My single example of the togetherness we've shared in the last two years, is one I contrived. The mill is a short walk from our home in Calle César Manrique. At lunchtimes, with Gloria in one hand and a basket of bread, cheese and fruit in the other, I amble down past the little covered market and town hall, and then take a detour through the plaza for the shade. At the end of the plaza I stop and wait for traffic to pass before making a dash to the mill on the next corner. Calle San Juan is one of the main routes through the village and never that pleasant to navigate by foot due to its narrowness and near total absence of pavements. There I stand, an English woman in her late-thirties with a small child, known to the village as Celestino's wife, neither a stranger nor accepted as one of the island's own, occupying a curious in-between place in the social fabric of the north, with my sandy hair, lightened by the sun and pinned back, limbs tanned, a large portion of my face obscured by my sunglasses.
I never go anywhere without my sunglasses. In the sunshine at any time of year I find the whitewash that coats just about every building on the island far too glary. I've become oversensitive. I never used to find the ubiquitous white so dazzling. Bearing a child seems to have changed me in unexpected ways.
I knock and push open the old mill house door—never locked when he is at work—and battle my way inside with our child and our lunch, always to find my husband absorbed before his easel, paintbrush poised, the accoutrements of his craft scattered all around him on benches and chairs. And when he sees me he stops, swings round and kisses first me, then Gloria. '¿Qué tal?' he asks, and I describe the little events of the past few hours: the laughter, the tears, the tantrums.
This morning, I drove to the studio instead and, leaving Gloria in the car, I dashed inside to make sure Celestino remembered when the party was due to start. He reassured me he wouldn't be late. His utterance seems far away from me, a lifetime ago, but I can still hear the hint of reproach in the tone. I picture him at the studio behind his easel, but it makes no sense that he'd still be there. More likely he's at home in bed, sound asleep after a good day's painting, not all turbulent inside like me. It's ungracious of me to think it, yet I can't understand why he didn't move heaven and earth to get to Máguez.
I take a long slow draught of my milk, feel the cool creaminess coat my mouth. Setting down my empty glass on the draining board, instead of somnolence it's annoyance I feel, almost exasperation over the way Celestino insists on living his life. I see in his passion a sort of wilful recalcitrance typical of the teenage boy, while berating myself for holding that view. After all, I chose him. I knew, even back in Ipswich as I prepared to leave my job and sell my house, what sort of life I faced in a village like Haría with an artist like Celestino.
On Lanzarote, the lot of the artist is made all the harder by a tourist market oriented to the light, the novel, the bargain, the memento of a short stay. Celestino's art is heavy, primal, and often confronting. He produces works to please himself, to honour his ancestors, not to cater to the tastes of holidaymakers. Fine art; I can accommodate that, or so I once thought. Besides, wasn't it my passion for the island, for the complete transformation of a life, and my yearning for something different that propelled me forwards, saw me relocating to make a go of things? Yet I knew nothing about Lanzarote beyond its tourist enclaves and its numerous museums and its stunning landscapes. I could have had no idea the impact Celestino's vehemently upheld indigenous identity and his resultant attitude to the status quo would have on our lives.
I rinse the glass and return to my seat. Listening to the relentless howl of the wind, I stare into the dark of the patio. Celestino's absence makes those early memories more present to me, one in particular, the first time I encountered in him not just the qualities of the politically motivated outsider, but the dark passion that comes with it.
It was a Saturday in February and we were at the Haría markets in the plaza. He'd scored a good pitch at the church end, in the dappled shade of one of the laurel trees. Me, an ungainly eight months pregnant with a baby neither of us was prepared for, was seated in a fold up chair, a loose cardigan wrapped around my belly, my face hidden behind newly acquired sunglasses. The plaza was filled with tourists ferried up by coach from the island's southern resorts. The trips were popular, the itinerary including a tour of César Manrique's last residence. The morning was sunny and warm, and most were out in their shirtsleeves. A musical duo were entertaining traders and browsers alike. Celestino's artworks were selling well. He'd knocked out a series of framed landscapes, for once broadly appealing and the price suited the average budget. His finer works, those larger paintings he created with enormous love and care, served more as stall decoration, a lure. Celestino was in a buoyant mood, engaging in pleasant banter in English and Spanish as he unzipped his belt pouch to add the euros. I sat back and smiled, fielding inquiries from the women who noticed my belly. Celestino joked I was good for trade.
