Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s conscious.’

  ‘Can he talk?’

  ‘I’d have to ask the doctor first.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him,’ and Martín pushed his corpulent frame into a run.

  He returned shortly, panting. ‘The doctor’s on his way. This is vital. We haven’t long.’

  ‘But we don’t know what Juan will say. We don’t know what he saw.’

  ‘I know. But we haven’t much else to go on at the moment.’

  The doctor came up to them. ‘You two stay here, and I will check the patient.’

  He went in. Max and Martín peered through the glass pane of the door. The doctor talked to Juan, took his blood pressure and temperature, and then came outside.

  ‘Okay. Only the cousin can go in. Not too long, mind you.’

  Max went in, and sat beside the bed. He and Juan smiled at each other.

  ‘The family?’

  ‘All okay.’

  ‘Thank God. You been in the wars too?’ Juan said.

  ‘They took me hostage. But I’m okay now, and you?’

  ‘No permanent damage, I think I was lucky.’

  ‘Juan, do you know what happened in there?’

  ‘I heard this shooting, and you’d just vanished. I should have known better, but I rushed over to find you. I ran into the wedding reception. Max, it was horrible – bodies, blood all over the place.’

  ‘Did you see anything? The waiter?’

  ‘The waiter, the poor bastard. He was really brave, threw himself on top of the bride. I saw him shot. Did he survive?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Do you know which waiter it was?’

  ‘Yes. It was the one serving us, you know, the Basque guy.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. What’s all this about? Are you sure Paula and the kids are fine?’

  ‘They’re all right. Shocked and frightened. But fine. They should be here soon to see you and me. Juan . . . are you well enough to talk to the press about what you saw?’

  ‘You mean have my day of glory? I might as well get something out of this.’

  There was a knock. The children were peering round the door, Paula and Isabel behind them.

  ‘Juan, the gang’s here. You can see them now, and then rest. I’ll work on the media,’ said Max.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We still don’t know who killed Leila. Javeed swears it wasn’t Hassan.’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t me. Thanks for believing me, Max.’

  Max smiled. ‘You’re a lying bastard, Juan. But I think I know when you’re telling the truth.’

  Max went outside. Paula hobbled up to Max, and embraced him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Max. I nearly died of worry. What with both you and Juan . . .’

  ‘I know, abuela. Me too.’

  ‘How’s Juan?’

  ‘Lost a lot of blood. But no permanent damage.’

  Max turned to Martín, hovering in the background. ‘We’re in luck. The waiter died heroically, trying to save the bride.’

  ‘Is Juan willing to talk to the media?’

  ‘He is. But don’t tell him the background. I don’t think Juan would appreciate it, helping the Socialists.’

  Martín got on his phone immediately. ‘Rolando. Get this out! No ETA connection. Basque waiter died to save bride. Yes. I’ve got evidence. Eyewitness. Yes, willing to give interviews. Get on to all the TV channels. We’ll shaft that bastard Allende, right up his skinny backside. And get some demos organized.’

  Max looked at Martín. ‘Sometimes you seem more a politician than an anti–terrorist cop.’

  ‘These days there’s not much difference,’ he replied. ‘The TV and newspaper reporters should be here soon. Could they interview you first? Give Juan more time to recover.’

  The interviews went well. Juan revelled in the publicity. Apparently both Max and Juan looked great on TV, and their photos in the press were dramatic. The headlines that evening created a furore. The popular media concentrated on the heroic dead waiter and the injured bride: the more serious ones emphasized the lies from the government about the ETA connection. The Socialists organized spontaneous demonstrations against the Government’s manipulation of a tragic event, accusing them of trying to influence the election, which they knew they were going to lose. The government responded that there was an ETA connection, and set up a special commission to investigate.

  Jorge came to see Max that evening. Max was lying on his bed in hospital watching the dramatic events unfold on TV when Jorge entered with a big grin on his face.

