Blood Wedding (10 page)

‘On my salary?’ scoffed Max. ‘You must be joking.’

‘You never know. If you play your cards right I might be able to help. By the way, when we’re on our own, you can call me Linda.’

The car nosed its way down Gran Vía.

‘This is Gran Vía de Colón, usually just called Gran Vía, one of Granada’s main streets. Enlightened Granada Council knocked down half the medieval city to build it, and the sugar merchants built these god-awful mansions to their greater glory.’

‘When was that?’

‘Late nineteenth century, I think.’

‘They’re not that bad. Some really fine buildings. Need doing up, and then they’ll be splendid.’

‘The cathedral is on your right. The Royal Chapel is worth a visit. Bit gloomy. But the sculptor had a bit of fun. Isabel’s head sinks lower in her cushion than Ferdinand’s to show she was the brains.’

Max turned past Plaza Isabel la Católica into Plaza Nueva.

‘Up there on your left is Felipe Segundo’s Audiencia, well worth a visit, and a bit further on are the remains of Arab baths dating back to the eleventh century. This is the Cuesta de Gomerez. God, I remember when all the tour buses to the Alhambra had to come up here. The exhaust fumes nearly killed you. Okay, this is Puerto de los Granados of the Renaissance Palace of Charles V, and here . . . we enter the grounds of the Alhambra. Yesterday, we came in from the ring road so you didn’t see it at its best.’

‘Oh! This is pretty. I never thought the woods in summer would be so fresh and green.’

‘Some books claim the Duke of Wellington planted the elms, but he didn’t. Whenever I feel a bit down I come and sit here. Haven’t done that for a while. So maybe the job’s picking up.’

‘You mean you don’t like the police job?’

‘It has its ups and downs.’

‘What job doesn’t?’

They drove slowly up to the Puerta de Justicia, and the Alhambra ticket office. There was a queue. A Japanese group, laden down with cameras, waiting patiently; a family who could only be British, red-faced, red-kneed, guidebooks in hand; an impeccably dressed French couple; giggling Spanish schoolgirls in pleated tartan skirts; and official guides herding their sheep of all nationalities.

‘Not worth going in. You need a good half-day to do it justice, and the evening tour is much cooler, of course. How about I park here, and we walk down to the Parador San Francisco for a drink?’

‘Okay.’

Max parked the car. ‘Don’t forget your fan. You’ll need it.’

They strolled down to the Parador through the gardens.

‘This used to be a convent. I think Isabel la Católica once stayed here. We can sit in the garden, if you like.’

‘It’s lovely. Fresh orange juice and a nice cake for me.’

They sat quietly, sipping the fresh juices and eating the cakes. Once finished, they walked to the parapet of the garden and, leaning on the mossy wall, Max pointed upwards.

‘Over there is the Torre de las Infantas – if you’re romantic . . . That’s where the sultans’ daughters lived. Over there, that’s the Torre de la Cautiva, where the Sultan Muley Hacén kept his Christian mistress, Isabel de Solís. He dumped his wife for her. And that started the civil war which led to the fall of Granada.’

‘Yes. I remember the TV series.’

‘There are lots of copies of the painting of the handover of the keys of Granada to Isabel and Ferdinand around the city. And right over there, the Generalife, the finest garden in the whole of Spain. The orange-red colour of the buildings,
al hamra,
gave us the name, Alhambra.’

Max paused, and pointed up to the mountains. ‘I was brought up over there, on the other side of those mountains, a little town called Diva.’

‘You didn’t stay in Spain, did you?’

‘Went to Glasgow for final school years and university. Why I drifted into the cops I’m still not sure. A long story – I’ll tell you sometime. But you get used to the life.’

‘Me, I was born into it. Couldn’t do anything else. I married a cop; my grandfather was a cop, and my dad. It’s difficult at times. I’ve one kid, she’s ten now. Don’t care what she does as long as it’s not the cops.’

‘Better go,’ said Max.

The waiter handed Max the bill, carefully folded inside a small leather case. Max winced as he paid a ridiculous amount for what they had eaten. Old Skinflint in Expenses would be bound to tell him he should have gone somewhere cheaper. They walked slowly up the hill to the car. It was now even hotter. They drove back down the Cuesta de Gomerez, turned right at Plaza Nueva to enter Plaza Santa Ana. A traffic cop stopped them. No Entry. Max showed his police ID.

‘Showing an important visitor from Madrid around.’

‘Okay, sir.’

