by P J Brooke
Juan turned pale, he gulped nervously, then exploded. ‘You sneaky little bastard, you little shit. You’ve been checking up on me, haven’t you? Me, your cousin. Your best mate since we were kids. I—I—’
Juan moved towards Max, his fist clenched. Max stood still, offering no defence. Juan drew his fist back, and then let it fall by his side. Max stepped up to him, and took him in his arms.
‘Juan, Juan . . . what have you done?’
They sat down again, facing each other.
‘I’ll tell you what I think happened, Juan. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
Juan nodded his head.
‘You went to Motril. Yes. But you got there earlier than you said in the statement. So you finished your shopping before three thirty – the girl on the till remembers you, said you looked a bit like Antonio Banderas and you made one of your usual bad jokes. You then went to Café Puro for your coffee. The waitress says you left when she finished her shift at four . . . so you could have been on the bridge with Leila around the time she died.’
‘You’ve made a thorough cop, after all. I never thought you would.’
‘So you drove back fast to dodge the storm. But the rain came down before you got home, and you saw Leila on the bridge.’
‘Yes. I did. I stopped. It was bucketing down. I wanted to talk to her again. But I didn’t kill her, Max. Honest I didn’t.’
‘You got out of the car, and then quarrelled?’
‘No. She got in the car – out of the rain. We had an awful row in the car. Then we both got out. She threatened to tell Paula, tell everyone, things she had found out from her research.’
‘Her research?’
‘Yes. About el abuelo.’
‘Grandpa? Was that sufficient reason to kill her?’
‘Max, I swear on Encarnita’s life I didn’t kill her. I got back in the car and left. When I left her, she was alone on the bridge. That’s the truth.’
‘I don’t know whether to believe you. You haven’t been exactly straight with me. What about your clothes? When I arrived at the house on Sunday, Isabel complained to me that you’d put your best white shirt in the washing machine along with all your other clothes. Is that because they had mud on them when you clambered down the ravine to see if Leila was dead?’
‘No. They were soaked through, that’s all. The rain had stopped just before I got home, and I didn’t want Isabel going on and on about my sodding shirt. You know what she’s like.’
‘Juan, what sort of idiot do you take me for?’
‘It wasn’t like that, believe me. Leila begged me to go away with her. I said I couldn’t. And we got out of the car into the rain.’
‘And then what?’
‘We both lost our tempers. She’s a bloody wildcat . . . . said she’d tell Isabel everything. I could have lived with that. But then she threatened to tell Paula, and the whole bloody world, that she’d found evidence that grandpa betrayed Lorca, and shafted Antonio as well. That would have killed Paula, Max. It would have killed her.’
‘Juan, I think you’re telling me the truth now. But to a cop it looks bad, very bad.’
‘I know. I didn’t want the affair to come out. And once I delayed . . . then all the evidence pointed at me. And the more I delayed the more the arrow pointed straight at me. I was trapped.’
‘And the sweet wrapper?’’
‘The sweet wrapper?’
‘Yes. You gave me a mint wrapped in a distinctive silver paper. I found a fragment of that paper, close to where we found Leila’s body.’
‘I’m fond of mints. Got a taste for them, that’s all. El Café Paraíso gives them out with every coffee. Anybody could have dropped that mint paper.’
‘If you didn’t kill her, then who did?’
‘Well, the police think it’s that Muslim kid.’
‘Too convenient for the police, for everyone. Where’s the motive?’
‘He was very keen on her. Leila told me . . . said she needed a younger man, and had a beautiful one keen on her. I assumed she was joking.’
‘That’s no reason to kill her.’
They fell silent, Juan anxiously looking at Max.
‘Juan, I just don’t know what to do.’
‘What good would it do if I came forward now? Destroy the family? Kill Paula? Leila’s dead. Hassan’s dead. Won’t do anybody any good.’
‘But I’m a cop now, Juan. I don’t know any more.’
‘Sometimes the truth harms the good, Max.’
