Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  Leila: And did he?

  Paula: We don’t know. He just disappeared. We don’t know whether he got to the coast . . . whether he was shot, and dumped in a ravine in the hills . . . we simply don’t know.

  Leila: Oh, how awful. I can’t imagine it.

  Paula: It’s not just losing him, it’s not knowing what happened that’s so bad. Mother never got over it. She died soon after I got married. I remember her as always being such a busy, happy woman. I still lie awake at night, just wondering.

  Leila: But what happened to you?

  Paula: Well, Pablo was right. We were raided late the next night. It was dreadful. Pablo was with them. They dragged mother and me out of our beds, and made us stand in our nightdresses in the middle of the dining room. I noticed the young lad guarding us kept eyeing me up and down. I was so frightened that I peed on the floor. They searched the house from the attic to the cellar. Fortunately we’d removed any sign that Antonio had been there. They found nothing. Even though I was standing in a pool of pee, this young lad kept eyeing me. El Capitán and Pablo came back up, and el Capitán started questioning us: when had we last seen Antonio and Carlos, had they been in touch, had any Republican scum been in touch? Fortunately my mother was a good liar. I was just too nervous – if he’d concentrated on me I’m sure I would have blurted out something. El Capitán finally decided we knew nothing. I remember vividly every word that was said at the end.

  Leila: Oh, my goodness, this is so dramatic.

  Paula: El Capitán said, ‘Okay let’s go. They know nothing. But ladies, we’ll be back. If you hear anything let us know, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Leila: What a threat!

  Paula: Then the young boy guarding us, piped up: ‘Capitán, how about a bit of fun? The young one looks like she could do with a tumble.’

  Leila: What? I don’t believe this.

  Paula: And the boy stepped forward, and yanked my nightdress at the shoulder. It tore, and one of my breasts became uncovered. ‘Virgen santo,’ he said. ‘Look at that! Let’s see what else you’re hiding.’ El Capitán just laughed. But Pablo stepped forward, knocked the lad to the ground, and said, ‘Touch her again, and I’ll kill you.’

  Leila: Gosh. That was brave of him.

  Paula: Yes. But el Capitán just put his arm around Pablo’s shoulders, and said, ‘Come on, Pablo. The lad here meant no harm, just a bit of fun. Surprised you’re defending the sister of a fucking Red.’ He saluted, and they all left. I was so terrified I peed myself again.

  Leila: Oh, Paula. That’s terrible.

  Paula: After that, I became Pablo’s novia, and after the Civil War we married.

  Leila: So that’s how you married Pablo.

  Paula: Mother and I were pretty much on our own, and it looked like the new government might confiscate the family’s property because of Carlos and Antonio, so it was the only sensible thing I could do.

  Leila: Were you happy?

  Paula: Yes. Pablo wasn’t a bad husband. And he was a really good grandfather to Max and Juan. They loved it here when they were young. But Pablo had terrible, black days. When we were first married, I kept asking him to find out what had happened to Antonio, but he would just get angry. Once he got drunk, and hit me hard and ordered me never to mention Antonio’s name again.

  Leila: Why do you think he did that?

  Paula: Terrible things happened in the Civil War. He said it was best to forget, and not keep harping back, and that with no news for so long Antonio would certainly be dead. He kept saying nothing would be gained by digging up the past.

  Leila: Oh, dear me. You look really tired now. That’s more than enough for today. Can I get you something to drink?

  Paula: That’s kind of you, Leila. A cup of coffee would be nice. You will help me, won’t you?

  Leila: Of course. I’m starting work on the Guardia Civil archives this week.

  Paula: I’ll come with you into the kitchen. I need to stretch my legs. I get so stiff if I don’t move around. Can you fetch me my stick over there?

  Leila: Here. Let me help you up.

  Paula: Thanks, my dear. There really are no benefits to old age, you know.

  Chapter 10

  Venus del mantón de Manila que sabe

  Del vino de Málaga y de guitarra.

  Venus is an embroidered shawl who

  knows The guitar and sweet Malaga wine.

