I edge to the left until I'm lodged in the corner beside a leafy indoor plant. From this purview, I can see past the men to the painting, albeit at an oblique angle.
Where any visitor might expect to find a portrait of the mayor, current or former, or even the King of Spain, there's a depiction of a volcano in the throes of an eruption, emitting great clouds of ash into the sky. Risking drawing attention, I step forward, keen to study the work. I see in an instant that the ash has fallen into several heaps in the foreground. But it isn't ash. It's mounds of Euro notes. The volcano is spewing money. I don't get a chance to view the signature but I don't need to. I quickly step back again, not daring to look over in the direction of the reception in case the staff behind the counter think me strange.
The onlookers are as perplexed as me. Curious to hear what they're saying, I again edge closer. This time I bow my head and fiddle with the straps of my shoulder bag.
'Benicod won't be happy,' one of them says.
'Maybe we should take it down.'
'What if he wants it there?'
'He'll lose the plot. You know what he's like.'
'Where is he?'
'He should be due at any moment.'
'Someone must have broken in.'
I look up with sudden interest.
'No one broke in,' says an older man sporting a pencil moustache. He frowns disapprovingly at a gathering of tourists milling about outside the entrance doors. I begin rummaging through the contents of my bag.
'An inside job?' a younger man says.
'What else could it be?'
The man with the moustache takes out his glasses and studies the work. 'All I know is it wasn't there last night when I left.'
'What time was that?'
'Late. Nine-thirty, I think.'
'Where's his portrait? Anyone seen it? Maybe we could put it back.'
Seeing the men about to disperse I move out of my corner and head towards the counter. Shirley is already entering a doorway on the far side. She glances back at me and mouths, 'Come on,' then disappears.
I hurry past the receptionists, pushing the door before it closes on its sprung hinges.
A passageway leads to a narrow flight of stairs. Shirley is almost at the top. I run up behind her, gathering to the forefront of my mind enough pretence to affect an unflustered manner. Shirley, thankfully, remains oblivious. She's too preoccupied with her visit.
I'm not relishing the thought of meeting Bentor Benicod, and I can only hope I'll be able to maintain a casual attitude.
Together we enter a well-lit antechamber leading on through a heavy door to the mayor's office. In the antechamber, seated at a small desk, a large middle-aged man bedecked in suit and tie looks at us with cool indifference.
'Can I help you?' he says without warmth.
'Mr Benicod not in?' Shirley says airily.
'He's at a meeting in Arrecife.'
Relief passes through me.
'He said he'd be here,' Shirley says, matching the man's manner.
'He's delayed.'
'Never mind,' Shirley says. 'We've come for the leaflets.'
Leaflets?
The secretary points at a table behind him. On it, piled high, are boxes and leaflet bundles. So this is what Shirley meant by helping Benicod with his campaign. Shirley takes a bundle.
'Grab a couple of those boxes, would you,' she says to me.
The secretary makes no attempt to help. The boxes are heavy. I feel in their weight the purpose of my presence. I'm the mule. And I resent the time I'm wasting when I could, I should be looking for Celestino.
On the way down the stairs, one tread at a time, along with a mounting resentment I mull over how I came to be here on this very day. And not some other day. A normal day when the walls of the foyer displayed nothing but the mayor. My efforts to find Celestino have come to nothing. Yet when my attention is so thoroughly diverted and I'm unable to follow the paintings trail, I manage to be hot on it.
'Come on, slow coach,' Shirley says, waiting at the bottom of the stairwell. When I reach the bottom tread Shirley holds open the door, letting it go as I pass through and crossing the foyer and heading on outside without a backward glance.
On the way through the foyer I notice a man in overalls lifting the offending painting off the wall. I stagger by, pretending to struggle with the weight of my cargo, which isn't too far from the truth, and when I'm close enough I stop and take a sidestep and manage a glance at the bottom corner. The signature is unmistakable.
I ease my way through the entrance doors, narrowly colliding with a woman pushing a pram. Shirley is standing by a palm tree, watching.
'God, I'm hungry,' she says on our way to the car. 'Are you?'