  ‘Max, seeing you’re spending all your time lying around, I’ve brought you a little something.’ He unwrapped a bottle of wine, and put it on the table beside Max’s bed. ‘It’s the best Malaga vino dulce. So if the nurses say you can’t drink alcohol, tell them it’s not alcohol, but a sweet wine and that’s medicinal. You can quote me on that.’

  Max laughed. ‘What’s happening in the outside world?’

  ‘Well, you and Juan are stars for a start. You both looked good on TV. Cousins risk their lives . . . Those hospital pyjamas and dressing gowns are all the rage.’

  Max laughed. ‘Wrong colour. I’d prefer blue.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve swung the election. Even my monks are voting Socialist.’

  ‘Well, at least some good will come out of this.’

  Max hoped Anita would visit. There was nothing to do but watch TV. He couldn’t turn it off. There was endless coverage of the dramatic events. Max got all the newspapers: the Israelis and the Americans broke off their negotiations with the Palestinians; the USA condemned the Palestinian authorities for the killings.

  So you succeeded, Javeed, thought Max. You won. You pulled the plug on those negotiations. But have you won in the long run or just condemned the Palestinian people to another round of violence?

  As the election results came in, Max breathed a sigh of relief. The last-minute spinning by the government made no difference. The Socialists had won an historic victory.

  Max went home the next day. He went to see Juan before he left. Juan scowled at him when he entered his room.

  ‘You lying, manipulative toad,’ he yelled at him. ‘You never told me anything about this ETA stuff, and I’ve just helped put my taxes up. I’ll send you the tax bill when it comes in.’

  ‘There’s not much danger of your taxes going up.’

  ‘But we’ll have gay marriages, more women in Parliament and the Cabinet, and Christ knows what else.’

  ‘Be good for the country, you reactionary old sod. I’m off home. I’ve talked to the doctor. He said you should be allowed home to rest in a week or so. I’ll come round and see you before then.’

  Juan smiled. ‘Okay you left-wing fanatic. See you. We did well in the end, didn’t we, Max? I still have to go and see Ahmed. Thanks for believing in me. You’re a true friend.’

  Max left. Anita hadn’t been to see him. He took a taxi to his flat, and climbed the stairs slowly. He went straight to his terrace, and looked up at the Alhambra. The doorbell rang. It was Anita.

  ‘Max, I heard you were getting out today so I thought I’d come round here to see you. You’re all over the TV and papers, you know. Dios, those pyjamas were awful. You should have put on the blue ones, blue suits you.’

  ‘I didn’t get a choice,’ said Max. ‘Come in. I’m so pleased to see you.’

  They sat on the terrace, blinking in the sun, as Max told his tale.

  ‘Anita, if you’re not doing anything better this evening, can I buy you a decent meal?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Let me take you to Duende – I’m dying for a thick steak, and chips cooked in good olive oil. The hospital food was awful – cold chips, soggy vegetables. You’d have thought they could give you fresh fruit and yoghurt.’

  ‘Oh, Max, I went round to Paula’s before I came over. She gave me this to give you,’ said Anita, handing over a sma
ll jiffy bag.

  ‘What this?’ said Max. ‘A tape. I’ll play it later.’

  They sat watching the sun set, a fiery red over the Alhambra, until it was time to leave for the restaurant.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Anita. ‘It’s such a lovely evening.’

  They strolled down the Albayzín, along el Paseo de los Tristes, across Plaza Nueva, and then into a little side street off la Acera de Darro.

  ‘Max,’ said the owner of Duende. ‘You’re famous. I’ll have to give you free meals so I can advertise you eat here.’

  ‘You can begin with your very best steak with a bottle of your best Rioja.’

  ‘Two steaks,’ added Anita.

  Max showed Anita around, pointing out Manolete, el Triste.

  Towards the end of the meal, Max put his hand on Anita’s. She put her other hand on top of his.

  ‘Gracias for a lovely meal, Max. That’s a good wine. I think I’m slightly tiddled.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve hardly had a drop for days. Shall we go back to my place for the coffee? I’ve got a bottle of the best brandy, Solera Lepanto, courtesy of Juan.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Max, feeling a little tired, hailed a taxi. They giggled their way up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll put on the coffee if you get the brandy,’ said Anita.

