The Songs of Manolo Escobar (24 page)

Teresa emerged from a small kitchenette, carrying a tray with a bottle of red wine and bowls of nuts and olives. She retrieved some glasses from the display cabinet with a degree of reverence that suggested this was not a frequent occurrence. There wasn't enough room for everyone on the suite, so several people sat on upright chairs and on the floor.

We spent the afternoon chatting endlessly about this and that. Although I couldn't follow all of what was being said, I could recognise enough words to know roughly the theme of the discussion, and that none of it concerned anything of great importance.

I'd been expecting, with some trepidation, sober observance of Abuela's death and even, perhaps, an open display of her cold corpse, but neither of these things happened. There was passing reference to the sad event, but no one seemed keen to dwell on it.

‘Ella era una señora mayor,'
said one of those present. ‘She was an old lady.'

‘Si, es por la major,'
said another. ‘Yes, it was for the best.'

Much of the conversation revolved around me – how well I was doing, which side of the family I resembled most, when I was getting married, why I hadn't visited Spain before, why I didn't speak Spanish. It made me feel self-conscious, yet also flattered to be the centre of attention.

Gradually I was able to work out who was who. Teresa was smart and attractive, with a lively demeanour. She was dressed in a youthful, brightly coloured cotton dress that accentuated her curves, and she had obviously recently visited the hairdresser because her dark, curly hair was freshly set. She was several years older than Mama but looked younger.

Her husband, Salvador, was grey and overweight, dressed in cheap, ordinary clothes. He had warm, expressive eyes and an unremittingly jovial demeanour, laughing throughout the afternoon, making witty observations and cracking jokes that I instinctively found amusing, although I had no idea what he was saying. He seemed to be unlike Papa in every regard.

Their sons, José and Fabio, were about my age, one a little younger, I guessed, slim, swarthy and with jet-black hair. Facially they looked like me enough for it to be slightly unnerving, but as time passed it seemed less so. It was even quite gratifying as they were both good-looking. They sat dutifully, enthusiastically engaging in the conversation.

They had an elder sister, Sancha, who was bookishly pretty and around Pablito's age, and a brother, Cesaro, a year or two older than her, who had a beard and whose contributions were quietly authoritative. The others were an assortment of uncles, aunts and cousins whose names and provenance I had yet to establish.

What struck me was how affectionate they were to each other and to Mama and me. They weren't the collection of murderous fascists that Papa had made them out to be, and although I didn't know them, and couldn't understand everything they said, I felt a sure sense of belonging.

As the afternoon progressed more wine appeared, followed by bottles of cold beer, plates of cured meat and seafood and salads, then an assortment of stews and bread, then sweets, fruit and pastries, and finally coffee and brandy, until it was well into the night. Eventually, around midnight, the guests began to return to their homes. I was ready to turn in, but José and Fabio had plans to take me out into the town. I was tired and unsteady, but they were so excited by the prospect that it seemed rude to decline. I freshened up in the bathroom and changed my shirt. As we stepped out my cousins kissed their parents and embraced them tightly, and I felt obliged to do likewise.

Because the alcohol had relieved me of any inhibitions I might have had about trying to communicate through hand signals and the few words of Spanish that I knew, and we managed to keep a lively conversation going as we meandered along the warm streets. Though it was midweek and after midnight, the bars were crowded and the streets buzzed with chatter and laughter. I felt relaxed and utterly happy.

We flitted from bar to bar, where José and Fabio seemed to know everyone, and I was continually introduced to smiling, friendly people who kissed me on the cheeks and offered me drinks and cigarettes. Though none of them spoke much English, they went out of their way to engage me in conversation and ask me questions about where I came from and what I did.

After several drinks we went to a nightclub, accompanied by a coterie of friends gathered along the way. It was a high and cavernous building, like an aircraft hangar, with whitewashed brick walls and an uneven stone floor. In the hazy atmosphere I found myself standing with my arms around a girl who'd been with us since the second or third bar. She was trim and petite – even in her high, scarlet heels she only just reached my chest. She had long, straight black hair that reflected the light like a still pond, and large chestnut eyes. We'd had a brief conversation sometime before we arrived at the nightclub in which I'd told her I didn't speak Spanish, which she seemed to find intriguing. She'd told me her name but I'd forgotten it. It could have been Lucita. Or Paulita. Or perhaps something else entirely.