  Frederico García Lorca, Elegia, Diciembre de 1918, Granada

  (Elegy, December 1918, Granada)

  Max woke with a hangover. Three bottles of wine was one too many. But it had been a good evening. Linda had a wicked sense of humour, and she had kept him laughing with her tales of the follies of the great and the good in Madrid. The venality, in-fighting and pomposity were much worse than even he had imagined. Flamenco tonight. Max looked round his flat: what a tip! No way could he invite Linda back for coffee. He had really let the place go. He hadn’t even done the washing up for three days. No choice but to get on with it. Strong, black coffee first. Max opened all the windows to let in some fresh air. He needed a quick shower to cool down. Madre mía, the shower looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in months! It would take a good ten minutes to make any dent on the grime. Once he got going, Max enjoyed housework. It was one of the few things that gave instant results.

  By noon, the flat was beginning to look habitable. Max looked around him with satisfaction. Textiles and pictures from his trip to Latin America, ancient Moorish tiles picked up in Morocco, traditional Alpujarran rugs bought in Diva scattered on the terracotta floor tiles, made it bright, but connected to his past. In pride of place, a framed John Houston poster of the countryside south of Edinburgh – a field of corn flowing down to a blue sea with a blue sky above. More like Spain, but it reminded him of the rare sunny days he had enjoyed in Scotland. His flat, on the top floor of a nineteenth-century block, had a tiny terrace looking out over the Alhambra. The terrace could only hold a small table and chair. But hibiscus, scented geraniums, a small lemon tree and jasmines growing along the low terrace wall made it his private sanctuary, a place to breathe in the magic of the Alhambra.

  It was time for a break. Max went to the fridge. He opened the door, and was hit by a dubious smell. Something nasty. Hell . . . he had forgotten to chuck away the remains from last week: a spaghetti marinera. Best chuck everything, and scrub it clean. Max disinfected the fridge. By the time he finished it was after two thirty. He changed into clean clothes, walked down the hill, crossed Plaza Nueva, and entered El Taberna.

  ‘Hola, Max. ¿Tubo y tapas? How’s it going? Haven’t seen you for days.’

  ‘Sí, really busy. Murder case up in Diva on top of the usual stuff.’

  ‘Is that the one where a pretty British Muslim girl got dumped under a bridge? All over the papers.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Max retreated to his favourite corner, sat on a tall stool, and placed his tubo of beer on the sherry cask. Felipe arrived shortly with the tapas: a slice of good tortilla with bread.

  ‘Another tubo, Max?’

  ‘Sí. Por favor.’

  Max went to the counter, and picked up El País from the stack of newspapers. The election campaign was hotting up – ‘Prime Minister Accuses Socialists of Being Soft on Terrorism’. Max skimmed the article – ‘the PM also accuses the Socialists of opening secret contacts with ETA’. He glanced at the international news page – ‘USA Begins Negotiations with Israel and Palestine to Broker a Final Peace Settlement’.

  The tubo y tapa finished, Max walked to the Carrera del Genil, down to the Corte Inglés. Best get in some good wine and food just in case Linda agreed to come back. Max went down the stairs to the food section. The fish counter was like a Dutch still-life painting. Max chose prawns. Big meaty ones, wee tiny ones to eat whole. And some lemons, garlic, fresh bread, an expensive Don Darío and a couple of Rioja whites, oh . . . and some extra virgin olive oil. That should keep them both going if needed. With luck sh
e might stay over for breakfast, so best get some fresh orange juice, croissants, and a box of the best Costa Rican coffee beans. The mixed carnations looked pretty – they would help to brighten and freshen the flat up. Max took a taxi back to the flat, put the food away in the newly cleaned fridge, cut the stems of the carnations and arranged them into his only vase – a gift from his mother. He then settled down to finish yet another silly job evaluation form for Davila before beginning his report on Leila’s murder. At times, it was just like being back in university, having to write essays every fortnight. He began reading the thick form, and felt his eyelids droop. It had been a late night. If he didn’t have a siesta now, he would fall asleep over it.

