Blood Wedding (35 page)

Max drove back to
el cortijo
. He no longer wanted to stay in Diva. The anonymity of a city would be welcome: you could drown your sorrows with complete strangers in Granada. Max looked round the
cortijo
. What a mess. He’d forgotten to find someone to water the orchard and keep the weeds down. Give it all a good soak now and hope there was no serious damage done. The weeding would just have to wait. He phoned Juan on his mobile.

‘No. I’m fine. Should be back at work soon . . . Where am I?’ Max paused. ‘I’m in Granada. Oh. You’ll be here tomorrow . . . Let’s have a meal together then. How about La Moraima at nine? Tomorrow at nine then.’

Max then phoned El Duende, and asked to speak to Patricio. Yes . . . he would be on duty in the Moraima tomorrow evening.

Max went into the garden, and walked up to the top terrace, then scrambled under the
alberca
. He turned and opened the valves to let the water out. It came out slowly, running along the tiny trenches that fed the water to all the trees. The earth was thirsty: it would need watering again soon. When he had finished, Max shut off the valves. The
alberca
was filthy, but he wasn’t up to cleaning it out. Next trip. He returned to the
cortijo
, packed his bag, shut the windows, and carefully locked the doors. He left by the side gate, walked along the irrigation canal, brushing the laden fig tree, and then turned left to his front metal gates. He tried to pull them shut, but they were stiff, slightly buckled around the frame. His ribs began to hurt, but gritting his teeth he gave a strong pull, and the two gates came together. He slid the bolt across, put the padlock on, and got into his car.

He arrived in Granada as night began to fall. He needed something to eat, and something strong to drink.

Max parked his car, and then walked into the centre of town. There was a maze of bars around the cathedral. He chose one at random: full of tourists. Nobody would know him there. He sat at the bar, ordered a plate of Güejar ham and a glass of brandy, Solera Lepanto Gran Reserva. The barman gently warmed the balloon-shaped glass over a candle, and then tipped in a generous measure of the brandy. Max was pleased the bar treated the brandy with the respect it deserved. He cupped the glass in both hands, swirled, sniffed, and sipped appreciatively. The warm glow went down his chest into his stomach. He asked the barman to leave the bottle of Solera Lepanto by him on the counter.

The Battle of Lepanto, he thought. Where Don Juan of Austria defeated the Ottoman navy, and stopped the Turks moving further into Europe. Don Juan of Austria. Oh Juan, Juan. Don’t be involved.

Max poured himself another glass, just the right amount, the brandy not spilling when he tipped the glass horizontally. He held the glass in both hands, staring for inspiration at the amber liquid. A tourist came and sat by him at the bar.

‘Una cerveza, por favor,’
said the tourist in an unmistakable English accent.

‘Where are you from?’ Max asked him in English.

‘Oh! You wouldn’t know, a place in Yorkshire, called Pontefract, not far from Leeds.’

‘I do,’ said Max. ‘Pontefract cakes . . . love them when I can get them. Your first trip to Granada?’

‘Second. We did a day trip from the coast last year, and now we’re here for a week. Going on to Almería on Friday – if I can drag Chris and Heather away from the shops.’

‘So you’re enjoying it?’

‘Brilliant. The girls have gone to the flamenco ballet at the Alhambra theatre.
Blood Wedding
, it’s called.’

‘Yes – I’ll be going myself next week.’

‘The girls are dance-mad, so it’s perfect for them. And I get a night’s peace.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Thanks . . . one of those small glasses of beer, please.’

‘A
cervecita?’

‘Grand.’

The man from Pontefract was a Leeds supporter. He and Max gossiped about football and what to do in Granada, for the next hour. The soft, smooth brandy went down so well that Max scarcely noticed how many he was knocking back. It hit him when he stood up to go to the toilet.

‘Oops – overdone it,’ he said to the man from Pontefract.

‘Not surprised.’

He called the barman over to ask for the bill.
‘La
cuenta, por favor
. . . My God. How much? It’s a fortune.’

‘It’s one of the best brandies, eight euros a shot.’

Max paid, shook hands with the man from Pontefract. ‘Have a good holiday. Make sure you get to see the monastery of Cartuja – it’s amazing.’