By lunchtime, long queues had formed at the food stalls. The front of Celestino's stall was crowded as a result. He'd just begun to pull two of his paintings from the front edge of his display, when a boisterous teenager rammed into an old woman clutching a large bag. The woman toppled sideways and almost collided with a small child. In an effort to regain her balance, she reached out for Celestino's table. A watercolour landscape, one of Celestino's prized creations, toppled and crashed to the ground, the glass in the frame shattering, a shard tearing the paper.
There were the apologies and the woman offered to pay for the damage, but of course it was an accident and Celestino refused to accept recompense. These things happen, he said. But after that he was on guard and his mood darkened. A short while later, before he had a chance to recover from the loss, an enthusiastic couple came over and marvelled at his works, handling first one painting, then another. They quizzed Celestino on his methods, his background, his entire creative life story, then without making a purchase the woman handed Celestino a leaflet advertising an art exhibition, telling him he should get himself down to Arrecife to check it out.
The moment they were gone, Celestino crunched the leaflet in his hand and tossed it on the ground behind him. I was curious but it was too far for me to reach. Seeing my outstretched arm, he said, 'Leave it.' I was stunned. My distress must have shown on my face behind my sunglasses. Celestino qualified his remark, but not with the comforting platitude I'd anticipated. Instead he said, 'Bah! My work is as good as his.'
'Whose?'
'Diego Abarca. He isn't even a native.'
'Does it matter?'
'Of course, it matters. It matters a lot. Especially when he's made himself one of the DRAT brotherhood.'
'The DRAT brotherhood?' He made it sound like a conspiracy.
'El Departamento de Recreación, Arte y Tourismo. The Cabildo's champion,' he said with a dismissive flick of his hand. The Cabildo is Lanzarote's island government. 'DRAT was established to promote the island's culture. So how come Diego Abarco gets the funding? He's from Andalucia!'
He went on to explain from his acerbic perspective that DRAT had transmogrified over the decades into an arm of the power elite, concerned more with pomp and ceremony than supporting hard-working artists, especially those of the alternative scene in the island's north.
'Does Diego live in the south?' I asked.
'He lives in the pockets of the rich, Paula.'
I was left none the wiser. All I knew was, much to Celestino's transparent vexation and my private displeasure, the privileges, the patronage and the funding were largely denied him and he was left to labour on unsupported.
Although as the weeks slipped by, there were times I couldn't help suspecting the situation had more to do with his own bellicose attitude. Times when my evening would be taken up listening to him vent. 'The politicos have no interest in the arts. But they do like to decorate their jobs. You see, Paula, the international arts scene provides much better opportunities for them than anything local and grass roots.' I did see. I'd h
eard him say it many times before. His eyes would narrow, his lips curl around his words. Manrique had been a people's man too, champion of the island's unsung artists and architects. He would have been as incensed as Celestino to see how far from his own ideals some had taken things. I often have to remind myself of that.
I knew from the moment I moved into his house that he had an interest in fighting corruption, but in those early months while I was pregnant he devoted a great deal of his time to me and my needs. We were, after all, in love, but the birth of Gloria seemed to flick a switch in him and he reverted back to his old habits. Perhaps until then he hadn't quite trusted me. Maybe he felt excluded from my affections once I had a baby in arms. Whatever the reason, Celestino began to spend hours of every evening on his computer. And when he readied for bed, I was treated to a diatribe on the latest scandal in what I was quick to realise was a corruption culture second to none.
