The Perfect Mother (7 page)

A
fter visiting Emma, Jennifer returned to the hotel to call Mark and fill him in. He was upset, but not completely surprised, to learn that Emma’s boyfriend was a drug dealer. He could see how she would be vulnerable to someone who played upon her naïveté and what he called her “middle-class American guilt” to convince her he was doing it to help the poor. “Maybe she wasn’t ready, wasn’t mature enough, to be on her own, Jen. We shouldn’t have let her go.”

“That’s taking an unfair, negative view,” Jennifer said. “She has always had a big heart and a strong sense of injustice and it sounds like she was taken advantage of and misled by this guy. But how could we know? Lots of kids her age travel to Europe in their junior year. Emma seemed like the perfect candidate.” She reminded him that they had been proud of Emma because of her sensitivity to the needs of less fortunate people. “Remember when she got involved in the Innocence Project?” she asked. “And how she always believed everyone who claimed to be unjustly convicted?”

“I know,” he said. “I used to think that was sweet. It looks more worrisome given what you’ve just told me.”

She was unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking. She felt uneasy after hanging up and wondered what she should do. It was 12:45, too early for lunch, which usually started closer to 2:00, and a bit late for
aperitivos
, the midmorning snack. She left the hotel and wandered. She passed a café and stopped in, taking a table by the window. Glancing around, she saw a woman eating what looked like strips of deep-fried dough, which she dipped in hot chocolate. When the waitress approached, Jennifer asked for the same. They were called churros, she was told. When they came, they were sizzling hot, covered in powdered sugar, and delicious.

Maybe it was the sugar, and maybe it was taking a moment for herself, but her mood improved and she started to think of her next step. She wanted to do something more to help Emma’s case. She remembered Emma’s concerned friend from the Princeton program and took out her cell phone to check the contact information Julia had e-mailed to her. There it was: Julia Zimmerman. She lived in Triana on Calle Betis, the same student-friendly neighborhood just over the Triana Bridge that she had visited with Emma. Julia had included two phone numbers; Jennifer randomly punched in one of them.

“Diga,” she heard someone answer.

She didn’t recognize the voice, so she asked for Julia, and when she explained who she was, the speaker switched to unaccented English. “I’m her roommate,” she said. “You’ve reached my cell phone. Julia’s in class, but I know she really wants to talk to you. The class is almost over. Do you have her number?”

Jennifer thanked her and said she did.

“Mrs. Lewis, my name is Melanie. I, umm, I also know Emma. I’m really sorry about what happened.”

“Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure this is all a terrible mistake. Emma will be back in school in a few days.”

There was an uncomfortable pause before Melanie murmured a soft “I hope so” and hung up.

Jennifer immediately tapped in the other cell number and heard a whispered hello. The class was about to end and Julia suggested they meet at the university. Since Jennifer’s hotel was just next door and Jennifer was eager to see where Emma had been in school, she agreed to meet in front of the fountain in the courtyard.

As she stepped out of the air-conditioned café, the jolt of the hot, humid air and glaring sunshine was softened by the pale pink and amber tones of the surrounding buildings and tempered by the pervasive smell of orange blossoms and frangipani. She inhaled deeply. How had she not noticed that fragrance before? It was similar to the oleander she had remarked upon, but even sweeter. She walked until she reached the outermost university courtyard, pushed open a heavy engraved metal door, and entered an adjoining courtyard. There were several students walking past or resting on the edge of the central fountain, some reading books, others chatting to each other in an animated way. She noticed one young woman sitting apart.

Julia was petite with delicate features and wore her hair, so dark brown it appeared almost black, in a long ponytail. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt on which
SEVILLA
was printed in large block letters over the profile of a bull, a tourist getup that surprised Jennifer because Emma, by contrast, was more interested in trying to fit in with the locals. Julia slipped gracefully off the fountain’s edge and met her halfway.

“Mrs. Lewis?” she asked in English. Her pale skin looked as if it had never been touched by the sun, accentuating her dark eyes, which were heavily made up with black liner and mascara, immediately commanding attention. Jennifer greeted her and wondered aloud where they could talk privately.

“I live in Triana,” Julia said. “Have you been there?” Jennifer said she had but would be happy to go again. “Maybe you’d like to see my apartment,” Julia offered. “We could talk there.”

“That would be lovely,” Jennifer said. “But I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Lewis. But the place is kind of messy. I hope you won’t mind.”

