Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  They chatted a few more minutes about other matters and then ended the call. Burke went out onto the balcony and watched people walking along the promenade and going to the beach. It was going to be another hectic day.

  Burke felt more alone than before.

  He decided to keep himself occupied and so he pulled out the information sheets about the invitees to the evening soirée at the castle. He read through the names and studied the faces. Then he repeated the task. Slowly, he started to remember some of the people, but it wasn’t easy. If anything, his memory was worse.

  The group attending the evening party totaled about 200 and included some powerful people indeed. Besides local politicos, there were CEOs of large companies, representatives of major arts and entertainment groups, and others whose names suggested they derived from long-ago royalty. Burke had doubts how he’d mix with such an elite group.

  Then he wondered why he didn’t see the names of Maggie and Bryan Watson, the English couple he’d met over breakfast. They had said they’d be attending. And then Burke spotted an item at the bottom of the final sheet with the type in smaller point size. It said, “Special guests from the G and M Travel Group will also be in attendance.” That had to mean the Watsons and some others, Burke thought.

  Two hours later with his head swimming with names, faces and facts, Burke put aside his homework. He needed a release and decided a short bike ride would do the trick. He’d just ride around the area for a while, stretch his legs and refresh his brain.

  Twenty minutes later, feeling the warm sun on his face, Burke starting pedaling east. He had to be alert with tourists flocking into the city and gawking at the sights without paying much attention to the road. Soon he was on a country lane going north.

  He rode past some aging farmhouses, crossed a railway bridge and then cycled over a highway overpass. He glanced over his shoulder as the road rose slightly and saw Peῆiscola starting to stretch out below him. The road dipped under an old stone bridge, probably built 150 years before, and took a sharp turn upward. Almost immediately, Burke found himself cycling by fields of olive trees. The road was surprisingly smooth and there was no traffic. It was so peaceful. And beautiful.

  The climb continued to twist and turn, going through a national park and then heading sharply upward. The only signs of civilization, beside the road, were a handful of pastel-coloured farmhouses which dotted the hills.

  The route passed a hermitage and then ended. There were three private gravel roads, but Burke didn’t want to test his luck on either the bumpy surfaces or with the “No trespassing” signs. He turned and rode back to the hermitage, pedaling up a steep little hill to the old structure and its parking lot.

  Two trucks were there and Burke could hear voices inside. He leaned his bike against the outside of the building and went inside where four workers were talking about restoring a facing wall.

  “Do you need help?” one of the workers asked.

  “I’m just out for a ride and thought I’d stop here.”

  The man nodded and turned his attention back to the wall.

  The inside of the structure suggested it was in the middle of a major restoration project. There were ladders and tables topped with paint cans. Tarpaulins hung over one section of a side wall while some railing waited to be installed on the stairs going to a second level.

  Burke went back outside and walked to the south edge of the parking lot. The view was panoramic, encompassing all of Peῆíscola with its spectacular Templar castle, its neighbouring community of Benicarló and a lot more of the coast. It was a beautiful scene and Burke pulled out his smartphone and snapped a few photos. He also took some video. Coastal views didn’t get much better than this.

  “Are you here for the Vuelta?” came a voice from behind.

  Burke turned. It was the worker from before. His colleagues were with him.

  “I am” Burke replied.

  “Well, the weather will be good and you should enjoy it.”

  “Are you going to watch it?” Burke asked.

  “There’s a special concert scheduled for here in two weeks and there’s a lot of work to do before then. But we may take a few minutes to watch the race from here.”

  Burke imagined how this lofty perch would be an excellent spot to watch the race.

  Then Burke heard what he thought were a couple of gun shots echoing through a nearby valley. “Is it hunting season?”

  “It is for wild boars,” the worker said. “There’s no end-of-season for them.”

  Another gunshot echoed.

  “I expect some farmer spotted one on his land, grabbed his gun and tried his luck,” the worker said. “The farmers around here have a problem with them damaging their crops and trees.”

  “Do you often hear gun shots up here?”

  “Every couple of days.”

  “Do the bullets ever come close?”

  “No. The farmers are pretty careful when they’re blasting away.”

  “Have you seen boars up here?”

  “A few. They’re sometimes curious and sniff around, but disappear as soon as we show interest in them. They probably know how we Spaniards like boar on our dinner plate. Beyond the boars, the only other wildlife I’ve seen up here are rabbits and snakes. I don’t mind the bunnies, but the snakes give me the creeps.”

  Burke, who disliked snakes with an equal passion, nodded. He’d satisfied his curiosity. He wished them a good day, climbed aboard his bike and, with a farewell wave, he turned and started riding. He got back onto the paved road within a minute and was pleased to see there was still no traffic, at least for the next few hundred metres.

  Without any threat of oncoming vehicles, he hit the first downhill with extra pace. He glanced at his speedometer. 65 km/h.

  Then, despite the wind in his ears, he heard another gunshot.

  It sounded a lot closer.

  He sped up, hitting a straight downhill stretch at 75 km/h. He didn’t want to go any faster. Too dangerous.

