Blood Wedding (32 page)

Max phoned a taxi and waited, looking up at the twin-towered church that had so nearly been burnt down during the Civil War.

It took less than ten minutes to get to Ahmed’s house. Max remembered the last time he was here – the death knock for Leila. And now another tragedy. Ahmed opened the door: he had aged.

‘Max, come in. I heard you had an accident. How are you? Mint tea?’

‘I’m fine now. Mint tea would be nice.’

Max was ushered into the study. Nothing had changed: the same photos on the wall, the same book on the little table. Everything needed a good dusting. Ahmed returned with the two mint teas.

‘How are you keeping, Ahmed?’

‘People have been very kind. Your
abuela
, Doña Paula, sent me a letter. She was very fond of Leila.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I’ve been busy with the campaign. It helps to keep my mind occupied.’

‘That’s good.’

‘So . . . Max . . . how can I help you?’

‘If it’s okay with you, I would like to go to Hassan Khan’s funeral.’

‘I’d welcome that. It’s this evening at eight. There won’t be many there. Some think I shouldn’t be giving a full funeral at all.’

‘Thanks. The other thing is . . . the police are convinced Hassan killed Leila. If you feel up to it, I’d really like to talk to you about that.’

‘Yes. You know I’ll do anything I can to help.’

‘Thanks. So do you think Hassan could have been responsible for Leila death?’

Ahmed rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘It’s all too convenient. But it doesn’t feel right. I just don’t see why he would have killed Leila.’

‘They had a quarrel?’

‘Yes. But that’s not a motive.’

‘I agree. He doesn’t seem capable of murder, but then who knows. Can you think of anything he said which might shed some light?’

‘Not really. He stayed with Zaida. We used to talk about him. He was very withdrawn, hardly said a word. He was on medication, and that left him lethargic and low. But now and again he would say some strange things.’ Ahmed frowned. ‘It’s best you ask Zaida about that. Djins, revenge, messages from Allah, violent images . . . strange things. And then he would talk to himself, “Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it.” Followed by “Hassan Khan MA.” He was ill, you know.’

‘But nothing about Leila?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Any idea why he had that photo of Leila when he killed himself?’

‘No. None. Except that he was very fond of Leila.’

‘I know it’s dangerous to read anything into the things someone in a delusional state says, but they usually come from somewhere.’

‘Yes. But it can be from anywhere – an article in a magazine, a gesture, a childhood memory. And after what happened to him, I’m not surprised. Delusions can give you a feeling of power. So yes, there were threats . . . but don’t read anything into them.’

‘What sort of threats?’

‘Oh, the enemies of Muhammad, Peace and Blessings be upon Him, will suffer for what they have done . . . that sort of thing.’

‘What would you like me to do, Ahmed?’

‘Do? In what sense?’

‘Over Leila’s death. The consensus seems to be that Hassan will be found responsible in some way for Leila’s death . . . possibly just concealing a fatal accident. But then the case would be closed, and there would be no further investigation unless some new evidence came to light.’

‘I see what you mean.’ Ahmed paused. ‘I would like to know the truth. Nothing can bring Leila back. I’m not looking for revenge. I can forgive. Allah the Compassionate has taught me that. But yes, I would like to know the truth.’

Max stood up and embraced Ahmed.

‘I’ll do what I can. I’d better go now. Have to phone for a taxi.’

‘I’m going into town. Let me give you a lift.’

‘That is kind.’

They drove slowly into town.

‘I have to go to the bank and get some bread . . . can you drop me at the lights?’ said Max.

Ahmed stopped at the traffic lights, and as Max was getting out, he said, ‘There’s one other thing I remember Zaida said. Hassan kept repeating something like, “The Americans, the greatest djins of all, must be hurt.” Means nothing, I’m sure.’

Max felt exhausted. He probably shouldn’t have come. The funeral wasn’t until this evening, and there was not much he could do. He should go and rest in his little
cortijo
, and close his eyes to all the weeding that needed doing. He went to the bank, bought some bread, and walked round to the taxi rank, by the church. It was a bumpy ride down the valley. It was looking parched and grey. All the wild flowers had gone; the rubbish strewn along the dry riverbank was now very obvious. Max got out at his padlocked gates, and turned awkwardly back to the taxi driver.

‘Can you help me with these, please?’