Max zigzagged his way to the Gran Vía, and hailed a taxi. The taxi dropped him off at his flat. He climbed the stairs unsteadily, pausing now and again, finally managed to get his key in the lock, and fell on top of his bed.

He awoke the next morning with the sun streaming in through the unshuttered window.

‘Ugh . . .’

Max went to the fridge, and took out a litre of water. He gulped the water down until he had to stop for breath. He stripped off his sweaty clothes, turned on the cold water in the shower, and stepped under the spray. He just stood there and let the water run over his head, and down his face until he no longer felt groggy. He returned to the kitchen, picked up his clothes and put them in the washing basket. Stark naked, he went on to the terrace and let the sun dry him until he could cope with the thought of toast. Juan had a lot of explaining to do.

For the rest of the day, Max pottered around the house. He had let it go again. As he worked though his chores he listened to some more Handel: his two favourite countertenors, David Daniels and Andreas Scholl. Very different styles, so difficult to choose between them, but maybe Daniels had the edge. He tried his new novel, the latest Donna Leon. Somebody should write a detective novel based in Granada, he thought. It’s as dramatic a setting as Venice, and almost as corrupt. Maybe I should have a go one day.

But it was difficult to concentrate on the housework, the music or the novel. His mind kept coming back to Juan. He had never been much good at standing up to his cousin. But this time he couldn’t wimp out.

At eight thirty he had another shower, combed his hair, put on his best summer jacket and walked down to the Moraima. He hadn’t eaten there for a while. Max rang the bell on the ancient wooden door.

‘I booked a table for two . . . the name’s Romero,’ he said.

‘Of course, Señor Romero.’

The door creaked open.

‘Can you give me a quiet table in a corner?’ he asked the immaculate young woman. ‘But with a view of the Alhambra.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she replied. She returned in a minute. ‘This table’s reserved. But you can have that one over there,’ she said, pointing to the end of the covered terrace.

‘That would be fine.’

‘You can wait here,’ she said. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Yes. I’ll have a
fino, una manzanilla de Sanlúcar.’
Max liked the slightly salty tang of this light, dry sherry.

She returned with the pale, straw-coloured sherry. Max held it up to the moon before sipping it. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said to the waitress.

She smiled back at him. Max looked around: at the pictures on the wall, one of Federico García Lorca laughing with his friend, the composer, Manuel de Falla; at the Roman and Moorish artefacts. So much of Granada’s history here. It was in this very house that Moraima, the wife of Boabadil, had lived when she was exiled from the court in the Alhambra.

Juan arrived late as always.

‘Max. Good to see you on your feet again. How’s it going?’

‘Almost fully recovered. But can’t rush things. What will you have?’

‘What you drinking there?’

‘A
fino, manzanilla de Sanlúcar
actually.’

‘Ah. Okay in Sanlúcar. But not really for Granada. But a
fino
sounds nice. I’ll have a
Tío Mateo.’

They sat exchanging pleasantries until the waitress came over to say their table was ready. They went to the far corner, and ordered.

‘This is on me,’ said Juan. ‘I know that police salary of yours doesn’t stretch very far. And I’m celebrating – I’ve got an offer for that damn mill in Resina.’

‘Great. Who is it?’

‘A Granada property company . . . want to buy all five flats – and if we can sort out the taxes, I should make a decent profit. It’s a relief, I can tell you. I was beginning to hit serious cash flow problems.’

‘That’s great,’ said Max. He turned to the waitress, ‘What do you recommend?’

‘They’re all very good, sir. The sea urchins are very fresh, collected last night. The Rota-style sea bream is good. And the ice creams are fabulous.’

‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘I’ll try that.’ He looked at the menu, ‘Give me the olive oil ice cream.’

‘I’ll have the sea urchins as well,’ said Juan. ‘Followed by the roast lamb with almonds and honey, and a sherry ice cream.’

The wine waiter came up, ‘To drink, sir?’

‘With the sea urchins . . . two more
finos
, yes? The same again, Max?’ Juan scrutinized the wine list. ‘Look, they’ve got a great red, a Syrah/Merlot, from Bodegas Señorío de Nevada. That’s José Pérez Arco’s vineyard. He’s really come on in the last few years,’ he explained to Max. ‘You’d like his Green credentials: no pesticides and herbicides.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Max. ‘On my salary I couldn’t afford him, but as we’re celebrating, and you’re paying . . .’