What's the point of perpetual indignation? I don't like to see him chewed up by it. Not when he has a wife and a daughter by his side. I wonder sometimes what matters to him most. If the sacrifice he's making, all three of us are making, is worth it. But he sees hope on the horizon, through the younger generations, those who, unlike their parents and grandparents, have travelled overseas and gained a university education. Their forebears might be submissive and averse to change, he would say, but the young are not. They even have their own political party: Somos. It is for the young that, when he isn't in his studio creating art, Celestino campaigns to expose the island's corruption. Name and shame is his motto. 'Corruption always makes the poor poorer and enriches the rich.' Seated there in my mother's kitchen, I can almost hear him say it.
The rain stops. I go and open the patio door. Out in the cool night air, raising my face to the wind, observing through a break in the cloud the stars in the night sky muted by the streetlights of the village, my frustrations give way to a sweeter memory, one long forgotten.
I was about seven months pregnant, all flushed and contented and filled with anticipation. It was a time when Celestino had delighted in my presence. At night, while we lay together in bed, he would stroke my hair and in a voice smooth and soft he'd tell me of the places he wanted to show me, special places hidden away. Most of all he spoke of a string of beaches on the coast of the island's south, the beaches of the ancient mountains of Los Ajaches, accessed via the little village of La Quemada. He would describe the first beach, how it lay at the foot of a secret valley carved out of the mountainside by an ancient barranco. An unspoilt and inaccessible place, part of one of the island's most protected areas. He said the beach was among the last remaining on the island where the waters were calm enough and safe for swimming. Where the tourism juggernaut had yet to reach. Lying beside him, feeling the soothing touch of his hand, his breath warm against my cheek, the little beach sounded like paradise. Once I even drifted to sleep and dreamed I was there.
He promised to show me, but I was too heavily pregnant to make my way along the steep and rocky path, and then the baby came and we never went.
Suddenly chilled, I close the door, vowing to myself we'll visit the little beach at the first opportunity, the moment Celestino comes back.
Tenesar
Hunger gnaws at my guts. I take a sip of water and eat half a protein bar from my meagre rations. It makes little difference. My shoulder vies with the throbbing in my calf, a competition of pain. The impact of the collision and the terror in the aftermath are stuck on replay in my head. It's a jolt, a wake-up call. I've got too close and they don't like it. Another part of me smiles in grim satisfaction. It'll all be worth it if I can get out of here alive.
At least the burns on my face and hands have eased, and the dog has gone. About mid-morning, I watched the scruffy, brown-haired beast head off up the track and disappear. Although he could be still out there, but he won't smell me on the wind; there's a light north-easterly blowing off the land.
I need to head outside, not least to relieve my bladder. First, I need some sort of weapon. Risking the noise, I hurl one of the crates at the wall. The impact loosens the nails' grip. Feeling the joints wobble, I put my good leg inside to hold the crate still and yank at a plank with my good arm, wrenching it free, leaving two rusty nails protruding from one end. Weapon in hand I ease open the door and step outside.
The ocean is still heavy after the storm, the tide high, waves crashing on the basalt reef, sending up fountains of spume. To the west, where the rock pools at the bottom of the cliff make for entertaining scrambling at low tide, the ocean thrashes. To the east the coastline arcs around a cliff. Facing the cliff and sheltered somewhat by the reef is a small beach of black sand.
Coursing up an incline to a low cliff, the village comprises about fifty small houses and huts arranged higgledy-piggledy around an arterial T intersection, one almost atop another. There's another house, nestled at the cliff base further west, and a few more sitting proud on rocky outcrops close to the waterline. At high tide, an occupant of one of those houses could cast a fishing rod out a sea-facing window.
Many of the buildings in the village are abandoned, others run down, the salty air eating into the whitewash, revealing the render in patches of speckled grey. It's the most inhospitable looking place, situated on the edge of a lava plain beside a barren volcano, but on a hot summer's day, when the island bakes, here is cool and secluded and families from nearby Tinajo come for weekend breaks and for the fishing.
