Clutching her bag, as a precaution against pickpockets, Julia threaded her way amongst the stalls. There were too many people in that part of the market, so she decided to go back to the steps and the balustrade overlooking the square and the market's main street, where people were milling about beneath endless rows" of awnings and plastic sheets.
She had an hour before meeting César again, in a small cafe on the square, between a shop selling nautical instruments and a second-hand clothes shop that specialised in army surplus. Below the balustrade, sitting on the edge of a stone fountain full of fruit peel and empty beer cans, a young man with long blond hair and a poncho was playing Andean melodies on a rudimentary flute. She listened to the music as she let her gaze drift over the market. After a while she went back down the steps and stopped at the shop window full of dolls. Some were clothed, others were naked; some were dressed in picturesque peasant costumes or complicatedly romantic outfits complete with gloves, hats and parasols. Some represented girls and others grown women. The features of some were crude, others were childish, ingenuous, perverse. Their arms and hands were frozen in diverse positions, as if surprised by the cold wind of all the time that had passed since their owners abandoned or sold them, or died. Girls who became women, thought Julia–some beautiful, some plain, who had loved or perhaps been loved–had once caressed those bodies made of rags, cardboard and porcelain. Those dolls had survived their owners. They were dumb, motionless witnesses whose imaginary retinas still retained images of scenes long since erased from the memories of the living: faded pictures sketched amongst mists of nostalgia, intimate moments of family life, children's songs, loving embraces, as well as tears and disappointments, dreams turned to ashes, decay and sadness, perhaps even to evil. There was something unbearably touching about that multitude of glass and porcelain eyes that stared at her unblinking, full of the Olympian knowledge that only time possesses, lifeless eyes embedded in pale wax or papier-mache faces, above dresses so darkened by time that the lace edgings looked dull and grubby. And then there was the hair, some combed and neat, some dishevelled, real hair–the thought made her shiver–that had belonged to real women. By a melancholy association of ideas, a fragment of a poem surfaced in her mind, one that she'd heard César recite long ago:
If they had kept all the hair
of all the women who have died ...
She found it hard to look away from the window, the glass of which reflected the heavy grey clouds darkening the city. And when she did turn round, ready to walk on, she saw Max, wearing a heavy navy blue jacket, his hair, as usual, tied back in a ponytail. He was looking down the steps as if fleeing from someone whose proximity troubled him.
"What a surprise!" he said, and gave her that handsome, wolfish smile that so enchanted Menchu. They exchanged a few trivial remarks about the unpleasant weather and the number of people at the market. He gave no explanation for his presence there, but Julia noticed that he seemed jumpy, slightly furtive. Perhaps he was expecting Menchu, since he mentioned that they'd arranged to meet near there, some complicated story about cheap frames which, once restored–Julia had often done it herself–could be used to set off canvases on display at the gallery.
Julia didn't like Max, and she attributed to this the discomfort she always felt with him. Quite apart from the nature of his relationship with her friend, there was something that displeased her, something she'd sensed the first moment they met. César, whose fine, feminine intuition was never wrong, used to say that, beautiful body aside, there was an indefinable, mean-spirited quality about Max that surfaced in his crooked smile and in the insolent way he looked at Julia. Max's gaze could never be held for long, but whenever Julia forgot it and then looked back at him again, she would find his gaze stubbornly fixed on her, crafty and watchful, evasive yet insistent. It wasn't one of those vague glances, like Paco Montegrifo's, that wander about before calmly returning to rest once more on the object or person claiming his attention; it was the kind of glance that turns into a stare when the person thinks no one is looking and grows shifty the moment he feels he's being observed. "It's the look of someone intent, at the very least, on stealing your wallet," César had said once about Menchu's lover. Julia had simply responded to César's spiteful remark with a disapproving frown, but she had to admit that he was absolutely right. '
There were other murky aspects to him. Julia knew that those glances contained something more than mere curiosity. Confident of his physical attraction, Max often behaved, in Menchu's absence or behind her back, in a fashion that was both calculated and suggestive. Any doubts she'd had about that had been dispelled during a party at Menchu's house, in the early hours of the morning. Conversation had been flagging, and her friend had left the room to get more ice. Leaning towards the low table where the drinks were, "Max had picked up Julia's glass and raised it to his lips. That would have meant little if he hadn't then replaced it on the table, looked at her, licked his lips and smiled with cynical regret that circumstances prevented him intruding further upon her person. Needless to say, Menchu was completely unaware of this, and Julia would have cut out her tongue rather than report something that would merely have sounded ridiculous when put into words. So she had adopted the only attitude she could with Max: an evident disdain on occasions when she found speaking to him unavoidable and a deliberate arm's-length chilliness whenever they met face to face without witnesses, as now, in the Rastro.
"I don't have to meet Menchu until later," he said, dangling before her that self-satisfied smile she so detested. "Do you fancy a drink?"
She looked at him hard then shook her head slowly, pointedly.
"I'm waiting for César."
Max knew full well that he was no favourite of César's.
"Pity," he murmured. "We don't often get the chance to meet like this. On our own, I mean."