Next to us, rolling a joint, stood a tall, thin member of the entourage with long greasy hair and nicotine-coated fingertips the colour of burnt toffee. When the spliff was ready, he lit the end and took two drags in quick succession before inhaling long and deep and holding his breath. He passed it to me and I waved it away.

‘¿Por qué no?'
he asked on the exhale. ‘Why not?' His voice was deep and gruff, like that of a voiceover actor in a low-budget melodrama.

‘Porque no quiero,'
I said. ‘Because I don't want to.'

He looked at me sceptically, his mouth arched downwards.
‘¿Querría algo mas?'
‘Would you like anything else?'

I didn't know what he meant, and I frowned.

‘Heroína, cocaína, anfetaminas
?'

I flushed with sudden conspicuousness, afraid that even by talking to him I was somehow doing something wrong.

I pulled away and went off to look for my cousins. José was standing on the other side of the bar, next to a plump black woman dressed unfussily in a cheesecloth shirt and a long patterned skirt and sandals. She was drinking beer from a bottle and looked somehow out of place. José introduced us and she extended her hand.

‘Pleased ta meet yer, love,' she said in an east London accent.

Her name was Rachel. She'd come to Malaga the previous year, to work as an au pair with the children of a banker and his wife. She'd arrived without speaking the language, but had picked it up in a matter of months, she said, and now she planned to settle in Spain because she loved the country so much.

It was a relief to speak English, having spent the day struggling to be understood, taking an age to convey the simplest communication. It was also interesting to be able to question someone from back home about their perceptions of Spain. If only I could get my brain to function properly, I thought.

‘You 'ad a few, darlin'?' she asked as I swayed from foot to foot.

I ordered a glass of iced water, and slowly I felt my senses return. We stood shouting above the pounding, deafening beat of Europop booming through the speakers, with me firing questions at her and at José through her. I was surprised to learn that both José and Fabio lived with their parents, despite having worked since they were seventeen and both having well-paid jobs.

‘Don't you live with your parents?' José asked.

‘Yes, but not through choice,' I replied.

‘Why then?'

I couldn't think of a convincing answer. It certainly wasn't a financial issue, not now that I was working and earning a decent wage.

Lucita/Paulita wandered over and nestled into me. Her perfume was sweet and intense, and it made me feel suddenly sober and aroused. José smiled.
‘Creo que le gustas, primo,'
he said. ‘I think she likes you, cousin.'

I felt a rush of warm satisfaction. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such an enjoyable day. I was also embarrassed at how modest my expectations had been, and I felt a desire to tell José how pleased I was to be here and how my father had misrepresented things.

‘My papa warned me that you were all
Franquistas,'
I said.

It wasn't something I'd have said had I been sober, and immediately I feared I might have overstepped the mark. The remotest hint of a smile creased José's mouth. ‘We are,' he said.

I couldn't tell from his expression whether he was joking or serious.

It was cool when we emerged from the club, and the early morning sun was starting to peek through the gaps between the high buildings. The area looked different from when I'd walked through it in the darkness. It was smart and opulent, with fine Renaissance buildings lining broad, leafy avenues. Lucita/Paulita was holding my hand, but she broke away and ran ahead to catch up with Rachel, and they walked arm in arm while I brought up the rear with José and Fabio. I grabbed hold of Fabio's wrist and looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock, which meant we'd have three hours sleep at the most before having to leave for Abuela's funeral.

Lucita/Paulita and Rachel stopped ahead of us at a crossroads and waited for us to catch up. Rachel was heading in the opposite direction. She took me to one side while Lucita/Paulita stood by, smiling expectantly.

‘Angelita wants to know if you'd like to have sex with her,' she said.

Of course, Angelita, I thought, feeling a warm glow of pride. I took hold of her hand and kissed her gently on the cheek.

