Soon there are more people about: couples, young and old, women pushing strollers, old men sitting on the wall, passing the time of day. The atmosphere is unhurried and relaxed. Normally I would have enjoyed the pace, the anonymity, the casual way people go about their day. Instead, when I reach the end of the beach I turn back, not wanting to enter the bustle of the city, the sight of the Grand Hotel blocking access to the next stretch of promenade enough affront to my sensibilities.
I make it back to the Cabildo on time, noting with some cynicism that no expense has been spared by the Lanzarote government to create a sense of civic status; the concourse, a vast expanse of pale stone paving interspersed with formal plantings, has even been edged with a patterned paved footpath.
I cross the concourse and climb a flight of long and wide steps, entering a light and airy foyer that has an atrium in its centre and corridors going off in all directions. The floor is so highly polished, and the walls and the furnishings so rich with gold and chrome, the building seems to radiate its own light.
I approach a discrete reception area to my right and ask for the office of Lolita Pluma. The woman behind the desk requests my name.
'Paula Cray,' I say, suddenly wondering if the name 'Diaz' might raise an alarm.
A brief phone call and the woman directs me down a corridor to a door on the left.
The door opens on my knock, and a tall woman in her fifties, garbed in a cream trouser suit, welcomes me inside.
'Paula Cray, isn't it. I'm Lolita Pluma.'
She proffers her hand. I feel the cold of her skin, observing the friendly veneer of the wealthy and socially adept as Lolita withdraws her hand and steps aside.
The room is large and well lit. Shirley is seated before the desk with her ridiculously large handbag on her lap. She shifts and glances round.
'There you are,' she says.
'Am I late?'
'No, not late. But you'll never guess what's happened.'
A few paces into the room and I see the amusement in Shirley's face.
'Look.'
I follow her gaze. Lolita is standing beside a small artwork no bigger than a sheet of A4 paper. I can't stop the, 'Oh' that comes out of my mouth.
'You recognise this work?' Lolita says, quick off the mark.
'I don't know,' I say, cringing inwardly under the woman's scrutiny.
'I was telling Lolita about the one at Reedoetoe's over lunch. Then we came back here and found this.'
'When was it put here?'
'Well that's the strange part,' Lolita says. 'The previous painting disappeared last night.'
I picture straight away the third painting in Celestino's studio, a minimalist rendering of a piece of traditional pottery. A work befitting its owner.
'But this one only appeared while we were out to lunch.'
'Bizarre. Quite bizarre,' Shirley murmurs.
'Can I take a closer look?'
Lolita moves away, allowing me to study the painting. It's more complex than the others. Cut into a mountainside is a gated holiday resort. Outside the gates stand a gathering of locals with begging bowls. It's another oil painting in the same satirical style as the others. And there is Celestino's signature in the bottom corner. The message of the work is clear. A critical portrayal of an exclusive resort, one that doesn't benefit the locals who have been kicked off their land to make way for it.
But what did this have to do with Lolita Pluma and DRAT? They don't grant building permits.
I notice the spare chair and sit down heavily.
'Whatever's the matter?' Shirley says, reaching forward to put a hand on my arm.
And that is all it takes for my pent-up emotion to overwhelm me. Hot tears sting my face. Before I can stop myself, I blurt to the two women that the work is that of my husband.
Shirley looks astonished. 'It can't be. That isn't possible.'
'That's Celestino's signature,' I say, berating my thoughtless honesty even as I speak. 'I'd recognise it anywhere.'
'Celestino Cray?' Lolita looks puzzled. She turns to Shirley. 'I've never heard of a Celestino Cray. Who is he?'
'Not Cray,' Shirley says. 'She's referring to Celestino Diaz.'
'This is the work of Celestino Diaz?' Lolita says slowly. She frowns.
'And he's missing,' Shirley adds. 'That's why she's so upset.'
'Missing?'
'He's disappeared.' I shudder as I say it.
'How long has he been missing?'
