Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  Max was the only non-Muslim present, and this time he didn’t step forward to throw a handful of earth on the grave. He walked back down the hill: nobody talked to him. But nobody had been hostile.

  He should talk to Zaida soon, but now was not appropriate. He’d better phone Paula: she’d be sure to hear he was in Diva and would be upset if he didn’t get in touch. But Max still did not want to meet Juan. It would be impossible not to say something to him. No avoiding it though. Max took out his mobile, and phoned Paula’s house. Isabel answered.

  ‘Max, how are you? Where are you?’

  Max explained as briefly as he could, then asked, ‘How’s Paula?’

  ‘A bit under the weather. But she’s been worried about you. Hang on . . . I’ll put you through to her.’

  ‘Max, mi querido, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Diva.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Come for dinner. Dr Muro caught five nice trout, but it’s too much for us today.’

  ‘But I don’t have my car.’

  ‘Isabel can drive over to get you. Juan’s away on business.’

  ‘But she’s busy . . . I can get a taxi.’

  ‘No, Isabel will come and get you. She’s just ready to start cooking . . . so I can do more potatoes while she drives over.’

  ‘That would be very nice.’

  ‘Well, Isabel’s cooking tonight, so it won’t be up to the usual standard. I’m so pleased you’re coming. She’ll be with you in half an hour . . . No, I’m fine – old age, you know. At my age bits of you start going wrong. I feel a lot better now I know you’ll be here.’

  Max smiled. Isabel was actually quite a good cook, but Paula could never admit that. And at least he wouldn’t have to confront Juan. Isabel arrived within the half-hour. She chatted happily about the children as she drove back along the Jola road. But when Max asked about Juan, she frowned.

  ‘Out of sorts, I’m afraid. At least out of sorts with me. We’re going through a bad patch right now, Max. I suppose . . . I know he hasn’t been completely faithful, but I’ve learnt to ignore that.’

  ‘Men fool around sometimes. But he’s devoted to the children.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that this time. Something is getting on his nerves. He’s bad-tempered with the kids, and that’s very unusual.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Isabel.’

  ‘Let me help you out.’

  Max rested on Isabel’s arm, and walked slowly up the driveway to the front door. The door opened, and Paula came out wrapped in a large shawl.

  ‘What are you doing out of bed? The doctor said you had to rest,’ scolded Isabel.

  ‘I feel better already. Max, how are you? I’ve been so worried about you. I asked Juan to drive me to Granada, but he said you mustn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘I’m a lot better, abuela. A lot better.’

  ‘Come in, and let me hear exactly what happened. Juan says you had an accident, but I don’t believe it.’

  Max felt like a little boy again. Whenever he had tried to lie to Paula to hide something, she used to brush his hair back, peer at his forehead and say, ‘Sí. I can see it now. Mentira, lie – written clearly on your forehead.’

  Max went in with Paula holding on to his arm, and he holding on to Isabel’s arm. He was hungry now. Isabel had fried the trout in butter, and there was a garlic and almond sauce for the grown-ups, mayonnaise for the children. Encarnación bounced on to Max until he had to complain that his ribs hurt. She wanted to know why he had sticking stuff on his head and why she couldn’t use him as a punchbag. She laughed when he said he had fallen.

  ‘Silly billy, how can you fall and hurt yourself in two different places?’

  Max explained how he fell on a rock, hurting his ribs, and then fell backwards, hitting his head on another rock.

  ‘That’s difficult to do. Look . . . if I fall that way, then how can I then fall another way,’ she said, demonstrating the difficulty of doing just that. She had Paula’s insatiable curiosity.

  ‘Well, I just did, so there,’ stated Max.

  ‘Hmm. Tito Max, I think you’re fibbing. Mentiroso, mentiroso, mentiroso,’ she laughed, and skipped out to join her brother who was watching TV.

