The Perfect Mother (14 page)

She thought about what she had said to Eric, that her being there was helping Emma. But was it? Emma seemed mostly inured to any comfort Jennifer might give, too caught up in the idea that she and Paco were engaged in some kind of class war in which her parents were on the wrong side. The by now familiar ache stabbed at her chest. Oh, Emma, Emma. She had to find a way to break through to her somehow. She latched on again to the idea that if only they could find something to discredit Paco, that would be a start.

She wanted to avoid reading any more stories about Emma but was drawn to them like a gambler who has already lost almost everything and can’t stop herself from risking what was left on the slim chance of hitting the jackpot the very next time. Maybe someone would report something that would give her hope. She turned on CNN. The news report had just started. The top story was about the rash nuclear threats coming out of North Korea and the American reaction. She listened absentmindedly, knowing it was important but not able to focus on it. The newscaster followed with stories about Cyprus and Spain’s economic outlook. She was relieved there was nothing about Emma, until the anchor announced that next up would be an interview with the parents of the Spanish student killed in Seville. She felt an internal plunge, like going downhill in a roller coaster, and her heart rate sped up. She wanted to turn it off but couldn’t make herself do it.

The parents looked to be in their midfifties. The mother wore a trim black suit. Her dark brown hair was swept up into a bun and she wore large silver earrings. She’d have looked like many well-groomed Spanish women one passed on the street, except for her face. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. Her eyes looked lined and puffy and—there was no way to avoid it—she had the look of a person who was ravaged by grief. The father wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray tie. He sat by his wife’s side, serious, looking as much angry as bereft. They spoke in Spanish and then English, saying they wanted to reach Emma’s family and friends. They said they wanted to go on television to tell the world that their son was not a rapist. He was a good boy. He would have been a lawyer, maybe even a judge, they said. He respected the law. The American girl was lying. There was no Algerian. No one had tried to rape her. The mother began to cry. Saying she wanted to speak to Emma, she looked straight at the camera. “Please, if you are watching this, please tell the truth. You took my only son. Don’t take the honor of my family.” She covered her face as she began to cry. Her husband put his arm around her and glared at the camera as the interview ended.

Jennifer didn’t know what to think. Her ability to block out any argument that led to Emma’s guilt was disintegrating. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore, especially about whether she had ever really known her daughter.

She tried calling Roberto one more time, not really expecting an answer and not getting one. She was beginning to seriously worry about him. Cars here typically moved along at breakneck speed; Spanish drivers were more aggressive than those in the States. Maybe he’d had an accident. She couldn’t imagine what else would prevent him from at least calling her to say he had been delayed. She hoped he’d show up the next day. Aside from his investigative talents, she needed him as a translator, and she had counted on his being back in time to go to the Triana Bridge steps with her on Saturday. Now she faced the possibility that she might have to meet Julia and Paco’s friend alone.

A
strident ring awoke her early the next morning. Still half-asleep, she thought it was her alarm clock, but it continued after she pressed the Off button. Groggily feeling around for the phone on her bedside table, she picked it up without looking at it, sure that the call was finally from Roberto.

“Where were you?” she asked with relief, her voice still thick with sleep. “I was so worried.”

“It is José, senora.”

Embarrassed, she apologized. He spoke formally, saying that he regretted that he seemed to have awakened her, but his secretary had found a place for her to stay and he thought she’d want to make arrangements as soon as possible. She hadn’t gone out since the previous day’s fracas and had almost forgotten the need to move. She thanked him and asked where it was.

“It is a small but I think adequate apartment in the
judería
,” he said. “Only a few streets away from Las Casas de la Judería. Do you know it?”

She didn’t, and she asked what
judería
meant.

“Ah, it means ‘Jewish quarter,’” he said pleasantly. He laughed. “You will be comfortable there. You are Jewish, are you not?”

She was shocked. “Do you mean there is still a special section of town for Jews here?” she asked.

Now he laughed louder. “Oh, no, senora, of course not,” he said. He explained that the area, which was now the Barrio de Santa Cruz and the chief tourist section of the city, had indeed been a Jewish ghetto in the fifteenth century, cut off from the rest of the city by a wall. “You can still see what is left of that wall today,” he said. He encouraged her to read about it and recommended an article in English she could find online. It recounted, he said, that in a much lauded historical restoration, the Duke of Segorbe had spent the past thirty years trying to return parts of the quarter to its original architecture.

“Las Casas de la Judería is the duke’s special project,” José continued. “A massive renovation of a former mansion into a hotel that is like a small village of connecting houses, patios, and gardens, each with its own personality. You will like it; you will see. Tourists find it very appealing.” He told her that the apartment he had found was modern and comfortable, while the neighborhood retained the feel of an old European city.

“But you mentioned that I am Jewish. Is this area mostly settled by Jews?”

“No, no,” he said. “Forgive me. I was making a joke. Perhaps a bad one. There are, sadly, very few Jews in Seville now and certainly not congregated in any area.”

