  Ahmed stumbled from the room. There was a racking, retching sound. Ahmed was bent over double, vomit on the floor. Max gently helped him up. Ahmed muttered his thanks, closed his eyes, and in a whisper stammered out his prayer.

  ‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. All praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of all being. He is compassionate and merciful. He is the master of the day of judgement. The day of judgement is certain to come; this is beyond doubt. Those who are in the grave, God will raise to life.’

  Ahmed turned to Max, repeated his thanks, and staggered off to the bathroom. Max returned to the study, stood awkwardly, turning the pages of the book on the table, seeking comfort. There was none. Ahmed returned pale, but upright.

  ‘Let’s go. No . . . I need some white cloth to shroud her. Just wait a minute, please.’

  Ahmed left and returned a few minutes later with two white sheets on his arm. Guevarra was waiting outside in the car. With quiet dignity, Ahmed thanked her for waiting. He asked no more questions. Only the shaking of his hands betrayed him. It was dark now. González had finally arrived, and was talking to Judge Falcón. An ambulance and the forensics van partially blocked the road. Leila’s body was already in the ambulance, covered by a red blanket. A line of a Lorca poem went through Max’s head: ‘Everything else was death, only death.’

  González came over to Max, sweating profusely and smelling of alcohol. ‘I gather León asked you to come and help, Max. But we can manage. Bad news this. Always happens on the day off, doesn’t it. Sod’s law. I was working on my land, and the mobile reception is lousy. I barely had time for a wash and brush up, and get into uniform. Don’t want Falcón to think we’re a bunch of scruffs.’

  He turned to Ahmed. ‘Thanks for coming straight away. But we need a formal identification of the body. Are you okay to look?’ González sounded surprisingly gentle.

  ‘Is she—is she . . .?’

  ‘It’s okay, her face is fine.’

  Ahmed and González entered the ambulance. Guevarra was crying. She fumbled in her pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘A cigarette, sir?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  A grim-faced González was the first to come out. ‘Sí. It’s his daughter. He’ll be out soon. He says he has to shroud the body.’

  A few minutes later Ahmed scrambled out, his face like a death mask. He was stooping badly, and he stumbled as he walked. Max helped him upright.

  ‘Is there someone to stay with you tonight? I could stay.’

  ‘Thanks. Members of my community will help me. We will pray.’

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions. Could you manage Monday morning? About eleven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The car with Guevarra and Ahmed sped away. Judge Falcón, González and León consulted, huddled. Judge Falcón turned to Max and the technicians.

  ‘I’ve finished for now. This is a tough one. The rain seems to have wiped away all evidence. I’ll sign the order, so the body can be taken to the Instituto Anatómico Forense. Sargento León tells me Sub-Inspector Romero says her community will want to bury her as soon as possible. I’ll instruct the Médico Forense to be as quick as they can. Sargento León also says that Sub Inspector Romero may be willing to help with the case if Granada agrees.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Judge. We can manage on our own,’ interrupted González.

  ‘This could be a sensitive and complicated case, Teniente. I think someone with excellent English and knowledge of the Muslim community could be invaluable.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist, Judge,’ muttered González.

  ‘I do,’ said Judge Falcón. ‘We’ll come back in the morning when it’s light. You can all go now.’

  ‘Okay,’ said González, turning to Max. ‘I’ll get the results of the autopsy tomorrow. Left my car at Felipe’s. León here is driving me over to pick it up. Can we give you a lift home?’

  ‘Gracias. I’m down the Río Sierra track.’

  González eased his overweight body into the back of the car. León got into the driver’s seat. Max sat beside him. González was perspiring alcohol. He reached into his pocket, took out three mints, peeled the silver wrapping paper off two, and started crunching them vigorously.

  ‘A mint, Max?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  González’s hand shook as he handed a mint over to Max. ‘I think we can manage okay on this one. Don’t know why León asked for your help.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said León. ‘We tried and tried to get hold of you. And then I remembered that Max might have known her.’

  ‘I was working on my land, can’t get a signal there. Got the message on the landline when I got home. You should have waited for me, León.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Well . . . my guess is it was an accident,’ said González.

  ‘Doesn’t look like an accident to me,’ said Max.

  ‘I agree with that,’ added León.

  ‘Mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ said González. ‘I think we could still be dealing with an accident here.’

  ‘Maybe. But I doubt it,’ said Max. ‘I’m willing to help if you want. I did know her and her father. It’s Judge Falcón’s call really. If that’s what he wants I’ll have to get the okay from the boss first, and you’ll then have to ask formally for assistance. Got to be back in Granada midweek. Babysitting two posh suits from Madrid.’

