The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (11 page)

B
rightly
painted fishing craft and modern yachts packed a large basin surrounded by lofty
white buildings, their spindly framed frontages stretching up five stories to
give the appearance of gigantic birdcages on stilts, the warm inshore air and clear
sky pure sensory pleasure following their ordeal on the ocean. With
Future
moored in one of Club Nautico’s inexpensive berths, Hans, Jessica and Penny showered
in the clubhouse and went in search of lunch. They walked through Maria Píta
Square, home to La Coruña’s magnificent town hall, its three copper domes shining
like rosy-red apples in the midday sun.

A bronze statue portrayed Maria, Spain’s sixteenth-century hero,
glaring down, spear in hand, from an ornate stone plinth. Her army captain husband
lay at her feet, killed while defending La Coruña from the English. History has
it an enraged Maria then rallied the townsfolk and fought off the invaders.

“Hey, Jessie. Do you remember Sir Francis Drake, the Queen
of England’s favorite sailor?”

“The man who liked to go bowling?”

“That’s him. You know he fought the Spanish and their ships?”

“In a bigger boat than
Future
,
with a hundred
men.”

“That’s right. Well, one time he sailed here from England,
like we did, and he and his sailors attacked the local people and tried to
steal all their money. And you’ll
never
guess—”

Jessica wasn’t listening. She stood fixated on the depiction
of Maria’s spouse lying awkwardly on his back, wearing the unmistakable mask of
death.

“Who’s that man?”

Hans looked at Penny and then crouched beside his daughter. “That’s
Maria’s husband. He was a Spanish soldier.”

“Why did he die?”

“He got killed in battle fighting to protect his family and
friends.”

“Did Maria sprinkle him?”

“Yeah, I’m sure she did.”

“Is he in the flowers now?”

“Of course. He’s in the flowers and the birds and the trees.”

Jessica broke into a grin and skipped over to hold Penny’s
hand.

“Who’s hungry?” Penny beamed. “Shall we go find some food?”

A cobbled backstreet led to a crazy-paved courtyard
surrounded by open-fronted restaurants, a sea of red tablecloths flowing out
from solid marble-slab counters. Unsure which establishment or dish to favor,
Hans stooped to read an A-frame blackboard.

“We can have pulbo . . . á . . . feir—”

“
Hey! Hunky-funky-bunky-monkey!” boomed a voice they all
recognized.

The Dutchman sat grinning behind a massive plate of paella
and empty Estrella bottles.

“Marshell!” Jessica ran over and scrambled onto his lap.

“Where you been, princess? The pardy’s started, you know?”

“Marcel, we were worried about you.” Penny gave him a heartfelt
hug.

“Worried! About
me
?”

“Yeah, the storm!”

“Storm?”

“In the Biscay. You must have run into it?”

“Oh . . . I’m not sure. Probably had a few beers, you know?”

Over seafood and sangria, they filled Marcel in on their
experience, the big man making an extra special fuss of “the best girl in the
Biscay,” as he referred to her.

Hans suggested they accompany Penny to the local hospital to
have the gash checked out, but she shook her head.

“You guys stay here and have some more drinks. Jessie, do
you want to come with me?”

“Uh-huh.”

She sprung from her chair.

“Okay, we’ll grab a cab there and see you two back at the
marina later.”

“So, Hans, dat’s two wonderful women you have there,” said
Marcel as they watched the girls disappear.

“Thanks. But only one of them is mine.”

“Ah, come on, man! Penny thinks the world of you. Anyone can
see that. Er, you’re divorced, right?”

“My wife was killed last year, and our son Jacob.”

“Oh . . . friend. I’m sorry. I-I-I had—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m dealing with it . . . for Jess, you
know?”

“
Ja
, sure. She’s a great kid.”

“Thanks.”

Hans hailed the waiter and ordered beer and another jug of
sangria. “So what’s your story?”

“Oh . . .” The gentle giant picked up his fork and began
pushing a sliver of chicken around his plate. “I made a few bucks in the art
world and—”

“Marcel! You can stop the pretense.”

“Pretense?”

“Does 1891 to 1895 mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“To a retired art dealer, it should. According to our
guidebook, it’s the years Picasso lived in La Coruña.”

“Ah.” Marcel picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Busted,
huh?”

“You were busted from day one, but my daughter thinks the
world of you, so you’ve had the benefit of the doubt.”

A look of gratitude replaced embarrassment.

“So, no
million-dollar art business?”

“Postman.”

They burst out laughing.

The tale Marcel told Hans was fascinating yet sorrowful, and
though the Dutchman was no choirboy, the American felt a great deal of empathy.

Bullied at school for being chubby, he had been a shy and
introverted kid, worsening when his mother abandoned the family when he was
nine. His father, who actually was a big name in the art world, died from
alcohol-related illness ten years later.

At sixteen, Marcel became a postal worker, a role suited to
his solitary nature. Only he had a problem. From a young age he’d learned that
the red wine he took sneaky sips of while his father lay comatose made him feel
better about himself. Reaching adulthood, Marcel was drinking ten beers a day
and chain-smoking cannabis – and this was before his delivery round. A liter of
vodka every evening only added to his hangover. Attempting to regulate the liquor’s
side effects, he began using harder drugs – cocaine and speed – or prescription
medication swindled from his doctor.

Eventually, he lost his job and his few friends, and his
health began to suffer. On his twenty-first birthday, Marcel received his inheritance
and decided to break free from the chains of addiction. Following a spell in
rehab, he sold his parents’ house, put on a backpack and spent the next three
years traveling the world, ending up in Ibiza, where he invested in a
restaurant venture.