Jennifer laughed. “No, not at all. I’m used to that.” She felt a pang of nostalgia remembering the mess Emma and her friends used to leave in their frequent sleepovers at home. She had loved her relationship with Emma’s high school friends in Philadelphia. She was the mother they all talked to, the one they thought would understand what their parents didn’t, the one they told their problems to. Although Julia was a new Princeton friend, not someone Jennifer had met before, she could easily have been one of those girls. Pretty, polite, intelligent, they had come and gone over the years. After all, most of their mothers hadn’t been around as much; they were busy with their jobs. It was left to Jennifer to have the neighborhood kids over for cookies and milk after school when they were little, and to provide the safe hangout when they were teenagers. She had taken great pride in their affection for her and she knew that Emma had too. She was about to ask her where she was from, but Julia had started talking about the university.

“While we’re here, maybe you’d just like to look around a bit,” she said. “This is where we have all our classes. You know, this building was constructed in the eighteenth century. It’s an old tobacco factory. At one time, Spain had a big monopoly on manufacturing tobacco and their industry was centered here. They say it was Bizet’s inspiration for
Carmen
. But maybe it came from a book about that period that was set in Seville.” She paused, politely ignoring Jennifer’s silence. “When we first arrived, Emma and I used to talk a lot about
Carmen
and the passion of that story and say now that we were here, we could understand it. Something about the heat and the direct quality of the light inspires passion, color, vibrancy; we all felt it, feel it still. When I saw these beautiful Spanish women dressed in their gorgeous flamenco costumes during the
feria
, I couldn’t help imagining Carmen right here, maybe in this very courtyard.” She gestured toward the fountain, where students still gathered with their books, chattering animatedly.

Jennifer smiled stiffly and Julia seemed embarrassed. She abruptly changed the subject, reminding Jennifer that Triana was about a twenty-minute walk and asking if she wanted to take a tram. Jennifer said she could use a good walk, so the two set out, passing the Alfonso XIII and the fragrant Jardines de Cristina and walking along the bank of the river on the Paseo Alcalde Marqués del Contadero until they reached the Triana Bridge. Crossing it, they came to the Plaza del Altozano, and Jennifer saw again the staircase caught in the photo she had seen in the newspaper. There Emma was, sitting on the steps with friends, holding a beer and turning to laugh just as someone snapped her picture. A few more streets and they were at the Calle Virgen del Valle, where Julia lived. Jennifer marveled at the lovely brick alleyways that twisted and turned, and Julia pointed out how many of the window boxes of the cream-colored houses were festooned with flowers. Occasionally they were able to peer into a space between buildings or through an open doorway, which revealed a beautiful courtyard hiding behind the facade.

Julia finally stopped in front of one of these buildings and entered the front door with her key. Inside was a small two-bedroom apartment furnished with the kind of inexpensive student furniture characteristic of young people everywhere. Julia offered her a cup of coffee and, not wanting to be rude, Jennifer accepted. As Julia busied herself boiling water for Nescafé, Jennifer looked around. This was the kind of lodging she had pictured Emma in. There were books scattered about the table and floor and posters of flamenco dancers and a Miró print taped on the wall. The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes, but otherwise it wasn’t as messy as she’d expected.

“It’s a lovely place,” she said, as Julia offered her a chair. “It’s so different from Emma’s apartment. . . . I . . .”

“Emma and I actually shared it for a while,” Julia said, spooning the Nescafé into two tall mugs, “until . . .” She trailed off.

“Until when?”

“Until she moved in with Paco.”

“Ah.”

Julia produced a packet of biscuits. “Has Paco come back yet?” she asked.

“No. The police are looking for him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Julia poured the water into the mugs. One had a broken handle. She gave the undamaged one to Jennifer. “Sugar or milk?”

“Neither, thank you.”

Julia sat down across from her. “Mrs. Lewis, I want to do whatever I can to help Emma. I didn’t know her very well at Princeton, but we became friends once we were here. I don’t know how much you know about Paco. . . .”

“I know a bit,” she said. “And none of it good. What do you know about him?”

“He’s an older guy. He’s kind of a political activist.”

“I’ve heard he’s a drug dealer.”

Julia shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I think he did sell some drugs to finance his activities.”

“I see. And did Emma take them?”

“No. I don’t think so,” she said hastily. “Emma got involved with his causes. It kind of overshadowed everything else. She said he opened her eyes. He showed her how much the poor people were suffering, especially in his village. It made her feel guilty to be who she was. She wanted to help, and, you know, they became kind of a couple.”

“So I’ve heard. When did she move in with him?”

“A few months ago.” Julia paused, carefully choosing her words. “Look, I’ve been wondering what to tell you, but I think everything is going to come out, and I’d better tell you the truth.”

Jennifer stiffened. “Yes, please.”

“She dropped out of school. She moved in with him and stopped going to class and worked with him full-time.”

“Oh, God,” Jennifer murmured, biting her upper lip. She collected herself quickly, however, and tried not to show the extent of her anxiety, for fear Julia would stop talking. “Worked with him? How? What did he do?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Lewis.” She was staring at the table, picking off some dried syrup with her fingernail. “I think he just sold drugs.”

