by P J Brooke
‘You didn’t expect us to miss your birthday?’ said Susanna, as Paula wiped her eyes, tears of joy trickling down her cheeks.
‘You rogue,’ she said to Juan. ‘You never told me.’
‘I know,’ said Juan with a big grin. ‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘I’m so happy,’ said Paula. ‘All the family except Flora are here. Did you know I stayed here about ten years after it was first opened? Let me see, that must have been in 1930, and I was ten years old. It was like a picture from my book of tales of the Arabian nights.’
The Basque waiter returned. ‘Everyone ready to order?’
They were. Juan turned to the waiter. ‘Can you do child portions?’
‘Certainly.’
‘That’s a Basque accent, isn’t it?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘I love the way you speak Spanish so clearly. It puts us Andalusians to shame.’
The waiter laughed.
They all talked happily for the next hour. Then the Basque waiter appeared with a large bouquet of flowers and a sheaf of cards, and handed them to Paula.
‘Oh, my. Flowers from Flora. How kind of her when she is so busy. Oh. And look, a card from Jaime and Miranda in Chile . . . one from Roxana and Michael in Venezuela . . . how marvellous.’
The waiter then whispered in Juan’s ear. Juan stood up.
‘Time to go,’ he announced. ‘The taxis are waiting to take us to Blood Wedding.’
Max took Paula by her arm and led her to the waiting taxis. Paula had an elegant walking cane with her. ‘Can you manage okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. I have an appointment with a specialist next month. But I’m not sure I want an operation at my age.’
‘If it is a hip replacement you can be in and out in days. It’s amazing what they can do – you can be walking around as good as new in no time.’
As they got into the taxis, Encarnita pulled Max’s hand. ‘Why is it called Blood Wedding?’ she asked.
So Max told her the story again. How Lorca based his play on a newspaper article about a family feud where the daughter of one family ran away with the son of an enemy family . . . so something like this had really happened.
Chapter 27
On the golden flower,
They’re bringing the dead from the river,
One dark skinned,
The other, dark skinned.
Over the golden flower
The shadow of a nightingale
Flutters and sobs.
Frederico García Lorca, Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding)
in a version by Ted Hughes
The happy chatter continued all the way to the entrance to the Alhambra. Max walked with his father.
‘Paula’s so excited, isn’t she? I haven’t seen her looking so well for years.’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Nice suit. You should wear one more often.’
The family walked along a pathway through formal gardens to the theatre. The air was rich with the scent of clipped evergreens and rosemary. Juan herded them all to their seats, near the front.
‘The best seats I could get.’
Max sat between Encarnita and Susanna.
‘We must have a good gossip before I go back to London . . . this new job is really interesting,’ Susanna said to Max. ‘And I love the suit. Can’t call you Wee Scruffy now.’
At each side of the stage was a grove of cypresses, and the full moon hung in the air. And then the spotlight lit up an old woman, sitting on a chair. A young man entered through the living trees, his boots of Spanish leather stamping the wooden stage.
‘Madre,’ he said.
The performance had begun.
Encarnita turned to Max. ‘Tito Max. Why did she sing,
“Sleep little rose,
The horse is weeping?”
Horses don’t cry, do they?’
‘It’s poetry – and almost anything can happen in a poem.’
At the interval, Encarnita was bursting with questions. ‘Why did . . . What was . . .’ Paula, her face radiant, held her and tried to explain. But her questions didn’t stop.
In Act Three, a young man, dressed as a woodcutter, his face painted white, his eyes as dark as coal, spun on to the stage suffused in a blue light. The clapping of dancers offstage accompanied a singer’s lament marking the the beat with las palmas, a slow flamenco that built up to a faster and faster rhythm.
‘Tonight there’ll be blood
To warm my cheeks.’
Max felt the hairs at the back of his neck tingle.
In the final act, seven girls, moving together like a serpent’s tail, stamped and spun around the stage – a Greek Chorus of Death – before Leonardo and the bridegroom fought the duel, their knives flashing in the moonlight.
