“Miguel.”
Miguel had heard his name being called; he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t. He turned around to see Francesca.
“It’s Francesca. Do you remember me?”
“Um…yes…” Miguel said. His entire body had gone rigid.
“I wanted to apologise to you. The way I treated you when we last spoke. It was—”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. It was abhorrent. I see that now. It was my parents. They told me all these horrible things about moriscos and I guess I got frightened and…none of that is a good excuse. I should have been nicer. I shouldn’t have assumed you would be as horrible as all that.”
Miguel felt a joy erupting in his heart. She hadn’t hated him after all. In fact, she was apologising to him. That meant she respected him. It was all he’d ever wanted.
“Can we sit down? It’s very hot out here,” Francesca said. She grasped Miguel’s hand and pulled him over toward the wall that bordered the church courtyard, just on the outer edge of the shade.
Miguel felt Francesca’s hand in his. It was the first time, and it thrilled him. Now he didn’t want to go home. Not as long as she was here. What a confusing day this was.
Francesca sat and Miguel joined her.
“Miguel, I wish none of this had happened. You didn’t deserve…”
“Francesca, stand up right now!”
Miguel and Francesca looked up to see the contemptuous eyes of her mother glaring at them.
“Mother, he isn’t…”
“I don’t care. Francesca, stand up. If you want to marry, you can’t be seen talking to a man like that…”
“I want to talk to him, Mother.”
“Francesca, don’t question your mother.”
Miguel could see Francesca beginning to submit to her mother, just as she had in the past. There was something in her eyes that told him Francesca was about to stand up and walk away, just as she had at the lavadero. And it would all be over once again. Perhaps, this time, forever. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Or perhaps there was something he could do. It was another one of those decisions where it wasn’t clear whether it was right or wrong. The only thing that was clear was what he wanted.
Miguel rose to his feet and looked Francesca’s mother in the eyes.
“It’s all right,” Miguel said calmly. “I won’t hurt her. I like her. And I just want to talk to her. That’s all. And you were wrong before, about what I am. I’m a Catholic. I’ve always been a Catholic, my family has always been Catholic. People in town just said I was a morisco, but they didn’t know me. You had it all wrong.”
Francesca was suddenly standing too, just behind him.
“I’m not going,” Francesca said. She didn’t move, even as her mother moved closer, threatening to grab her by the arm and pull her away. But there was a conviction in Francesca’s voice, something Miguel had never heard before. And neither had her mother, given her shocked reaction.
Francesca’s mother glared daggers at Miguel, then slowly moved off, joining her husband and pretending as if nothing was wrong.
The lightness returned to Francesca’s face.
“I can’t believe I just did that!” she whispered to Miguel with a smile. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Never?”
Francesca giggled.
“I’ve never done that with my mother,” Miguel said. “But she lets me talk to whomever I want.”
“Tell me about her,” Francesca said.
And Miguel did. And they kept talking, and soon the crowd around them slowly dissipated and drifted away. But Miguel didn’t notice. He was willing to sit next to Francesca for the rest of his life, and he no longer thought at all about going home.
Chapter Forty-Seven
A week later, Lucas nodded at the alguacil who stood watch at the door of the corral. He was a broad-shouldered man with a large moustache and could be very intimidating to those trying to get in to see the play without paying. He’d heard every excuse imaginable over the past few years and was resolute in his conviction that absolutely no one could get in for free.
Except Lucas, of course. Given how often Armada came to see plays here, it was quite common to see Lucas come to get him. For Lucas rarely ever came for the productions. He was more showing up to give messages to Armada, or to run errands, and as such was given free access to come and go through the theatre’s doors almost as he pleased. For the owner knew Armada was a frequent customer, and always paid for his ticket, and was eager to keep him happy.
Lucas walked in through the door in the back to find on the other side of the corral, the actors were on stage. Lucas regarded their costumes as silly, all oversized hats, bejewelled capes, and dresses so large the actresses could barely walk in them. Despite almost shouting their lines, they could barely be heard back here, especially as most of the men in the audience were busy talking amongst themselves, giving the back part of the theatre the feeling of a noisy tavern rather than a play.