'I am a bit.'
I'm ravenous but prepared to wait until we're heading back to Haría, thinking we might call in somewhere on the way. Shirley has other ideas.
'I know a nice place in Playa Blanca.'
Playa Blanca? I make no comment. I don't feel like entering a tourist den. I'm feeling frayed and over-stimulated as it is, and crave someplace quiet where I can collect my thoughts, but Shirley is not the sort to quibble with. Besides, there'll be an ulterior motive at play, I'm sure of it. I don't have long to discover what it is.
Fifteen minutes later, looking for a place to park, we cruise down the Avenida de Papagayo with its long parade of shops and eateries. It's only the second time I've visited since Celestino refuses to come to the place, and it's with a measure of guilt that I view the streetscapes and decide Playa Blanca isn't an unpleasant place to be at all, although there's rather a lot of it. I half expect to see the word 'illegal' plastered across the facades of the various resorts we pass, but I find it to be just like most of the other towns on the island, neat and clean, with narrow streets filled with white flat-roofed buildings.
Shirley parks outside a good-looking fish restaurant. When I open my door and inhale the aroma of garlicky fish, my mouth waters. I stand on the pavement poised to head straight there, when I'm called back.
Shirley is standing by the boot. I look on in disbelief. All that talk in the car about getting more involved, and here I am about to be seconded to a leaflet drop. If I had even an inkling, I might have asked Shirley to pull over and let me out. Not all that likely given how difficult it may have proven getting home, but I would certainly have preferred to have waited two hours at a bus stop than be co-opted into enabling a mayor, any mayor, but especially a mayor of Yaiza with his campaign.
'It won't take long,' Shirley says, reaching in and extracting the leaflet bundle.
Realising I have no choice, I lean into the boot, pulling one of the boxes forwards.
'And the other one.'
'You expect me to take both?'
'Why not? We'll distribute them faster that way.'
Efficient it might be, but ten paces on and my forearms are already protesting the weight. To make matters worse, Shirley chose a parking spot far from her first port of call. She marches on ahead, her lurid green kaftan blowing in the breeze, the most business-like beetle there ever was. I trudge behind, the boxes heavier with every step. By the time Shirley stops, I'm panting and cursing beneath my breath. We're outside a clothing boutique.
'I'll hold the door,' Shirley says, as though that's all it takes for her to consider herself helpful.
Inside, racks of clothes fill the space. I look around for somewhere to put the boxes. Even the counter is cluttered. I notice an upholstered chair in the corner and dump them down on that. Shirley looks askance.
'Hello, my lovely,' she says to a smartly dressed woman who steps out from behind the counter to receive a hug. Judging by her demeanour she must be the owner.
'Hello to you too, my old china,' the woman says in a mocking tone. 'Doing Bentor's dirty work I see.' She eyes me and smiles.
'Nothing dirty about it Marg. You'll be needing these.' And she hands over the leaflet bundle.
'That should do nicely.' She sets the bundle on the co
unter.
I look on, dismayed.
'Time for a cuppa?'
'Gotta dash, I'm afraid.' She tilts her head at me. 'Have to feed the staff.' They both laugh.
With the politest smile I can manage, I retrieve the boxes and head back through the shop, struggling out the door and waiting for Shirley on the pavement.
Shirley seems acquainted with just about every business on the strip. We go next to a restaurant, depositing half a bundle on the bar, then on to a souvenir shop. We work our way back and forth across the street, the only highlight for me emerging when I have a chance to buy a notepad and a pen in a newsagent's, while my organ grinder parlays with the owner, a brash-sounding Yorkshire-man sporting the deepest of suntans. Each drop point makes the boxes a little lighter but by the end of it I'm exhausted and light-headed, irritation rising in the face of Shirley's blithe manner and her breezy-as-you-please banter.