They crawled along the Paseo de los Tristes, the Alhambra towers and walls smouldering above them, then found themselves behind the little Albayzín bus, chugging up the Cuesta del Chapiz.

‘That’s the Casa del Chapiz, one of the few Moorish houses to survive. It’s now a centre for Arabic studies. I was there for almost a year.’

‘How’s your Arabic?’

‘Not great. It’s a difficult language.’

Only when they turned right into Sacromonte could they pick up speed.

‘There are some of the famous Sacromonte caves. Tourist traps mostly, but some have good flamenco.’

‘Oh, I’d love to go.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right man.’

‘You’re on.’

Max stopped the car on a passing place. ‘This is one of the best views of the Alhambra. You can also see most of the Darro valley from here. “As one should remember a sweetheart who has died.”’

‘That’s lovely, Max. Who said that?’

‘It’s Lorca – about Granada.’

‘Lorca. I love his stuff. Pity he was on the wrong side.’

Max gulped. He didn’t expect Linda to say something like that.

They drove along the Darro valley road. ‘Doesn’t take long to get right out into the countryside,’ said Linda.

‘No. We’re close to the Abadía. The abbot’s a friend. He’s offered to show us around.’

Max pulled the string of the ancient bell outside the large, carved chestnut door. The door creaked open. A bear of a man, in blue jeans, sandals and a white smock shirt hauled the door open. Fuzzy white beard, round face and twinkling eyes greeted them.

‘Max, great to see you. And this is the young lady. High up in something mysterious. Not bad.’ And he stepped forward, gave Linda a bear hug, almost lifting her off the ground, and smacked two kisses on each cheek.

‘Jorge, you rogue. Getting more like Friar Tuck every day.’

‘Friar Tuck?’

‘You know Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men?’

‘No. You forget I didn’t have your English education.’

‘Scottish, Scottish education. How many times have I told you we Scots ain’t English.’

‘Judging from your football team, you’d be better off if you were.’

‘Okay. Okay. Peace.’

Linda looked bewildered. Max suspected all her clergy were grave, solemn and formal. Jorge offered his arm.

‘Come on, my dear, just ignore him, and let me show you around my little home.’

And he strode off with Linda, leaving Max trailing behind.

‘The abbey stands on the top of Mount Valparaíso, the Paradise Valley. Lead tablets with Arabic inscriptions on them were found here, describing the martyrdoms of three saints. An oven with ashes was also found. This was handy.’

‘Yes?’

‘If you have saints you need an abbey and an abbot. So here we are. The Star of Solomon, see here, became the symbol of the abbey. We keep the ashes of the martyred saints here below their statues. Here we are now at the catacombs, my dear. Mind your head. Over there we have a cross carried by San Juan de Dios. And this large stone here has real magical powers – if you kiss it you will find a husband within a year.’

‘That’s the last thing I need.’

‘In which case Jorge’s law says you have to kiss the abbot to ensure that fate does not befall you.’

Linda laughed, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed Jorge fully on the mouth. ‘My. I’m not sure I agree with this celibacy lark.’

Max interrupted testily. ‘Linda, this is really interesting. See this grille here – behind that is the oven where the martyrs were burned.’

Linda shivered. ‘Let’s go, father. Why do all religions put so much emphasis on suffering?’

‘Because it makes our own real suffering easier to bear.’

They came up into the bright sun, and moved quickly into the shade of the cloisters.

‘I was going to show you a genuine document written by our great Conquistador, Pizarro. If he were alive today he’d be tried for genocide. But you look as if you need a small refreshment. We’ve prepared something special, Tortilla Sacromonte. Goes well with a really dry sherry. Some for you, Max?’

‘Just the sherry for me. I’m not sure Linda will like the tortilla.’

‘Come on, Max. Don’t be rude,’ said Linda.

‘Okay. If you insist. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Jorge gave Max a schoolboy grin. They walked down steps to an ancient cellar. On the plain wooden table stood a bottle of sherry and three glasses.

‘María. We’re ready for the tortilla.’ Jorge turned to Linda. ‘Max said I’m not to ask what you do. High up and top secret.’

‘That’s okay. I’m a cop working in the Anti-Terrorist Unit.’

‘Anti-Terrorist Unit? My. You’re just a slip of a girl. Could be dangerous, no?’

‘Could be. But most of my work is gathering intelligence.’

