A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  In Costa Teguise, Shirley's driving changes. She adheres, if barely, to the speed limit, cruising down the main street past numerous low-rise resorts. Is she showing off her Maserati? At least I have a chance to take in the surroundings. The verges in the holiday town are planted up with rows of stout palm trees, many still modest in height, their fronds dancing in the wind. Ever since I first commuted to work here, I have been of the view that the town's urban planning has been executed with a measure of taste and presumably in keeping with the architectural principles of Manrique. It all looks pleasant and neat, a tourist idyll on a desert island, just as Celestino depicted it in his Lanzapoly. Yet here is the location of some of the twenty-seven illegal hotels that are the primary locus of Celestino's wrath. They are too big, too high, too out of keeping with their surroundings and constructed without the necessary permissions. Feeling the force of his chagrin in his absence, it's as though I've entered enemy territory just being here.

  My mind flits back to when I worked as a hotel receptionist. Tourists would come in to collect their key and take the opportunity to complain about the concrete skeleton across the road ruining the view from their bedroom window. 'Bloody eyesore,' was the most frequent phrase I heard. Most would note the lack of any workforce on the construction site. And I was then forced to explain that the courts had condemned the building to demolition. Didn't look like that was going to happen any time soon, they'd say, and I would respond with an apologetic smile, saying that at least there wasn't any dust. It was the best I could come up with. Celestino had explained the difficulties particular to the Canary Islands, the result of complex political and legal processes involving the various tiers of government that led to a kind of stalemate and thence inaction, the same complexities that provided the ease of illegal construction in the first place, but I hadn't take it in sufficiently to offer any comment to disgruntled tourists. Even if I had, I probably wouldn't have bothered.

  Before we reach the parade of shops that contains the Dickens Bar, Shirley turns left down Calle la Rosa, and follows it to the end. Redoto's restaurant, aptly named 'El Viento del Mar', stands alone across a promenade: a low, flat-roofed building hugging the rocky shoreline.

  Shirley swings into an angle park, giving the brakes a final hard squeeze, causing me to launch forward and slap back against my seat. When she switches off the ignition and the engine dies, I release my seat belt and waste no time opening my door.

  The wind is cool but not unpleasant, carrying with it the fresh salty air of the ocean. I wait while Shirley collects a paper bag from the back seat, and together we cross the promenade, dodging a pair of power-walking octogenarians.

  The restaurant appears quiet, the outdoor seating area empty. A path fringed with chunks of basalt leads to the entrance set within a stylish paved porch. A staff member in bistro black is placing a sandwich board to one side. The board advertises the menu del día scribed in bold chalk. The man straightens, and ignoring us, looks up and down the promenade before returning inside. We follow.

  We haven't reached the porch when we hear the commotion. 'What on earth,' Shirley says and quickens her pace. I'm close behind, removing my sunglasses on my way in and depositing them in my shoulder bag.

  The dining area is large, with rows of tables fanning over to where bi-fold doors open out onto a large terrace. Near the entrance, a small bar set back in the wall leads through to the kitchen. An aroma of garlicky fish infuses the air. Confronted by a barrage of emphatic hollering, we come to a halt at the first table, Shirley standing, feet apart, arms behind her back, one hand gripping her paper bag. Staff are gathered in a huddle beside a pillar near the terrace. Before the gathering, a burly man with a full but closely cropped beard is stabbing the air in the direction of a painting hanging in a prominent position on the side wall behind him.

  '¡Dígame!'

  No one speaks.

  'Which one of you did this?'

  His staff appear shocked and bemused. There's a lot of shaking of heads and the raising of open palms.

  The offending painting hangs above a deep open fireplace. At first I can't pay it close attention, my eyes dazzled by sunlight streaming through tall windows in the north facing wall, placing the contents of the side wall in relative gloom. I dearly want to don my sunglasses but it seems rude. I direct my gaze at the huddle of men with sudden sympathy. No one deserves to be yelled at like that.

  The irate man is blocking my full view of the work. It isn't until I turn my back on the glare and he steps forward to intensify his menace that I can properly take it in.