As we return the empty boxes to the boot of the Maserati, an athletic-looking man decked in knee-length shorts and a brilliant white shirt stops on the pavement in front of the bonnet to admire the car. Seeing us congregating behind the boot, his gaze shifts from the car to me with fresh interest. He catches my gaze as I offload the boxes. The man looks to Shirley and back to me again as though trying to pick the owner. He gives me a cheesy wink and looks poised to come over when Shirley stands back on the curb, all proud in her lurid green dress, and raises the remote high in her hand. The Maserati emits its customary yelp. The man's face falls and he about turns and heads up the street. Nonplussed, I follow Shirley to the restaurant vowing privately I'll only come here again if I have recourse to catch the ferry to Fuerteventura.
The fish restaurant is popular. A spritely waiter finds us a table for two overlooking the street with glimpses of the ocean beyond. The sky is brilliant, the glare intense even behind my sunglasses. This time, Shirley lets me have the better seat.
As I scan the menu I can't help overhearing the conversation carrying on apace on the next table. I try to ignore it but the crisp voices emanating from bubbly faces draw me in.
'Fancy coming all the way here and having to deal with that.'
'Did they manage to find somewhere else to stay?'
'They did, but it was nothing like they'd booked.'
'They should have gone to the police.'
'What can they do? The company was based in Ireland, apparently.'
I lean forward in my seat and make to speak.
'They're talking about holiday scammers,' Shirley says without lowering her voice.
The label completes something that began with the man eyeing off the Maserati, another natural consequence given the initial conditions. I face anew the intractable problem of tourism. The very pleasure sought and the expectation of its fulfilment rendering vulnerable all those who participate.
One of the women on the next table glances over and smiles. She seems about to engage Shirley when the waiter returns to take our order.
'Two fish platters and a bottle of your best white.'
Whatever it is I might have ordered is snatched away. Resigned, I hand the waiter my menu. Shirley leans towards the others and joins in their tirade, gushing empathy, her engagement culminating in a quick riffle through her handbag and the flourishing of several helpful business cards, which she hands over effusing reassurances.
The party leaves as the waiter appears with the wine. Shirley takes a swift gulp and sets down her glass. I do the same. I want to at least appear to be good company but when the food comes I focus on my fish platter, scarcely listening to Shirley's reminiscences of happy days spent in Playa Blanca with her late husband. I zone in and out, hoping I'm smiling in the right places. Fortunately, Shirley is in a garrulous mood. She remains oblivious to my quietude, or is accepting of it, enjoying the free rein she has. On the way home, she launches into a long-winded story about some uncle of hers who sailed to the Cape Verde islands and bought himself a beach.
All the while, my mind drifts back to Celestino's art. How did that painting come to be hanging at the Yaiza town hall? Did Shirley see it? She didn't seem to have taken it in. She went straight over and chatted at reception then trooped on upstairs. That huddle of men would have blocked her view. On our way back outside, the painting was already being removed. She was on a mission, a single-minded purpose, one for which I am suddenly grateful.
How many of these paintings are there? There could be dozens cropping up all over the island. Although if that's the case, surely the media would have hold of it by now. Besides, Celestino won't have managed to produce that many works of political satire. Does the appearance of a second artwork make it unlikely to be a practical joke? It seems too elaborate for that. I hope someone hasn't kidnapped Celestino. Then again, he still remains the most likely candidate, enacting a kind of surreptitious activism. I hold on tightly to the view. It's all the hope I have. 'The Banksy of Lanza'. That would be the headline. Only Banksy has a long history, a reputation, people expected such stunts from him. No one expects it from Celestino. And the more I dwell on the meaning of the two works—the solar panel crucifixes and the money spewing volcano—the more I doubt Celestino's sanity.
How could he be so reckless, so inconsiderate, disappearing only to lurk somewhere on the island, planting paintings? Paintings I've stumbled on through no action of my own. As if Celestino knew Shirley would take me to both places. As if he knew we were friends and as soon as his back was turned we would be off gallivanting. Hardly. As if he knew, too, who Shirley's friends were and when she planned to see them. Assuming that there are only the two paintings.
My reasoning seems absurd and hope slips away. After all, he isn't a rabid nut, the sort of activist who makes poppets to stick pins in. But as soon as I feel reassured Celestino's sanity is intact, my earlier fear that it was him in that incinerated car resurfaces and I'm gripped by a sickening anxiety. Insane and safe, or sane and in danger, or worse, dead—neither scenario provides any sort of solace.