  Then came another gunshot. He had a sense the bullet hadn’t been far from him, maybe coming within a few metres. Couldn’t the farmer see him? After all, he was cycling in an open area.

  Burke punched the pedals harder for a few seconds and charged around a bend and into a tree-covered section of the road. He pulled off to the side, stopped and looked around, his heart pounding. He saw no one and heard no more gun shots.

  Then came rustling in a nearby bush. A brown-and-white rabbit flew out, scampering away with speed. “Damn!” he said.

  Scared by a bunny.

  He stood with his bike for five minutes and listened. The only sounds were the wind and some crows. He got his breathing and heartbeat back to normal. Then he started riding again, looking around, trying to listen for anything unusual.

  After two kilometres, he was in another wooded area that featured trail signs. A dark blue passenger van headed his way, taking up most of the road, and he slowed. When he looked closely, he saw the driver was a woman in her 30s looking frazzled and then he spotted several young children in the back, yelling and waving their arms. No wonder she looked exasperated. The van pulled over to a parking area just in front of Burke and stopped. He figured they were going hiking. When he waved at the driver, she smiled like she was working on her last nerve.

  Once past the van, Burke picked up his pace. If he hurried, he could be back at his hotel in a half hour.

  He decided to hurry.

  Chapter 7

  Back in his hotel room, Burke removed a small bottle of red wine from the half-sized fridge in the corner of the room, opened it and took a couple of quick gulps right out of the bottle without letting the wine breathe.

  The gun shots on the return ride had unnerved him. He thought about reporting the incident to the police, but then put aside the idea. What could he tell them? That he heard gun shots in an area known for gun shots? That bullets had come his way but he didn’t know exac
tly where they’d struck?

  He took a couple of more sips. The wine wasn’t good, but it did the trick, warming his stomach and calming his nerves. He went out onto his balcony and sat. The town was still bustling with activity and yet Burke felt alone. And lonely. He missed Hélène. And his dog Plato. And his friends. And the village of Villenueve-Loubet where people didn’t get shot at.

  Burke was surprised at how some wayward gun shots fired by a careless farmer had affected him. The last few years had led him to believe he could deal with a lot of nasty surprises, but now he wasn’t so sure. After all, a rabbit had scared him.

  “I want to go home,” he said to no one.

  Two hours later, after finishing a second mini-bottle of wine and watching some TV, Burke showered and dressed in his best clothes. He checked himself in the mirror. He was more dull than stylish, but he couldn’t see a way to improve his appearance. He hoped Suzanne Godard wouldn’t be annoyed at what she saw.

  The evening affair wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour. Burke considered taking a taxi, but the trip was barely a kilometre. If he was fortunate enough to find a taxi, the driver probably wouldn’t be pleased to travel such a short distance. So, Burke decided to walk.

  Outside the hotel, Burke felt the full force of the early-evening heat and it was substantial, probably in the low 30s despite the time. He started walking and it didn’t take long before he was sweating, and so he stopped at a bench in the shade of a towering palm tree. Five minutes later, feeling dry, he started walking again. He went two blocks before he had to stop once more. When he examined himself, he saw a sweaty mess. He should have taken a taxi.

  The walk normally would have taken no more than 15 minutes, but Burke needed 30 to get to the Templar castle. He wondered if he’d be the only one who showed up looking like he’d stopped for a quick shower along the way.

  As it turned out, he was.

  Everyone else looked fresh and relaxed – and dry. They were also much better dressed, sporting the finest linen outfits, some eye-popping dresses aimed to attract maximum attention and enough jewelry to make Hollywood events look like peasant affairs. This was casual attire?

  Suzanne Godard appeared out of nowhere, standing in front of him at the entrance to the castle courtyard. “What have you been doing, Paul?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a mess. It looks like you went for a swim before you came here. I told you to look sharp for tonight.”

  “I walked here. I guess it wasn’t the best decision.”

  Godard leaned forward and sniffed him. “At least you don’t smell.”

  Then she poked him in the chest. “You’ve got your nametag on the wrong side,” she said, removing it from over his heart and placing it on the right side of his chest. “You need to get some focus here, Paul. This is an important event.”

  Burke apologized and added, “I thought this was going to be a casual evening.”

  “Casual in name only. As for us, we’re here to make sure these people enjoy themselves.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “You should understand these people want to talk to a real-life, world-class cyclist even if he’s retired. You’re a novelty. Play on that.”

  Burke started to open his mouth, but Godard jumped in, saying, “Tell them some stories, but keep it clean. And when you’re done a story, ask them about themselves. That’s probably their favourite topic anyway.”

  “OK, OK.”

  “Now get into the courtyard and be good,” Godard said.

  He watched as Godard pasted a smile on her face and took a few steps to greet a middle-aged couple just coming through the courtyard entrance. He watched her for a few moments, surprised that she could be charming. She also looked better than good in a tight-fitting, sleeveless white linen dress that highlighted her tan and, surprising to Burke, her athletic build. Before, whenever he had seen her, Godard had looked like someone who’d crawled out of bed and dressed herself in whatever had been closest. This new look was a shock. As was her apparent gift of the gab.