Julia merely arched her eyebrows and looked around as if César were about to appear at any moment. Max followed the direction of her gaze and shrugged.
"I've arranged to meet Menchu over there in half an hour, by the statue of the soldier. If you want to, we could meet for a drink later on." He left a long meaningful pause before adding: "The four of us."
"I'll see what César says."
She watched him as he walked off into the crowd, his broad shoulders swaying, until he'd disappeared from view. As on other occasions, she was left with the uncomfortable feeling of having been unable just to let things be, as if, despite her rejection of his offer, Max had again managed to violate her inner self. She was irritated with herself, although she didn't know quite what she should have done. There were times, she thought, when she would give anything to be strong enough simply to punch Max in his handsome, self-satisfied stud's face.
She wandered amongst the stalls for about a quarter of an hour before going to the cafe. She tried to distract herself with the comings and goings about her, with the voices of the sellers and the people round the stalls, but to no avail. Once she'd forgotten Max, the painting, and Álvaro's death, the game of chess returned like an obsession, posing unanswerable questions. Perhaps the invisible player was also near at hand, in the crowd, watching her as he planned his next move. She looked about suspiciously and pressed her leather bag to her, the bag containing César's pistol. It was all terribly absurd, or perhaps it was the other way round, absurdly terrible.
The cafe had a wooden floor and old wrought-iron-and-marble tables. Julia ordered a cold drink and sat next to a misty window, trying not to think about anything, until César's blurred silhouette appeared in the street outside. She went out to meet him, in search of consolation, as seemed only fitting.
"You get lovelier by the minute," said César, affecting an admiring tone and standing ostentatiously in the middle of the street, with his hands on his hips. "How ever do you manage it, my dear?"
"Don't be silly," she said, taking his arm with a feeling of infinite relief. "It was only an hour ago that I left you."
"That's wh
at I mean, Princess." César lowered his voice as if he were whispering secrets. "You're the only woman I know capable of becoming more beautiful in the space of sixty minutes. If I knew how you did it, we could patent it. Really."
"You're an idiot."
"And you, my dear, are gorgeous."
They walked down the street towards Julia's car. Along the way, César brought her up to date on the success of the operation he'd just conducted: a Mater dolorosa which, to a fairly undiscerning buyer, could be safely attributed to Murillo and a Biedermeier writing desk signed and dated in 1832 by Virienichen, a bit battered but authentic, and nothing that a good cabinet-maker couldn't put to rights. Two genuine bargains acquired at a very reasonable price.
"Especially the writing desk, Princess." César was swinging his umbrella, delighted with the deal he'd made. "As you know, there's a certain social class, blessings be upon them, who cannot live without a bed that once belonged to Empress Eugénie or the desk where Talleyrand signed his perjuries. Well, now there's a new bourgeois class of parvenus who, in their attempts to emulate them, feel they simply have to have a Biedermeier as the supreme symbol of their triumph. They come to you and ask you straight out, without specifying whether they want a table or a desk; what they want is a Biedermeier whatever the cost and whatever it is. Some even believe blindly in the historical existence of poor Mr Biedermeier and are most surprised when they see that the piece of furniture is actually signed by someone else. First, they give me a disconcerted smile, then they nudge each other and immediately ask if I haven't got another Biedermeier, a real one." César sighed, no doubt deploring the difficult times in which he lived. "If it wasn't for their cheque-books, I can assure you that I'd be tempted to send a few of them chez les grecs."
"I seem to remember that on occasion that's exactly what you have done."
César sighed again, with a pained grimace.
"That's my daring side, my dear. Sometimes my character just gets the better of me; it's the scandalous old queen in me, I suppose. A bit like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Just as well hardly anyone these days speaks decent French."
They reached Julia's car, parked in an alley, just as she was telling him about her encounter with Max. The mere mention of the name was enough to make César frown.
"I'm only glad I didn't see him, the pimp," he remarked crossly. "Is he still making treacherous propositions?"
"Nothing serious. I suppose that deep down he's afraid Menchu would find out."
"That's where it would hurt the little rat. In the wallet." César walked round the car towards the passenger door. "Look at that! They've slapped a fine on us."
"They haven't, have they?"
"Oh, yes, they have. It's stuck under the windscreen wiper." Irritated, he banged the ground with his umbrella. "I don't believe it. Right in the middle of the Rastro and the police spend their time giving out fines instead of doing what they should be doing, arresting criminals and other riffraff. It's a disgrace!" He repeated it loudly, looking about him defiantly: "An absolute disgrace!"
Julia removed the empty aerosol can someone had placed on the bonnet of the car and picked up the piece of paper, which was in fact a small card, about the size of a visiting card. Then she stood utterly still, thunderstruck. The shock must have shown on her face, because César, alarmed, hurried round to her side.
"You've gone quite pale, my dear. What's wrong?"
When she spoke, she didn't recognise her own voice. She felt a terrible desire to run away to some warm, secure place where she could hide her head and close her eyes and feel safe.
"It isn't a fine, César."