Pushing his way past these men, forced to stand as they had paid the least amount for their entry, Lucas moved toward the middle of the theatre, where long wooden benches had been provided. Here, the men were able to sit and were close enough to the actors to occasionally pick up a bit of dialogue. There were still many other conversations going on amongst themselves, and occasionally one of them heckled the actors on stage, who were experienced enough not to let this sort of thing break their concentration.
Lucas delved further toward the stage, passing the large fenced-off seating area to his left, where the women were required to sit. They watched the play quietly, speaking little to each other and remaining in their seats in stark contrast to the men. This was an illusion, however. Lucas knew from experience that when the interlude came, and the jester appeared to sing a silly song and do his silly dance, it was the women who would quickly become the loudest and least behaved of the whole theatre, especially if the jester was well known.
But for now, they remained quiet and considerate of the production in front of them. Lucas pushed past them, down toward the very front of the audience. Here, in the front rows, sat those who truly appreciated the theatre. These men were quiet and stoic, focusing on the actors and their movements, ignoring the din of noise behind them. These were the men who waited patiently for the interludes to be over, anxious to get back to the play, very much unlike the rest of the audience.
And there in the front row sat Armada, taking in the play with a quiet serenity. Lucas was aware that this was a play Armada knew well—Life’s a Dream, one of Calderón’s most famous works and one Armada was always quoting. Lucas had little doubt that the old man was running the lines in his head as if he were one of the actors on stage, having long ago memorised the entire play since he had seen it so many times.
Lucas spied an empty spot next to him and sat, not wanting to disturb the men around him.
“Sir,” Lucas whispered.
Armada held up a finger. “We are nearly to the end of the act.”
Lucas realised he had a dilemma. Bautista had made it clear he was to fetch Armada, no matter what he was doing. The new case was urgent, he’d said. It required that he and Armada head out to Órgiva that afternoon if possible. And he was to drag Armada back to the offices of the Holy Brotherhood, no matter what it took.
But Lucas knew Armada. Plays were his one escape, and from the looks of it, the old man needed it. There were dark circles under his tired, bloodshot eyes. It was quite likely that he hadn’t slept at all in the past few days. Lucas knew that look well—it meant Armada’s nightmares had returned. The smell of sherry on his breath this early in the afternoon, only confirmed it. The old man had been so hopeful when they’d finally returned to Granada. He’d proclaimed his troubles with sleep to be over. He had told Lucas that his demons had been confronted, and that because of his experiences in Salobreña, they no longer had the power over him they once had. He had acc
epted what he’d done in the past and it was time to move on.
Yet that had not happened. From the looks of it, the troubling dreams continued on as before, with little change. And now Armada looked exhausted, as was quickly becoming usual. Lucas wondered if his hand was trembling again as well.
Bautista had been quite insistent and had assured Lucas that Armada was ready, despite them only being in back in Granada for a short time. Armada usually liked to take some time for himself between cases, to settle his soul, as he put it. But Bautista had said Armada didn’t always have that luxury. Crime did not wait.
“But, sir. Bautista told me to tell you it was urgent,” Lucas whispered.
“For God’s sake, Lucas. Can I not enjoy one single play? Is that too much to ask?”
The actors on stage glanced at Armada, then went on with their play without missing a beat, leaving Lucas embarrassed.
“Bautista has a new case for you, and he said…”
“At the moment, Lucas, I care little about what Bautista may have said,” Armada whispered, keeping his voice low. “I am trying to enjoy a masterwork by Lope de Vega, part of which I have now missed.”
The actors on stage continued with their scene, something about one of them declaring his love for a woman he could not have and promising to marry her anyway, no matter the cost. It was the usual sort of romantic silliness Lucas had seen plenty of times in plays like these and he wondered what the attraction was to Armada.
“I don’t know what to do, sir. Bautista said to come get you.”
Armada sighed. “Yes, I understand,” he said with resignation. “I was hoping a play could settle my mind after what I’ve witnessed this morning.”
“This morning, sir?”
Armada watched one of the actors recite a soliloquy to his beloved, trying desperately to woo her not to marry another man.
“The Ortegas. Hanged by the neck in the stables of the Brotherhood offices this morning. As punishment for their crimes. And now, hours later, I am called out again to confront the evil deeds of man.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lucas said. He meant it. Every case Armada had worked on took a toll. Armada threw everything he was into what he did, holding nothing back. And cases like the one in Salobreña sometimes left a scar. How many scars could one’s soul endure before it died, Lucas wondered.
