SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  ‘My cell? Sure.’

  It seemed a reasonable enough request. I jotted the number of the cell phone I used for harmless personal chats on the back of a double-glazing representative’s card I found in my wallet.

  ‘And your address,’ he said smoothly, his face blank.

  Always security-minded, my first instinct was to refuse. My second instinct was to invent. My final instinct was to play it straight. After all, I wouldn’t be in my rented villa for long.

  So I added the address to the cell number, and hoped it would be enough for him. It was.

  All three of them waved me goodbye as I piloted the Aston around the fountain and across the sunny courtyard. But only Elena stayed on the doorstep until I passed between the gates and we were lost from sight to each other.

  Chapter Four

  The bar was in Malaga, south-west of the city centre, on the N340 Carretera de Cadiz. It was named La Palma de Oro – The Golden Palm, more suggestive of a ritzy night-club than a humble roadhouse. A shade noisy, and more than a shade run down. The owner’s accommodation was on the floor above, with an expanse of balcony and a die-for view of the Med, the whole caboodle badly in need of some TLC. But, Colin Baynes enthused, it had simply enormous potential. All the holiday traffic passed its front door, and it was already well-patronized by truckers of every nationality. Clean it up, put in some new furniture, paint it gaudy, and you wouldn’t recognise the place. To complete the transformation, erect some billboards on the N340, a kilometre in both directions to alert all and sundry travellers to its existence.

  It was big, that much you could say for it. Baynes came up with the idea of dividing in two the present bar/café set up, to create a family restaurant in one half, and generate more revenue.

  The owner of The Golden Palm, a Catalonian of sixty-odd who wanted to spend the sunset of his life in his home town of Tarragona, was prepared to ‘sacrifice the fruits of thirty years’ toil’ and accept a mere 300,000 euros, say US$270,000 for the freehold and the business combined. I said I would think about it, which visibly disappointed him, not to mention Baynes.

  Two afternoons later, I was still thinking about it. On the terrace of my rented villa, lulled by the crash of the waves against the rocks below the palm-lined garden. With my feet up on a sun lounger, my body cooled on the outside by an awning of many colours and holes, and on the inside by a steady supply of beers from the refrigerator. Was this truly the life I craved? Year-round sun, daily siestas, and the essence of ozone wafting over me. Perhaps the appeal lay only in its contrast to the years of violence and killing and being suspicious of anyone who showed too much interest in me.

  On the other side of the coin, I needed purpose, I needed contact with humans who weren’t either running from me or running after me. To vacillate too long would be to end up doing nothing. My old métier was defunct beyond revival and, in any case, had long held no appeal. Lacking other skills, I either bought a business or I drifted on a voyage to nowhere.

  I raised my glass and slowly drained it. As the last dregs trickled the length of the glass towards my mouth a blurred figure materialised in the round base. I lowered the glass and gaped. Then I removed my sunglasses and gaped harder.

  ‘Hola de neuvo, Señor Warner,’ my visitor said. Adding, in English, ‘I knocked but nobody came.’

  I backhanded a dribble of beer from the corner of my mouth and got to my feet.

  ‘Señorita … Irazola,’ I said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t hear your car.’

  ‘I rode,’ she said succinctly. She gestured with a riding crop towards a tall bay horse quietly grazing beyond my garden hedge.

  ‘All the way from your home?’

  She giggled becomingly. ‘I am visiting with friends near here.’

  ‘Well, er … it’s good to see you again. Can I get you some refreshment?’

  She was hot, her face flushed and sweaty, her red shirt dark under the armpits. Jodhpurs suited her, emphasised her tiny waist and the bulge of her hips.

  ‘You are drinking beer, I see. Beer will be fine. ‘

  Still too bemused to ponder what had prompted her visit and how she had tracked me here, I fetched a couple of cans of Kronenberg and a glass from the kitchen. When I returned she was standing gazing into the pool, slapping an elegant boot with her riding crop.