My thoughts dart off, my normally orderly mind unable to cope. And I realise with a small shock that my quick presumptions over Celestino's state of mind also come from a comparison unconsciously made, a comparison to my last partner, Tom Pickles, a paramedic who suffered a nervous breakdown after witnessing one too many car accidents. It happens, I was told in a joint counselling session not long before we split up.
Done with her beach-buying uncle sunning it up on Cape Verde, Shirley proceeds to describe her other family members' entrepreneurial adventures. I strive to be polite but I'm unable to manage more than the briefest of responses, bristling privately in the face of all Shirley's vicarious bragging. By the time Shirley pulls up in the street outside her house, I want nothing more than to lie down and rest my mind.
'You're not in a good way,' Shirley says before I get out of the car.
'I'm sorry I'm not much company. I'm worn out.'
'Tell you what. I'm ducking into Arrecife tomorrow. Why don't you come along?'
'Not more leaflets.'
'I'm popping into the Cabildo,' she says, ignoring my remark. 'Meeting a friend for afternoon tea. But I could drop you off somewhere and we could meet up later. Have an adventure of our own. What do you say?'
I struggle to find a way to decline.
'I'll pick you up at two, then.' Shirley pats my arm. 'He'll turn up. Don't worry.'
'I'm trying.'
I get out of the car and cross the street without a backward glance.
Once inside the house, with a renewed sense of purpose I go straight upstairs to Celestino's desk. I tug at the drawers knowing they are locked and, feeling the resistance, I desist. I pick up the commission letter. If Celestino hasn't returned by Monday, what will I do if he wins? Suddenly the whole of Lanzarote will know he's disappeared.
On the hunt for whatever clues I can find, I sit down and switch on his computer. A few clicks later and I'm staring at his anti-corruption blog. Last time I updated the English version, we were translati
ng a historical piece on the illegal hotels, pulling together all the information to hand. I click on the original Spanish version, much longer than mine, and for once make an effort to understand fully why Celestino is so passionate about those hotels.
I'm quickly buried in expired building permits, fudged technical reports and unauthorised planning approvals. It isn't so much that the developers and local councils are breaking the rules; they're ignoring them completely. I'm not at all surprised about the kickbacks. And it isn't as simple as pointing the finger at the mayors. All sorts of government officials are in on it as well. Many hands at play, and many hundreds of thousands of Euros passing through those hands. But how can they all get away with it?
I picture the times I've seen Celestino scoff at the mention of PIOT, the island's strategic plan meant to protect the environment, saying it's scarcely worth the paper it's written on because the island government has no power to enforce it except through the courts, and even then, all of the various political parties in governance have to endorse that enforcement. His voice is loud in my head. 'And that is hardly likely, is it Paula?' I hear him say. 'When they can't manage to keep a President for more than a year.' He's right here behind me, leaning over my shoulder, pointing at the screen. He always maintains that the courts are partly to blame. 'Would you be worried about committing a crime if you knew it would take years if not decades before your case reached a verdict? Bah! You wouldn't even bother to cover it up.' I can almost feel the weight of his body pressing against my back. I want to turn, to hug that presence, but instead I keep reading. It took five years for the Spanish courts to oblige some municipal mayors to send their dubious hotel permits to the island government and another five to nullify those permits. All up, ten years!
Even after nullification, those hotels still operate. 'Only, do you think they are required to pay any rates?' If the town halls are allowed to operate with impunity, the island government is restricted to act, and the Spanish courts are ineffectual, that only leaves the regional government of the Canary Islands. 'Las Palmas are useless. Worse than useless. They could step in, and they don't. They have the power to make sure PIOT is adhered to, but they won't. They can order the demolitions and they do nothing.' Now, in a fashion, I understand. It's rotten through and through, and while the same sort of rot is everywhere the world over, as universal as air, on an island the size of Lanzarote, a holiday destination coveted by the rich and famous and the ordinary tourist alike, it seems to stink all the more.
A Matter of Latitude Page 16