  ‘Well, if the judge insists, then I suppose we must. But I’m sure we can manage. Mind you . . . that’s some police job you’ve got. Don’t know whether you’re a tourist guide or a bloody social worker.’

  ‘You mean you don’t believe in good community relations?’

  ‘Sure I do. But our job is to protect the Spanish public. Too many foreign Muslims. We should se
nd them all back. If the buggers want to drown at sea then let them.’

  ‘If we sent them all back, then we’d have nobody to pick the olives and grapes. No Spaniard seems willing to do that these days.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. We could let some of the buggers in for the harvests. But don’t let them stay. They’re costing us too much in taxes.’

  ‘But those who stay also pay taxes.’

  ‘Bloody few. Hey, you’re not going to become a fucking Muslim, are you, like some of those weirdo foreigners?’

  ‘No. But it’s not that different from Christianity. Same God, you know.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t trust the bastards. Never have done, never will.’

  ‘Where to, Max?’ called out León.

  ‘Just turn left here. Let me off at the end of the field. It’s easier for you to turn there.’

  ‘Wasn’t that Pepe’s old place?’

  ‘Sí. Nice location. The orchard’s been well looked after, but el cortijo needs a hell of a lot of work.’

  ‘At least you’ve got town water and electricity,’ said González. ‘I can’t believe what some of these foreigners are paying. My uncle Gonzalo got twenty million pesetas from a German for a dump a pig wouldn’t shit in. The German said he liked the view. My land will be worth a fortune when it gets rezoned.’

  ‘Any chance of that?’ asked Max. ‘I thought the Junta was tightening up – been too many scandals in this town already.’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ replied González.

  ‘If the boss is working on it, then there’s a good chance it will happen,’ interrupted León.

  Max got out of the car. ‘Okay. If Falcón wants me on the case, then so be it. I’ll give Davila a bell for now, but you’ll need to put in a formal request to Granada for cooperation. Assume I’ll see you Monday.’

  González scowled. ‘Really, I don’t think this is necessary, but if Falcón insists then—’

  ‘Where’s your car, sir?’ asked León.

  ‘Oh – at Felipe’s,’ replied González.

  The car sped off, churning mud from the puddles on the track. Max glanced at his watch. It was exactly midnight. He stood quietly for a minute beneath the stars, before opening his gate.

  Chapter 3

  Tape Number 2

  Leila: Tell me about the first time you met Lorca.

  Paula: Oh, I’ll never forget it. Of course I didn’t know who he was. I was only six. He was staying with his family in Banjaron, you know. His mother was taking the waters at the spa. Antonio invited Lorca over for a day. Well . . . I was playing in the garden, and he was there on his own, talking to himself. I can’t remember how now, but I must have fallen and scraped my knee, and started crying. Lorca came over, and picked me up. He recited what I thought were magic words – I’ve never forgotten them.

  The girl on the swing goes

  from north down to the south,

  from south up to the north,

  And on the parabola

  a red star is trembling

  beneath all the stars.

  It must have worked because I stopped crying . . . and it was love at first sight – at least for me.

  Leila: You met him again, didn’t you?

  Paula: Yes, the second time I met him I was so excited. I must have been about thirteen or fourteen.

  Leila: So when was that?

  Paula: It must have been 1931 or 1932. Yes it was 1932, the four hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the University of Granada. Lorca’s company were putting on a play in the old Isabel la Católica theatre.

  Leila: What was the play?

  Paula: I can still see the poster. La Barraca Presents – Life is a Dream, by the Spanish poet, Calderón de la Barca.

  Leila: Why La Barraca? Does it mean anything?

  Paula: Yes, very odd. I think he called it that because Lorca’s company went round the poor villages and towns, and would perform in barns or whatever they could find. The right wing really hated La Barraca . . . and all it stood for.

  Leila: Ah. La Barraca – The Barn. Of course. Sorry for interrupting. This is so good. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?

  Paula: Not much. My children found it all . . . well, embarrassing. The grandsons . . . I’ve got two. There’s Juan – he’s not really interested either, but Max likes Lorca’s poetry. He’s a good boy, isn’t he? I know he likes you. You are so pretty.

  Leila: Doña Paula, thank you for the compliment. Can we get back to Lorca?

  Paula: Well, in 1932, Antonio invited my mother and me to see the play. I was overjoyed. I must have spent a week deciding what to wear, and I think mother took longer. We both looked stunning. Mother wore a blue corded-silk dress from Madame du Maurier’s with pearl and gold earrings and a wonderful bracelet. She had the smartest hat, a cloche, you should have seen it, and a coat trimmed with Arctic fox. I finally decided on my plum-coloured velvet dress with the fine lace collar. And mother bought me a new winter coat . . . and I had a fur muff.

  Leila: Did Lorca act in the play?