  ‘Your pool needs cleaning,’ she remarked; seeing that I was about to fill her glass, she said, ‘I will drink it from the can.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Like a true gentleman, I popped the can for her.

  ‘Salud!’ She lifted the can and drank in little gulps that made her throat ripple.

  Lowering the can, she smiled at me. Her teeth were good – even and strong looking, if on the large side, and when she smiled she was almost radiant. The incipient moustache was still an asset she would have been better off without.

  ‘You are asking yourself why I am here.’

  ‘Am I? Actually, I was wondering how you found me.’

  ‘You gave this address to my father, don’t you remember?’

  ‘I did?’ Then it came back to me. ‘You’re right, I did.’

  My thoughts were distracting me from intelligent conversation. Here I was with the loveliest girl I had met in many a month, behaving like a eunuch. Next thing we would be talking about the weather.

  ‘As you do not ask, I will tell you. I am here,’ she spoke very slowly as to a backward child, ‘because I wanted to see you again.’ She flicked her long fringe aside, grinned nervously. ‘Alone.’

  I nodded as if I had known all along. Which I had, I suppose.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, and slurped from my can. This seemed to relax her. She imbibed along with me, moved closer.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ I said, extending a hand towards the seats on the terrace.

  She shrugged. I had the idea that lying down was more her style. But she condescended to accept my invitation and we took a seat apiece, side by side, facing the dunes, the sea, and the darting sailboats that even in January were a daily presence.

  ‘It is very hot,’ she grumbled. It wasn’t, but I suspected her boiling point was lower than mine.

  To emphasise just how very hot it was, she unbuttoned the red shirt, peeled it off and tossed it away from her in a ball. Underneath she was wearing a black bra of some silky material trimmed with lace. She was in good shape to go with her nice shape. No midriff ripples of fat. Arms toned, and just the right amount of muscle and sinew. I speculated on how long before the bra joined the shirt.

  Pretending to take her brazen behaviour in my stride, as if it were routine for girls to start stripping off after five minutes in my presence, I asked if she fancied a swim. To cool off.

  She glanced at the pool. ‘Later perhaps. I didn’t bring a swimsuit.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’ I said, just to prove I wasn’t averse to a bit of skinny dipping.

  ‘Not for me.’ The look she gave me was direct and full of Spanish promise. ‘Perhaps though you do not feel it is quite … hmm, proper?’

  ‘Your daddy might not approve.’

  A toss of her lovely head dealt with daddy’s approval.

  She picked up the riding crop from the floor beside her chair. She used it to smack the palm of her hand.

  ‘How would you like to use this on me?’

  If the mini-striptease had caught me on the hop, the invitation to a spot of SM left me momentarily stuck for a response. Not that she didn’t deserve a good spanking.

  The faint brown stripes across her exposed rib cage that I had noticed when she unloaded the shirt now told a story.

  ‘Is that what made these marks?’

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

  Her breathing quickened and she nodded.

  ‘It was fan-tastic.’

  ‘Spoken like a true masochist.’

  ‘Masochist?’ She sat upright, frowning. ‘Ah, si … maso
quista. Yes, that is what I am.’

  Sadism in general and flagellation in particular had never attracted me as an adjunct to sexual pleasure. But, ever anxious to please, I was willing to let her persuade me.

  ‘Didn’t it hurt?’ I was still curious. From a purely technical aspect.

  She slid lower in the seat, stretching her arms. I noted that she didn’t shave her armpits either and the hair in that quarter stood out in damp spikes.

  ‘Of course it hurt. That’s not the point. No, I mean, that is the point. I like to be …’ Her near-black eyes fixed on mine. ‘We say dominado.’

  I thought back over the years of lovemaking with the few women I loved and the many women I merely used. Some had been inventive and uninhibited, others more restrained. Now and again I had seduced a woman with a penchant for bondage, but nothing wilder than that. Maybe, as Liza had once complained, I really was a bit of a dinosaur.