‘Well, make sure you don’t slide from anti-terrorist to anti-Muslim. Fine group of people, the Muslims. We owe them a lot here. They’re a bit puritanical for my taste . . . like your dreadful Scottish man, Max, what’s he called? Yes. John Knox. Anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good glass of wine is missing out on one of God’s great gifts. Good. The tortilla. Sure you won’t have some, Max?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

‘If you ate this, instead of hamburgers, you English would be healthier.’

‘Scottish, Jorge. Scottish.’

‘How do you find it, my dear?’

‘Er, tasty. Unusual.’

‘Let me tell you a story about it. This is served every year on the day of San Cecilio. One year our cook here was ill, and we had to call in the chef from the Parador, and he served us ham, peas and kidneys in the tortilla. The abbot, not me at the time, sent it back. So the cook said, “What’s wrong, father? I’ve made thousands of Sacromonte tortillas.” “Ah,” replied the abbot. “You’ve missed the main ingredients of the true Sacromonte tortilla.” Know what they are?’

‘No,’ replied Linda.

The abbot bellowed with laughter. ‘Lamb’s brains and testicles’.

Linda turned pale. ‘It’s great. Can you give me the recipe?’

‘Recipe? Sure. Well done, girl. You cook the brains and testicles in salted water, drain and brown in olive oil. Then you mash them to a paste. Got that?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Beat the eggs, fry one layer of the eggs, add the paste, another layer of eggs, and when set, turn the tortilla. Eat. Enjoy. Extra dry sherry is essential.’

‘We’d better go,’ said Max. ‘You can never be sure what Jorge will get up to next.’

‘Max, come and see me soon for a good drink. Just got in some wonderful Malaga wine.’

‘Will do.’

Linda was still a little pale. But General Concha’s daughter would not admit defeat. It was she who gave the abbot a big hug, and two loud kisses on each cheek.

Once in the car, Max laughed. ‘I did warn you. You handled it well though. Congratulations. We’ll go to a great bar where the food is much safer. I’ll park the car in the police car park, and we can walk from there.’

‘Not that pious, is he?’

‘Oh, don’t be taken in by that act. He just believes we should enjoy all the things God has given us. But underneath it all he’s a bit of a saint really. The gypsies adore him, made him an honorary gypsy. You should see him when their procession arrives back at the Abadía during Holy Week. He’s in his element during the Flamenco Mass . . . then dances and drinks until dawn.’

Max swore as a group of motorcyclists sped past him.

‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Jorge. He spends most of his time helping illegal immigrants and rough sleepers. Started a campaign against under-age prostitution, and rescues a lot of the poor kids. When he takes on something he just won’t give up.’ Max smiled admiringly. ‘He’s never afraid to take on the rich and powerful. I reckon there are quite a few would like to see him out of the way. Did you know that of all the men in Europe, we Spanish men are the ones who most visit prostitutes?’

‘Doesn’t surprise me, one bit.’

Max parked the car. Linda had recovered her colour. They entered the Bodega La Castañeda. A waiter came up.

‘Max, I’ve kept a table in the window for you.’

‘Thanks, Ramón. The Castañeda special, and a bottle of your best white Rioja, very cold.’

‘Okay, Max.’

Max turned to Linda. ‘Ramón plays flamenco guitar when he’s not a waiter. Maybe not the best, but very good. We could go sometime when he plays in La Platería.’

‘Love to.’

Ramón brought a wooden platter of smoked
bacalao
and tuna, fresh white anchovies, cheeses, olives, tomatoes, asparagus and artichokes. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Faustino V and two glasses. He poured a drop into Max’s glass. Max swirled it round, sniffed it, and sipped it slowly.

‘Great. What year is it? ’92. Good year.’

Ramón smiled. ‘So how you doing, Max? Are you going to introduce me to your pretty companion?’

‘Linda, this is Ramón. Ramón, Linda.’

Ramón lent over the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Gracias.
Max says you play the guitar. Hope I can come and hear you sometime.’

‘I’m playing at the weekend, come along. Not an Andalusian accent?’

‘No, from Madrid.’

‘Well, no one’s perfect.’

‘How do you like the wine?’

‘Mainly peach aroma, I’d say. I find the Riojas a bit insipid, but this is quite a good one. Myself, I prefer Ribera del Duera.’

Okay, you win, thought Max. No more trying to impress.

‘These cheeses are interesting.’

‘All from Andalusia. This one is Pedroches, a sheep’s cheese from Cordova. That over there, moulded in esparto, is from Malaga, a white goat’s cheese. That’s Grazalema, from the mountains south of Cadiz. And that’s another goat’s cheese from Las Alpujarras.’