Blood Wedding (37 page)

Paula, I’m sorry if you thought I was being capricious when I wrote to you and said you should not see Pablo again. I should have explained this earlier, but I did not wish to cause you further distress. Please forgive me. I underestimated your strength and firmness of mind.

A further thing you should know. Pablo went away for a few days. When I saw him again he became threatening and said, ‘Watch out that you don’t go the same way as Lorca. I know where you’re staying.’ I left my room that night, and moved out to Armilla where I laid low for months. Many people I knew disappeared. A friend warned me I was on a list of those to be arrested, and it would be dangerous if I stayed. So then I did my night walk over the mountains, and turned up at our house in the middle of the night, and spoilt your beauty sleep.

I’ve nearly eaten all the cakes you gave me, so I really need to get to the coast soon. The pâtisserie in Motril is no match for my mother’s cakes, but the food in Morocco is meant to be very good. They have old Andalusian recipes, which the Moors brought back from Granada. I hope to spend a few months in North Africa, and come back as soon as it is safe. I will buy you both some pretty Arab silver earrings, and you will be the talk of Granada when these adventures are over. I hope Federico’s play will be found. It’s under the floorboards of the house on la Calle Boli, just behind el Aljibe del Peso de la Harina.

I hope this letter reaches you safely. Antonio.

Max turned the page. It was harder to read . . . as if it had been written in the dark.

Banjaron Church. They arrested me last night. I struggled and tried to escape, but they hit me with their guns. I may have a broken shoulder – it hurts so. It hurts so when I try to write. They are herding up people, mainly peasants and workers, and locking them here in the church. The priest has been offering to hear confessions. I wonder if it’s the last confession. I refused. The Church hasn’t lifted a finger to help any of us. I don’t want to be blessed by those hypocrites. Everyone imprisoned here in the church is so brave. El Gato and Chico are here, and we have talked a lot. They are determined to try and escape to fight on. I’ve been trying to keep spirits up by reciting poetry. I’ve even got them singing. But I fear the worst. One of the young guards, a kid called Pepe, has been kind. He and Chico had been playmates. He will try to get this book to you.

May God help me.

This was followed by a poem.

I have in my hand
a mountain, an otter’s skull, an ancient tool.
This stone on this church floor
is what remains to me of life . . .

Max rubbed his hand over his eyes and mouth. He loved his grandpa, but this . . . He went on to his beloved terrace. This . . .? He found it hard to believe. He knew there were dreadful times when neighbour killed neighbour, friend betrayed friend. But his grandpa . . .? He couldn’t credit it.

Max wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and looked up at the Alhambra. The fairy-tale palace, built by slaves, over a torture chamber. It was ever thus, he thought sadly.

He returned to Leila’s cataloguing. He had almost finished when he read a catalogue item: ‘Diva and District: list of those recommended for arrest’. Leila had then added to her catalogue: ‘One name was added by hand, that of Antonio Vargas.’ Max opened the last box. It was a mass of papers, each headed ‘Republican or Republican Sympathizers’, followed by lists of names. He ran his eye over the papers until he found the one headed ‘Diva – Republicans to be arrested and shot’. Under that was a note, ‘Use all means necessary to find the whereabouts of the following.’ There then followed a list of names, all typed. At the bottom of the page, written in ink, someone had added the name of Antonio Vargas. Could it be grandpa’s handwriting?

Max paused. Paula should have Antonio’s notebook: she would love to see his poems again – maybe the family could get them published. The Lorca story was tough. But there was no real evidence that grandpa had betrayed Lorca – Antonio could have been completely mistaken.

Perhaps there was no need for betrayal: most biographers of Lorca just assumed it was common knowledge where Lorca was or that his sister Concha had blurted it out to the soldiers on their last visit, looking for Federico at La Huerta de San Vicente or . . . the options were endless. But Leila seemed on to something. Could Paula take it? Yes. She would be so overjoyed at getting Antonio’s notebook that she might overlook the few paragraphs at the end. And they could always be explained away. Yes, give Paula the notebook. But the list of names? No.