  It's a large, square canvas depicting the smooth and bald mountains of Los Ajaches in the island's south, their slopes descending steeply to the ocean. In the foreground, on a small beach of black sand, is a congregation of what appear to be tall stakes, arranged in some sort of formation. I want to inch closer, but a staff member glances over and the burly man turns.

  'Shirley!' he says and his manner changes as though by a flick of a switch, a broad smile spreading across his face. He shoos away the others on Shirley's approach. I follow, rounding the tables to my right to gain a better view of the offending artwork.

  The man reaches down and plants a kiss on each of Shirley's cheeks, then he straightens and stares across at me.

  '¿Quién es ella?'

  'This is my friend, Paula Cray,' she says, using my maiden name. 'Paula, meet Redoto.' She pronounces his name Reedoetoe. I have to suppress a reaction. I have no choice but to greet the man and condone the customary exchange of kisses. At least up close I can better observe him. He has to be in his fifties, judging by the looseness of the skin about his neck, the lines beneath disingenuous eyes, hair thinning about the crown. Average in height and build, he's garbed in a black leather jacket atop expensive-looking trousers. Wafts of something like Armani fill the air around him.

  'Whatever is the matter?' Shirley says in a tone of contrived concern.

  'Mira.'

  He takes Shirley's hand and steers her to the fireplace.

  They stand together for the briefest moment. Shirley's reaction is immediate, emphatic, almost mocking.

  'It's a fine artwork, Reedoetoe.'

  'Is it? Is it?' he says, his distress again rising. 'From a distance perhaps, but look harder, Shirley. You too,' he says to me with an impatient gesture. 'And tell me what you see.'

  Shirley makes a show of peering at the artwork then she steps back, still clutching her paper bag.

  'I don't understand. What's wrong with it?'

  The close proximity allows me to see that the stakes on the little black beach are in fact solar panels, depicted at oblique angles, and fashioned into crucifixes, a pair of panels set on the horizontal serving as wings. I haven't seen the work before or anything like it. He's emulated the naturalistic surrealism of Paul Kuczynski with considerable finesse. I love the work of Paul Kuczynski. Who doesn't? I knows it's his, my husband's; I recognise the mark in the bottom right corner.

  At first, I'm thrown by the style, although it comes as no surprise that he's veered in the direction of political satire. I hope the work is not indicative of his La Mareta submission or he won't stand a chance of securing the commission. The location of Celestino's work in Redoto's restaurant slowly sinks in and my mind starts racing. If it is his work, and I'm sure it is, then how did it come to be hanging in a restaurant in Costa Teguise? More's the point, why?

  I force upon my face a deadpan expression. Shirley and Redoto seem concerned solely with how the work came to be here. They show no sign of recognising its creator. Thankfully Celestino's new signature is too obscure, having the appearance of an inscription. Celestino told me it says 'guanamene', which means 'seer' in his native tongue. Knowing this, I can't help taking umbrage inwardly when Redoto says, 'The work is offensive. Everything is wrong with it, Shirley. Everything.' He throws up his hands. 'Tell me, who would do such a thing?'

  'I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Reedoetoe.'

 
'And I have absolutely no idea where this thing came from. Someone put it there.'

  'And you think it was one of them?' Shirley says, referring to his staff.

  'Someone got into my restaurant, removed a painting and replaced it with this.' He flicks a hand in the direction of the work as if to seal his point.

  Shirley turns away and puts her paper bag on the nearest table. She shoots me a wry look and I join her.

  'Art theft?'

  'I wouldn't go that far, Paula,' Shirley says quickly and quietly. 'The original picture was an amateur rendition of his restaurant. Nothing special. Not like this,' she says, nodding at the painting. Raising her voice to a normal level, she addresses Redoto. 'It's bizarre. Normally people steal expensive works of art. They don't generally come in and hang one unbidden. Perhaps it's a gift. Is it your birthday any time soon?'

  'It is not my birthday and this is not a gift.' There's a soft growl in his voice.

