Mac whistled when I came downstairs. ‘Are you sure this is a funeral reception?’ he asked. Even Tom looked a wee bit surprised.
I was mildly embarrassed. ‘Yes,’ I retorted, defending myself. ‘You don’t know the way the women dress here; they do glam pretty well. I’m not going over there looking like a country mouse. And besides, I don’t often have the chance to get jazzed up.’ This was true. I’d always dressed conservatively whenever Gerard and I went out to eat, to avoid provoking the gossips even more. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours, I expect.’ I pointed at my son. ‘Do not wait up for me, young man.’
I made my way outside and down the square, towards Meson del Conde; I drew a few looks as I went, but didn’t return any of them. The terrace restaurant isn’t quite as described. It’s a glass-walled, air-conditioned extension to the main building, with its own entrance. Angel was standing just inside the doorway. He was still wearing his dark funeral suit but the black tie was gone and his shirt was open at the neck. We shook hands, and he thanked me for coming. ‘Is Elena here?’ I asked.
‘No, she’s too upset . . . over her mother,’ he added, not that I thought there would be another reason, given that her very attendance at his father’s send-off had been a toss-up.
As I stepped inside, a waiter offered me a glass of something pink with bubbles in it; Perelada rosada cava, I suspected, a little frivolous for the occasion but never mind. I took one, and scanned the room for a familiar face. As I’d expected, all the women were dressed to the nines. L’Escala is a competitive place in some surprising ways; I’ve learned to play that game, and I’m not accustomed to losing at anything, other than love.
‘Good evening, senora.’ The voice came from my left. I looked around and saw, to my surprise, the little figure of Father Olivares approaching. No cava for him, his hand clutched a glass of what looked like a dark garnaxa.
‘And to you,’ I replied.
‘I am pleased to see you here,’ he said. ‘Angel has told me of your difficulty with José-Luis. It shows a kindness of spirit that you have put that aside and come to pay your respects.’
‘I’m here for Angel and his wife,’ I told him.
‘I appreciate that, but the same principle applies.’ He paused, then glanced up at me. ‘If you’re looking for my young colleague, he’s not coming.’
‘I wasn’t, but thank you for telling me.’
‘He was invited,’ the old priest continued, ‘but he declined. He won’t tell me why, but he’s upset about something. In fact he was sharp with me when I asked him about it. You don’t know what might be troubling him, do you?’
‘I might,’ I admitted. ‘We had a disagreement; a rather public disagreement.’
‘I thought it might be something like that. And of course, you’re both powerful, proud and stubborn personalities, and neither is in a mood to apologise.’
‘I can only speak for myself; I have no idea what he’s thinking.’ I frowned at him. ‘Are you getting round to warning me off, Father?’
‘No, no I’m not,’ he said, quickly. ‘After some initial reservations, I’ve come to approve of your friendship. It’s good for a priest, especially a young, modern priest, to have a private circle, of people who are not necessarily of our church, and if it includes single ladies like yourself, I have no problem with that. However, there can be volatility within such groups, arguments, and they can bring out the worst in anyone. I have a great regard for Father Hernanz; I admit it, he’s my protégé. But I can see his faults; there’s a fire in him and as with all fires, if it’s fanned it can burn out of control. I don’t want that to happen. So, my dear, it might be for the best if you and he were to avoid each other for a while, until things have cooled and you are able to discuss your differences calmly and rationally.’
‘Would that include me keeping my son away from the church?’
‘Who would that penalise?’
‘Only Tom.’
‘Then of course you shouldn’t. Gerard won’t turn him away, I promise you, or treat him any differently.’
I smiled at him. ‘Okay,’ I promised, ‘I’ll do what you ask and let time take care of it. Thank you, Father Olivares,’ I added. ‘I think I’d like to have you as a friend too.’
‘You have, my dear.’