‘I know. I know. Maybe Leila was just winding you up on grandpa?’
‘Never thought of that. I’ve got some of her research here. She used this office to work in sometimes. I put it in the cupboard over there.’
‘Have you looked at it?’
‘No. I haven’t. Not my scene.’
Max got up, walked to the cupboard, and opened the door. Inside were five boxes – the boxes she took from the archive.
‘Could be she found something among these,’ he said. ‘I’ll take them with me, and go through them, and then return them. I won’t say where I found them at this stage. Have you got a big bin bag?’
‘Should have. Let me look.’
Juan returned in a minute with a large plastic bin bag.
‘You always were the historian in the family, Max. Me, I prefer to forget the past.’
‘If you do that, the past will come back to haunt you,’ said Max, putting the boxes in the bin bag. ‘I’m exhausted.’
‘Here, let me help you. I’ll drive you home. My car’s not far.’
Juan took the black bag, and they walked down the stairs, out of the building and round the corner to Juan’s car. Juan put the bag in the back seat. Max got in beside him.
‘Max, I swear to you I didn’t kill her. It looks bad, I know. So bad I can’t see anyone believing me if I say I’m innocent. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘You’ve always had a gift for concocting stories. This time, I do believe you. But that’s because I’ve known you all my life. Who else will believe you?’
Juan stopped the car outside Max’s apartment. ‘Let me carry this up for you.’
When they got to the top of the stairs, Juan said, ‘What will you do?’
‘Do? I don’t know. For the moment, just sleep.’
Chapter 25
Max awoke early. He sat up, put the pillow up to support his back, and watched the sun stream through the half-opened shutters. He watched the light dance on the floor tiles, move across the room on to his bed, and then stroke his face before finishing its ballet on the bedroom wall. Max sang softly to himself:
‘I Danced on a Friday
When the Sky turned Black,
It’s hard to Dance with
The Devil on your Back.’
And what a devil, he thought. What the hell do I do? Juan was at the scene of the crime, he had the motive, he had the opportunity, and he lied. Except he swears he didn’t kill her, swears he left her alive on the bridge. Anyone but Juan, and I wouldn’t believe it. Would a judge believe Juan? Unlikely. But could Juan still be lying? No, I’ve known Juan all my life. He’s a convincing fibber, but he’s never maintained a lie when it really matters.
Max went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of black coffee. He looked at the bin bag on the floor, took out the boxes of files and put them on the kitchen table. He made his coffee, and sat at the table, lost in thought. I can’t do anything before Paula’s birthday treat. If Juan was arrested it would kill her. There must be more evidence . . . one way or another.
Reaching that decision made Max feel a bit better. He took a shower, dressed, had a slice of toast and another coffee, and then sat down to go through the boxes of files. His task was easier than he expected: Leila had catalogued the material in each of them. He took out the papers on which she had catalogued the material, and started to read the list. His heart suddenly clenched: there, in her neat handwriting, was ‘Journal of Antonio Vargas, presumed shot near Diva, August 1937.’ Max
took out all the material from the box corresponding to the catalogue list. And there, among piles of paper, was a small black notebook; mouldy, the cover stained with damp. Max opened it. It started with a poem. There were twenty-eight completed poems and some drawings. The second last poem was ‘On the Death of Federico García Lorca’. Max read aloud in a faltering voice:
‘The cypress and the cedar weep
But the moon sings loudly.
He is here. He is here.
And the sun is pale with rage.’