  Shirley doesn't react. 'Do you have any idea how they got in?'

  'I have no idea at all. There is no sign of a forced entry.'

  'Which is why you are accusing the staff.'

  'They all have a key, or access to one.'

  'Perhaps someone forgot to lock the door,' I volunteer.

  My comment is ignored.

  'I don't see the point of it, to be honest,' Shirley says, clasping the back of a chair, more for effect than to steady herself. 'I'd leave it there if I were you. It looks nice.'

  'I will not leave it there.'

  He's struggling to entertain Shirley's teasing remarks, her frivolity.

  'Then sell it,' she says, apparently oblivious to the affect she's having, or indifferent to it. 'It's rather a good painting. Not a work trotted out for the tourist market. A lot of thought's gone into it. I'm sure it would fetch a good price.'

  Redoto emits a sharp laugh.

  'Will you call the police?' I ask, trying not to sound apprehensive.

  'What good would that do?' says Shirley. 'Nothing's been stolen except for that picture. Hang on…' She shoots the artwork an appraising stare, her face breaking into a grin. 'What if someone has stolen this marvellous painting from elsewhere and is trying to implicate you in the theft.'

  Redoto doesn't respond.

  Absently fiddling with one of her chandelier earrings that has caught in her scarf, Shirley goes on. 'Do you have any enemies, Reedoetoe? Someone with a vendetta?'

  Shirley seems to take enormous pleasure in her new role as sleuth. Redoto isn't impressed, but at least she has managed to mitigate his fury with her last comment. He looks thoughtful and is about to respond when a woman's voice calls out with much sarcasm, 'Everyone loves Redoto.'

  'Maria,' he murmurs, almost to himself.

  We all turn at once to see a woman emerging from behind the bar. She's voluptuous, all curves and cleavage, the mauve dress she has on clinging to her like skin. My own simple cotton dress suddenly feels like a hessian sack.

  'I've got what you wanted, Redoto,' she says, walking towards us, hips swaying, high heels clicking on the tiled floor.

  'Where is it?'

  'In the car.' Her gaze doesn't waver.

  'Mujer, give me the keys.' He holds out his hand and yells for Carlos.

  The man who placed the sandwich board outside comes rushing through from the kitchen.

  Maria's response is measured. She dips a carefully manicured hand into her patent leather handbag and extracts her car keys, holding them up like a taunt.

  Redoto snatches them and tosses them at the waiter. 'Get the fish.'

  The fish? In his wife's car? My mind races with possibilities, interrupted when in a quick change of manner Redoto addresses me with, 'I'm sorry, Paula, isn't it? Paula this is my wife, Maria.'

  Maria gives me a charming smile and extends her hand. The cool touch of her flesh settles on my palm for the briefest moment before Maria pulls her hand away.

  Shirley, who took several steps away from the couple during their exchange, approaches and Maria greets her warmly. Redoto watches, his earlier agitation returning.

  'Reedoetoe has another restaurant in Puerto Calero,' Shirley says aloud, but addressing me. 'Maria had to do a mercy dash. The supplier forgot to include the prawns.'

  I'm reminded of that phone call Shirley said she received from Maria, the cause of her late arrival at the plaza and I'm suddenly aware of the intimacy between the two women. Noting the age gap of some decades, I can't help marvelling at Maria's loyalty, for surely from her point of view, Shirley is just an eccentric old widow. Or perhaps that's a little mean. Obviously, there's the matter of rapport, of shared history and outlook, of solidarity even. Who knows? Perhaps my thoughts are tinged with envy. I've never had a best friend. Not even my old neighbour, Carol, qualified as that. I suddenly want to put as much space between myself and the looming lunch as the island will allow.

  'Where are my manners.' Redoto is all stuck-on charm. 'Ladies, come and sit down.' He ushers us to a table nearby and pulls out a chair for his wife. 'What can I get you? On the house.'

  Shirley fetches her paper bag and takes up the chair facing the ocean, leaving me the opposite chair with a view of the bar.

  'What is that?' Maria says without sitting, her attention on Celestino's painting. 'It's horrible.'