Max carefully put the list back into the pile, then stopped. He took the list out again. It would be safer just to destroy it. He went outside again to the terrace. It’s not just the Alhambra, he thought. Almost everything beautiful in this town . . . you don’t want to ask too many questions unless you can cope with finding something nasty about where the money came from to build it. We burnt nearly all the Arabic manuscripts in Granada. God knows what we lost then. No. That list is part of this city’s history. I have no right to destroy it.

He went inside, carefully put the list back among the papers and returned them all to the box. He looked at his watch. Time for lunch. He walked up to el Mesón el Yunque in Plaza de San Miguel Bajo, and ordered the clams. They were as good as ever, but he felt very low. He picked at his meal. And there was still Juan. A decanter of the house red might help. But the sadness didn’t leave him as he walked back down past el Mirador San Nicolás, busy with hopeful young folk looking for romance in this most romantic of cities. But it’s a romance full of sadness, he thought. Of what might have been rather than what is.

He awoke the next morning, thinking of Anita. After breakfast, he put the boxes back in the black bag, carted them down the stairs and into his car. He drove to the archive of the Guardia Civil, and asked for Penélope Díaz. A dusty Penélope appeared.

‘Ah. Sub-Inspector Romero. What can I do for you this time?’

‘I found the missing boxes. Leila had left them in a friend’s office in Granada.’

‘That’s good. Thanks a lot.’

‘I wonder if you could do me a really big favour . . . I came across the notebook kept by my
abuela
’s brother. It would mean so much to her if she could keep it. He disappeared in 1937.’

‘It’s not mine to give away.’

‘
Mi abuela
, Paula, is eighty-three. If you could lend it, I can return it to the archives eventually.’

‘Let’s compromise. Give me a photocopy, and I can put a note saying the original is with the family. My husband’s great uncle disappeared in the Civil War too, so I know what it all means. The lack of closure can be so hard.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

She smiled at him as he handed over the black bag with the boxes. ‘Do you know what happened to Leila?’

‘Not yet, but I’m expecting an announcement very soon.’

‘That too needs closure,’ she said. ‘It must be terrible for the family.’

Max returned to his flat. He must phone Ahmed soon. He was in the middle of having a bite to eat when the phone rang. It was Davila.

‘Max, excellent news. Judge Falcón has considered the . . . um . . . evidence, and decided to send his file to
el Juez del Juicio. El Juez
, after reviewing the evidence, immediately sent the file to the magistrates. Apparently the Minister phoned the magistrates to make a quick ruling. And they have just ruled that, given the weight of the evidence taken together, Hassan Khan was probably responsible for the death of Leila Mahfouz. They can’t decide between murder or . . . um . . . covering up an accident, but the case has been archived.’

‘So the case is closed?’

‘Yes. Bonila has ordered you off the case. So that’s the job done. Good work, Max. There’s a press conference coming up in Diva. Bonila wants you there.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘We’ve told Navarro he’s certain to be reinstated. Oh – and expect a phone call from Inspectora Jefe Concha. She wants to know if you think there still might be . . . um . . . a terrorist connection. The election’s very close, you know.’

‘I really can’t say, sir.’

‘Okay then. You’ve done a good job, Max. It won’t go unnoticed.’

Shortly after, the phone rang again. It was Linda.

‘Max. How are you? Heard about your accident.’

‘I’m fine now, thanks.’

‘Great news about Hassan Khan. We’re going to give it maximum publicity. I want to emphasize a possible terrorist connection. Got anything that might help?’

‘Nothing really. I had tried to persuade González and the department to wait until we had news about Javeed Dharwish. But no joy – they’re all keen to get this out as quickly as possible.’

‘Sure. That’s understandable. We should meet again soon. Give me a call if you’re ever in Madrid. I know some great restaurants. Have to rush.’

Then González rang to confirm the time and place of the press conference in Diva. Max immediately phoned Ahmed and arranged to see him.

He carefully wrapped Antonio’s notebook, its fragility a reminder of the fragility of life. He checked his best uniform – it was still clean, but could do with a press. He put the notebook and his uniform along with a clean set of clothes in the small suitcase, and went down the stairs to his car. He was not looking forward to the press conference. He would just have to bite his lip, and praise the Diva police for their brilliant detective work. He drove straight to Paula’s. He got there in time for lunch. Paula was back in good form.