Then Lucas saw Armada give him a smile. “Don’t be. Bautista can wait.”
“But, sir. He said…”
“Yes, I know what he said. And despite that, I am staying to see the end of this play.”
That was odd to Lucas. It wasn’t as if he had never seen this play before. But it seemed to mean that this wasn’t about the play. It was about saying no to Bautista. He had seen Armada annoy Bautista, and even intentionally frustrate the majordomo. But he had never seen Armada openly disobey him.
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Armada turned his attention to the actors. “I grow weary of feeling helpless,” Armada said. “It seems to have consumed me lately, to the point where I cannot sleep. I can’t help Amparo Rodriguez, or Madalena Rodriguez, or Cristina Lopez. They are gone forever. I also can do nothing about the hatred and discord that will live on in Salobreña, even now that Pablo Ortega is dead. I cannot stop the nightmares of my past from haunting me. I can do nothing about the choices I’ve made in the past, or the things I’ve done. Or the regret, or the horror, or the guilt that plagues my soul like a disease, a disease that will eventually be fatal.”
Armada turned to Lucas with fresh determination in his tired eyes. “But I can stay until the end of this play.”
Lucas understood.
Armada seemed relieved, his body relaxing as he shifted his weight back on the bench to get more comfortable and stretch out his legs. A serenity appeared to come over him, washing away the exhaustion that had consumed him when Lucas had first arrived.
“I blame you for this, you know,” Armada said. “If it hadn’t been for your stubbornness…”
Armada looked uncomfortable, and didn’t say anything further. It didn’t matter. Lucas knew what the old man was trying to say. His plan had been to convey the message and leave the play as soon as was possible. Lucas never understood why Armada loved these plays so much. The old man had forced him to attend many when he was younger, in a futile attempt to educate him on culture.
But the attempt had failed. Lucas just never got the point. It all seemed like overly-dramatic foolishness to him. None of it ever seemed rooted in any kind of reality and it made him just want to leave.
Yet this time, for some reason, Lucas didn’t feel the need to leave. He wouldn’t wait until the end, obviously. But he figured it wouldn’t be so bad if he stayed, just for a little while longer.
THE END
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Also by Jefferson Bonar
A Murder Most Watchful
The tiny fishing town of La Herradura is in mourning after losing four children to a pirate raid months before. When the soldier in charge of keeping them safe is murdered, it appears to be a simple act of revenge. But Armada finds there is nothing simple about murder as he uncovers a tangled web of crime, obsession, and deceipt that appears to involve a calamitous shipwreck from a century ago.
Available now:
A Murder Most Literate
Armada enters the world of academia after a professor at one of Spain’s most prestigious universities is stabbed in his office. When Armada finds evidence the professor may have been involved with fighters for the Portuguese war of independence, there is no shortage of suspects to investigate. But only one of them seems to be lying about who they really are.
Coming soon!
Quote Citations
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. The Worst is Not Always Certain. Translated by Kenneth Muir, The University Press of Kentucky, 1980.
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. Life’s a Dream. Translated by Adrian Mitchell and John Barton, WBC Print Ltd. Bristol, 1990.
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. Painter of His Own Dishonour. Translated by Edward Fitzgerald, The De La More Press, 1903.
For Sarah, without whose love and patience none of this would have been possible.
About the Author
Jefferson began his career in the film industry, writing and directing numerous short and feature-length films that played at film festivals all over the world. He attained his degree in feature film screenwriting from the University of London, Royal Holloway in 2010 and put it immediately to work by ditching film altogether and deciding he’d be happier writing novels.
He then wrote two novels of little note in a genre that didn’t suit him before moving to the south of Spain with his new family in 2015. It was here he discovered a love of history in a country with a rich and tumultuous past, the reverberations of which were felt in nearly every corner of the globe. And it was on this fertile ground that a new character, a new setting, and a new genre were realised.
Jefferson now spends his time writing, spending time with his family, and wondering if he’ll ever have time to get to the beach.
To learn more you can visit his website at:
jeffersonbonar.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
&
nbsp; Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Also by Jefferson Bonar
Quote Citations
Dedication
About the Author
A Murder Most Spanish Page 30