'Five days.'
'Five days! Have you contacted the police?'
'I can't.'
'Why ever not?'
'I don't want to get him into trouble.'
'What's more important, some silly prank or your husband's life?'
'If it is a silly prank.'
'What else could it be?'
'We better go,' Shirley says quickly. 'We've taken up enough of your time.'
She stands abruptly and clasps her enormous bag to her chest.
'Pleased to meet you, Lolita,' I manage, drying my eyes with the back of my hand as I edge towards the door. 'I'm sorry about this.'
'Don't be sorry,' Lolita says with a sympathetic smile. 'You have done nothing wrong.'
Once out the door, Shirley hurries down the corridor, across the foyer and out of the building. I trail her across the concourse.
'I suppose the car is over there,' Shirley says, pointing in the direction of the roundabout.
'I couldn't find anywhere closer,' I say, cringing inwardly at the amount of lying I've been doing lately.
We walk in silence. When we reach my car, Shirley says, 'Where to?'
'Home, I thought.'
'So you don't fancy a jaunt around Arrecife.'
'Not particularly.'
'Very well then, You're the driver.' I press the remote and Shirley yanks open the passenger side door.
It isn't until we're heading up the slipway to the ring road that Shirley speaks her mind.
'You shouldn't have said anything. Not to Lolita.'
I react with alarm to the harsh tone of her voice.
'Because she might call the police?' I say, holding to the right-hand lane despite the belching fumes of the old truck up ahead.
'I doubt she'll do that. But it's one thing admitting your husband is missing and quite another that two of his paintings have turned up in inappropriate places.'
'Three.'
'Three?' Shirley almost shrieks.
I tell her about the painting in the foyer of the Yaiza town hall in the place of Benicod's portrait.
'Bentor would have gone nuts if he'd seen he'd been replaced,' Shirley says.
I emit a short laugh.
Shirley doesn't follow suit. 'Honestly, I don't know how you're putting up with him doing this. Going into hiding without warning to plant paintings about the place. These are all friends of mine, Paula. Old friends. You don't think he's trying to have another dig at me?'
'Shirley, I don't think…' but I let the sentence fade away. I still haven't asked Shirley how Bentor and Redoto know each other, but for now I've lost my chance.
We drive on in silence.
Máguez
The sun has yet to dip below the mountains when I grip the steering wheel with two hands and watch Shirley cross the street and enter her house. As I pull away from the kerb silvery bands of light stream through low cloud clinging to the peaks of the massif, dazzling me through my sunglasses. Minutes later I come to a crunching stop on my parent's gravel drive and release my seatbelt, pausing before I open the door for my heartbeat to slow to normal.
I force my mind on the present, on my shoes crunching on the picón, the stillness of the air now the wind has dropped. The silence wraps around me, intense, timeless, benevolent.
I survey the surroundings, taking in the rise and fall of the massif, the bumps, creases and folds. This valley with its barren rim of mountains and hills cradling the fertile soils that are still farmed here and there with loving care is closer to
paradise than anywhere I can imagine. Even as the harrowing situation of the last week holds me in its grip, I can still take time to appreciate my surroundings. Even as the larger part of me remains wracked with worry and confusion. As though the contrast between my inner turmoil and the stillness of the land causes some part of me to reach out for the solace it offers.
As the island yields to the demands of a tourist economy, up here the traditional and timeless ways continue; the farmer next door still weeds his small plot of land with a scythe. His family still plant their neat rows of maize and potatoes and onions by hand, one by one. And while much of the most inaccessible terraces have long been abandoned, the farmers out at Guinate still farm right to the cliff edge. These farmers seem to me now symbolic of the tenacity of the human will to survive, to push necessity to the brink of what is possible.
