Tapas on the Ramblas (15 page)

"You're not having a very good time on this trip, are you?" I asked with as much empathy in my voice as I could muster whilst chewing a rather tasty tidbit of lamb.

Marsha gave me another eye, behind which I could see she was trying to decide whether or not I was a kindred spirit or just baiting her. She must have settled for the former, desperate to find a compatriot in her misery. "No, we certainly are not. Don't get me wrong, we love cruises, don't we Ted? We've done it many times. We've taken luxurious vacations all over the world."

"Ever been to that Disney World?" Ted asked me, his fatty shoulders thrown back in pride at his worldliness. "It's really something. You should go."

Marsha shot her husband a shushing look and quickly added, "Ted's a very successful businessman you know. Oil and gas mostly." She patted down a frizzy fluff of hair over her ear and inspected the white tips of her French manicure.

I nodded, showing how impressed I was. "Really? I didn't know that. Exploration? Development?

Investment? Overseas stuff?" I listed the varying possibilities.

"Er, well, no," Marsha sputtered. "We're more in the service side of the industry."

"We own the M&T Gas Bar and Restaurant not fifty minutes out of Calgary," Ted told me. "Worked there for twenty years and now we own the place. A real Canadian success story. You heard of us maybe?

We sell the famous Giantess Cinnamon Buns. Marsha's own invention, y'know."

Marsha looked mortified. She was not used to honesty, I guess. "Shut up, Ted. That's just a part of what we do. We just don't like to brag, that's all. Anyway, as I was saying, as far as this...trip.. .goes, it's just that, well, we prefer to travel in a.. .a style we're more accustomed to."

I opened my baby greens wide. "Oh? You don't like The Dorothy?"

"Now we're not snobs, Mr. Quant, don't get us wrong," she said, warming to her topic. "It's not the boat, but...well, I'm just going to say it, it's the company. Ted in particular is uncomfortable and the boys, well the boys are so impressionable. They're only twenty, you know, and Kayla is seventeen. Who knows what she thinks about all this."

Ever thought to ask her? I looked over at the twins and Kayla, about mid-table, and they seemed just fine.

"I mean I'm okay, really I am, I can put up with a lot, but really, poor Ted and the twins, on a boat with a bunch of homosexual beings."

As opposed to human beings? I suppose my sharing a room with Errall put her off my homo scent.

"But I don't know why we're surprised. Charity does this every time. Every time we have a family reunion she seems to go out of her way to choose someplace or somewhere uncomfortable for everyone.

Except herself of course."

"Then why do you attend?" I asked the million-dollar question. I was betting I was about to get a million-dollar lie.

"Well, family of course. I don't know what kind of family background you come from, Mr. Quant, but our family is a close one. We spend time together. That's what families do. I want our children to know their cousins and aunts and uncles." She almost teared up at this point, so moved was she with the strength of her familial convictions. "In the end, family is all we've really got."

What a Giantess load of manure. "I take it you and your family were at the last Charity event, the boot camp at Charity's home in May?"

"Yes, of course we were, weren't we Ted?"

"What about the kids?" he asked in return.

"What about the children?" she retorted, pinning him with an irritated look.

"They're eating the meal."

"Oh for crying out loud," Marsha huffed. "I can't save everyone. And I don't want to make a scene.

Who knows what could happen."

"Did you know that Charity's cat was poisoned that weekend?" I asked, hoping to bring the discussion back to what was important. This gig was proving difficult. I was finding it near impossible to detect whodunit when there was little proof that anything was actually dun. Charity didn't want me to reveal to the others her belief that one of them was trying to kill her, but she didn't say anything about not talking about Morris' suspicious demise.

Marsha looked at me with a blank look on her heavily made-up face. "She had a cat?"