‘Sure, Max. Heard you’d had an accident.’

The
alberca
was filthy, a quarter full with slimy green water. He’d have to get it cleaned out and filled with fresh water. The trees and plants needed watering. The oranges had long gone, apart from the few left rotting on the bare earth. He walked down the terraces to
el cortijo
. The little flower garden had been taken over by weeds already, some at least a metre high. He’d have to pay someone to look after the land. Another expense.

He pushed aside the blue, wooden beaded fly curtain, unlocked the door, and entered. He hadn’t been back for weeks, and it showed: fine country dust had got over everything. He’d have to ring round and get a cleaning lady. It was stuffy inside: he opened all the windows to let in some fresh air. But it was one of those still, hot days, more likely to let in flies than fresh air. But at least there was the view of Sierra Contraviesa from his kitchen window. Fortunately there was some cold water in the fridge: he needed something to drink and then a nap before the funeral. Insects buzzed around the bedroom, but he slept.

The alarm woke him at seven prompt. He took a shower, ironed his clean white shirt, called a taxi, and walked up to the top terrace. The heavy green metal gates were too stiff for him to shut, so he closed them as best he could. Thefts were still fairly rare in this part of rural Spain, so he should be okay. The taxi tooted.

He walked along the dirt track to where the taxi was waiting, and then another bumpy ride to the mosque. He was early, and if he went inside there might be an angry confrontation. Max hung around outside the mosque, trying to look inconspicuous. A few men arrived, glanced at him curiously, and then entered. They were followed by a group of women who also looked at him with curiosity. Nobody said a word to him. When it was nearly eight Max slipped in quietly.

It was a short, simple ceremony. Nobody knew Hassan well. Everybody thought he probably had committed suicide, so the service was subdued. Four men stepped forward and lifted the coffin on to their shoulders. Max thought of the bride’s lament in
Blood Wedding
,

Ay-y-y four gallant boys
carry death on high.

Max followed the coffin up the hill, past the ancient round church – the site of so many faiths, going back to pre-Phoenician times. Ahmed said a prayer as the body in its white shroud entered the earth. Hassan was buried close to Leila’s plain headstone. At the end of prayers Ahmed turned to Leila’s grave, and said in a low voice, ‘Let him rest in peace near the grave of my daughter.’

Max was the only non-Muslim present, and this time he didn’t step forward to throw a handful of earth on the grave. He walked back down the hill: nobody talked to him. But nobody had been hostile.

He should talk to Zaida soon, but now was not appropriate. He’d better phone Paula: she’d be sure to hear he was in Diva and would be upset if he didn’t get in touch. But Max still did not want to meet Juan. It would be impossible not to say something to him. No avoiding it though. Max took out his mobile, and phoned Paula’s house. Isabel answered.

‘Max, how are you? Where are you?’

Max explained as briefly as he could, then asked, ‘How’s Paula?’

‘A bit under the weather. But she’s been worried about you. Hang on . . . I’ll put you through to her.’

‘Max,
mi querido
, where are you?’

‘I’m in Diva.’

‘That’s wonderful. Come for dinner. Dr Muro caught five nice trout, but it’s too much for us today.’

‘But I don’t have my car.’

‘Isabel can drive over to get you. Juan’s away on business.’

‘But she’s busy . . . I can get a taxi.’

‘No, Isabel will come and get you. She’s just ready to start cooking . . . so I can do more potatoes while she drives over.’

‘That would be very nice.’

‘Well, Isabel’s cooking tonight, so it won’t be up to the usual standard. I’m so pleased you’re coming. She’ll be with you in half an hour . . . No, I’m fine – old age, you know. At my age bits of you start going wrong. I feel a lot better now I know you’ll be here.’

Max smiled. Isabel was actually quite a good cook, but Paula could never admit that. And at least he wouldn’t have to confront Juan. Isabel arrived within the half-hour. She chatted happily about the children as she drove back along the Jola road. But when Max asked about Juan, she frowned.

‘Out of sorts, I’m afraid. At least out of sorts with me. We’re going through a bad patch right now, Max. I suppose . . . I know he hasn’t been completely faithful, but I’ve learnt to ignore that.’

‘Men fool around sometimes. But he’s devoted to the children.’

‘I don’t think it’s that this time. Something is getting on his nerves. He’s bad-tempered with the kids, and that’s very unusual.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Isabel.’