  After a longer than intended siesta Max finished the form, made the final touches to the flat to ensure it looked fresh and inviting, and then at 9.45 p.m. took the tiny Albayzín bus. The bus, scraping between churches, convents and cafés, wound its way through the Placeta de San Miguel Bajo, down the Cuesta de la Loma, and stopped almost right outside Linda’s hotel. The receptionist phoned her room to let her know he was waiting. Ten minutes later she appeared in an elegant black dress with an embroidered shawl.

  ‘Max. Muy elegante. God . . . do I hate these reports. I promised to show it to Comisario Bonila tomorrow. But Bonila should be pleased. I’ve said how well the meeting went, and how cooperative Granada has agreed to be. That way he can’t refuse any requests I make. He wouldn’t want to weaken the close, friendly relations we have now, would he?’

  Max laughed, ‘As long as he’s praised he’ll be happy. I suggest we go and enjoy some flamenco in La Platería. Ramón, the waiter in Castaneda, may be playing . . . and there’s a good, young crowd there who really know their stuff. The Sacromonte caves can be a bit touristy.’

  Max had booked a quiet corner table. He ordered two glasses of sweet Malaga wine. Ramón wasn’t playing. But if the evening went well, once the formal performance had ended and most of the tourists had left, the aficionados might get a spontaneous performance. He was right. The performers returned, dressed in their street clothes. Members of the audience ordered bottles of wine for them. They drank slowly, but thirstily. Then someone shouted, ‘Come on, Pepe. Let’s have some real flamenco this time.’

  The guitarist, his long hair curling down to the nape of his neck, smiled, finished his glass of wine, took the guitar back out of its case, and started tuning. Halfway through, Ramón and a friend arrived. Ramón waved to Max and Linda, took out his guitar, his friend a drum, and together they joined the first guitarist in a favourite piece by the God of Flamenco, Camarón de la Isla. Immediately the audience joined in, marking the rhythm with tocando palmas – which made a counterpoint to the percussion. Two gypsy girls got up, and curling their hands in slow, sensual movements began stamping the floor in ever more complex rhythms. Max looked at Linda – she was absorbed in the music, joining in the ever faster clapping. Her blue eyes flashed at Max as she smiled, and he felt a spark of fire pass through him. He smiled back at her, and thought, maybe, just maybe. The Don Darío, the best one, was chilling in the fridge, and that and prawns on the terrace looking up at the floodlit Alhambra might do the trick. When the music stopped for a short break, Linda put one hand on the table. Max cautiously placed his hand over hers. She didn’t move her hand away. Then Ramón came over, and the moment passed.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ he asked Linda.

  ‘Very much,’ she replied. Ramón pulled up a chair, and sat beside them.

  ‘Hey,’ he said to Max, ‘what does your pretty companion do?’

  ‘Oh, something in the police.’

  ‘Something in the police? That reminds me of the time I got pulled in by the cops in Madrid. False arrest it was. It must have been four in the morning . . .’

  And with that Ramón launched into a long, complicated tale of his false arrest. Linda and Max looked at each other, and smiled sheepishly.

  It was four in the morning before they stumbled out into the dark, narrow streets of the Albayzín. A crescent-shaped moon illuminated the Alhambra towers.

  ‘My flat is not far,’ said Max. ‘If you want a coffee. And I’ve some nice prawns and a bottle of Don Darío in the fridge.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t tempt me. Have to be good. Have to revise the report before I show it to bloody Bonila at his damn barbecue.’ Linda took hold of Max’s arm to steady herself. ‘I must be getting old, Max. Once . . . you know . . . I could dance all night, change into uniform and go straight into the station.’

  Max laughed. ‘You could still do that. You can come back to my flat and borrow my uniform.’

  ‘Oh Max, it’d drown me .’

  ‘It’d be fun trying it on though.’

  ‘You are a silly, sweet boy.’ Linda giggled, and then burped. She swayed unsteadily, and pressed closer to Max. ‘There is something you could do for me.’

  ‘For you, Linda, anything.’

  ‘Well, if you do discover something, make sure you tell me before Martín.’

  Linda stumbled. Max put his arm around her, pretending it was just to steady her. She clung tighter to him. ‘Those prawns do sound nice. But I have to be good. So much to do. And we’re off to Malaga on Monday for more meetings. Can I get a taxi?’