Fernando is wrong; his take on scenery betrays an artist crippled by a lack of empathy. One uncharitable thought and I can't restrain my analytical thinking. I consider the south of the island, where much of the land is untended or not tillable. Where the land is fertile and suitable for grapes agribusiness has taken over many of the bodegas, with vast sums invested in irrigation and streamlined styles of planting. I consider those areas where the lack of small-scale farming has reached such a crisis that in a bid to draw the locals back to the land the Cabildo are giving away large plots with access to water.
I mentioned the land giveaway to Celestino one time and he scoffed. 'They'll never get the young back on the land.' Maybe he's right. Maybe in the future the land will be tended not by locals but by immigrant British and German back-to-earthers with a passion for dry-land farming and a tolerance of ferocious wind.
I let out a long breath of air and go inside.
The living room is neat and tidy, evidence of Gloria's presence erased by Angela's fastidiousness, the dining table already laid for dinner. The air is infused with the rich smell of roasting pork. I detect her moving about in the kitchen. Following the sound of the television, I tiptoe down the room, entering the second living area given over to visual entertainment. Gloria is sitting upright on a sofa, her eyes glued to the screen. She doesn't acknowledge my presence. The placid way she sits, legs outstretched and hands upturned in her lap, belies her passionate nature. Gloria must be wearing out her grandparents. I vow to leave her with them for only one more day. Just one more day. After that, I think grimly, I'll have to cope as a single parent.
I walk away without disturbing her and go through to the kitchen.
'Hi, Mum.'
'You're back.' Her remark has a judgmental ring.
I see Bill out on the patio, seated in a lounger with his feet up, reading a newspaper. Opening the door, I note the drop in temperature but it is still warm enough to sit. On the table beside him is an empty whisky glass.
'Hello there,' he says cheerily when I enter his field of vision. He puts down his paper and I draw up a chair.
'Time for the day's report,' he says with unsurprising relish. 'Did you track down Fernando?'
'He works at the museum of contemporary art.'
'At the old fort, down by the docks?'
'We had lunch there.'
'I had no idea the place had a restaurant.'
'It's tucked away,' I say, thinking back to the black tablecloths and whispered conversations. 'I did discover he's in the clear. He's lost his driver's licence. He's been getting around on buses all week.'
'That's something, I suppose.'
'Although it doesn't mean he didn't do it. Just that it would have been awfully hard.'
'And farfetched. What would he hope to gain?'
'Maybe nothing. Except the satisfaction of humiliating Celestino.'
'But nobody knows the paintings are his.'
I wince privately.
'Unless Fernando's planning a great reveal,' he says reflectively.
'Possibly. But I expect he's too late.'
'I don't follow.'
I self-censor, not ready to confide my terrible divulgence. 'A third painting has turned up,' I say instead.
'A third!'
'In Lolita Pluma's office at the Cabildo.'
'What were you doing dancing with the enemy?'
'The enemy? She works for DRAT.'
'I know. She's the director, recently appointed. She's a businesswoman with quite a history. Married into one of the island's wealthy families. They say she's as mucky as they come.'
'Who says?'
He looks evasive. 'So far, no allegations have stuck.'
I observe him, the look of triumphant satisfaction on his face. 'How do you know all this?'
'Her name came up in proceedings.'
'The illegal hotels,' I murmur.
He reaches for his glass before realising he's finished the contents and sits back with a soft grunt.
'Dad,' I say with impatience. 'Do you want to hear what happened?'
'All ears.'
'Shirley invited me to go in with her to Arrecife.'
'Nice of her.'
'But then her car wouldn't start so she asked me to run her in.'
'I thought she had a Maserati.'
'Dad,' I say sharply, wondering how many times that whisky glass has received a refill.
'All right. Go on.'
'She had a coffee date with Lolita.'
'Did she?' he says slowly.
'I was going in any way, to speak with Fernando. I collected her afterwards at Lolita's office. That's when I saw the painting.'
I think back to Shirley's foul mood in the car on the way home. The way she marched off without so much as a thank you when I pulled up in our street.
'Whoever is doing this sure does get around,' Bill says.