For a moment, I was on the verge of leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek, but I reckoned that some of the older women in the room might have burned me at the stake if I’d done that, so I restrained myself. Instead, I moved on towards Justine who was standing with two of the men who’d been with her in the front row at the church. She was poshed up too, in a tight-fitting black silk dress that came close to making me feel frumpy. She detached herself from her group and joined me at a table where a
pica pica
buffet had been set out.
‘Any news of your mother?’ I began. As I spoke I saw Alex Guinart on the far side of the room, standing half a pace behind Gomez; he was looking in our direction, with a small frown on his face. I guessed that he knew what we were discussing.
‘Nothing. The police have even checked with my uncle in Belgium; I told them it was useless, and it was.’ She laid her glass on the table and picked up a plate. I followed suit and together we chose from the dishes on offer; a wide selection, prawns, quail’s eggs fried on circles of bread, feta cheese cubed, meatballs, olives, and a few things that even I had never seen before. ‘I don’t know what to do, Primavera; I’ve never felt so helpless. Elena, she’s a complete wreck; the doctor’s had to give her a sedative.’
‘She’ll turn up,’ I reassured her, inanely, for I had no greater reason for optimism than anyone else. I picked up my glass and drained it as we ate. One of the waiters saw that I was empty and came across with a refill; the quail’s eggs were loaded with salt, so to save him a return trip, I took two. ‘What about Angel’s dad?’ I asked her. ‘Has Gomez told you anything about that?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, but her tone had changed, become more hesitant. ‘But he insisted that it was in confidence, so . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ I said at once. ‘Forget I asked. Anyway,’ I added, ‘I suspect that I know what his current thinking is.’
She gave me a curious look, but said nothing more than, ‘Mmm.’
We ate some more then went back to the table, where new, more substantial, hot dishes were waiting for us. I found that I was out of cava again, so I picked up a glass of red something. That was rather nice too; it was familiar, reminded me of one I’d had from Ben, even though I probably shouldn’t have been drinking it with
fidua
.
I was beginning to get the impression that Justine had had a few also, especially when she looked me in the eye and said, ‘Okay, tell me about you and the priest. I know I was told no, but, let’s hear it from you. Are you or not?’
‘Not,’ I replied firmly. ‘Why, do you have ambitions?’
‘Ouch. Even if I did, I couldn’t. I’m the mayor, remember. But . . . would you like to? Come on, secretly.’
‘You wouldn’t tell me your secrets a minute ago, so why should I tell you mine? But it’s still no. He’s a pal, that’s all.’ (Even though, at that moment, he wasn’t.)
‘Don’t believe you.’
‘Honest,’ I tried to insist.
She’d have pressed me further, maybe asked me if the thought had ever crossed my mind, but we were both distracted by the sound of a mobile. We followed it, to see Gomez reaching for his pocket. He pressed the phone to his ear. As he listened, his face seemed to darken, and he glanced towards Justine. He ended the call, quickly, spoke briefly to Alex, then headed for the mayor, but she was already moving towards him. He spoke to her quickly, earnestly, and I saw her hand go to her mouth, then he and Alex turned and made for the exit.
I stepped up to Justine’s shoulder. ‘What is it?’ I whispered.
‘They’ve found my mother’s car; in some woods beside the main road, opposite Ventallo, where nobody lives. It’s a shell, burned out.’
‘And . . .’ I gasped.
‘No. She wasn’t in it, thank God.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘Primavera, I have to go, to be with my sister.’
‘Of course.’
She went in the same direction as the two cops, through the whispering crowd, ignoring everyone who spoke to her. As she did, I felt the room begin to wobble, very slightly, or maybe it was me. Maybe it was the news, maybe it was the cava, maybe I’d lost a week somewhere and it was the time of the month, but I knew my evening was over. I thanked Angel . . . he was still by the door, frowning as if he didn’t know what to do for the best . . . and made my way unsteadily home.
Thirty-one
W
hen I woke up next morning, I felt fine. My memory of the latter part of the evening was hazy, but with a little effort I recalled announcing that I was going to bed and Mac saying that was fine and that he was going to see if Ben was still open, and if so, he was going to drag him off for a beer.