  They settled down comfortably on Max’s sofa. After the first sip of brandy, Max ran his finger lightly over Anita’s cheek. She shivered slightly. He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on her mouth. She leaned back.

  ‘Max,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. It’s just . . . I’ve never been out with a man. I’ve been out with girls . . . women. You understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?’

  Max sat upright.

  Anita took his hand in hers. ‘Max, I’m very fond of you. You’re sweet. You’re different to all the other men I’ve met. The lads in Güejar were not exactly sensitive souls, and as for cops, forget it. Dad didn’t do mum any good, and after that well . . . I just gave men a wide berth.’

  Max said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Anita, I . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well after midnight. It’s really late. You’ll have missed the last bus. You’d better stay the night. You can have my bed. I can sleep here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  ‘No. No. It’s not that. I’m just taken aback, that’s all. I’d better change the sheets – I haven’t changed them for weeks.’

  ‘Here, let me help.’

  Once finished they went back into the living room. They sat on the sofa, some distance apart. Anita broke the silence. ‘Max, I’m sorry. I need time to think about this. Can you give me some time?’

  ‘You’ve got all the time in the world.’

  Anita laughed. ‘When I’m ready I’d gladly accept your invitation and spend a weekend in el cortijo.’

  Max yawned.

  ‘We’re both tired,’ said Anita. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’ She kissed him gently on the mouth.

  Max curled up on the sofa. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. The thought of Anita lying in his bed didn’t help. Should he just go and snuggle in beside her? The thought was so tempting. But he couldn’t trust himself to just cuddle. Max tossed and turned: Leila, Linda, Anita, even Penélope danced over him. He awoke after a wet dream. He went into the kitchen, and drank a cold glass of water.

  He returned to his uncomfortable sofa.

  What the hell, he thought. He went into the bedroom. Moonbeams filtered through the half-closed shutters, flickering across Anita’s coal-black hair. He looked at her, shrugged, and climbed into bed beside her. She snuggled up against him. He put his arm around her, kissed her on her hair, murmured, ‘Pleasant dreams,’ and fell asleep.

  When he awoke, the sun was shining through the open shutter. Anita was up and dressed.

  ‘I’ve made some coffee,’ she said. ‘I have to fly. Seeing that pig Gonzo.’ She leant over Max, and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Give me time, Max. Give me time.’ She then left.

  Max lay staring at the sunshine. I have all the time in the world, he thought. So why not?

  He wandered into the kitchen, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He remembered Paula’s tape. He went to get the jiffy bag. As he took the tape out, he noticed a little note in the bag. It was from Paula.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have done this, Max. This is Leila’s last interview with me. I just didn’t want you to know. So I kept it.’

  Max put on the tape, not knowing quite what to expect.

  Chapter 28

  Paula: How are you today, Leila?

  Leila: Fine, thanks. Er . . . er . . . well . . .

  Paula: Cat got your tongue, cariño?

  Leila: I’ve got some news for you, Paula . . . but I’m not sure you’ll like it.

  Paula: Is it about Antonio?

  Leila: I think I’ve found something. It’s not definite.

  Paula: Don’t be afraid to tell me.

  Leila: I’ve come across some material, which might be his.

  Paula: Don’t stop. Let me know.

  Leila: It’s about your husband, Pablo.

  Paula: Ah.

  Leila: I think Pablo and Capitán Vicente González got hold of El Gato’s land after he was shot.

  Paula: That’s possible. A lot of Republican property changed hands illegally after the Civil War.

  Leila: That’s not all.

  Paula: Go on.

  Leila: I think Antonio believed Pablo had a hand in betraying Lorca, and maybe . . .

  Paula: Lorca?

  Leila. Yes. Someone revealed where Lorca was hiding to a fascist militia group. Antonio thought it was Pablo.

  Paula: Why Pablo?

