Gaudi Afternoon (14 page)

“Carmen never does anything else,” I said. “No, I was with my Americans. A podiatric encounter with the gypsy April, then a little quick sightseeing on the roof of La Pedrera, enlivened by wrestling displays, and then a madcap dash first to the airport and then to the train station where I heard another version of the classic story of American loss of innocence. First, the abandonment of the farm, then the corruptions of the big city, leading to the blurring of gender roles. Once you get away from the soil, basically, you're in trouble.”

“What?”

I explained in more detail.

“Well of course Ben is worried. Losing her little girl like that.”

“At least we know that Frankie has her.”

Ana shook her head. “How did you get involved with these people? That is,
more
involved?”

“I can't help it,” I said. “I keep feeling responsible in different ways. First I found out where Ben and April and Delilah were staying for Frankie, then I almost got Delilah snatched at the Parc Güell because I'd told Frankie they'd be there, and finally I was getting a foot massage from April when Frankie first got in to kidnap Delilah.”

“It must have been a pretty heavy foot massage,” said Ana.

“It was,” I sighed. “It obviously interfered with my hearing.”

Ana was thoughtful. “Have you figured out how Frankie got into the apartment?”

“There are two doors, front and back. One or both could have been unlocked. April could have done it, or Hamilton. Or they could have given Frankie a key. Or—Hamilton and Frankie could have come in together. He just appeared in the living room—and started going on about Gloria de los Angeles, probably to distract me. Or—I forgot about this—when he came in he went immediately to Delilah's room. He could have unlocked the door then.”

“Why would Hamilton want to help Frankie steal Delilah? Money?”

“That's what I can't figure. Ben said he's wealthy. She said April gets checks from a bank too.”

“Rich people are mysterious,” said Ana. “Some of the people I deal with are swimming in money, but they're always trying to cheat me. They're truly convinced they're poor.”

“Well, I suspect Hamilton,” I said. “Because he doesn't have a sense of humor.”

I helped Ana get ready to move the birth mother house out of the apartment to its destination in a suburb outside Barcelona. It would be a sad relief to see it go tomorrow. “I think I'll feel more like myself then,” Ana said somewhat dejectedly.

“Anybody can have babies,” I said to cheer her up. “Only some of us can create art. Besides, babies grow up, that's the problem. You never hear anyone say, ‘Oh I really want to have a teenage dope fiend who plays loud music and brings disgusting adolescents home and thinks I'm stupid.' But that's what most people get.”

“But first you get the nice part,” said Ana, starting to laugh. “And anyway, my child wouldn't be a rebel.”

“That's what my mother said,” I remembered. “She still can't believe what happened to her baby girl.”

I hadn't seen Carmen since our night out. I gave her a call and asked her if she'd like to hear some jazz later on. According to Ben, Hamilton played with a Catalan trio three nights a week at a certain jazz club in the Barri Gòtic. I thought we might check it out.

There was no point in getting there early, and early in Spain means any time before midnight. So Carmen and I had a long romantic dinner and then made a few stops at various bars along the winding streets of the Barri Gòtic before we turned up at the high-tech club that had replaced the smoky cellar I remembered. It was cool and avant-garde, with uncomfortable chairs and blotchy abstract paintings on the walls, and a hip young waiter with skinny shoulders and a shock of bleached hair like Andy Warhol's. Carmen and I were slightly out of place among the young women and men in their black turtlenecks and oversize jackets. Carmen had gotten herself up in a low-cut dress that showed a daring amount of bosom and I accompanied her as Katherine Hepburn in belted gabardine slacks and a raw silk shirt. We found seats and ordered champagne. Carmen smoked and looked around suspiciously.

“Is this a funeral? Why are all these people in black?”

“They're Catalans,” I said.

“Claro.
”

“They're
modernos.
”

“Mmm,” she said, obviously aware that her cleavage was being eyed. She adjusted her spaghetti straps. “The only time I will wear black is when you die,
querida.
”

“Carmen, I'm touched.”