I swung my feet out of bed and planted them on the floor . . . right in the centre of my satin party dress, which lay in a perfect circle exactly where I’d let it drop and stepped out of it. I winced, and hoped that I hadn’t destroyed it, but it looked okay when I fastened it to a hanger, no food, wine or other embarrassing stains.
I checked my watch; seven fifty, too late to go for a swim and be back in time to make breakfast, so I settled for a quick shower instead, dressed in my usual daywear and headed downstairs. I beat Tom by five minutes . . . he’s a self-starter these days . . . and in that time his oranges were freshly squeezed, his Coco Pops and my Special K were in their bowls, ready for the milk, and the coffee percolator was on the stove alongside a pan in which three eggs were beginning the short journey to being soft boiled.
Of Mac, there was no sign. I sneaked a look into the garden, and into the kennel. Of Charlie there was no sign either, and so I guessed that one had taken the other for a walk. With our dog, it’s sometimes difficult to tell who’s in charge.
They still hadn’t come back when Tom headed off to school on his soon-to-be-replaced bike, but a burst of furious barking, in a familiar canine voice, told me that they weren’t far off. Charlie was still giving it plenty when the garden gate opened and he burst in, pulling on his leash.
‘I don’t know what the hell’s up with this dog,’ Mac exclaimed. ‘We were just going past your garage when he stopped in his tracks and started barking at the door alongside it. He wouldn’t come when I told him; finally I had to put the lead on him and drag him away. What is that down there anyway?’
‘It’s mine,’ I told him. ‘Go through to the kitchen and pour yourself some coffee. I’ll go down and take a look.’ I headed for the door that opens on to the stairs and trotted down to the garage.
As I’ve told you, my house is very old, but clearly, my garage isn’t, not in relative terms, given that cars have only been around for a hundred years or so. It’s big, and could hold at least three vehicles, although it doesn’t. The rear part is cut into the rock on which the house stands, and the rest is built out from that. The oldest man in the village is over ninety; he told me that his father told him, that when he was a boy, a hundred and twenty years ago, the back of my garage was a dwelling in its own right, and that a family lived there . . . the cave dwellers, they were called. Alongside it, there was, and still is, a
trustero
, an outhouse, entirely self contained, that he believed was used as a privy by the nineteenth-century occupants. It’s possible that it might have been; the floor’s mainly stone, but there’s a concrete slab right at the back that might be covering what could have been a limepit, a makeshift chemical toilet. Today, I use it as a storeroom, for logs mostly, for the wood-burning stove in the main living room. That’s what Charlie had gone off at, and I couldn’t figure out why, for he goes past it every day without a murmur.
I opened the up-and-over garage with the remote, grabbed the big old store key from its hook and stepped outside. The wooden door was scratched, by Charlie’s hard claws, I guessed. I’d half a mind to dock the cost of the paint out of his next bag of dog food. I slid the key into the lock, turned it and pushed the door open.
There’s no light in the cupboard and it’s at least twenty feet deep, so I couldn’t see very clearly, not straight away anyway. There was a tall pile of logs near the door; I stepped past it to see what was beyond. As soon as I did I knew what had scared my big tough softie of a Labrador. We had a visitor, a woman. She was seated, on some more logs, leaning against the back wall, and she was staring straight at me, sticking her tongue out at me as if a game had been played and I had lost. As I looked back at her, I knew that, somehow, she was right too.
It was Dolores Fumado, Justine’s mother, Elena’s mother. Her normally immaculate hair resembled a caricature of the Beijing Olympic stadium, and her face was streaked with days-old make-up. I didn’t have to touch her to know that she was dead, and I didn’t have to go any closer to know how she’d died. Something was knotted tight around her neck, something black: my clever, all-purpose, missing shawl.
I’m not usually a screamer, under any circumstances, but I came close then. I backed out of there faster than Jackie Kennedy crawled out of that car in Dallas, pulled the door shut and locked it, stepped back into the garage and pressed the remote closer. I didn’t even think to look around me, to check that nobody had been watching.