"My, how truly serendipitous!" came the statement from the other end of the table. Charity was making it known she wanted to be heard. And indeed all other conversation stopped and fifteen pair of eyes and maybe more from other nearby tables fell upon her. She adjusted the collar of her shirt and then looked up with a start, giving an Oscar-winning performance in appearing surprised to find the table's attention on her. "You'll never believe the tales Mr. Azib has been sharing with us. The poor of Tunisia need our help.

I've concluded that some of my money should also be siphoned off to this worthy cause."

As worthy a cause as it might be, the news fell flat around the table. Charity's well-chosen words,
siphoned off,
reminded the family that their money was about to flow into pockets other than their own.

Just, I suspect, as Charity intended.

"Oh good Lord," I heard James mutter under his breath.

Everyone else was quiet for a moment, the young Moshiers searching out their parents' faces for how to react, Nick and sister Marsha exchanging uncomfortable glances. Harriet and Faith seemed to be the only ones nodding their heads as if the idea of helping the poor and destitute might be a worthy one.

"That would be possible, wouldn't it, Mr. Quant?" Charity called across the table, chin held determinedly high.

"It's something we can discuss," I answered, hoping to cut off the discussion.

"Prickly pear!" she responded.

For a moment I thought she was calling me names, until I saw two white-robed servers delivering platters of the stuff along with steaming pots of sweet mint tea.

"So what the hell is this?" Ted asked under his breath, dissatisfied as a hungry lion at a salad bar. "Can we eat this?" he asked his wife with a pleading look.

"Who knows," Marsha replied with a scowl. "They certainly never serve this in any of the resorts we go to."

"It's dessert," I told them. "Prickly pear. The fruit of the cactus."

Ted chortled. "Oh come on, you expect us t'believe there's such a thing as cactus fruit? You think we were born yesterday?"

For a moment, I didn't care whether or not these two were suspects. I just really didn't want to spend any more time with them.  

As we filed out of the restaurant, the same man who greeted us when we arrived was at the door to see us off. Following Azib's example, we held out our palms as we passed by our host, into which he sprinkled a few drops of refreshing rosewater. And then we were back in the din of the ramshackle medina. Azib raised his yellow umbrella as soon as we cleared the restaurant. It was time to shop. For the next hour or so, we fought our way through the masses, every so often stopping to visit stores Azib felt were worth our attention (and money) and with whose owners he seemed very familiar.

It was growing late in the afternoon when I heard the scream. I turned to find Flora struggling through the crowd, trying to get to me. I stopped to wait for her, much to Marsha's chagrin. She'd once again attached herself to my shirt and was now pulling on it to encourage me to move forward. Errall and Ted were also nearby.

"We're going to lose the umbrella if we don't keep moving," Marsha complained, at the same time gifting every passerby with an impressive scowl.

"Something's wrong," Errall understated, also having heard the scream and watching Flora's approach.

When my client's granddaughter finally caught up to us, having clawed her way through the dense crush of people, we could see that she was holding on to the hand of a very tired and flustered Dottie. "Back there," she said between wheezes of air intake, "It’s Grandmother!"

I put one hand on her shoulder to calm her and tried to use my eyes to steady her own. "What? What is it?"

"She's gone, Mr. Quant!" Flora cried out. "She's gone!"

Errall and I exchanged an alarmed look.

"We're getting behind!" Marsha warned, hopping up and down to keep sight of the retreating umbrella.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Sounds like the ol' lady got lost," Ted contributed unhelpfully.

"It's my fault," Dottie explained, in a voice that sounded calmer than her face looked. "I walk so damn slow now. It's hard for me to keep up. Flora and Charity were helping me along."

"Then something in one of the stores caught Grandmother's eye," Flora added.

"She told Flora and me to keep on moving so we wouldn't lose sight of Azib and that she'd catch up with us. She's as fast as a gazelle that one, always has been, and I'm so slow, because of my heart. She knew she could let us get a head start and still catch up."

"But when she didn't show up after several minutes," Flora continued, "we went back to look for her but couldn't find her and I was afraid I'd lose our way or lose Dottie and we'd certainly lose sight of Azib and the umbrella! Oh gosh, she's lost in this mess. How will we ever find her?"

