Blood Wedding (2 page)

‘Hi.’

‘Oh. Hi.’

‘Good walk, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. It was good.’

‘The mulberries were great. Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

‘The Abdel Karim band are in Granada next week. Some friends are trying to get tickets. Would you like to go?’

Hassan clenched his hands together. ‘Look. Er . . . Javeed has talked to me. I’ve got important things to do. He says it’s b—b—best if I don’t go out with you again.’

‘What! I thought you liked me! Can’t you decide anything for yourself?’

‘Leila. Please!’

Leila’s voice rose angrily. ‘Hassan, this is stupid. Sit there. I’ll get some tea, and we’ll talk this through.’

The whole room was looking at them. Leila ducked through the roses on the arch, and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with two cups of mint tea on a tray. Hassan had left. Leila banged the tray down on the table.

‘Damn you. Damn you.’ And then, caught in Zaida’s stare, she flushed crimson, and muttered, ‘Gotta go.’

Leila stomped up the hill to her father’s house. He wasn’t in. She went to her room, and opened her thesis notes. But she couldn’t concentrate. She needed to get out. She walked down the hill and then up to El Gato, the foreign hippies’ bar. She hadn’t tasted alcohol for months. The barman gave her an inquisitive look.

‘A Coke, please.’

She took the Coke, and retreated to the far corner. The bar filled up quickly. She recognized one of the men. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

‘Never expected to see you here.’

‘Just Coke.’ She lifted up her glass.

‘You’re looking a bit upset?’

‘Not really. Just angry with someone who can’t decide things for himself.’

‘Can I join you?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m Jim.’

‘Leila. I’m Ahmed’s daughter, over from Edinburgh.’

‘Ahmed. Oh, sure. I like your dad. He spoke at the peace rally in Granada. He’s good.’

Jim was a bit scruffy even by local standards, not what you would call good-looking. But okay. She had seen him with a wife or at least a regular. Never again a married man.

‘We’re having a gig, an Irish night, down at Felipe’s. Fancy coming?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘That’s good. I said I’d be there before eleven. Another Coke?’

‘Please. Without ice.’

Jim returned with the Coke, and a San Miguel beer. ‘How long you here for?’

‘Until the beginning of October. Have to be back in Edinburgh for the start of term to see my supervisor. Hey. Know why this bar is called El Gato?’

‘The Cat?’

‘El Gato was the nickname of the guerrilla leader here after the Civil War. He escaped to France towards the end of the Civil War, and then came back home to set up resistance to Franco. Got shot in 1947.’

Jim was a good listener. Within five minutes she was telling him everything about her thesis.

‘Jesus! Look at the time – it’s nearly eleven. We have to go.’ He took her round the corner to his battered van. ‘Sorry about the mess. The Ferrari’s in the garage.’

Leila laughed. The van clattered down the road to Felipe’s bar in the orange groves at the edge of town.

Inside Felipe’s, Jim took out his bodhran, the Irish finger drum, and started to play . . . first a steady pulse, then faster and faster, driving the fiddles and flute on and on. Couples got up to dance, swirling round and round. Leila began clapping, shyly at first, then louder and louder, faster and faster. A guy asked her to dance. Soon the wooden floor was shaking. Another dance. Another partner. Leila sank breathlessly into her seat. And then got up to dance again and again.

‘Let’s see the dawn in, at El Fugón,’ shouted Jim.

They all staggered into cars and vans, and then drove off through the town to the valley of El Fugón. In a few minutes a bonfire was blazing. The music started again, this time, plaintive, sad Irish tunes, Jim’s voice drifting like smoke.

Everyone was silent, waiting for the sun’s rays to crest the mountains and fill the valley. She hadn’t seen Jim most of the night. He came over.

‘I’m for my bed. Fancy joining me?’

Leila laughed, not offended. ‘Thanks, but no.’

‘Sure? You look like you could do with a good hug.’

‘Maybe another time, Jim.’

‘I’ve a spare bed. You can kip down there.’

The spare bed was a single mattress in the back of the van. In five minutes she was asleep, snoring heavily.

She slept until the early afternoon, woken by the stifling heat inside the van. Jim was up, brewing tea on a gas ring.