The wine waiter returned with the bottles. He uncorked the red, poured a drop in Juan’s glass. Juan swirled it around, sniffed, and drank slowly.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Lovely fruit aroma, blackberries and coconut.’

The waiter filled his glass, then filled Max’s glass. He left, and returned with the two
finos
. The waitress arrived shortly after with the sea urchins. Juan took one look, and moaned.

‘I should have guessed. Nouvelle cuisine. What the hell is that on top?’

‘It looks like chocolate sauce,’ said Max.

‘Por Díos
, what will they think of next? The sea urchins should be raw – just with lemon. I think all these celebrity chefs are going to ruin our healthy eating habits.’

Max laughed.

They sat and talked about food, about football, about politics.

‘If the bloody Socialists get in, my taxes will go up,’ said Juan. ‘And they would let in thousands of these illegal immigrants from Africa. We’re a Christian country, not Muslim. Culturally, we just don’t mix.’

‘Juan, are you really that dumb?’ protested Max. ‘Here we are, sitting in the house of Moraima, looking up at one of the greatest Moorish buildings in the world, surrounded by food, drink, buildings, even words, from the Moors, and you say we can’t mix.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And of course you used their cheap labour for the mill conversion . . . and that’s what’s paying for our meal.’

‘Okay. Okay. Always the bleeding heart liberal.’

The main courses arrived.

‘At least they haven’t put any artistic swirls of chocolate on these,’ said Juan. ‘Mine’s good. How’s yours?’

‘Good. The bream’s really fresh. I like it. I wonder if all those Yanks in Rota ever try this?’

‘Doubt it, that base of theirs is a little piece of America plonked down on the Spanish coast. More wine?’

‘Thanks. Did you know, there’s a load of Phoenician remains there, and they won’t allow our archaeologists in to dig? American territory, they claim.’

‘You know what the Yanks are like. Always need to be top dogs. But it’s sensible we’re supporting them. Might get some money out of them,’ said Juan.

The waiter from El Duende arrived with the two ice creams.

‘Hola, Patricio,’ said Max, and then to Juan he said, ‘You two know each other, I believe.’

‘Good evening,
señor,’
Patricio said. ‘Remember me? I served you in El Duende when you were with that really pretty girl. I also served you and her here. Pretty girl.’

Juan flushed, shot a glance at Max, and hastily said, ‘No I don’t remember. Two brandies, Gran Duque de Alba, to follow, please.’

They ate the ice creams in silence. The friendly atmosphere, the easy banter ended. The waiter returned with the two brandies. Max looked at Juan, waiting for him to break the silence.

‘All right, I did have a meal here with Leila,’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘Nothing at all, said Max. ‘Only there’s much more than a meal . . . isn’t there?’

‘What do you mean?’ Juan retorted angrily. ‘We happened to be in Granada at the same time. No harm in inviting her out for a meal.’

‘None whatsoever. But we’ve checked her mobile. She seemed to have phoned you pretty frequently.’

‘So what? She phoned me to arrange her meetings with Paula.’

‘That is not what Paula told me.’

‘What the hell? Have you been checking up on me?’

‘Juan, I just want to know the truth.’

‘The truth. The truth. What’s truth?’

‘I’m staying for an answer.’

‘Max, what the fuck are you insinuating? That I had something to do with Leila’s death? The police have got the killer, that young Muslim guy who topped himself.’

‘Could be. I just want to hear your story.’

‘Max, there’s no story. I went out with her, that’s all.’

‘Not just a meal then. Went out with her?’

Juan laughed, a short, grating laugh. ‘Max, you know me. Never could resist a pretty girl, and she was really pretty.’

‘Yes. But you haven’t told me everything, have you?’

Juan, his face perspiring, looked round the restaurant. ‘I’ll get the bill. I have to go now.’

‘Juan, I’m not leaving you until you tell me what happened. We can talk somewhere else if you prefer?’

The waiter arrived with the bill.

‘Okay. We can go to my office. It’s not far, in la Calle de San Juan de Dios.’

As Juan paid, he said to the waiter, ‘Could you order a taxi?’

They left in silence, and waited in silence outside for the taxi, Juan’s face pale in the moonlight. Juan remained silent throughout the taxi ride. Max made no effort to talk. Juan paid the taxi, and they walked up three flights of stairs to his Granada office.