"I'm going!" Marsha announced loudly.
"I
can barely see the umbrella." With that she turned heel and stalked off, Ted scrambling after her.

"What can we do, Mr. Quant?" Dottie asked, ignoring the fleeing couple. "Do you think whoever it is that's trying to kill her has taken her?"

Flora looked startled at the suggestion and stared at Dottie. "What are you talking about? She's just lost."

"Listen," I said, after assessing the crowd in front of us and the identical one behind us. "Errall will catch you two up with the rest of the group." I looked at Errall who nodded agreement, even though her eyes looked a little doubtful about whether or not she'd be able to comply. The yellow umbrella was getting further and further away and Dottie was not a fast walker. "And you've got to go now while the umbrella is still in sight. I'll go back to look for Charity." I focused my attention on Flora and Dottie. "Can either of you tell me anything about where you last saw her? Any hint as to where I might look for her?"

"Hats," Dottie said. "She was looking for one of those hats. They look like the pillbox hats Jackie O

used to wear, but with a tassel."

"Chechia, I think they're called," Flora said, nodding wildly, her glasses nearing the tip of her nose.

"Russell, how will you get back?" I felt Errall's hand on my forearm and heard an anxiousness in her voice I didn't want to hear.

I stared at her. I had no answer. "Just go," I told her. I knew the bus had to be at The Dorothy in time for a 5:30 departure. I looked at my watch-4 p.m., and it was at least a half-hour ride back to the dock.

"Just tell Azib and the driver to wait for us as long as they can."

Errall impulsively threw her face into mine and gave me a kiss on the lips. When she pulled back, she looked deep into my eyes, her own reflecting back two pools of worry, and said, "Be careful, Russell."

And with that she grabbed Dottie's free hand and led the other two women away towards a speck of yellow that was now only fleetingly visible. I watched confounded as the medina's scurrying inhabitants swallowed up my travel companions in mere seconds. In slow motion I rotated a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, taking in the dusty, noisy fray of my alien surroundings. I saw nothing and no one that looked familiar or friendly. I felt very alone.

I
was
alone. I had no idea where I was, which way to go, or, if I did find Charity, how we'd ever find our way back to the bus.

And then it began to rain.

This wasn't just a sprinkling shower; it was a torrent of water being dumped from the sky as if a dam had come undone. Even though makeshift roofs covered much of the medina, they were no match for this kind of downfall. Within seconds the rain found easy openings through which to deliver its load and soon the alleyways of the medina were not only dark and dank, but sodden as well; a wet dog smell began to permeate the air. Whereas most shopkeepers were prepared for such an occurrence, their wares well protected inside their shops or quickly covered with sheets of plastic or plywood, the shoppers were not.

Almost immediately I was soaked as if I'd just been run through a car wash. Alone, confused, and wet, all I knew for sure was that Charity was shopping for chechias somewhere in the direction opposite the one our group was going in. With no better option, I dived headfirst into the fracas.

The medina's usual fast pace had reached frenetic proportions as people scurried for shelter, but the persistent souk hawkers remained undaunted and continued to ply their trade. A little monsoon was no reason to put an end to commerce. They called out to me in their shrill voices, some daring to pull at my sleeve, wanting to know if I was USA, or maybe interested in purchasing shoes or beading or ivory. I eventually started yelling back over the thrumming of rain on corrugated tin roofs, "Chechias? Chechias?

Do you have chechias? Hats?"

"Monsieur!" came a voice, clear over all the others. "Yez, here, monsieur!"

In an opening between two other stores, a space about two people wide, stood a handsome young man.

He was looking right at me, beckoning to me. His skin was a translucent brown that turned deep bronze, almost purple, in the spots where the rain hit it. I was growing frantic as the impossibility of my chore was beginning to sink in and I raced over to him hoping for a miracle.

"You're looking, monsieur, to shop?" His English was pretty good.