She thanked him and said she’d certainly like to see the apartment. Could she visit it before committing herself? He assured her that she could and arranged for his secretary to meet her in an hour at the address, 54 Calle de la Madre de Dios. She smiled at the name. “Madre de Dios—Mother of God.” Well, it certainly had shed its Jewish origins.

She showered and dressed, wondering in passing how José knew she was Jewish. Not that it mattered, she thought. She’d been to the Barrio de Santa Cruz, she realized, not knowing its history. She’d visited those sites with Emma—she remembered the Alcázar, the royal palace that used to be a Moorish fort, and the cathedral with the Giralda looking like the top of a wedding cake. She had noted the beautiful labyrinthian narrow stone streets, shielded from the hot sun by the facades of the white and mustard-colored houses that lined them, many decorated with flower boxes overflowing with fragrant blooms.

She stopped at the hotel restaurant for breakfast and then took the elevator up to the lobby. She approached the exit warily but was relieved to see that the crush of reporters had diminished. She exited carefully, her head down, and was able to leave unaccosted, slipping into a waiting taxi and giving the address of what she hoped would be her new apartment. She arrived early and so had time to wander the alleyways and look in shop windows. Passing by, she peered into the stone courtyard of the Casas de la Judería. It was charming, with its white columns supporting an arcade of graceful arches that surrounded a blue-and-white-tiled fountain. Continuing her explorations, she saw a café near the Plaza de Santa Cruz that beckoned her, and she stopped to order a coffee, even though she had just had one at breakfast. It was so pleasant to sit there, shaded from the sun while enjoying its light.

Checking her watch, she saw it was time to walk to the meeting place, and having paid her bill, she made her way there. She recognized José’s secretary, Rosa, even though she hadn’t met her before, by her agitated look as she scanned the passing women to see if the American had arrived. Rosa seemed to know her as soon as she laid eyes on her; she bustled over enthusiastically, a broad-hipped middle-aged woman in a blue-and-white business suit, with bright red lacquered nails and matching lipstick. “Senora
Lewis?” she asked. “I am Rosa. I am very happy to see you,” she said in heavily accented English. “Let us go quickly. The landlord, he waits already.”

Jennifer apologized for being late, even though her watch told her she was exactly on time, and followed Rosa into the building.

The apartment was perfect—modern, comfortable, and simple at less than half the price she’d been paying at the hotel. She took it quickly, leaving the paperwork to be handled by José. The landlord handed over the keys and she told him she planned to move in later that day.

After thanking Rosa, she walked briskly in the direction of the hotel. It was, as usual, a beautiful day. She tried Roberto’s number again, but when she still heard only his voice mail greeting, she didn’t bother to leave another message. The heaviness, the sense of dread that had accompanied her since she arrived in Seville and had lifted so briefly as she wandered the barrio and rented the apartment, settled in again, and she stopped at a taxi stand and wearily climbed into a waiting cab.

Passing the manager in the lobby at the hotel, she asked him to prepare her bill in advance of her imminent departure, and to ensure that her messages were forwarded. Then she went to her room to pack.

When she was ready, before leaving the room, she sat at the desk and called the prison. This time, Emma came to the phone. Jennifer could tell from the moment her daughter greeted her that something was wrong. “Emma, what happened? Are you okay? I’ve tried to call you many times, but you never took the call.”

Emma’s answer was soft and slow. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been kind of out of it.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“I’ve just been kind of anxious, I guess. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. They gave me something.”

“What did they give you?”

“I don’t know. A tranquilizer. It makes me sleepy.” Her voice changed to a sad plea. “Mom, why don’t you come?”

“I want to. I’ve tried. They won’t let me. They say they are restricting your visits until you cooperate.”

Emma’s voice hardened. “They mean until I tell them what they want to hear.”

“Can’t you do that, honey? Can’t you try?”

“Never mind that,” she said curtly and dismissively, the softness gone from her voice. “I’m sorry I brought it up. But maybe you can do something for me.”

“Of course. Anything. What?”

“They won’t tell me anything. Have you heard anything about Paco? Is he still in jail? Is he okay? Can you find out?”

Jennifer felt a wave of disappointment, but it was mixed strangely with a perverse touch of pride: They hadn’t broken her. “I’ll try, okay? And I’ll come to see you soon. José said he might be able to legally force them to allow visitors. They can’t keep you isolated because they don’t believe you. Not without proof.”

“Thanks, Mom. But remember to ask José about Paco.” She paused and Jennifer could hear some angry women’s voices in the background. She could tell that Emma was muffling the sound, but she could hear her shouting back something angry in Spanish. Her voice sounded odd—more strident and aggressive than usual. “I gotta go. Someone needs the phone,” Emma said into the receiver and hung up.

Jennifer held the phone to her ear a minute or so more, then slowly put it back in its cradle. She thought fleetingly and sadly that Emma had become in so many ways a stranger to her. She called the front desk to ask for some help with her bags and went downstairs to pay her bill. She noticed a few more reporters hanging out in front of the door, so she asked the doorman to have a taxi waiting when she exited so she could slip into it as quickly as possible.