  ‘Is that what you’re … er, inviting me to do?’ I asked. ‘Dominate you? Punish you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The simplicity, the lack of emotion in that response took me aback. This girl was as far from being a shrinking violet as you could get. She pouted at me, eyes sparkling, breasts suddenly heaving. She was hot for it all right. She leaned forward so that her breasts swung salaciously against their silky restraint. The restraint survived to live another day, but I didn’t give much for its chances of a long life. ‘It is not for you, hey? You like your sex straight. No violence.’

  ‘Maybe I’m outmoded. I never thought so until now. Maybe I should read some books …’

  ‘Try the Internet. It’s full of ideas.’

  ‘I’ve tried it. I wasn’t impressed.’ I stood up. ‘Let me get you another beer. Help you cool off.’

  Chirpy one minute, sullen the next. She flopped back in the seat, giving the bra some relief from the stresses and strains imposed on it.

  ‘All right.’

  I brought the beer, popped it. Her thanks were grudging. She hadn’t liked being sidetracked from the purpose of her visit.

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ I pointed out. ‘Will your horse be all right?’

  ‘He’s used to waiting for me, don’t worry. Look, André, are we going to do it or not?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Sure we are. Just not today.’

  Her face had lit up; now it reverted to mean and moody.

  Rejecting what was on offer was alien to my character. Age wasn’t a factor, and never had been. Could be she was simply too blatant. I prefer to make the running.

  ‘All right,’ she said, capitulating. ‘Some other time.’

  But she didn’t put the shirt back on. Still hopeful, then.

  She gave me maybe ten seconds respite before she asked, ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Was. A long time ago.’

  Somehow we progressed from sex to politics, a subject that she professed fascinated her. In particular the present unrest, with regions agitating for more autonomy. As we talked the glow of sunset faded from the walls, the light degenerated into gloom. I switched on the terrace lamps and heater. If Elena felt the drop in temperature it wasn’t enough to make her cover up.

  As she discoursed on Spanish history, economics, and literature, I began to develop a grudging respect for her intellect. She was well-informed on the ongoing Catalan rebellion, the wish of the province to gain autonomy if not actual independence.

  ‘They will succeed,’ she stated, with total certainty. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘If they can do it without violence, it would be some achievement. Not like the Basques.’

  She frowned at that, but made no comment.

  Talking politics had brought back memories of her father’s late night telephone conversation with a certain ‘Ricardo’.

  ‘Does your father have connections in Russia?’ I asked. I was still only making small talk; still merely curious.

  ‘Not as far as I know. What makes you ask?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ I kept it casual. ‘When I was staying with you I had to go to the john and overheard him talking on the phone.’

  She didn’t speak, just treated me to a puzzled look.

  I elaborated. ‘He mentioned Vladimir the Great. I wondered if he was referring to Putin.’

  ‘Putin!’ The puzzlement was replaced by consternation. ‘You mean the Russian president?’

  ‘That’s just it, I’ve no idea. Vladimir is a common enough name. He also mentioned someone called de Cadalso – I think that was it.’

  Now she sat upright and really paid attention.

  ‘That’s our new Foreign Minister! He was at our house last week. You say my father was talking about him in connection with Putin?’

  ‘If it was Putin,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘That’s really strange. Papa isn’t into politics at all. In fact he despises politicians.’

  I gnawed at this but extracted no goodness from it. Irazola, army general, non-political, plus Foreign Minister, plus maybe Putin and another Russian called Lavov or Lavrov. My old MI6 instincts were titillated, no more than that.

  ‘Why are you interested in these people?’ Elena wanted to know. Before I could answer she stood up. ‘I want a cigarette.’

  ‘Sorry, honey, can’t help you.’

  ‘I have some in my shirt pocket.’

  She found her shirt crumpled up behind the chair. The packet of Marlboro in the breast pocket was equally crumpled but contained one last cigarette. She lit up with a slim lighter from the same source. Smoke drifted away towards the dunes. I drained the last dregs from my can.

  ‘What is your interest in these men?’ she asked again.

  ‘No interest at all,’ I answered glibly.