In early spring, in a storm, no one is here but me.
I walk cautiously up a flight of stone steps and enter a small street. I try a few doors. None open. I take care where I place my feet, leaving no footprints. Maybe it's paranoia, maybe no one is watching, but as I reach the top of the street, I lean against a wall, peering round.
The main street is empty. I cross over and make a hasty dash for the next side street, and again try a few doors on the left. I wander back, trying the doors on the other side. Confidence grows as I reach the intersection and I'm planning to head down the main street when I detect the steady thrum of a car engine on the wind.
It has to be heading this way. I wait. The noise fades, then gets louder. Damn! I hobble back to my bolthole, careful of footprints, avoiding puddles and soft earth. With the door shut behind me, I re-arrange my barricade which is looking too much like a hidey hole, pulling away a couple of chairs and a crate. Satisfied, I crouch behind the table and wait.
The sound of the engine gets louder and louder until the vehicle is right outside the hut. Then the engine dies and a car door slams. There's no second slam. Safe to assume one person, then.
A shadow passes by the window. The guy has some height. I keep my breathing shallow. Soon I hear a voice, as though he's phoning someone, followed closely by a bark. That was definitely a bark. There's a scuffle, a shout, the car door slams again and the engine roars to life.
I exhale, relieved, but not for long. That mongrel dog has saved me, but whoever came here will assume that animal has an owner. They'll be back.
I try to calm down, conserve my strength, but my earlier suspicions are confirmed. That was no car accident and now, whoever tried to kill me is making sure I'm dead.
It doesn't take long for my thoughts to settle, first on Pedro, and then Paula with the sickening realisation they're both in mortal danger.
The bastard! If this is who I think it is, then I know what he's after. He wants to retrieve documents he believes are rightfully his, but in truth, those documents belong in a court of law. The problem for Pedro and Paula is this guy will stop at nothing to find them.
Pedro, I can rationalise. He knows the dangers, he's been in on this anti-corruption campaign since the beginning. But not Paula, my dear sweet Paula. She's as innocent as they come. What have I done to her? Will she realise soon enough? Will she join the dots? Or will she believe I died in a car accident and go on with daily life grieving and oblivious. What will she think? How will she act?
For the first time in my li
fe I feel like praying. Guilt consumes me. I've neglected my wife and child, and for what? I automatically reach for the stone Paula gifted me at the end of her holiday when we first met. To remember her by, she said. Polished obsidian and I had it mounted on a pendant and I've worn it ever since as a necklace. But my hand reaches around my neck and it's bare.
Horror has me in its grip. I've lost her necklace; am I going to lose her as well?
The day wears on. My thoughts return to survival. How long do I stay here? As long as possible; I'm being stalked by twin hunters. Will help arrive? I figure it'll take a while, days even, for the car to be identified, if it all. After yesterday's storm the authorities will be stretched. In the meantime, what will Paula do? In the end, she's all I can think about.
Oh, Paula!
Haría
The room is dark, the weak light of dawn barely squeezing through the chinks in the shutters. Beside me, lying on her side and breathing steadily, Gloria sleeps. Under her arm is the toy rabbit Celestino's favourite uncle gifted when she was born; once plump, furry and white, with ears all straight and true, now much-loved, one-eyed and grey, the ears droopy, fur thin from the wear of a tight hand.
My eyes feel puffy and I remember crying as I lay beside Gloria, small tears of frustration over her disappointing birthday party, which transmuted into a gush of anguish over the vicissitudes of my married life.
The wind has dropped and I can't hear any rain. Still dressed in yesterday's clothes, I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen. Angela, an early riser, is making coffee.
'Sleep well?' she says without turning around.
'Sort of.'
I take up the chair at the table's end. Hoping to hide the puffiness around my eyes, I direct my gaze at the window. Thin mats of cloud drift across the sky.
A Matter of Latitude Page 3