The poems stopped. Then there was a letter:
Querida Madre y Paula,
It was wonderful to see you. You are both more beautiful than ever. I am well, and in good spirits. I made my way safely to the hut, and hope to get to the coast. There are some things I should explain to you, and I may not see you for a while. I told you that Luis Rosales, the poet, came to see me on the evening of 13th August last year. It was an unexpected pleasure, as our lives had gone in such different directions. We talked about this and that, mainly our poetry. He finally told me that Federico was hiding in his family home and had asked to see me. We arranged I would go to the Rosales’ house the next evening, after dark, about midnight. Luis would be waiting to let me in. Federico and I talked for over an hour. He remembered you both with affection, and wished you every happiness. He had finished another play. He told me it had started as one of his Granada comedies – The Nuns of Granada. But given his circumstances he had changed direction completely, and it is now a full drama . . . The Guns of Granada. Art and life are very strange. It’s his most political play, perhaps his only political play, he said. He hopes that one day it will be performed here in Granada, but he decided not to tell the Rosales family about this play. They had been very kind to him and he did not wish to make things more complicated for them.
I have to tell you . . . Federico was frightened something might happen to him. He asked me to give the play to Manuel de Falla, and ask him to get it out of the country. I promised to do that. We embraced, and that was the last time I saw Federico. As I was leaving he said, ‘Antonio, if anything happens to me get in touch with Pablo Romero – he’s a relative of the Archbishop. Nobody here would do anything if the Archbishop opposes it.’
I left. I hid the play under the floorboards of my rented room. I never managed to hand the play over to Manuel de Falla. I went to see Pablo, and told him that Federico was hiding in the house of Luis Rosales. I told him that Federico felt his life was in danger, and that if he was arrested, he wanted Pablo to go straight to the Archbishop and use his family connections to plead for his release.
Two days later, a group from Acción Popular arrested Federico. I’m sure it was not a coincidence. I saw Pablo in the street before I left Granada, just after the rumours had started that Federico had been shot. We talked briefly. I asked him if he had gone to the Archbishop. He said he had not, as the Archbishop hated Lorca and wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. He claimed that just even asking the question could have compromised all of us . . . you, his own family and me. So he didn’t even try. What a coward! But he thought he was being very prudent. He then had the damned cheek to ask if he could become engaged to you, my little sister. I was so angry . . . I told him that as long as I remained alive he would never marry you.
Paula, I’m sorry if you thought I was being capricious when I wrote to you and said you should not see Pablo again. I should have explained this earlier, but I did not wish to cause you further distress. Please forgive me. I underestimated your strength and firmness of mind.
A further thing you should know. Pablo went away for a few days. When I saw him again he became threatening and said, ‘Watch out that you don’t go the same way as Lorca. I know where you’re staying.’ I left my room that night, and moved out to Armilla where I laid low for months. Many people I knew disappeared. A friend warned me I was on a list of those to be arrested, and it would be dangerous if I stayed. So then I did my night walk over the mountains, and turned up at our house in the middle of the night, and spoilt your beauty sleep.
I’ve nearly eaten all the cakes you gave me, so I really need to get to the coast soon. The pâtisserie in Motril is no match for my mother’s cakes, but the food in Morocco is meant to be very good. They have old Andalusian recipes, which the Moors brought back from Granada. I hope to spend a few months in North Africa, and come back as soon as it is safe. I will buy you both some pretty Arab silver earrings, and you will be the talk of Granada when these adventures are over. I hope Federico’s play will be found. It’s under the floorboards of the house on la Calle Boli, just behind el Aljibe del Peso de la Harina.
I hope this letter reaches you safely. Antonio.
Max turned the page. It was harder to read . . . as if it had been written in the dark.
Banjaron Church. They arrested me last night. I struggled and tried to escape, but they hit me with their guns. I may have a broken shoulder – it hurts so. It hurts so when I try to write. They are herding up people, mainly peasants and workers, and locking them here in the church. The priest has been offering to hear confessions. I wonder if it’s the last confession. I refused. The Church hasn’t lifted a finger to help any of us. I don’t want to be blessed by those hypocrites. Everyone imprisoned here in the church is so brave. El Gato and Chico are here, and we have talked a lot. They are determined to try and escape to fight on. I’ve been trying to keep spirits up by reciting poetry. I’ve even got them singing. But I fear the worst. One of the young guards, a kid called Pepe, has been kind. He and Chico had been playmates. He will try to get this book to you.
May God help me.