'The painting was a bit more obvious though. A newly built resort cut into the mountainside and, in the foreground, villagers with begging bowls standing outside the gates.'
Bill chuckles.
'It isn't funny.'
'No. But still.' He pauses. 'Three paintings, three locations, three people.'
'There has to be a connection.'
'A restaurant, a town hall, and an office in the Cabildo.'
'Hmm.'
'Solar power crucifixes on a beach, a money spewing volcano and a gated resort impoverishing the people. I think I need to write this down.' Bill gets up and heads inside, returning moments later with Gloria's drawing pad and a fat red marker.
'So, the crucifixes were in the restaurant, the volcano in Yaiza and the resort at the Cabildo.'
He draws a rough sketch of the paintings and labels them by location.
'And the three victims of this apparent crime: Bentor Benicod, Lolita Pluma and who was the other one?'
'Redoto.'
'Redoto who?'
'I'm not sure. Pedro said he would have to be Redoto Redoto, but I only have his word for that.'
'And he is?'
'Pedro didn't say. But by the tone of his voice I'm surprised you haven't come across him.'
'I'm still very much in the learner's seat when it comes to this island's corruption history.'
Somehow, I doubt it.
'We should probably double check. May I?'
I retrieve his laptop from his office. When I open the lid and stroke the mouse pad the screen lights up and there's his browser with its ten open tabs, all with the words 'corruption' or 'Caso Unión' and the like, in English and also in Spanish. His thoroughness is impressive, yet I'm concerned all at once that he's feeding something of an obsession.
I search listings for Redoto's El Viento del Mar restaurant, but can't find any mention of the owner. I trawl through a raft of websites, phone listings, business listings—nothing.
'Let's leave him for now and focus on the other two,' I say.
We both pour over Bill's mind map.
'What have we got?' he says.
'Just another corrupt property deal.'
'Involving Redoto.'
'Maybe he's fronting the cash.'
>
'Won't just be him.' Bill folds his hands over his stomach, knitting his fingers and pressing together his thumbs. 'You won't have heard the latest,' he says, and before I have a chance to interrupt he launches into a tirade about the Stratvs bodega. I've heard it all before. A local tycoon developed the site without the necessary permissions, tunnelling into the side of a volcano underneath an existing bodega. The ensuing scandal forced the bodega's closure, much to the disappointment of many a tour operator.
'That fox of a magnate now claims the place is infested with rats and he needs access for pest control. I ask you! I hope the authorities don't fall for that one. He's probably got a stash of cash hidden down there.'
'Dad.'
'Might not be all his. Maybe he needs it to pay off the big boys. You know that hotel of his, Princess Yaiza, is owned by a consortium? I bet the Italians are in on it.'
'The Italians?'
'Mafia, Paula. Our friend doesn't know who he's messing with. Or maybe he does. Those Mafioso types are just using him to serve their own agenda. Lanzarote has a big problem with international capital. Did you know private jets arrive here every day?'
'Dad.'
'Who are these people? I ask you! Holding secret meetings in luxury villas, cruising around the island in convoys of luxury cars with tinted windows. There's huge money pouring into this place and no one knows where it's coming from. And what's to be done when it all goes on behind the scenes with government approval, one way or another.'
He stops to inspect his glass a second time, and finding it empty he makes to stand.
'Dad, there's something else.'
'What is it?' he says, sitting back with a frown.
'The three paintings that were replaced have turned up in Celestino's studio.'
He doesn't reply for a few moments. I wait for the news to sink into his whisky-fogged brain.
'They must have gained access to the mill house,' I say. 'I haven't seen any sign of a forced entry.'
'Isn't the building for sale?'
'It is.'
'Then just about anyone could have got in there on the pretext of wanting to view it.'
'And switched three paintings in the attentive company of an estate agent?'
'Well someone definitely has.'
'And I don't think it's Celestino. Twice I've smelled scent when I've walked in.'
A Matter of Latitude Page 21