Max and the family left silently at the end. Encarnita and Leonardo found a sudden burst of energy. Encarnita danced and twirled. Leonardo kicked rocks.
It was Paula who finally broke the silence.
‘Oh, Max, Juan . . . that was so good. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Abuela, it’s our pleasure,’ said Juan . . . and everyone started talking at once.
As they went into the hotel Max noticed two armed American marines at the entrance. The manager was waiting for them near the terrace.
‘Everything is ready,’ he said. ‘I’ve put you in the furthest corner of the terrace. Some of our American guests are . . . well . . . a little over-excited. I do hope they don’t disturb you.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine.’
‘I feel really sorry for the wedding party. The Americans keep going through to toast the bride and groom. Fortunately the person in charge of the wedding party doesn’t have a problem with it so far . . . They’ve got a traditional Moroccan group arriving soon when the dance band takes a break, so things should quieten down.’
The Romero family sat on the terrace, the lights of Granada beneath them, the mountains just visible in the moonlight. Encarnita skipped from mother to aunt, from father to uncle, from uncle to grandma. Leonardo sat and scowled. They had just finished the main course when Max’s mobile rang.
‘Max, is that you? It’s Martín.’
‘Wait a minute, Martín. It’s very noisy here. Let me go outside.’ Max walked outside to the car park. ‘That’s better. Can you hear me okay?’
‘Yes. Fine. We’re at Malaga Airport, Max. Nothing so far, but we’re sure Javeed Dharwish passed though a couple of days ago. Went through the surveillance cameras, cool as you like.’
‘Sounds like our man.’
‘False passport of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘God, our security is crap. Osama himself could walk through here without any problems. I’m sure the others have got into Spain as well. I’m worried, Max. That Dharwish guy is pretty smart. The more I think of it, the more he wouldn’t forget he’d left something under his floorboards. I think these guys have led us up the garden path. But Linda’s convinced she’s right. She’s even found some ETA suspect in Malaga, so he’s being trailed. Me, I think it’s somewhere else. Dios, you must be having a real noisy party.’
A van drew up in the car park. A tall bearded man in a long djellaba got out, followed by another. The Moroccan musicians had arrived.
‘That’s not us,’ replied Max. ‘There’s a bunch of American naval officers here . . .’ They both spoke at once. ‘Dios.’
‘Max . . . get back inside, and warn Security. I’ll call the police. Keep in touch.’
Max turned towards the door. As he did so he gazed at the bearded man with the instrument case. There was something familiar about him. Max reached for the gun in his pocket.
‘What the . . .’
Javeed reacted first. He sprang at Max, knocking him and his gun to the ground.
‘Omar!’
They quickly overpowered Max, and bundled him inside the van.
‘Tie and gag him,’ ordered Javeed.
‘Kill him,’ urged Omar.
‘No. Can’t risk a shot.’
‘Okay. I’ll strangle the bastard.’
‘No. He’s police. More use to us alive than dead. Let’s go.’ Max heard screams, shouts, shots. Oh God. My family. My family.
Suddenly the van back door burst open, and in tumbled a woman and the Moroccan, automatic weapons in their hands. The van raced through the car park, and crashed through a hedge on to an access road. Max couldn’t be sure how long they travelled before the van screeched to a stop. The gag in his mouth was making his breathing difficult. He started to panic. His chest compressed by an iron band, he tried to gasp for breath. Javeed opened the van doors. ‘Change vehicles,’ he said. ‘Fatima. Men. Well done. Let’s go.’
Javeed leaned forward and removed Max’s gag.
Max struggled to breathe in deeply. ‘My family?’ he gasped.
‘Don’t know. We were only after the American officers.’
‘Can I kill him now?’ asked Omar.
‘No,’ Javeed said. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. Just lock the van. Nothing gained by killing another.’
‘Yes. But how many did we shoot tonight? Ten? Fifteen?’