"I'm looking for a woman," I said. "Tall, from Canada, looks like Katharine Hepburn?" You never know. "Have you seen such a woman?"

"Yez, yez," he nodded enthusiastically. "Shopping woman. Yez, yez."

Oh thank God! "Where, where did you see her?"

"You come," he said, stepping to the side and motioning me inside his store.

It was a long, narrow space, filled with cheap tourist trinkets, jewellery, rugs and doming that Flora would wear and, best of all, mercifully dry. Indoors, watching our conversation with interest were four others who I took to be fellow salespeople, three men and a woman.

"You come. Woman shop," my new friend said.

I stepped into the store, glad to be out of the rain, and allowed him to gently guide me with a hand that barely touched my arm towards the rear of the space where an even narrower flight of stairs awaited me. I stopped, suddenly wary. "Uh, where does this go? You saw a Canadian woman shopping here?"

More nodding and smiling as he waved with his hand for me to go up the stairs.

I looked at the others who were also smiling and nodding and waving.

The young man stepped in front of me and began to scale the steps, encouraging me to follow. "Yez, good woman shop. Come."

I did. Up we went, the space barely wide enough for my shoulders, up and around and around until I was certain we must have passed by two or three floors. My view was restricted to the young man's butt, which was pretty delectable, but I was in no mood, my apprehension rising with every step. Should I turn around? Run yelling? Was I about to be sold into white slavery? Was someone going to rob me? Sell me drugs then turn me in to the cops? Was this
Midnight Express
all over again?

We finally topped the stairs; the young man stepped to one side and with a flourish invited me to step through a curtained opening. I poked my head through the slit in the fabric and took a quick inventory, all the while flexing my muscles mightily in case I'd need to use them. Behind the curtain four more men were waiting expectantly in a large, perfectly square room. Except for a low bench before a 1960s-style coffee table, there was no other furniture. Every inch of wall and floor were covered with carpet, a kaleidoscope of colour intricately woven into countless different patterns. Soundproofing?

I was directed by one of the new men to sit on the bench. Here it goes, I thought to myself, it’s gonna go down right now; whatever "if is. I sat down, wiping away the rainwater that, even though I was now sheltered, continued to dribble down my face as if an inexhaustible supply had been stored in my hair. I must have looked a sight: wet hair, my Judy Smythwicke-inspired conservative shirt plastered against my chilled, sodden skin like a second skin, nipples standing at unconservative attention.

Somewhere to my right I heard a slight rustling and then an aged woman appeared from an invisible space between two of the wall hangings. She was carrying a large platter on which she'd laid out an elaborate silver tea service. She set the bounty before me on the coffee table, never uttering a word, and poured me a cup of the steaming liquid. All eyes were on me as if nothing could happen until I took the first sip. So I did. It was hot and sweet, like the tea we had at the restaurant. I mumbled my thanks. The woman disappeared.

Like a well-rehearsed play, the smallest of the quartet of men then approached the centre of the room and stood before me. He was carrying something large, rolled up, maybe three metres wide. With a smile befitting a benevolent king, he threw out his hands into a high arc and phhhwwwooop! Spread before him, splayed out from the flat of his palms down to the tips of my toes was a stunning carpet. It was mostly red with a detailed border of browns, purples and yellows, the centre a labyrinthine design of curlicues and fashioned symbols with meanings I'd never understand. In the half-light of the room the sheen of the piece was velveteen, darker in some spots, light in others. It was outstandingly beautiful.

Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Three more carpets fell from the grips of the three other gentlemen who now formed a semi-circle in front of me. Phhhwwwooop.

Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Another four.

It was like a well choreographed artistic performance.

Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop.

Phhhwwwooop. Another four. My eyes barely had the chance to assess the new offerings when, Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. Phhhwwwooop. More.

"Good woman shop," said an enthusiastic voice from the doorway. It was the attractive man who'd brought me here. "Yez? You buy? For woman. Good prices. Best prices."

"We ship," said another.

"You USA?" asked another.