This was followed by a poem.
I have in my hand
a mountain, an otter’s skull, an ancient tool.
This stone on this church floor
is what remains to me of life . . .
Max rubbed his hand over his eyes and mouth. He loved his grandpa, but this . . . He went on to his beloved terrace. This . . .? He found it hard to believe. He knew there were dreadful times when neighbour killed neighbour, friend betrayed friend. But his grandpa . . .? He couldn’t credit it.
Max wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and looked up at the Alhambra. The fairy-tale palace, built by slaves, over a torture chamber. It was ever thus, he thought sadly.
He returned to Leila’s cataloguing. He had almost finished when he read a catalogue item: ‘Diva and District: list of those recommended for arrest’. Leila had then added to her catalogue: ‘One name was added by hand, that of Antonio Vargas.’ Max opened the last box. It was a mass of papers, each headed ‘Republican or Republican Sympathizers’, followed by lists of names. He ran his eye over the papers until he found the one headed ‘Diva – Republicans to be arrested and shot’. Under that was a note, ‘Use all means necessary to find the whereabouts of the following.’ There then followed a list of names, all typed. At the bottom of the page, written in ink, someone had added the name of Antonio Vargas. Could it be grandpa’s handwriting?
Max paused. Paula should have Antonio’s notebook: she would love to see his poems again – maybe the family could get them published. The Lorca story was tough. But there was no real evidence that grandpa had betrayed Lorca – Antonio could have been completely mistaken.
Perhaps there was no need for betrayal: most biographers of Lorca just assumed it was common knowledge where Lorca was or that his sister Concha had blurted it out to the soldiers on their last visit, looking for Federico at La Huerta de San Vicente or . . . the options were endless. But Leila seemed on to something. Could Paula take it? Yes. She would be so overjoyed at getting Antonio’s notebook that she might overlook the few paragraphs at the end. And they could always be explained away. Yes, give Paula the notebook. But the list of names? No.
Max carefully put the list back into the pile, then stopped. He took the list out again. It would be safer just to destroy it. He went outside again to the terrace. It’s not just the Alhambra, he thought.
Almost everything beautiful in this town . . . you don’t want to ask too many questions unless you can cope with finding something nasty about where the money came from to build it. We burnt nearly all the Arabic manuscripts in Granada. God knows what we lost then. No. That list is part of this city’s history. I have no right to destroy it.
He went inside, carefully put the list back among the papers and returned them all to the box. He looked at his watch. Time for lunch. He walked up to el Mesón el Yunque in Plaza de San Miguel Bajo, and ordered the clams. They were as good as ever, but he felt very low. He picked at his meal. And there was still Juan. A decanter of the house red might help. But the sadness didn’t leave him as he walked back down past el Mirador San Nicolás, busy with hopeful young folk looking for romance in this most romantic of cities. But it’s a romance full of sadness, he thought. Of what might have been rather than what is.
He awoke the next morning, thinking of Anita. After breakfast, he put the boxes back in the black bag, carted them down the stairs and into his car. He drove to the archive of the Guardia Civil, and asked for Penélope Díaz. A dusty Penélope appeared.
‘Ah. Sub-Inspector Romero. What can I do for you this time?’
‘I found the missing boxes. Leila had left them in a friend’s office in Granada.’
‘That’s good. Thanks a lot.’
‘I wonder if you could do me a really big favour . . . I came across the notebook kept by my abuela’s brother. It would mean so much to her if she could keep it. He disappeared in 1937.’
‘It’s not mine to give away.’
‘Mi abuela, Paula, is eighty-three. If you could lend it, I can return it to the archives eventually.’
‘Let’s compromise. Give me a photocopy, and I can put a note saying the original is with the family. My husband’s great uncle disappeared in the Civil War too, so I know what it all means. The lack of closure can be so hard.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
She smiled at him as he handed over the black bag with the boxes. ‘Do you know what happened to Leila?’
‘Not yet, but I’m expecting an announcement very soon.’