‘Yes. That was necessary. I don’t want to kill unnecessarily. Allah would not approve.’
Omar scowled and took out a knife.
‘Omar,’ said Javeed, pointing his gun at Omar. ‘I’ll shoot you if I have to. Get in your car and just go.’
Omar cursed, but left.
‘Asthma . . . inhaler . . . in pocket. Help me!’ Max gasped.
Javeed put the inhaler to Max’s mouth, and pressed it as Max breathed in deeply.
‘Leila?’ Max said.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? Nothing to do with us.’
‘But I need to know the truth.’
‘I can’t help you.’
‘But the chess game?’
‘We had to leave the café for an important meeting with Fatima. Hassan was using Fatima’s laptop to finalize details of our military intervention here. He was good . . . got into the Rota Social website, and found out about the stag party here. What a gift. We had to hide that from you, and invented the chess game – using the one in The Flanders Panel. Unfortunately you spotted that and my mistake over who won the game.’
There was an angry blast of a car horn.
‘It’s war, Max. It’s war. One day I hope we can meet in peace,’ he said, putting the gag back in. ‘I better just make sure.’ And he hit Max on the head with the butt of his gun.
When Max regained consciousness he didn’t know whether he’d been lying bound and gagged in the van for minutes, hours or days. He heard voices outside the van.
‘What should we do, sir? The van is probably booby-trapped’
‘Can we open the back, and look inside?’
‘It’s the door that’s probably the ignition for the bomb.’
‘I’ve sent for the bomb squad. We’d better wait for them.’
Shit. Shit. Max struggled, but the rope had been firmly tied. He heard a car arrive. More voices. One of the voices drew nearer.
‘We can’t risk anything. I think I’ll have to set off a controlled explosion.’
With great effort he worked his way down towards the door, and lifted up his bound legs, and then let his feet fall against the door. There was some noise, but was it enough? He tried again, this time a little louder. The same voice spoke again.
‘Stand back, everyone. I’m going to set a small explosion at the door.’
Max managed to find the energy to lift his legs and kick at the door.
‘Hold it,’ said the voice. ‘There’s a banging noise against the door. Can you hear me in there?’
Max tried to shout, but the gag held firm and all he managed was a gurgling noise.
‘I think someone’s in there,’ said the voice. ‘Get away from the door! I’m going to count to ten and then fire at the lock. Everyone back.’
Max felt his energy was draining fast. One last effort. He wriggled his way to the back of the van.
‘. . . Eight, nine, ten.’ There was a pause, a shot, and the back door of the van flew open. Max saw a uniformed officer peering inside. ‘Dios,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s a bloke in here in a white suit. Gagged and tied. That was a close one. Could have blown him up.’
Max felt like protesting – his suit was a pale grey: chaps in white suits look pretentious. The voice climbed in, and removed the gag, cut the rope binding his legs together, and helped Max out of the van. Max stood up, and then collapsed to the ground. The voice cut his arms free, and Max, gasping for breath, reached into his pocket and took a quick puff of his inhaler.
‘They escaped in cars,’ he croaked. ‘Two cars, I think. Maybe going for the morning ferries to Morocco.’
‘In which case they’ve made it,’ said the voice. ‘It’s noon. You look in a bad way. We’d better phone for a helicopter, and get you to hospital. Who are you, by the way?’
‘Sub-Inspector Romero from the Policia Nacional here in Granada. Could you phone Inspectora Jefe Concha or Inspector Martín Sánchez of CGI immediately, and tell them Javeed Dharwish and the others are escaping by boat – probably to Morocco. Their numbers are on my mobile.’
The voice looked at him quizzically, but did as asked.
‘Inspectora Jefe Concha? We have a Sub-Inspector Romero here asking to speak to you.’
‘Put him on. Max – how are you? Where are you? There’s been a bloody massacre. It’s been chaos here.’
‘I got abducted by the gang. Nearly got blown up too. I overheard Dharwish say they were getting the morning boat. Must mean the Morocco ferry. The navy could stop them.’