Leila looked at her watch. ‘Help! It’s nearly two. My dad will have a search party out for me in a minute. Oh no . . . I should have called back and said not to wait up for me. I didn’t tell him I’d be staying over. I have to get back. I’ll phone him now.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift home. I’m off to the beach this afternoon. Fancy coming?’ said Jim.

‘Maybe some other time. But not now. Gotta make peace with dad.’

Jim drove slowly. The springs had nearly all gone. Leila held on to the van door handle to lessen the bumps.

She pointed: ‘See that hollow olive tree over there . . . it’s haunted. It’s where they shot El Gato.’

Leila jumped out at the traffic lights. She failed to notice Zaida’s black look. The women often disapproved.
Inmodestia
was just the polite term they used to describe her. When she got home, her father was out. She called him on his mobile and left a message to confirm she was home, then went straight to her computer, her mind racing with ideas. She typed fast, and this time the El Gato story just seemed to flow.

She smiled. With luck she might finish early next year.

She clicked on Save, then Turn Off, waited a minute and then shutdown the computer.

After showering and washing her hair, she put on her new linen trousers, white silk tunic, flat gold sandals and her mother’s turquoise earrings, carefully arranging her headscarf so a few black curls framed her oval face. A breath of fresh air might help. She closed the door behind her and set off down the Jola road. There was a slight breeze. The green figs were out, hanging over the irrigation canals alongside the road. She passed a garden with a little girl on a swing. Back and forth. Back and forth.
De norte al sur de sur a norte.
A mother’s voice called, ‘Jane. Jane. Get off that swing, come and get ready. It’s nearly five. We have to leave for the airport right now.’

Leila smiled and waved to the girl. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she called out. ‘Got another silly rhyme for you!

“My young friend Jane
Is leaving Spain.
We think that’s an awful pain.
But we’re both sure you’ll come again.”’

Jane stopped, giggled, waved and then ran inside.

Leila walked on quickly. As she crossed the road bridge, the sky suddenly darkened. Leila looked up at the mountains. Dark, pregnant-bellied clouds were drifting down lower and lower. A colder breeze blew. The tops of the mountains disappeared. Rain. Sullenly, persistently the rain fell. Leila stopped, turned, and walked quickly back. A car stopped at the ravine bridge.

‘Get in,’ a voice called.

Leila approached the car. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

She got into the car. It was exactly five in the afternoon.

On the same day, Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Sub-Inspector Max Romero arrived at the house of Ahmed Mahfouz.

A cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.

Frederico García Lorca,
La cogida y la muerte

(
The Goring and the Death
)

Thank God it’s Friday. Practically the whole weekend off, thought Max. He looked at his watch. It was time to leave. What to wear . . .? Meeting Ahmed tomorrow. Leila might be there. Okay, pack the light grey Paul Smith shirt, and the Pedro de Hierro charcoal jeans. He checked the mirror. Not bad. His mother’s Scottish blue eyes, and his father’s aquiline Spanish looks stared back at him. ‘Not the face of a cop,’ Davila had once said critically. Max regarded that as a compliment.

He picked up the briefing from his boss, Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila of el Grupo de Homicidios de Granada, from the table, and glanced at it again. ‘Inspectora Jefe Linda Concha and Inspector Martín Sánchez from the Anti-Terrorist Group, el Comisario General de Información, (CGI), have confirmed they are due to arrive at Granada Airport, Thursday, 31st July 2003 at 14.00 hours. Be on time, and dress smartly. Remember, the Prime Minister himself has stated the fight against terrorism is top priority and surveillance of Muslims must be stepped up.’

Max sighed. Could be worse. Madrid was sending Linda. It would be nice to see her again. She’d been a good tutor. Her presentation on the new terrorist threats had been good – perceptive and funny. And she’d joined him for a beer and tapas most lunchtimes. But this ‘increased surveillance of Muslims’ was really going to change his liaison role with la Brigada de Participación Ciudadano. It had taken months to develop good relationships with the different Muslim groups, and it could all go down the pan.

As he shut the door of his flat he glanced up at the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevada mountains behind the fortress walls. He walked down the street, la Calderería Nueva, then along crumbling Calle Elvira. He crossed Gran Vía, dodging traffic, roadworks and tour groups. The police car park was past the fountains of la Plaza Trinidad, just behind the Faculty of Law and the old Botanic Gardens.