  Max laughed as well. That girl will go far, he thought. She will be very pretty as well. When the meal was over, Isabel went to the kitchen to clean up, and Paula came and sat by Max. She brushed his hair back, and looked at his forehead. Max smiled and then told her what had actually happened.

  ‘Max, it’s too dangerous being in the police. There are plenty of other jobs you could do.’

  ‘Teaching, you mean,’ laughed Max. ‘These days that’s as dangerous as police work.’ And to change the subject, he said, ‘The local police think they have made some progress on finding out who killed Leila.’

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘You heard about the young man who killed himself on the path from Pampa?’

  ‘Yes, he was one of Leila’s friends and he was arrested and treated very badly. Zaida told me that when I met her in the market.’

  ‘Well, the local police think he killed her.’

  ‘Could it have been an accident? I hope it was an accident.’

  ‘Abuela, I don’t really know.’

  ‘What do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t really know . . . and I’ve probably told you too much already.’

  ‘You need to find the truth.’

  ‘You’re looking tired, and I’m feeling tired. An early night for us both, I think.’

  ‘You should stay here tonight, Max. The guest room’s made up.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  For the first time in days Max slept through the night until woken next morning by his mobile ringing. Max stretched out for it.

  ‘Dígame.’

  ‘Hi, Max . . . hope I didn’t wake you.’

  ‘Hi, Anita.’

  ‘There’s been another development. A woman has come forward . . . says she saw Hassan on the Jola road. González reckons that wraps up the case.’

  ‘But how can the woman be sure?’

  ‘Says she just saw the photo of Hassan in the local paper with the news of his suicide. The paper speculated about his possible involvement in Leila’s death. And that jogged her memory. I think we’ll be off the case in a couple of days at the most.’

  ‘Okay. Juan’s away. Can you drive me back to Granada?’

  ‘I’ll have to check, but I think so. If I don’t ring, I’ll be round in an hour or so. Oh – and I managed to talk to Ricardo, the librarian. Nothing . . . just a few more details on her research. I’ll tell you about that later. Chao.’

  Encarnita skipped into his bedroom.

  ‘I’ve got a postcard. Look. It’s from my friend Jane. She’s English. She’ll be back soon. They’re driving all the way from England.’

  ‘Can I see?’ said Max.

  Encarnita handed over the postcard. It was a picture of two bears. Max turned it over, and read aloud. ‘Dear Encarnita, Be in Diva next week. Daddy and Mummy are going to drive all the way across Spain, and I will be going to school with you in Diva. See you soon. Jane. PS. How’s David? Still naughty?’

  Max looked at the postmark – five days ago. That’s why nobody answered the phone. He’d have to return and talk to them as soon as they were back.

  ‘Thanks, Encarnita. That’s a pretty card.’

  ‘She’s my best friend. We’ve each got a teddy bear, and they’re good friends as well.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Jane can speak English and Spanish.’

  ‘You must learn more English.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. No. No. Uncle. See I speak English. Why do you speak English as well as Spanish, tito?’

  ‘My mother – your Tía Flora – is Scottish, and they speak English in Scotland. So I grew up speaking English and Spanish.’

  There was a meow outside the door.

  ‘That’s David. He wants some milk,’ sa
id Encarnita.

  ‘Okay. Give me a kiss first.’

  Encarnita kissed him on both cheeks before running off.

  Max had a shower, dressed, and went down for a late breakfast. Paula was waiting for him, looking pale and in pain.

  ‘I’ll get you breakfast, Max. Sleep well?’

  ‘Like a log. But let me help. You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m getting these pains in my leg. The doctor’s giving me painkillers, but once they wear off the pain comes back if I try to walk or stand for too long.’

  ‘In which case I’ll get my own breakfast, and I’ll bring you a coffee.’

  ‘No, I can’t have that. Men shouldn’t be in a kitchen. Do you know, Juan sometimes has to cook for himself.’

  Max laughed. ‘Abuela, I thought you had become a bit of a feminist.’