  Max was tempted to say there were no taxis this time of the morning, but decided against it. ‘Yes. Down at Plaza Nueva. I’ll walk you down there.’

  ‘Gracias. Whoops. Little tiddled, no? Wouldn’t do to have a senior anti-terrorist officer arrested on drunk and disorderly, would it?’

  Max had carefully not said yes or no to her request about Martín. Best assume it was a slightly drunken request, and wait and see if she brought it up again.

  The fresh air seemed to sober Linda up quickly, and she disentangled herself from Max’s arm. Plaza Nueva was still buzzing, la Heladería still doing a roaring trade in ice creams, and clusters of young people singing and dancing in the street. Unfortunately, the taxi queue was short. Max helped Linda into the taxi. He kissed her on both cheeks; she likewise. So much for his night of passion.

  He walked briskly back to the flat, the cool night air clearing his head. At least she had made him clean the flat. He opened the fridge to get a glass of cold water. Bloody prawns. He took them out, and shoved them into the freezer compartment. He sipped the water. He would have to phone Paula in the morning, and make some excuse. It would be too much to drive over to Diva, and then back to Granada after such a late night.

  Max slept till noon. Hell, he’d better phone Paula immediately: she fussed so if he didn’t make it to the Sunday lunch.

  ‘Abuela, how are you?’

  ‘Muy bien. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No, nothing wrong. Just have too much work on, a report to get in by first thing Monday. So, I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to make it for lunch. Any news?’

  ‘Oh, Max. Por favor, I am so disappointed that you’re not coming for lunch. Max . . . I was interviewed by the police, a nice lady police officer. She asked me lots of questions. She wanted to know exactly what Leila and I talked about. Am I a suspect?’

  ‘No, of course you’re not. We’re just desperate for clues. Anything might help.’

  ‘Do think there might be any connection between Leila’s death and her research?’

  ‘Not likely, abuela. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you know what a terrible time that nice young lady – Anita, she’s called – is having with the local police officers? Your Teniente González sounds as bad as his abuelo.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘It’s nothing really to do with me.’

  ‘Maximiliano! Of course it’s something to do with you.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll do what I can to help. But if you tried to sack all the police who behave like that, you wouldn’t have much of a police force left.’

  ‘She is a very sweet girl.’

  ‘Abuela, I’m not keen on
her, and I don’t need a wife to look after me. I can manage perfectly fine.’

  ‘Did you know they’ve interviewed Juan? Do they think he’s a suspect?’

  ‘No, of course not. We have to interview everyone who knew her, including Juan and Isabel.’

  ‘But you’re getting nowhere?’

  ‘Come on, abuela. I’m doing my best. It really is very complicated. I’ll tell you all about it next Sunday.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Honest. I promise. Chao, abuela.’

  Help, thought Max. Paula’s got her teeth into the Leila case. He groaned aloud at the thought of the phone calls he was going to receive. He’d better see Anita Guevarra or he would never hear the end of this.

  An hour later the phone rang.

  ‘Mother, what a surprise! How was the concert?

  ‘It went well, Max, really well. The Herald gave us a good review. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  ‘Paula just phoned to say you were a bit grumpy and that you refused to talk to her. So she’s convinced herself something is wrong.’

  ‘Mum, you know what Paula’s like – I could hardly get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘Paula told me all about this murder case you’re working on. She said you’d been out with the poor girl. A very pretty Muslim girl from Edinburgh, Paula said.’

  ‘That’s right. But how’s Scotland?

  ‘Raining of course. Has been all week. But what’s new?’

  ‘It’s brilliant sunshine over here. Bit hot. How’s the family?’

  ‘They’re all well. Aunt Jessie and Uncle Bob are going on a cruise to the Canaries from Greenock. I have no idea how they are paying for it. Doing it just to show off, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They probably needed a rest. What with family, and both working, they deserve a break.’

  ‘Are you saying my music job isn’t tiring?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m sure you could do with a rest. When I win the lottery, I’ll treat you.’