  Leila: He had connections to Acción Popular . . . and I think Antonio may have put two and two together and, well . . . jumped to a conclusion.

  Paula: But Pablo would never have wanted anyone to harm Lorca. Never.

  Leila: I’m sure you’re right.

  Paula: But it could explain . . . perhaps that’s why Antonio stopped me seeing Pablo. Dios mío!

  Leila: Paula, there might be something else. I . . . I . . . I’ve still more research to do though.

  Paula: I need the truth, Leila. I have to know what really happened.

  Leila: I’ve found things . . . and I don’t understand them . . . I need a bit more time.

  Paula: It’s the truth that matters. We can talk another time.

  Leila: How’s the family?

  Paula: Encarnita just passed another exam at her dancing class.

  Leila: She’s lovely. Juan must be so proud of her.

  Paula: He is. Leila, you’re very lovely yourself.

  Leila: Thanks, Paula.

  Paula: Juan can be so charming, can’t he?

  Leila: Paula!

  Paula: I’ve seen you look at him when we’re together. I may be an old woman, but I know what those looks mean. You’re playing with fire.

  Leila: Oh, Paula. I don’t know what to do.

  Paula: Don’t cry, cariño mío.

  Leila: Paula. Paula.

  Paula: Turn the tape off, querida. Turn the tape off.

  Chapter 29

  ‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said,

  ‘To play them such a trick.’

  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

  It was Sunday, and now well into September. In October, the weather would turn, and cooler breezes from the Sierra Nevada would begin to cool the smouldering heat and lift the fog of pollution over Granada. And the rains might come and fill the empty streams and rivers with water, and the ducks in the river, el Río Darro, might protest less. But there were still a couple of weeks of heat before then.

  Max had promised Paula he would be over for Sunday lunch. Juan was still in hospital, so he would have to do the barbecue. He hadn’t heard from Anita since that evening in el Duende. Max took two litres of water with him for the drive over to
Diva. He needed it.

  As he drove up the driveway to Paula’s house, Encarnita skipped out to greet him, David the kitten in her arms.

  ‘Tito Max! Tito Max . . . my friend Jane has come for lunch.’

  Jane joined Encarnita as he parked the car on the driveway. Max shook hands with her formally, and in his most polite English said, ‘How are you? Remember me?’

  ‘Yes. You are the policeman who asked me questions about Leila.’

  Encarnita handed David over to Jane, and threw herself into Max’s arms.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Careful. My ribs can still hurt.’

  ‘Come and see what Leonardo has got,’ and taking him by the hand she pulled him round to the back of the house.

  ‘Look,’ she said pointing to a hutch. ‘It’s a rabbit. We’ve called him Federico.’

  ‘Why Federico?’

  ‘Cause he’s got big ears.’

  Paula hobbled out, her arms covered in flour.

  ‘Max, querido, so good to see you. Can’t hug you – don’t want flour all over. I’ve heard from the hospital. I may need a hip replacement, but not yet.’

  ‘That’s good. No point in rushing things.’

  ‘I had invited Anita over for lunch today, but she has to deal with some crisis with her sister. She said she’d phone later.’

  ‘Fine. But I’d better go and sort out the barbecue. Have we still got some rosemary twigs?’

  ‘Yes. In the shed.’

  Max got the barbecue going, and then went inside. Paula and Isabel were in the kitchen together, in itself a breakthrough.

  ‘Can I wash my hands?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m just washing the salad. Can you use upstairs?’ said Isabel.

  At the top of the stairs Max’s mobile rang.

  ‘Dígame.’

  ‘Max. It’s Anita. How are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine.’

  ‘It was a lovely evening at el Duende.’

  Max didn’t reply.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it over today.’

  ‘Another crisis?’

  ‘Yes. Another crisis with my sister.’

  There was a pause. Neither spoke.

  ‘Max. Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Max . . . Max I think I may have found something about Leila’s death, but I really don’t want to talk about it over the phone. I was wondering, are you free this evening?’