  ‘It’s just I don’t like having a man in my kitchen. Your abuelo never went inside it, you know.’

  ‘Times have changed.’

  ‘I know, but I still like some traditions,’ and with that she went into the kitchen, returning some minutes later with a tray of toast and peach jam, and two large cups of café con leche.

  ‘I made this last week from our own fruit.’

  ‘Lovely. Abuela, I’ve been thinking about that leg of yours. You must have it checked by an expert. It could be you’re needing a hip replacement.’

  ‘Dr Muro never mentioned that.’

  ‘I know . . . which is why you should ask him to make a hospital appointment for you. I’ll go with you, if you want.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I suppose I should. I would hate it if I couldn’t walk.’

  There was a car hoot outside the house.

  ‘That will be Anita,’ said Max. ‘I have to return to Granada.’

  ‘So soon. Invite her in for a coffee.’

  Max went out, and returned with Anita, looking shy. But within a few minutes she was telling Paula all about her sister. Max left to collect his things. When he returned Paula and Anita were in deep conversation.

  ‘We are discussing you, Max. Anita says you don’t look after yourself properly. I told her you never really did, and I was just telling her about the time you had a black eye, you remember . . . from that bully at school, and you painted both eyes, pretending to be a Red Indian.’

  Anita laughed. ‘We’d better go. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘Come round again soon. I can tell you so much about Max. He was always in trouble as a boy, so many scrapes.’

  Max and Anita both kissed Paula, and left.

  ‘Remember, get that leg seen to,’ called Max as he turned to wave goodbye.

  ‘She’s quite something,’ said Anita as they left Diva on the winding road down to Granada.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ replied Max. ‘Well . . . what did Ricardo say?’

  ‘Not much. But Leila phoned about a week before her death to thank him for giving her the contacts for the Guardia Civil archive. She thought she had found something important which might throw some light on Lorca’s and Antonio’s deaths.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘No. And he never heard from her again.’

  ‘I’ll have to get into that archive and see what I can find.’

  ‘You still think it might have something to do with her death?’

  ‘Don’t know, but worth checking. By the way I found this scrap of a sweet wrapper on the bank near where Leila was killed. Could you give it to González for me?’ said Max handing over the plastic bag with the silver-coloured wrapper in it.

  Anita took the bag. ‘Shouldn’t you have handed this in immediately, sir?’

  ‘Yes. But I forgot. Looks like it’s been around for a while.’

  ‘Okay, sir. Oh, Max. González told me as the case is over, there’s no more need to go to Granada. This will be my last trip.’

  ‘Could you do one more thing for me: let me know when that English family return.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Max gazed out of the window as the car sped on its way to Granada. He finally broke his silence. ‘I’ve really enjoyed working with you.’

  ‘Me too, sir.’

  No more was said until the car turned the corner on to the old Murcia road. Max coughed. ‘Perhaps we could have dinner together some evening?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  And they fell silent again. The car turned into the Albayzín before Max ventured: ‘I’ll ring you sometime about that dinner then?’

  ‘Yes, do that. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘We could go to El Duende. It’s not all bulls’ tails. They do really nice chicken.’

  ‘El Duende sounds fine.’

  Anita kissed him awkwardly on the cheek before saying goodbye.

  Oh, thought Max.

  Chapter 23

  La nina va en el columpio

  De norte al sur,

  De sur al norte.

  The girl on the swing

  Goes from north down to south,

  From south up to north.

  Frederico García Lorca, Columpio (On the Swing)

  After another good night’s sleep, Max felt his energy beginning to return. He decided to go round to the archive of the Guardia Civil as soon as it was open. The archive was in the basement of an old building in one of the older parts of the city, El Realejo. Max walked to the Albayzín car park, cleverly concealed under a public garden. He got in his car, drove slowly down to Gran Vía, and just before Plaza Nueva, turned round the enormous statue of Isabel la Católica y Colón, giving her blessing to Christopher Columbus, into El Realejo.