  Elena abruptly left off probing and returned to the subject that was so dear to her heart.

  ‘We don’t have to wait for another day, do we?’ It was a plea straight from the erogenous zones. ‘Let’s go to bed. You don’t need to whip me, just fuck me.’ Her breasts gave a little quiver to provide encouragement.

  I felt myself weakening. I was only flesh, blood, and testosterone. Where was the harm? She was a consenting adult. Neither of us were committed elsewhere. Me, especially. Since Cassandra dumped me I had been living in no woman’s land.

  The buzz of a car engine in my driveway registered only on the fringes of my hearing. I didn’t connect it with a visitor to my house.

  Elena was standing over me now, still brandishing the riding crop.

  ‘Well?’

  That was as close as we came to carnal knowledge that day. From somewhere in the house, a voice, female and American by accent, enquired, ‘Is anybody home?’

  * * * * *

  In real life and close up Linda Pridham did full justice to her studio portrait. Not ravishing to the same extent as my Spanish visitor, but with the kind of understated good looks that endure, something that’s hard to capture in a still photo. Tallish, say five-six, her curves more subtle than Elena’s. Hair much as in the photo: dark brown, bobbed, slight kink, an unsensational frame for a classic oval face. Lavender-coloured eyes, deep-set, and surmounted by those eyebrows that zigzagged like a dog’s hind leg. One of them was raised inquisitorially.

  ‘Excuse me for just barging in,’ she said. ‘But it’s been a long drive and it was obvious somebody was home. Maybe you should check your cell phone sometimes if you don’t go for surprise visits?’

  ‘Maybe you have a point. I just have a rule not to answer calls when I see an “unknown number” message.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember. Not interrupting anything, I hope.’

  We were in my living room, and Elena was out of sight on the terrace, but Linda couldn’t have failed to notice the horse tethered by the hedge alongside the driveway.

  ‘Nothing that won’t keep,’ I said, throwing gallantry to the winds.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of that. ‘I guess we don’t need any introductions, but, anyway, I’m Li
nda Pridham.’ She stuck out a hand. No rings on the fingers, and no paint on the nails. She wasn’t wearing ear-rings either. A no-frills gal.

  ‘André Warner. Nice to meet up without your bodyguards present.’

  She laughed. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She was dressed in loose white slacks, the bottoms rolled up to calf height, and a sleeveless white blouse of some thin, opaque material. A striped sweatshirt was knotted about her neck. Casual but chic, with the self-assurance to carry it off.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ I indicated a chair.

  ‘No, I can’t stay long. Besides …’ The lavender eyes twinkled, ‘… one girl at a time is enough, surely.’

  ‘If the girl looked like you, I’d agree.’

  Now both eyebrows ascended. ‘You don’t waste time, do you? Hitting on me only two minutes after we meet.’

  ‘Forgive me. It was only meant as a compliment. No hidden agenda.’

  I crossed the kitchen and took a pack of coffee beans from the cupboard. A silence descended, as I dumped beans in the coffee mill.

  She ended it with an embarrassed cough.

  ‘To get to the reason for coming,’ she said, a defensive note creeping in. ‘I wanted to, like, apologise, I guess.’

  ‘Another apology? You don’t owe me one as far as I know.’ I started up the mill, let it grind away for the recommended thirty seconds.

  Linda Pridham looked exasperated. ‘What is it with you?’

  I switched off the mill. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I came to apologise, not to socialise. Well, I apologise, formally and herewith for my part in the treatment you received at the hands of Julio … General Irazola. Accepted or not?’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. He –’

  ‘Shit!’ she hissed though gritted teeth. ‘Don’t be so goddam forgiving.’

  She mooched about the corner that she had made her territory. I got on with making the coffee. Miss Pridham was as prickly as a prickly pear.

  ‘Julio told me,’ she said at last, ‘his goons gave you a hard time after they picked you up on account of me.’ She gave me a very direct look that also contained an appeal. ‘It was my goddam fault they did what they did. When you were chasing me, I used my cell phone to yell for Julio.’