As she exited the hotel followed by the porter who carried her luggage, she practically bumped into Roberto, who was on his way in. Before she could stop herself, overwhelmed with relief, she ran to him, threw her arms around him, and tried to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“No,
senora,” he whispered, stiffening and holding her at arm’s length. But it was too late. Two cameras clicked as reporters caught the moment.

He ushered her into the waiting cab and helped load her bags, ignoring the reporters’ questions. “Any new developments?” “Is Emma still claiming she was attacked?” “Why hasn’t her mother visited her?” “Looks like your job description has changed,” a reporter from London’s
Daily Mail
shouted in English, referring to Jennifer’s hug. The others laughed knowingly. Roberto climbed in next to her and the cab sped away. No one followed.

Jennifer was mortified. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. I was just so relieved to see you. Where have you been? I was so worried.”

“I know. I apologize, and I’ll explain. But not here. Why are you leaving the hotel?”

She explained what had happened and where they were going. When they arrived, he paid the taxi driver and helped her carry her bags up the two flights of stairs to her new apartment. The rental agency had left a bottle of wine and a corkscrew on the kitchen table in welcome, and Roberto opened it, found two glasses, and carried them into the living room. He sat down on the couch and Jennifer took a chair across from him.

“I found my daughter,” he said. The words hung there for only a second, barely giving Jennifer time to exult with him. And then he said, “But I lost her again. Maybe this time forever.”

She was stunned. He explained that he had hired several private detectives who had been trying to find his ex-wife and child for years, but they had eluded every method he had employed to find them. It was as if they had simply vanished . . . or died, he said after a pause. While he was driving back to Seville, one of the detectives called him and said he thought he might have located Roberto’s ex-wife in Gerona. He’d found a woman in a mental institution, where she had been committed two years ago after being charged with abuse and neglect of her young daughter. The child, who was now thirteen years old, had gone to foster care. Roberto had rushed there, forgetting all else.

“But how did you know it was really her?” Jennifer asked.

“They had taken pictures of my wife and, although she was much changed—her hair was unkempt and completely gray, for example, and she had lost at least thirty pounds from when I’d last seen her—I knew it was her.”

“How did you find your daughter?”

“She has a name,” he said reproachfully.

“I’m sorry. Of course she does. I don’t know it. What is her name?”

“Isabel,” he murmured. “It was not hard to find where she was sent. She had been assigned by the court to a family in a small village on the outskirts of Gerona.”

He returned to his narration, his voice flat. He related that he couldn’t reach the family by phone, so, wildly excited, he drove there without an appointment. His dread grew when he saw the house and mounted even higher when he went inside. It was small, dark, and messy. Dirty dishes filled the sink and empty beer bottles littered the floor and tables. Only one man was at home. He was unemployed and a little drunk, although it was early in the day. Roberto asked him about Isabel, but instead of answering, the man complained bitterly about his poverty, his lack of a job, the indifference of the government.

“He smelled money,” Roberto said. “He sickened me, but I handed him fifty euros and asked again about Isabel.” He poured himself another glass of wine, staring at it disconsolately before tipping it to his lips.

“Well?” Jennifer said. “What did he say?”

He shrugged helplessly. “He said she was a heroin addict and had run away six months ago. He claimed he hadn’t reported it because he didn’t want to get her in trouble, but of course the real reason was he wanted to continue getting the government support checks.”

Jennifer got up and joined him on the couch. She reached out to touch his hand, but he removed it to take another sip of wine. “Oh, Roberto, I’m so sorry. Did you go to the police?”

“Of course. We searched the known gathering places, the bars, the street corners. We talked to everyone we could. How do you think a thirteen-year-old girl who is a heroin addict supports her habit? She becomes a prostitute, and we went to the street corners where they work. The most recent picture we had was when she first went to foster care two years ago, and no one recognized her. Or no one admitted to it. Of course they are still looking. I’ve got a good man working on it, and he won’t stop. But I don’t know if I can find her, and it may already be too late to save her.”

Jennifer asked if he had seen his ex-wife.

He said he had. He had gone to the institution. He was filled with rage, but when he saw her he found a defeated, confused woman who was heavily medicated and barely knew him. The doctors said she was schizophrenic, and while the medicine stopped her hallucinations, it also flattened her emotions and blurred her consciousness.

Roberto was filled with self-loathing. He was, he said, supposed to be the best detective around, but he had been unable to find his ex-wife or help his daughter. He didn’t know her and now he probably never would. There was no point being angry at his wife, and while others might be angry at God, Roberto was an atheist; his frustration was that he had nowhere to direct his hatred. He felt he would explode.

Jennifer listened in silence. When he finished, she reached again for his hand. “I know how you feel,” she said. “It’s not the same, but I know, in my own way, what it is to lose a child, even to lose a fantasy of that child.”