‘Tell her I'd love to, but I've got an early appointment, and I need to get some sleep,' I said to Rachel.

Mama and I returned to Glasgow in the rain. Despite her grief at Abuela's death, she had enjoyed being in Spain with her family and she was in good spirits. The mood was tempered by Papa's surly attitude on our return. He didn't make any mention of the funeral and wasn't interested in anything else we'd done, even though I was keen to pass on my opinions and observations about his country.

There were two letters waiting for me. One was from a national newspaper to which I'd applied for a job as a trainee reporter.
They'd invited me to their head office in London for an interview the following week.

The other letter was from Cheryl. I took it to my bedroom so that I could go through my usual ritual of speed-reading it first to make sure I hadn't been chucked and then re-reading it several times slowly, scrutinising it line by line, looking for any hidden meanings. On this occasion, though, there was no need for the latter. It was a short message of about half a page, informing me that she was cutting short her stint in Ethiopia and returning to Europe. VSO had offered her a position as a fundraiser at its office in Amsterdam, and she'd be starting within a fortnight.

My life was running away from me. If she moved to Amsterdam she might never come back. I had to take some initiative, make a meaningful gesture. I had to ask her to marry me.

I
was sitting in the airport departure lounge in Berlin returning from my meeting with Uli when my mobile phone rang. Before I had a chance to say anything, Mama burst into tears. Papa was refusing to go to the hospital, and she couldn't persuade him to change his mind.

‘He's frightened, and I understand that, but if he doesn't go, what hope is there for him?'

I wondered if he'd given up, deciding the fight wasn't worth the pain. But I knew that wasn't what Mama wanted to hear. She was in a terrible state, and I felt helpless.

‘What about Pablito, can't he persuade Papa to go?'

‘Pah, I haven't seen Pablito since we returned from Spain,' she said.

I was shocked. I knew my brother hadn't taken the news of Papa's illness well, but he was never usually out of contact with my parents for more than a couple of days at a time.

‘I just don't think he wants to face the truth. I really need you here, Antonio. Normally I wouldn't ask such a thing, but I can't cope on my own any longer.'

I told her it was a bad time for me, but even as I spoke I knew I sounded selfish. Her husband was dying and she needed help. What relevance did the business of newspapers and corporate relocations have to her life? I told her I could spend the rest of the weekend in Scotland but that I had to be back in London first thing on Monday morning – Uli had asked me to prepare a series of articles and leaders justifying the company's move to China.

I landed at Heathrow and walked slowly, head bowed, through the long airport corridors, feeling tired and agitated. I realised
I could make the next shuttle flight to Glasgow, but something held me back.

I'd continued replaying my last phone call with Cheryl in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that she and Max Miller were carrying on behind my back, and the angrier I became. I needed to see them, to confront them if necessary, if only to save my sanity.

I made my way to the Heathrow Express platform. At Paddington I caught a tube to Clapham Common and walked briskly in the direction of his flat on Wandsworth Road. It was mid-morning and the roads were already noisy and gridlocked, the pavements bustling with shoppers and gangs of mini-cab drivers drinking coffee from polystyrene cups, with rolled-up tabloids under their arms.

I'd lived in London for fifteen years, but I'd never felt entirely certain, walking along roads like these, about what I would hear or see or smell, or the people I would encounter. Things changed constantly. At this time in the morning, the air was filled with the smell of spices and freshly baked flatbreads from the Punjabi and Bangladeshi snack bars, preparing lunch for the crowds who would emerge from the mosques at midday.

I hadn't yet worked out what to do – I didn't know Max Miller's movements on a Saturday morning, and I didn't fancy hanging around in the street in the hope that he – or they – might emerge. The alternative was to force my way into the flat and confront them. I'd been rehearsing an admittedly ridiculous scenario in my head for a month which involved breaking down the door and bursting into his bedroom, catching them naked, engaged in exotic and physically improbable acts, standing in the doorway, tall and imposing, delivering a series of poignant, morally superior facial expressions before . . .