Jennifer nodded slowly. It was getting harder to hide her agitation.

“Look, Mrs. Lewis, Emma believed in him. She thought he was this kind of Robin Hood. He was trying to form an activist group among the students to influence politics. He wanted to lead a raid on supermarkets—stealing the food and giving it to the poor. They tried to organize the students and got a few, but nothing came of it. She thought that kind of thing was more important than anything she could learn in school. I argued with her. We all did. But she only listened to him and she felt she was doing the right thing.”

“The right thing,” Jennifer repeated as if by rote. “And now someone is dead and she is in jail.”

“In jail?” Julia was indignant. “Why? She was almost raped. I’m sorry that kid got killed, but how can they blame her for that?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer answered. She hadn’t touched her Nescafé or the biscuits Julia had put on the table, but she stood to go. “Thank you, Julia. I need to go now and try to make sense of all this. You’ve been a big help.”

Julia walked her to the door. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lewis. I hope I did the right thing telling you. I know this will all work out. Please let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Maybe it would help Emma if you’d visit her.”

Julia hesitated. “I don’t know. We weren’t on great terms recently.”

“I see.” She opened the door. “Thank you,” she said again, and walked back into the bright perfumed air.

W
as this what Emma had meant when she said Jennifer would hear things about her that she wouldn’t understand? Well, she was right. She didn’t understand. How could Emma be so stupid? How could she, a girl who was so smart and so seemingly together, have gotten herself into this much trouble? What the hell was she doing with a drug dealer? Hadn’t they talked about drugs a thousand times? Hadn’t she assured her mother that she would never use them or hang out with people who did? She should have been like this Julia—living in a pretty apartment on a cobbled street and studying at the university. Instead she was in jail, for God’s sake, and her Robin Hood boyfriend was missing.

She tried to calm herself. This was all peripheral. The biggest problem was that a man had tried to rape her daughter and somehow, thankfully, a stranger had saved her, but unless they found him, her daughter was implicated in a murder. But where was he? Was there anything more they could do? If he would just step forward, she could take Emma home and they could speak to her about the foolish mistake she had made by getting involved with this Paco character and dropping out of school. Maybe they ought to consult a psychologist. She was so innocent, Jennifer thought, softening again toward her daughter. She believed everyone was as good as she was. But how had that led to this?

She walked back to the hotel in a rising panic, not paying attention to where she was going and finally realizing she was lost. She took out her map but couldn’t concentrate and kept taking wrong turns, which led her farther away from her hotel. Finally, she gave up and hailed a cab. When she got to her room, she sat on her bed and stared at the wall for several minutes, trying to gather her thoughts. She called Mark, but June, his secretary, said he was in court. She wanted to talk to Eric and Lily, but she knew they were in school. She paced around the room. She hadn’t eaten anything since she’d stopped for churros, and she was hungry, but she didn’t feel like going to a restaurant. She turned on the television, looking for the English-language channel. There was nothing she wanted to see—just a cooking show—so she turned it off. Finally, she picked up the phone and called Roberto.

His voice mail answered and she left a message: “Roberto, this is Jennifer Lewis. I really need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Please call back at the hotel.”

She heard a click. “No need, senora. I’m here.” He said.

“Do you always screen your calls?”

“Yes.”

“I have just met with a friend and classmate of my daughter. I have heard very distressing news. I’d like to talk to you if you have time.”

There was a pause as he checked his calendar.

“I can meet you in two hours. Would you like to come to my office?”

“Yes, sure, wherever it is convenient.”

“Bueno
.
I will see you at five.”

She had two hours to kill. She freshened up and left the hotel again. At a kiosk, she bought a copy of the
International New York Times
, then stopped at an outdoor café for a coffee and some jamón serrano. Though she had trouble concentrating on the news, she scanned the paper to satisfy herself that there was no story about Emma. Studying the crowd at the café and watching the passing pedestrians as they went about their lives, she imagined stories about who they were and where they were going. Thus the time passed, and looking at her watch she saw it was time to leave.

Someone was with Roberto when she arrived, so she sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes, until a fashionable woman dressed entirely in black and exuding a sense of money and privilege exited. Jennifer wondered if she was hiring Roberto to find out if her husband was having an affair. He closed his door after the woman left and reopened it a few minutes later to invite Jennifer in. Having heard the urgency in her voice when she phoned, he was prepared. He spoke before she did.

“I think perhaps you have discovered that your daughter had left school, am I correct?”

“You knew? And did you know that she had moved in with her boyfriend?”

“
Sí
, senora.”

She felt a flash of anger. “And when were you going to inform me?”