She held out the card, and César uttered a word no one would expect to hear from him. Because there, in a now all too familiar format, someone had typed the sinisterly laconic characters:
Pa7 × Rb6
As she stood, stunned, she felt as if her head were spinning. The alley was deserted. The person nearest to it was a seller of religious images, who was sitting on a wicker chair on the corner, about twenty yards from them, watching the people walking past the merchandise she'd laid out on the ground.
"He was here, César. Don't you see? He was here."
She realised that there was fear in her words but not surprise. Now–and the realisation came in waves of infinite despair–she was not afraid of the unexpected, her fear had become a kind of gloomy sense of resignation, as if the mystery player and his close, threatening presence were becoming an irremediable curse under which she would have to live for the rest of her life. Always supposing, she thought with lucid pessimism, that she had much life left: to live.
Ashen, César was turning the card round and round. He could barely speak for indignation:
"The swine ... the blackguard."
Julia's thoughts were suddenly distracted from the card. What claimed her attention was the empty can she'd found on the bonnet. She picked it up, feeling, as she bent to do so, as though she were moving through the mists of a dream. But she was able to concentrate long enough on the label to understand what it was. She shook her head, puzzled, before showing it to César.
"What's that?" he asked.
"An aerosol for repairing flat tyres. You stick it in the valve and the tyre inflates. It's got a sort of white paste in it that repairs the puncture from inside."
"What's it doing here?"
"That's what I'd like to know."
They checked the tyres. There was nothing odd about the two on the left. Julia walked round the car and checked the two on the right, which also seemed fine. But just as she was about to drop the can on the ground, she noticed that the valve on the back tyre was missing its cap. In its place was a bubble of white paste.
"Someone's pumped up the tyre," said César, after staring at the empty container. "Perhaps it was punctured."
"It wasn't when we parked it," said Julia, and they looked at each other, full of dark presentiments.
"Don't get in," said César.
The seller of religious images had seen nothing. There were always a lot of people around and, besides, she was busy with her own affairs, she explained, laying out sacred hearts, statuettes of San Pancracio and sundry virgins. As for the alley, she wasn't sure. A couple of locals had been past in the last hour, possibly a few other people.
"Do you remember anyone in particular?" César had taken off his hat and was bending towards the seller, his overcoat over his shoulders and his umbrella under his arm. The image of a perfect gentleman, the woman must have thought.
"I don't think so." She wrapped her woollen shawl more tightly round her and frowned as if struggling to remember. "There was a lady, I think. And a couple of young men."
"Do you remember what they looked like?"
"Just young men, you know the type: leather jackets and jeans ..."
An absurd idea flitted across Julia's mind. The limits of the impossible had, after all, broadened considerably in the last few days.
"Did you see someone in a navy blue jacket? A man about thirty with his hair in a ponytail?"
The seller did not remember having seen Max. She'd noticed the woman, though, because she'd stopped for a moment as if she were going to buy something. She was blonde, middle-aged and well-dressed. But she couldn't imagine her breaking into a car; she wasn't the type. She was wearing a raincoat.
"And dark glasses?"
"Yes."
César looked at Julia gravely.
"It's not even sunny today," he said.
"I know."
"It could have been the same woman who delivered the documents." César paused and his eyes hardened. "Or Menchu."
"Don't be ridiculous."
César shook his head, glancing at the people walking past.
"No, you're right. But you yourself thought it might be Max."
"Max ... is different." Her face darkened as she looked down the street, as though Max or the blonde in the raincoat might still be around. What she saw froze the words on her lips and shook her w
ith the force of a blow. There was no woman answering the description, but amongst the awnings and the plastic sheeting of the stalls was a car, parked near the corner. A blue car.
From where she was standing, Julia couldn't tell if it was a Ford or not, but the jolt of emotion she felt propelled her into action. To César's surprise, she left the seller of religious images, walked a little way along the pavement and then, skirting a couple of stalls, stood staring over at the corner, on tiptoe in order to get a better look. It was a blue Ford, with smoked-glass windows. Thoughts crowded into her head. She couldn't see the numberplate, but there had been too many coincidences that morning: Max, Menchu, the card on the windscreen, the empty spray can, the woman in the raincoat and now the car that had become a key element in her nightmare. She was conscious that her hands were trembling and she thrust them into her pockets at the same moment she felt César's presence behind her.
"It's the car, César. Do you know what that means? Whoever it is, is inside."
César didn't say anything. He slowly took off his hat, perhaps thinking it inappropriate for whatever might happen next, and looked at Julia. She had never loved him so much as she did then, his lips pressed together, his chin up, his blue eyes narrowed and in them a rare glint of steel. The thin lines of his meticulously shaven face looked tense; his jaw muscles twitched. His eyes seemed to say that, man of impeccable manners with little inclination for violence he might be, but he was no coward. At least not where his princess was concerned.
"Wait for me here," he said.
"No. Let's go together. You and me." She looked at him tenderly. Once, when she was a child, she'd kissed him playfully on the mouth. At that moment she felt an impulse to do so again; but this wasn't a game they were playing now.
The Flanders Panel Page 21