“And there she was . . .” Marcel gazed at the tablecloth. “‘I’m
Sietske. I’m here for the waitressing job.’ And dat was it.”

“Love at first sight?”

“
Ja
! And the crazy thing was she came from the
village next to mine back home.”

“You hit it off immediately?”

“No, we spent more and more time together, and then one day
bam!
I realized the girl loved me for who I am – or who I was.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning anyone can be a nice when they’re sober and living
in paradise with a successful business. We got married and had a good few years.
Would’ve had kids but . . .”

“You started drinking again?”

“And the rest, Hans. Ibiza’s a hedonist’s playground. Thought
I could handle it. Best of both worlds. Mr. Cool Guy.”

“What happened?”

“She got to see the real me.” A tear rolled into Marcel’s
beard. “A drugged-up bum who drank, snorted and gambled his restaurant and
savings away.”

“She didn’t hang around?”

“No, she didn’t. I was devastated. Couldn’t stay on the
island any longer. Bet what I had left in a poker game – came away with five thousand
euros, a French watch and a nice boat.”

“
Sietske
?”

“How did you guess?”

Hans eyed the Cartier, its patent leather strap and striking
gold case looking dinky on the Dutchman’s fat wrist. Everything made sense –
the yacht, the charade, the drinking – but it didn’t explain how the Dutchman
managed to fund five years at sea. Over more beer Hans divulged a little of his
own checkered youth and then decided to ask.

Marcel’s eyes took on a piratical glint. “Shall I explain
over a joint?”

“Ha! I haven’t smoked that stuff in years, but I suppose it
would be rude not to.” Hans chuckled.

“Let’s go back to my boat.”

“
A
l
Saeed was a
hero
!”
Ahmed mocked that evening.

“Ah, shut your face, you drunken baboon!” Mohamed hated it
when Ahmed made fun of his naivety.

“But he is
Al Mohzerer
,
known
throughout
the land.” Lying on his makeshift mattress, Ahmed sniggered into his hands.

“His father was a warrior, a brave man,” Mohamed stated with
conviction.

“Yes, but Al Mohzerer is nothing but a sly old fox who
thinks we are for the taking, like his scraggy hens.”

In the flicker of the oil lamp, Ahmed’s eyes smoldered,
reminding Mohamed they had a plan to see through no matter what.

Despite the ribbing, Mohamed knew he would be lost without
the older boy’s guidance. Ahmed possessed a maturity way beyond his years, a product
of his harsh upbringing. Hard as a diamond, he refused to take second place to
anyone yet was loyal to his friends without bounds.

“So if he is a fox, what must we be?” Ahmed continued.

“We must be wolves!”

Right on cue a blood-curdling wail broke the silence on the
mountainside.

“It’s a sign!” Mohamed hissed.

“No, it’s just a mangy wolf rallying his pack to hunt down
one of Farmer Hamsa’s fat cows.” Ahmed leant over and placed a brotherly arm on
Mohamed’s shoulder. “And what did I tell you about signs?”

“All signs are good signs.”

“And who is the wolf afraid of?”

“He is afraid of nothing and no one.”

“And what must the wolf do to survive?”

“He must improvise, adapt and overcome.”

“Well done!” Ahmed was pleased his nurturing had started to
show promise. Improvise they certainly could do. The oil lamp fashioned from a
soda can, and their mattresses – hessian sacks sewn together and stuffed with
dried weed – evidenced that. Adapting to life on the farm came easily too,
especially with every second invested in the plan to reach Europe.

They produced increasing amounts of their own hashish, one
working doubly hard in the hut while the other spat on palmfuls of the rich
powder and massaged it into squidgy lumps. On the monthly visit to the city,
they had refined their operation. Mohamed would sneak into the cinema and watch
a movie – preferably one in English to improve his skill in the language –
briefing Ahmed on the plot later to provide a cover story should the Grower ask
them what they had seen. Meanwhile Ahmed would dash around their most
profitable marketplaces, zeroing in on any tourist sporting dreadlocks or
carrying a rucksack, launching into sales pitches laden with
heartstring-tugging charm.

Following their individual missions, they would meet up at
the city’s harbor. Decrepit in comparison to the Mediterranean’s more upmarket
ports of call, the anchorage’s laissez-faire attitude toward paperwork and
mooring fees made it a popular option for yacht crews on a budget.

Ahmed and Mohamed had perfected their approach. Having
pinpointed a shoestring skipper, they would amble along the wharf and bid a
cheery “Hello! How are you?” and if the response was amicable strike up an “endearing”
conversation through which to glean all they could about sailing, using a mix
of French, broken English and gesticulation.

“What
gasolina
this one?”

“How to start?”

“How put up this one?”

“Wind come this way, how make this way?”

Figuring they were getting the authentic travel experience,
skippers and crews would go to great lengths to make sure the boys understood,
often inviting them aboard to run up a mainsail or go through the ignition
sequence for the engine.

“Ouch!”

Ahmed slapped his neck, swatting the offending mosquito. He
inspected the squished mess, wondering if the inordinate amount of blood
smudged across his palm was his own. Fortunately, at this altitude the Rif
remained free from the annoying insects most of the year, but in the summer
months the animal troughs and latrines created the perfect environment for hatchlings
to morph into adulthood.

“Pussy!” Mohamed giggled in the lamplight. “Ouch!”

“You were saying?” Ahmed held back a grin.

After a time Mohamed piped up. “Hey, brother.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking . . . This sailing business seems quite
hard. Why don’t we steal a boat with a motor?”

“I’ve been thinking that too. We’ll check it out.”