‘Max, I’ve had some wonderful news. Lunch is almost ready, but I want you to be the first to know. Let’s sit on the terrace.’

‘Well,
abuela
. What is it then?’

‘Remember I told you I’d made contact with Beatrice – you know, El Gato’s daughter – and she said she might have some more information on Antonio? Well, I sent her that photo of Antonio. I didn’t hear anything . . . then this morning I got an email. Chico, her uncle, was in hospital and she’s only just been able to show him the photo. But he was able to tell her about Antonio, himself and El Gato . . . and Beatrice wrote it all down for me.’

‘That’s amazing. I’ve got something to tell you as well. But you first.’

‘Antonio . . . didn’t get away. He was shot in Banjaron in 1937. But he died well.’

‘So what happened?’

‘El Gato and his brother
Chico
were arrested in Banjaron, and locked up in the church there, along with Antonio and about twenty others.’

‘So that’s what happened to him.’

‘Sí
. Antonio kept everyone’s spirits up by reciting poetry and telling stories. He made them laugh. He even got them all singing. Antonio had a little black notebook. He said it was his life in there. Chico says Antonio thought he had been betrayed.’

‘Betrayed? Did he say who by?’

‘No, he didn’t. He said someone had also betrayed Lorca. Neither Chico nor El Gato had the faintest idea who Lorca was. Well . . . after a few days in the church, one of the guards, a young, decent kid of seventeen, warned them they were to be shot the next morning. Antonio gave the boy his notebook, and asked him to get it to his sister, Paula Vargas, in Diva.’

‘Oh, gosh. That’s amazing.’

‘I never got it of course. Antonio had been hurt during his arrest. But he said El Gato and Chico were young and fit, and if he created a diversion they might stand a chance of getting away.’

‘That was courageous of him.’

‘Verdad
, Antonio made a run for it when they came to put them all on a truck, and during the confusion Chico and El Gato managed to escape. They heard shots as they were running – Chico thought it was the soldiers shooting Antonio.’

Paula suddenly burst into tears. Max got up, and put his arms around her.

‘Está bien,’
she sobbed. ‘At least I know now he’s dead. He died bravely, didn’t he?’

‘He did,’ said Max.

‘That means he’s probably buried in that secret grave outside Diva. I’m going to ask for permission to dig it up. Could you help me get, you know, one of those experts who can identify people from their bones? I forget what they’re called.’

‘Forensic anthropologist. Sure,
abuela
, sure. Now close your eyes, and let me get you my surprise.’

Max went outside and returned with the notebook, carefully wrapped. He put it on Paula’s lap.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ he said.

‘You are a rogue,’ she said. ‘You know how I love surprises. What’s this?
Qué
. . . Max – it isn’t. It is. It’s Antonio’s notebook.
Ay
, I can hardly believe it,’ and she burst into tears again. ‘Oh Antonio. It’s his poems. I can’t believe it.’

‘You can thank Leila,’ said Max. ‘She found it in the police archive. The young soldier never managed to get it to you, and it ended up in the files in Granada.’

Max went over and hugged Paula again. ‘I think we should try and get the poems published.’

‘Sí
. You’ll stay the night, won’t you. I’m so happy.’

‘Of course I will,
abuela
. But let’s have lunch now. I’ve got to go and see Ahmed soon.’

‘I’ll just sit here and read the poems.’

Max left, and drove to Ahmed’s house. Yes. He was right not to give Paula that list of names. Over mint tea, Max told Ahmed about the plans for the press conference, and that it looked like the case had been closed because, in the opinion of
los magistrados
, Hassan was the only person involved in Leila’s death.

‘I was expecting that,’ Ahmed replied.

‘Well, Ahmed, it seems that Leila was seeing my cousin Juan.’

‘Señor Romero . . . who lives with Paula?’

‘Yes, my cousin.’

‘But he’s married . . . and has a young family.’

‘Yes. Juan finally told me about it.’

‘And you think . . .?

‘I don’t know what to think. I know he was on the bridge with Leila shortly before . . . and they had a terrible row.’

‘Oh . . . do you think . . .?’

‘Juan says Leila wanted him to leave his wife and family, but he couldn’t. He says they had a terrible row, but she was fine when he left. Very upset, but . . . Ahmed, what do you think I should do?’