‘They’ll have landed already. Not much hope of finding them.’
‘Linda, my whole family were in the hotel. Can you find out if they are okay? They are all called Romero.’
‘Sure, Max.’
There was a drone, and then the buzz of a helicopter.
‘Have to go now. That’s the helicopter taking me to hospital.’
‘Take care. Remember that meal in Madrid.’
Two men rushed out of the helicopter with a stretcher, and lifted him into it.
‘My family, my family,’ he moaned, before he passed out.
Max was gently awoken by a doctor. ‘Good news, Inspector Romero. One member of your family was hurt, but isn’t in danger. There are no other casualties by the name of Romero.’
‘Thank God, thank God. Who’s hurt?’
‘Your cousin Juan. He’s in another ward. This is the worst thing the hospital has had to cope with in years.’
‘How many casualties?’
‘Ten dead. More injured. There’s someone waiting to see you. Do you feel strong enough to talk?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Okay. I’ll tell him he can come in. Don’t overdo it.’
The doctor left, and Inspector Martín Sánchez walked in.
‘Max, are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’ll survive. What happened?’
‘It was dreadful. A real massacre. They killed the marines on guard as they went in, and then started firing into the stag party. Some of the officers rushed next door into the wedding reception, and they followed them into that, firing all the time. The hotel security men managed to kill one of the terrorists. It was a massacre. The bridegroom was killed, and the bride injured. Your cousin Juan must have rushed over to help. He was wounded in the wedding reception room.’
‘Juan?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve checked with the doctors. He’ll survive. Lost a lot of blood, so he’s still unconscious.’
Martín leaned over Max’s bed in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Problem is, we have a serious political issue right now. One of those killed was a young Basque waiter. He turns out to have ETA connections. He was arrested in Bilbao a couple of years ago on an ETA demonstration which turned nasty.’
‘ETA?’ s
aid Max. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘I know. But Allende and Linda are making the most of it. They’ve put out a press statement that this was a joint ETA–Islamist terrorist attack. The government has already instructed all of our embassies round the world to emphasize this. They’re attacking the Socialists for opening secret negotiations with ETA. It looks bad for the Socialists with the election just due. Have you got anything we could use to counter this?’
All Max could think about was the family. Was Paula okay? How badly injured was Juan?
‘Nothing.’ he said. ‘Except I don’t believe for one minute ETA was involved.’
‘We have to move fast. They’ve got this waiter story. We have to rebut it. We have to know what happened at the wedding reception.’
‘Have you spoken to Juan?’
‘He’s still unconscious. They won’t let me in. They might agree to you going in, seeing you’re a relative. It’s critical, Max. The election will turn on this.’ Martín stared at Max, his face pleading. ‘I don’t want the bastards to get back in. It would be bad for Spain, bad for peace.’
Max nodded.
‘Gracias, Max. I’ll get the doctor. I’ll say it will help your recovery and Juan’s if you sit with him.’
Martín left, and returned with the doctor.
‘You’re Juan Romero’s cousin?’
‘Yes. We grew up together. It would help us both if I could just sit with him.’
The doctor smiled. ‘I want to get the best for our public health services. Inspector Sánchez here has persuaded me this might help. You may go.’
‘Thanks, doctor,’ said Martín. ‘Here, let me get you a dressing gown, Max. The hospital ones are not the most elegant, but they’ll do.’
The doctor, Martín and Max walked along the corridor to a single room. A man lay on a bed in the room. ‘I can’t let you both in,’ said the doctor. ‘Only close family at this stage. He should be regaining consciousness at any moment now.’
‘Okay, doctor,’ agreed Martín. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
Max sat on the chair by Juan’s bed. He held Juan’s hand. Max dozed for a while, and was awoken by a stirring in the bed. Juan had opened his eyes. Max squeezed Juan’s hand. ‘Don’t speak just yet. You’re fine.’ Max sat there for ten minutes and then went outside. An impatient Martín was waiting.