  Outrage pings in my belly. I manage to hide it.

  'Maria, don't,' Redoto says with a censorious hand, and he walks away before she can utter another word.

  'Whatever possessed you?' she says, raising her voice at his back. 'Throwing good money on rubbish.'

  'He didn't buy it, Maria,' Shirley says. 'He was given it.'

  'Given it?' She sits down with her handbag on her lap. 'By who?'

  'He doesn't know.'

  'Then why hang it there, where everyone can see it?'

  'That's where they left it.'

  'They?'

  There's no time to offer an answer. Redoto returns with the menus and a bottle of white wine. He pours the wine into three large glasses. Maria waits for him to leave before she speaks again. The momentary diversion is all it takes to change her mood and the painting is forgotten. She smiles winningly and leans back in her seat. 'I bought a little something, Shirley. Couldn't resist it.' And she withdraws from her handbag a velvet jewellery box.

  The two women coo adoration over a tiny crucifix suspended on a gold necklace. Then Shirley extracts a gift-wrapped package from her paper bag and hands it to her friend.

  Maria gasps, her face alight in anticipation. She rips opened the silver paper like a child, tossing it on the floor and flourishing a silk wrap.

  'I bought it in Puerto Calero. I hope you like it.'

  Maria beams and kisses her friend and they both agree it's a perfect match with the necklace. They twitter on about the difficulties of finding suitable gifts on the island, bemoan the lack of shops and the annoyance of having to fly to Santa Cruz de Tenerife for anything special.

  In what appears to be an effort to include me in the conversation, Maria turns and says, 'Here on my island the old families, they wanted to have it all. Very bad. They blocked everything.'

  'Ikea fought for years, didn't they Maria?'

  'Years,' Maria repeats grimly.

  I'm quick to grasp the allusion. I picture my parents' new furniture with a pang of conscience, wondering what they might have managed to purchase in the pre-Ikea days.

  The two women go on to agree that Puerto Calero has been their only salvation. The conversation proves tedious, but at least any lingering concern Maria may have over the painting has vanished. I'm left to the menu and my own private musings. I haven't decided on my choice of dish when the waiter comes to take our order. Maria chooses a seafood platter and a salad to share and hands Carlos the menu, indicating for us to do the same.

  I take a gulp of my wine. I feel strangely diminutive. The other two women make small talk until the food arrives. I allow myself a measure of hope that we'll get through the meal without another mention
of the painting but Shirley, as tenacious as ever, takes two calamari rings, nibbles briefly at one, then sits back and says, 'We have a mystery on our hands, Maria.'

  I have to force myself to eat. It was easier to hide my reactions in the midst of the earlier commotion, but seated round a small table, deflecting Shirley's speculations on means, motive and opportunity, there's almost no avoiding revealing my unease. Thankfully Shirley appears oblivious. For she's taken on the role of a boisterous Miss Marple, running through the likely suspects, focusing on the staff—Carlos, the chef, the kitchen hands—quizzing Maria about their backgrounds. She makes reference to crime novels she's read, everything from Murder on the Orient Express to The Number One Ladies Detective Agency, and by the end of the meal, she's had the entire apparent crime figured out in four different and equally absurd scenarios. Maria is amused. Thankfully neither woman mentions the curious signature of the artist or endeavours to unpack the meaning and significance of the artwork.

  Shirley saves her more salacious ideas for the drive home. As she roars her way back to Haría, she decides Redoto must be having an affair and Maria has found out. Or could it be vice versa? —Maria doesn't tell her everything. And what about those crucifixes in the painting? —Funny how Maria never mentioned them. Are they a death threat of some sort? Did she react so strongly to cover her alarm, or her culpability? Or was it Redoto who was reacting wildly to cover his own complicity in a plot to kill his wife?

  By the time we reach the village my mind is spinning. I try to contribute, to at least appear to offer an opinion, and I manage to steer Shirley away from her more outrageous speculations. Yet she does have one thing right. She can't figure out how any of her suspects might have laid their hands on such a painting.