It wasn’t a good idea to walk so far in the heat. By the time he reached his old Peugeot he was really sweating. He got into the car: the seat was hot enough to fry an egg.

At least the new motorway cut the journey from Granada to Diva to less than an hour, and once out of Granada the air should freshen. Clear of the city, Max put on a CD by his mother’s group, the Maxwell Consort. ‘Time stands still, and gazes on her face,’ sang the soprano soloist. He immediately felt calmer. The mountains in the late afternoon sun were sentinels to another world: one where police procedures and violence had no part. The comment from his boss, ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’, still rankled. He had to be on his guard all the time in the police. The old guys dismissed the fast track graduate programme as liberal wankers who knew shit about real police work. Max’s sharp tongue hadn’t endeared him either.

Perhaps he would see Leila for a coffee again. She was a real beauty. Bright and funny as well. He wondered how her interviews were going. His family never talked about the Civil War, though the Romero clan had done well under Franco.

He passed the first houses in Diva and turned right, down the Río Sierra track towards his little summer cottage,
el cortijo.
He smiled as he remembered telling his Scottish friends that he, or rather, his grandmother, had bought a
cortijo.
They thought he had a mansion. No way. Just some old sheds slung together. Best ask Leila straight out whether she fancied a coffee in the evening. She must be dying to talk to someone about her thesis.

He parked the car outside the big metal gates of his cottage, unlocked the padlock, pushed the gates open, and breathed in deeply. There was a perfume from the summer lemons. As he walked under the trellis of jasmine, he breathed in even more deeply – it was like smelling a fine wine.

Max opened the front door, went to the fridge, and took out a San Miguel beer. He was just getting comfortable on his battered sofa when the phone rang.

‘Max, how are you?’

‘Fine, grandma. Just fine,
abuela.
How are the kids?’

‘Both well, but Encarnita is turning into a real little madam – and Leonardo should spend less time playing football, and more on his homework.’

‘So they’re growing up fast?’

‘Yes . . . but Isabel told Juan I was interfering with how she wanted to bring them up. And all because I said it was too late for Encarnación to stay up to watch a programme on television. I’m right, aren’t I, Max?’ Her voice broke. ‘I would never have let my children sit all evening in front of the television. I’m sure it’s not good for them.’

‘Abuela,
I’m sure Isabel didn’t mean to be hurtful. How’s the rest of the family?’

‘Juan’s very moody. I don’t think he’s spoken to Isabel for days – though I can’t blame him. But could you have a drink with him, Max? He won’t talk to me about his problems, of course.’

‘Sure. I’ll give him a ring. See you Sunday.’

Max phoned Juan. Ten o’clock in el Café Paraíso. Just before ten, Max checked he had his torch, and then climbed up the goat track into town and on into the café. Juan was already there.

‘Beer, Max?’

‘Sí.
How’s business?’

‘Huh. Could be better.’

‘Problems?’

‘The mill conversion in Recina – you know, the one that went really over budget – well, it came on the market just when the Brits stopped buying. So I still haven’t sold one of the damn flats, and the bank’s being a pain now.’

‘You’ll sell. It’s another rotten summer in Britain. Another
cerveza,
Juan?’

‘Why not? No point in spoiling Friday night.’

Max raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Barcelona. This season is going to be ours – I just know it.’

‘No way. Real Madrid will sweep the board. We’ve made some really good signings. You just wait and see.’

‘I’m not too sure. I doubt the Brits will fit in – not their style of play.’

More drinks, more football.

Juan looked at his watch, ‘Better go. Isabel and Paula are scrapping again. Isabel’s wanting to move into town. Difficult. It’d break Paula’s heart to lose the kids.’

‘Sí.
And Paula couldn’t stay in that big house on her own anyway. I’m sure it will all blow over again.
Chao,
Juan. See you Sunday.’

As Max left, he noticed Sargento León from Diva’s Guardia Civil drinking alone in the corner. He smiled, and saluted him.

Saturday morning was hot and sticky. His neighbour, Alvaro, was already pulling up weeds when Max took his breakfast on to the terrace.

‘Hola, Max. Mucho calor.
This is going to be a real pig of a day . . . look at those clouds. Need some rain though. How long you staying?’