The jazz that had been playing on the sound system tapered off and three men came forward to the performer's area. An alto sax, a clarinet and a piano. On sax was Hamilton, who stared at me for a second before smiling. I waved cheerfully.

Nobody ever said he wasn't a handsome guy. I wouldn't want a receding hairline and a pot belly, but I wouldn't mind having his straight nose and well-modeled lips. He was wearing jeans and an open-necked white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and a gold chain around his neck.

They played. And I was surprised at how good Hamilton was, how he could really sing with that sax. It wasn't fair—to have a trust fund and talent too.

Hamilton came over during the break. He told us we both looked lovely and Carmen beamed at him, even though he was speaking English.

“I heard you didn't have much luck with Ben at the airport,” he said to me.

“That's right. We began to have our doubts that Frankie had even taken Delilah there.”

“That occurred to April right after you left,” said Hamilton. “There's no way Frankie could have gotten Delilah out of the country.”

“Why not?”

“Delilah is listed on Ben's passport, not on Frankie's. Delilah doesn't have a passport of her own. She'd never have made it through passport control. Ben hadn't thought of that either. That must mean Frankie has Delilah somewhere in Barcelona.”

“Why didn't you come to the airport to tell us?”

“We thought that if Frankie were somewhere in the building it would be good if we waited her out.” Hamilton sipped the beer the waiter had brought him. I'd noticed that he and the bleached blond had touched hands briefly. “And, if you want the truth, I didn't want to leave April alone.”

More likely she didn't want to leave you alone, I thought. “Why not?”

“I think it's possible that April might have had something to do with Delilah's kidnapping.”

“But she's Delilah's co-parent now. Why would April want to help Frankie?”

Hamilton shook his head. “That I don't know yet. But Ben and April and Delilah have been living with me for two weeks now and I've had a chance to notice some things. April almost never talks directly to Delilah anymore and she doesn't seem that happy to be with either of them. I don't think she likes kids that much, and Delilah can feel it.”

“It's probably just a stressful time,” I said. “Neither Ben or April is working, Delilah's not in school, of course there's some tension.”

“I know all that,” said Hamilton patiently. “But that doesn't mean I can't still wonder if April might have had some reason for wanting Delilah out of the way.”

“April's not that kind of person,” I said categorically. “She's warm, loving, very friendly….”

Hamilton watched my face. “I'm curious as to why neither of you heard Frankie in the apartment.”

“There was nothing to hear until the door closed.”

“How long were you there?”

He obviously thought
he
was interrogating me.

“Look, if you think I had anything to do with this, you're mistaken. Frankie hired me in London to help her locate someone who she said was her husband Ben. She later told me that Ben was her ex-husband. She never told me that Ben was a woman, that Frankie herself was a transsexual or that the two of them had a long-standing custody dispute over Delilah.”

“But Frankie had hired you, right? And presumably, if she had offered you more money to help her get Delilah back, you would have accepted. You say you met Frankie earlier that afternoon at Sagrada Família. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for you to watch the building, see me and Ben come out, keep April occupied, and make sure the door was unlocked.”

I was deeply offended. “I'm a Spanish translator,” I said. “Not a hired kidnapper.”

“Relax,” said Hamilton. “I don't really suspect you. You had the opportunity, but not the motive. Unless you consider money a motive, which I don't.”

Oh, rich men. They live in a world of their own.

He went on, “It's April I suspect. I don't know when or why she got in touch with Frankie, but I'd like to find out.”

“I'm curious,” I said. “Why is it that Ben refers to Frankie as he and you call her her?”

“I call people what they want to be called,” said Hamilton. “And if Ben weren't so stubborn she would too.”

“What do you think of Frankie?”

Hamilton sighed. “You have to like her. That doesn't mean you have to trust her.”

The bleached blond waiter was back, asking Hamilton if he wanted anything else. With a smile that transformed his face Hamilton said, “Only you,
chico.
” Then he shook my hand and said, “I'll keep in touch,” and went back up to the stage.