  The tide of building restoration had finally now reached this area. There was scaffolding everywhere as seventeenth- and eighteenth-century mansions metamorphosed into apartments and hotels. Max glanced briefly at the fresco portrait of Isabel la Católica on the façade of the Dominican church – this time with love-rat husband, King Ferdinand. Max stopped the car, and parked outside an important-looking building marked La Guardia Civil. A clerk finally answered the bell at reception, and agreed to contact the archivist working in the basement. Five minutes later, a youngish woman emerged, still wiping her hands on her overall.

  ‘Sub-Inspector Romero, I’m Penélope Díaz. What can I do to help you?’

  Max explained about Leila’s death, and what they knew about her research.

  There was a gasp of dismay. ‘I didn’t know. I’ve been away on holiday. She was such a lovely, lively girl. She was going to be a good researcher. What a waste. What an awful waste.’

  ‘Do you know what she was looking for?’ asked Max.

  ‘August 1936, of course. She was so lucky to be here just at the right time.’

  ‘So how did you work?’

  ‘The archive only recently opened, and we’ve just started cataloguing, so the whole thing’s still a real mess. It’s going to take years to get it sorted. So Leila would just work through each box and list the contents. She was such a help. Oh dear . . . this is so sad.’

  ‘Did she find anything?’

  ‘Yes, actually . . . she thought she had struck gold. There was some good stuff . . . she was really excited.’

  ‘So what had she come across?’

  ‘There were some real gems . . . lists of orders to shoot people . . . material from some of the prisoners who were shot . . . last letters that were never delivered . . . poems.’

  ‘A gold mine then.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Anything on Lorca?’

  ‘Not directly, but there was stuff on some of his friends.’

  ‘Did she think there was anything which would add to our understanding of Lorca’s last days? The question of who betrayed him?’

  ‘Well, that would be finding the Holy Grail.’

  ‘Her thesis notes emphasize the role of members of Acción Popular. Did she find anything on that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unfortunately I was going on holiday, and the archive was closing for three weeks. I let her take h
ome some boxes so she could work on them while we were shut.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know you’re not meant to. But she signed out for them, and the deal was she would catalogue the stuff for us, and return them when we reopened. I was going to call her to find out how she was getting on. Do you have the boxes?’

  ‘No. We don’t. Have you any idea where she might have taken them?’

  ‘No. As I said, it was just before I went on holiday. I knew she was staying in Diva.’

  ‘We’ve gone though all her things at her father’s house, and they’re not there.’

  ‘Maybe she kept them somewhere in Granada. She sometimes stayed overnight in Granada. I know that because we went out for a meal together one night.’

  ‘You don’t know where?’

  ‘No, afraid not.’

  ‘Could I see the part of the building where she was working?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Max followed Penélope down a flight of dingy stairs. They came to a heavy door with large brass handles. Penélope took her keys out and opened the doors to a cavernous room. She flicked a switch. The electric bulb flickered for a while before casting a dim, yellowy light over boxes, stacked high to the ceiling.

  ‘I think this used to be a wine cellar.’

  Max looked round him. ‘How did Leila know where to begin?’

  ‘Well, things are more or less stacked by year. But that’s not guaranteed. And the Civil War period is the worst of all. We need to go through the contents of each box – and half of it doesn’t match the year on the label. We’re a long way from computerizing any of this. 1936 is roughly over here.’

  ‘It’s such a jumble . . . difficult to know anything is missing,’ commented Max.

  ‘Very much so. I should have her signing-out slips somewhere here. We put it in an exercise book. Yes, here it is.’

  She showed Max the book. He opened it. The only entry was in Leila’s hand, ‘5 Boxes of 1936. 17/07/2003. Leila Mahfouz.’

  ‘Tells us nothing,’ said Max.

  ‘Sorry . . . it was my last day. And I wanted to get away early. So I just let her take the boxes with this entry. Can’t tell you any more.’