  Burke smiled at a few people hanging around the entrance. In turn, they nodded at him and he could see them trying to read his nametag. He kept smiling, hoping he didn’t look like an idiot, and kept walking. No one called back to him.

  Once he was fully into the courtyard, he looked around and was stunned by what he saw. He’d visited the castle several years earlier and the courtyard had been busy with tourists gawking at the towering walls and likely imagining what life in the castle must have been like centuries before. This time, though, the courtyard was decorated as if royalty was visiting. There were a dozen long tables placed near the walls, draped in white cloth, decorated with stunning floral displays, and offering flutes of cava and colourful tapas. Each table also had three servers dressed in black trousers and a white shirt ready to help anyone who couldn’t or wouldn’t serve themselves.

  In the middle of the courtyard were another 30 smaller tables, beautifully laid out as if in the best restaurant in the country. Ten persons could sit at each table.

  Burke wondered what would happen if a stiff wind came up, but then figured the towering walls would protect the setup.

  The organizers had also arranged for a stage in one corner. A band was obviously going to play because Burke could see guitars, keyboards and a drum set. Speakers were set up at the sides of the stage and the sound engineers were a dozen metres away, tucked under a small tarpaulin, going over specs on an enormous sound board.

  Finally, there were Christmas-style lights stretched out overhead and already twinkling. The entire scene was pure elegance. Burke thought the courtyard had come a long way from when the Templars had probably slaughtered their enemies in the very same spot.

  “Ah, Monsieur Burke, it is a pleasure to see you here.”

  Burke turned and saw a tall, thin man who was probably 70, smiling and coming at him with an outstretched hand. It was show time, and Burke gave this stranger his best smile and stuck out his hand. They shook and Burke felt the older man’s fingers wrap around his hand like tentacles of an octopus.

  “I am José Antonio López Velasco and I am pleased to meet you.”

  Burke was impressed the man spoke to him in flawless French with just the slightest Spanish accent. He was also surprised the man started off in French, not his native language.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Seῆor,” Burke said. “I’m surprised you know my name.”

  The older man smiled and waved a hand. “I’ve been a fan of cycling since before you were born and I continue to be in love with the sport. I have met some of my country’s greatest cyclists: Bahamontes, Indurain, Delgado, Jiménez, Gutiérrez, Contador, Valverde and, my personal favourite, Purito Rodriguez.”

  Burke, who wasn’t any historian of the sport, knew most of the names and had even raced against a few of them, usually riding well behind the Spaniards. He had liked Purito Rodriguez’s flair, but he had been most impressed by Miguel Indurain, the oversized cyclist who had won five Tour de France titles.

  “Well, Senor López, I’m still surprised you know me,” Burke said. “I was just a domestique. The riders you mentioned were the stars. I usually saw them only on TV when I watched the highlights after the race was over.”

  “Not so, not so,” the older man protested. “I saw you in several very important stages of the Tour de France and in other races.”

  Burke kept smiling. He had rarely ridden with the star cyclists and when he had, it had always ended with him blowing up and turning into a sorry mess of a man. A couple of times he had been sick on himself with the cameras filming the moment. Not the stuff of good-time memories.

  “You’re being kind,” Burke said.

  “And you’ve made a name for yourself in the south of France for your blogs and columns. You’re on television, too, aren’t you?”

  “I’m surprised you know so much about me.”

>   “I practise my French by watching French coverage of cycling. That brought me into contact with your work.”

  “Well, Seῆor López, your French is excellent,” Burke said. “And you don’t need to practise anymore.”

  The older man responded with a Gallic shrug and a smile. “That’s kind of you to say, but I’ll keep working on my French. It’s sort of a hobby with me.”

  Burke decided it was time to return the linguistic favour and he said in Spanish, “Are you here to watch the race, Seῆor López, or are you here as a sponsor?”

  “First, let me say your Spanish is perfect and you speak with a mild Valencia accent. As for why I’m here, I have a summer home in Benicarló just down the road and I have contributed to the local sponsorship of tomorrow’s stage.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “Well, the arrival of the Vuelta is good for a couple of my businesses. You see, I own a trucking company with offices across the country. We’re helping transfer some of the Vuelta’s equipment from stage to stage in this region. I’m also a partner in the catering company contracted to do these special events.”

  They chatted a few more minutes and Burke found himself enjoying the older man’s company. López was obviously intelligent, but he was also knowledgeable about the intricacies of cycling. In addition, he had a good sense of humour.

  And then Burke saw Suzanne Godard motioning for him to circulate. She wanted him to make his presence known to more than one person.

  “I see I must not monopolize any more of your time, Seῆor Burke,” the old man said, surprising Burke by noticing what Godard had indicated. “Maybe we can talk later or another time. I’d enjoy that.”

  “As would I, Seῆor López.”

  They shook hands and Burke turned and strolled to another area of the increasingly busy castle courtyard. He did a rough count and figured 150 people were already there with more coming every minute. He even spotted Maggie and Bryan Watson who waved back in return.