  Paula: Oh yes. I was too young to really understand the play, but it looked wonderful. Lorca played the part of La Sombra, The Shadow, and he was so dramatic in black veils and a horned headpiece. As he moved across the stage, he was lit up by a single beam of light. He was obsessed with the moon and death, you know. We cheered and cheered. And he came on stage at the end, and spoke passionately about something or the other. It sounded marvellous. We went backstage afterwards, and Antonio introduced us to him. He still had make-up on, and his eyes were like black coals set in a white face. He kissed me on both cheeks, and then I began to recite: ‘The girl on the swing goes . . .’

  He looked at me with that strange smile of his. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the little girl in the garden, crying. Let’s recite it together: “de norte a sur de sur a norte”.’

  And he went across to a piano in the corner of the room, and started playing, he played the piano so well, you know, and we all started singing: ‘de norte a sur de sur a norte . . .’

  I could have cried. In fact I did later on. I was so happy. It was a time of such hope and promise.

  Leila: I know.

  Paula: Yes. Did I tell you my parents took me to the first performance in Granada of Lorca’s most famous play Bodas de Sangre? And we stayed the night in the Alhambra Palace Hotel. It was magical.

  Leila: It must have been. Did you know that the English translation is Blood Wedding? The Spanish sounds so much better.

  Paula: Did you know that little Juan and Max are arranging a treat for my birthday? We are all going to the new production of Blood Wedding in the outdoor theatre of the summer palace in the Alhambra, and then spending the night in the Alhambra Palace Hotel. Isn’t that wonderful of them?

  Leila: Yes indeed . . . and Blood Wedding is one of Lorca’s best works. It should be quite a night.

  Chapter 4

  La piedra es una fuente donde los sueños gimen

  Sin tener agua curva ni cipreses helados.

  La piedra es una espalda para llevar tiempo

  Con árboles de lagrimas y cintas y planetas.

  Stone is a forehead where dreams groan

  For lack of curving waters and frozen cypresses.

  Stone is a shoulder for carrying away time

  With trees made of tears and ribbons and planets

  Frederico García Lorca, Cuerpo presente (The Laid-Out Body)

  Max had been in the police for four years now, but had never seen the body of someone he knew before. Last year thirteen Moroccans had been washed ashore, and he had seen the bloated corpses: men, women and children. There was a little girl with a silver necklace, her name in Arabic, around her neck – Fatima. No one came to claim the bodies. He was shocked by that girl’s tragedy. ‘Let the buggers drown,’ González had said. No, that was wrong. But Spaniards had to be seen as good Europeans, and the heat was on to act tough against illegal immigration. Hell! Most Spaniards wanted that.
r />   Leila’s death was different. She didn’t just sparkle; she was radiant. He slept badly. A quiet Sunday would have been nice, but he had to go to the family barbecue. For the Romero family, Sunday lunch was sacred. But he would go to Leila’s funeral afterwards.

  The sun woke him far too early. The heavy rain had left olive, orange and lemon tree branches strewn across the terraces. Most of the banana plants were down. He cleared the debris, carefully stacking it in the middle terrace. Hard work, but the air was fresh with the rain-washed scent of jasmine and roses, and the tops of the two mountain ranges shone in the morning sun.

  The new gazebo had survived the rain and wind. Good. It had passed its first test. Juan had warned him that the thin metal poles would not withstand the first strong wind. Better to buy one with a solid frame, he had said. But Max couldn’t afford that.

  Eleven was his allotted hour for irrigation. At ten, he let the water out of the alberca. The earth had been soaked by yesterday’s storms so he lifted the little metal shutters, which usually guided the water along the canals to feed his trees and plants. The water gurgled out, straight down to the river at the bottom of the valley. It was the water, flowing along the ancient Moorish canals, which made the land such a mosaic of colour and butterflies. Max refilled the alberca with water, cold from the Sierra Nevada.

  He phoned the mosque: the funeral was at eight. At two he drove to the old family home at the end of the Jola road. Juan’s wife came to greet him. ‘Isabel la Católica’, Paula had christened her, and the name had stuck. He pecked her on both cheeks. Christ, she was getting seriously fat.

  ‘Good to see you Max.Una cerveza?’

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘Juan’s in the garden. Can you give him a hand?’

  ‘Sure. Are you coming?’

  ‘In a minute. Have to sort out the laundry mess the lord and master made yesterday. Put all his wet clothes in the washing machine together, so there’s blue dye all over the good white shirt that my mother bought for his birthday. If she knew, we would never hear the end of it.’

  Isabel’s daughter, Encarnación, ran up to Max, and jumped straight into his arms.

  ‘Uncle Max. Tito Max. Come and see. I’ve got a kitten.’