Carmen had wandered off and was talking to the bartender. As it turned out he was also from Andalucía and they were exchanging derogatory remarks about the Catalans. I brought her back to the table and showed her the book that April had loaned me on Reflexology,
Stories the Feet Can Tell.

“Carmen,” I whispered, “Wouldn't you like a foot massage? Standing all day in high heels your feet must get awfully tired.” I pointed out some of the diagrams. “Look, from this chart you can see where the stomach is, and the thyroid, the lungs, the heart, everything. And by touching the soles of the feet you can heal things that are wrong with you.” I translated, “See, you just press this point and you deal with Shoulder Trouble and Salivation Problems. Over here you've got Toxemia, Stress, Edema, Kidney Troubles, and just below your right big toe, Weight Problems, Anxiety and Thinning Hair.”

“Thinning hair?” she grabbed the book. “That's a good one for me to know. Where?”

“Come back with me to Ana's and I'll show you,” I said, pulling the book away. “It's better to demonstrate in person.”

She allowed me to lead her out of the club onto the street and we began to walk back through the quarter to the Ramblas with our arms linked amorously in the way that is allowed to women together in Spain. Then she turned to me. “Cassandra,” she said. “I would love to go home with you. But not tonight. My mother is waiting up for me.”

I pressed her into a dark doorway. I hadn't really expected anything else. Carmen kissed me passionately and moaned. She kneed me gently in the crotch. What a tease. “Carmen, Carmen,
querida
…”

“No, Cassandra.” She was firm but gentle. “
No es posible
.”

We walked on. A small thief darted out of the shadows and tried to make off with Carmen's bag, but she gave him a good belt with the back of her hand and screeched some vengeful Andalucían curse about knives and tender parts of the male anatomy.

The port end of the Ramblas is where the tarot readers congregate, each with their own small table, sheltered candle and sign promising a future told through palms and cards.

Swarthy young gypsy women called out to us as we walked by, “Come here and let me tell your fortune.” Carmen ignored them, but I was suddenly curious.

I sat down at one of the little tables and a woman with glittering eyes and a turban grabbed my hand and stared at it.

“Success but no money, travel, a lot of travel, adventure. Watch out for a woman with black hair.”

“Who is it?” I said. “Can you see her more clearly?”

Carmen was shaking her head.

“Is she fat? Is her hair curly?”

“She is outside, she is naked.”

“Who is this, Cassandra?” Carmen demanded.

“She is very very fat.” The gypsy peered closer. “I see birds. Parrots.”

“Oh god,” I said.

“She is in a jungle. Yes. Naked in a jungle. With parrots. Watch out.”

I saw Carmen into her taxi, then began to make my way back to the jazz club. It was late, there wasn't any point in talking to Hamilton again, and in fact I didn't want to talk to him. I wanted to see where he went after the show.

I had short hair and my bomber jacket. I had been mistaken for a man too many times to count in the past few days. There was no reason I should feel afraid. But as I left the Ramblas for the dark twisting streets of the lower Barri Gòtic, I had a feeling that someone was following me.

Was it just the echo of my feet? Several times I turned around and saw no one; other times there was a couple, or a crowd. I walked more quickly, tried to stay on the better lighted streets.

No, I wasn't imagining it. I was being stalked. A man in black, his face invisible under a hat pulled down low, and a bulging sack hanging ominously from his shoulder, was pursuing me. I heard his threatening breath, the soft pad of his leather shoes on the cobblestones. “Wait,” he said in garbled Castilian.

I ran like the devil, and turned into the street where the jazz club was located just in time to see Hamilton mount a
moto
behind our bleached blond waiter and speed off without looking in my direction.

I hadn't really thought it was Hamilton following me, had I? A crowd of laughing
modernos
gushed out of the club and I attached myself to them until I came to a street where I could hail a cab.

I'd lost my pursuer. But I'd also lost my chance to see where Hamilton was going.

The phone rang, far too early the next morning. I stumbled from the guest room through a corridor filled with junk and antiques, cursing Ana's mania for collecting, and grabbed the receiver.