‘Let me help you out.’

Max rested on Isabel’s arm, and walked slowly up the driveway to the front door. The door opened, and Paula came out wrapped in a large shawl.

‘What are you doing out of bed? The doctor said you had to rest,’ scolded Isabel.

‘I feel better already. Max, how are you? I’ve been so worried about you. I asked Juan to drive me to Granada, but he said you mustn’t be disturbed.’

‘I’m a lot better,
abuela
. A lot better.’

‘Come in, and let me hear exactly what happened. Juan says you had an accident, but I don’t believe it.’

Max felt like a little boy again. Whenever he had tried to lie to Paula to hide something, she used to brush his hair back, peer at his forehead and say,
‘Sí
. I can see it now.
Mentira
, lie – written clearly on your forehead.’

Max went in with Paula holding on to his arm, and he holding on to Isabel’s arm. He was hungry now. Isabel had fried the trout in butter, and there was a garlic and almond sauce for the grown-ups, mayonnaise for the children. Encarnación bounced on to Max until he had to complain that his ribs hurt. She wanted to know why he had sticking stuff on his head and why she couldn’t use him as a punchbag. She laughed when he said he had fallen.

‘Silly billy, how can you fall and hurt yourself in two different places?’

Max explained how he fell on a rock, hurting his ribs, and then fell backwards, hitting his head on another rock.

‘That’s difficult to do. Look . . . if I fall that way, then how can I then fall another way,’ she said, demonstrating the difficulty of doing just that. She had Paula’s insatiable curiosity.

‘Well, I just did, so there,’ stated Max.

‘Hmm.
Tito
Max, I think you’re fibbing.
Mentiroso, mentiroso, mentiroso,’
she laughed, and skipped out to join her brother who was watching TV.

Max laughed as well. That girl will go far, he thought. She will be very pretty as well. When the meal was over, Isabel went to the kitchen to clean up, and Paula came and sat by Max. She brushed his hair back, and looked at his forehead. Max smiled and then told her what had actually happened.

‘Max, it’s too dangerous being in the police. There are plenty of other jobs you could do.’

‘Teaching, you mean,’ laughed Max. ‘These days that’s as dangerous as police work.’ And to change the subject, he said, ‘The local police think they have made some progress on finding out who killed Leila.’

‘What has happened?’

‘You heard about the young man who killed himself on the path from Pampa?’

‘Yes, he was one of Leila’s friends and he was arrested and treated very badly. Zaida told me that when I met her in the market.’

‘Well, the local police think he killed her.’

‘Could it have been an accident? I hope it was an accident.’

‘Abuela
, I don’t really know.’

‘What do you feel?’

‘I don’t really know . . . and I’ve probably told you too much already.’

‘You need to find the truth.’

‘You’re looking tired, and I’m feeling tired. An early night for us both, I think.’

‘You should stay here tonight, Max. The guest room’s made up.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

For the first time in days Max slept through the night until woken next morning by his mobile ringing. Max stretched out for it.

‘Dígame.’

‘Hi, Max . . . hope I didn’t wake you.’

‘Hi, Anita.’

‘There’s been another development. A woman has come forward . . . says she saw Hassan on the Jola road. González reckons that wraps up the case.’

‘But how can the woman be sure?’

‘Says she just saw the photo of Hassan in the local paper with the news of his suicide. The paper speculated about his possible involvement in Leila’s death. And that jogged her memory. I think we’ll be off the case in a couple of days at the most.’

‘Okay. Juan’s away. Can you drive me back to Granada?’

‘I’ll have to check, but I think so. If I don’t ring, I’ll be round in an hour or so. Oh – and I managed to talk to Ricardo, the librarian. Nothing . . . just a few more details on her research. I’ll tell you about that later.
Chao.’

Encarnita skipped into his bedroom.

‘I’ve got a postcard. Look. It’s from my friend Jane. She’s English. She’ll be back soon. They’re driving all the way from England.’

‘Can I see?’ said Max.

Encarnita handed over the postcard. It was a picture of two bears. Max turned it over, and read aloud. ‘Dear Encarnita, Be in Diva next week. Daddy and Mummy are going to drive all the way across Spain, and I will be going to school with you in Diva. See you soon. Jane. PS. How’s David? Still naughty?’