“When I felt it was the right time,” he said calmly. “I have many things to tell you and that is perhaps not the most important.”

“Maybe I should be the judge of that.”

“If you were an adequate judge, you would not need me. Come, this is wasting time. I will tell you what I know.” He got up and poured himself a glass of sherry, offering her one, which she declined.

“Do you know what the
feria
is?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she said impatiently. “Some kind of traditional celebration?”

“Yes. It is a ten-day fiesta that we celebrate every year about two weeks after Easter, our
semana santa
, or holy week. This is a tradition throughout Andalusia—in Granada, Córdoba, all over the south of Spain. There is a great parade of horses with caballeros—these are men in traditional costumes demonstrating their riding skills—and bullfighters on their way to the ring. The fairgrounds are covered in fabulously decorated brightly colored private tents—we call them
casetas
—and there are more than a thousand of them. They belong to the wealthy families of Sevilla who host the private parties and some community and religious organizations. The parties spill into the streets all night and end up in the
casetas
, which you can enter only by invitation. The women dress in flamenco costumes, the men wear
trajes cortos
, short jackets and tight pants and boots, and everyone dances
sevillanas
and drinks sherry or wine. This fair, this
feria
, has been going on for about a hundred and fifty years.”

Jennifer interrupted. “Look, I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to be rude. I wish I were here as a tourist and could appreciate these customs and traditions. But I’m here for my daughter, and I’ve just learned some disturbing news about her. Can we please talk about that?”

Roberto smiled. “I understand your impatience. But trust me. This concerns you. Please allow me to continue.”

Jennifer nodded.

“The Spanish boy who was killed—Rodrigo Pérez—is a member of a very wealthy, important old Sevilla family. He grew up in Almeria, where the father worked, but his roots are here. They put up and host a grand
caseta
every year. Their son was killed on the last night of the
feria
. He had over a thousand euros in his pocket to pay some of the staff and expenses. When his body was found in your daughter’s apartment, his pockets were empty. The police believe he was robbed.”

Jennifer looked up quickly. “Yes, I have already been told this. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe the Algerian immigrant who helped Emma is the one who took the money; isn’t that possible? Maybe that’s why he doesn’t come forward.”

“At this point, anything is possible. The police don’t know. The boy could have been robbed before he got to Emma’s
piso
. He could have lost it. What they know is that he never paid the staff or the bills and the money disappeared. It is possible Emma knows something about this.”

“Have they asked her?”

“Yes. She says she knows nothing.”

Jennifer shifted in her chair. “Well, that’s that, then. She would have been so shaken by the whole experience and by the fight and the murder that she wouldn’t have noticed if the Algerian had taken the money. He might never turn up. If he had enough money to go away, maybe he went back to Algeria.”

Roberto stared at her for what felt like a long time without speaking. “Perhaps,” he said finally.

“I would like that glass of sherry,” Jennifer said. “I’ll go to see Emma again tomorrow so I can ask her myself. She wouldn’t lie to me.”

Roberto seemed lost in thought. Jennifer was fidgety. She downed the last of the sherry, asked for another, and got one.

“Emma claims she didn’t see Paco the night of the murder,” Roberto said slowly. “She says she was out in the streets with some friends and they confirm this. But we have found several other students who swear they saw her at a bar with Paco earlier that night. Why do you think she would lie about this?”

Jennifer had been staring at the swirls in the carpet. Her mind was wandering to Lily, whose practice college boards were today. First she wondered how Lily had done on them and if, without her there, Mark had gotten her to study. And then she felt how small, how unimportant that was compared to what her eldest child was now enduring. And Eric? Was he missing her? Did he feel abandoned? Her thoughts shifted again. What if the American papers got hold of this story? How would the kids at home react? How would Mark deal with their friends? And what about her parents, heroically holding down the fort in Philadelphia? How would they feel if this terrible mess became public? And what about Princeton? Would they expel Emma?

“Mrs. Lewis?” Roberto interrupted her thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

She looked up sharply. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked you why Emma would say she didn’t see Paco the night of the murder if she did.”

She snapped to attention. “I don’t know. I don’t think the word of a few drunken kids on party night can be taken so seriously. But there is something I’ve been wondering. I mean, why is Paco missing? Maybe Emma contacted him somehow after the boy was killed to ask for his help. Maybe he took the Algerian somewhere to hide him. Maybe that’s why Paco isn’t here now and no one can find him.”

Roberto considered this. “That is certainly possible,” he said. He thought for a moment, then got up and withdrew a sheet of paper with some notes he had taken from a pile on his desk, handing it to Jennifer. “We will know very soon.”

She couldn’t read the Spanish, and she looked up, confused. “How?” she asked.

“He will tell us. The police have located him. He will arrive in Sevilla tomorrow.”