by JJ Marsh
Of course. Anyone returning from the city would come up the street that way, passing the Mercedes first. Simply due to her erroneous sense of direction, Beatrice had come the other way. She started to retreat, pausing to check she had not attracted attention. The pair of thugs stood smoking and waiting, keeping their attention on Jaime’s building, talking to the occupants of the car. Beatrice turned the corner and started to speed-walk while dialling Ana’s number. Straight to voicemail. The clock said eleven-fifty. They were probably already at the church. She left a message and looked around, wondering what to do next. Alone in a city where she knew no one.
Almost no one.
The napkin was a little worse for wear from being stuffed at the bottom of her handbag, but the number was legible. Beatrice kept walking as she dialled.
“Hello, is that Kev? This is Beatrice, the clumsy woman you met on the wine tour. Just wondering what you’re up to today? Do you happen to have any plans for lunch?”
The Artium was an inspired idea. Cool, quiet and displaying so much of interest on the walls, Beatrice’s face barely attracted a second glance. She pottered around for over an hour before the lads arrived, and had only seen a fraction of the vast collection. Yet one thing had already made an impression. The glaring gap between 1936 and 1940. It wasn’t the only glaring gap. Her knowledge of the Spanish Civil War was gleaned from writers such as Laurie Lee and Jessica Mitford. The Artium’s extensive library would be able to set her straight, but Beatrice hesitated.
Past experience had taught her the danger of comprehending history. Knowledge with the aim of learning lessons was all well and good, but exploring a tragic period in a nation’s past, coupled with excessive empathy, could be devastating. One of her worst black holes since ‘the incident’ had occurred after visiting the Umschlagplatz in Warsaw. All those first names carved onto a white wall, representing 300,000 individuals transported from that very platform to the Treblinka gas chambers. The horror and enormity of scale penetrated her bones. She was unable to speak for three days, while Matthew paced corridors, called doctors and tried everything to stop her tears.
No, not the library. Because history is more than dates and artefacts. History is human. Instead, she chose to explore the gift shop, a place bright and lively enough to distract her from the welling blackness inside. She bought presents for both Matthew’s daughters, for Adrian and for herself, but nothing seemed exactly right for Matthew. So just before two o’clock, she paid and left the shop, with a vague sense of guilt, as if she’d forgotten something. Flashbacks, gloom in beautiful experiences, self-flagellation … the patterns were familiar. A mood swing now was the last thing she needed. The sight of three strapping chaps standing underneath the enormous chandelier made of lightbulbs gave her a fillip.
“Hello Kev, Jase. Hello, Tyler. It’s very good of you to come and meet me at such short notice.”
Kev gave her a broad smile. “All right, Beatrice? Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, we wondered how you were getting on,” added Jase.
“Bit worried old Aguirre might have kidnapped you,” Tyler grinned.
Beatrice looked at each of them in turn. “It’s lovely to see you all. And even better, not one of you has winced or gasped or shown any kind of reaction to the mess I’ve made of my face.”
Kev shrugged. “We’ve seen a lot worse than that. Right, where’s this restaurant?”
A strange sense of disconnect came over Beatrice as they got experimental with the menu, encouraged each other to taste their dishes and laughed at Tyler’s anecdotes. The three men appeared completely relaxed, with not a hint of awkwardness towards her, but she could find out precious little about their profession. Each time she asked a direct question, one of them would gently lead the conversation elsewhere. So far, she had established that they were stationed in Afghanistan, they’d met while on training and they all came from the Manchester area.
“And your fiancée, Tyler? Is she a Mancunian?”
“Oooh, no. Good job she can’t hear you. She’s from Birkenhead. It’ll take her years to get over the shame of marrying a squaddie from Stockport.”
“But what happens after you get married? She won’t go with you to Afghanistan, surely?” Beatrice asked.
“No, no. But after this tour of duty, I’ll get stationed somewhere else, most like. Don’t mind where so long as it has smaller insects. Hey, Jase. Tell Beatrice about that scorpion you found.”
And once again, the conversation carried her away. She didn’t resist. The waiter cleared their plates and Beatrice expressed her compliments on the garlic soup. Since arriving in Spain, she had dined exquisitely everywhere she went and collected enough recipe ideas to last her months. Jase and Tyler excused themselves to have a cigarette outside, while Kev and Beatrice ordered coffees.
Beatrice tried another, blander query. “How much longer are you staying in Vitoria? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Kev nodded, as if considering the question with care. “We’re off to Bilbao on Saturday to meet Tyler’s crowd for a weekend of mayhem. Listen, Beatrice, don’t get us wrong; it’s not like we’re being evasive. Well, I s’pose we are, but not to be rude or owt. It’s not easy to get people to understand, but we’re on active duty. We’re part of a peacekeeping force in the most dangerous country in the world. The past isn’t pretty, and God knows what the future holds, so we’d rather just talk about the here and now. Immediate plans, that’s about as far as we can go. Might not make much sense to you, but for us, that’s the way it is.”
Beatrice gazed at him, noticing for the first time how his eyes seemed much older than the rest of his face.
“As a matter of fact, it does. To me, it makes perfect sense.”
Chapter 21
The usual frisson rippled across the crowd as Aguirre and Marisol descended the steps to the ballroom. The huge French windows opened onto the terrace, which today was covered by a marquee in primary colours. The sun playing on the canvas gave the scene a sense of vibrancy and warmth, the latter assisted by outdoor heaters. Beyond the marquee, circus performers threaded their way between a bouncy castle and a petting zoo, face painters and a puppet show. Most children seemed to be running from one attraction to the other, rarely standing still for long.
The majority of adults remained indoors, sipping champagne, observing one another and occasionally glancing towards the garden with indulgent smiles. The colours indoors were no less splendid. Like an exotic aviary, the plumage made up of vibrant dresses and designer suits. Aguirre affected not to notice the covert glances and the overt stares as he took in the room, nodding at acquaintances, smiling at friends and ignoring his mistress entirely. Marisol had an unerring sense of which women caught his attention, so he had learnt not even to make eye contact. Nevertheless, his Polish beauty’s platinum hair refracted light in his peripheral vision, along with chandeliers, diamonds and envious eyes.
Paz turned to look over a bare shoulder, waving her fingers in a half-greeting, half-beckon. She and Angel were talking to the handsome young CEO of Tortuga Construction, Simon Vasconcellos. A clever move, as Aguirre had him on the shortlist for potential partners for Luz. Of whom there was no sign.
Kisses and handshakes exchanged, small talk performed and Aguirre was already bored.
“And your sister?” he asked Paz, scanning the room with impunity and resting his gaze on Klaudyna, who was laughing at some frivolity. She held his gaze for a second, before focusing once more on her companions.
Paz shrugged, without breaking the flow of her monologue to her mother, a speech so familiar Aguirre could have delivered it himself. Immigrants – the scourge of Spain. Angel answered in her stead, apparently relieved to have an excuse not to listen.
“Luz isn’t feeling so good. Inez has gone up to see her.”
Aguirre frowned. “She’s sick?”
“I doubt it. More like chronic shyness,” Paz interrupted and immediately returned to her theme. “Which in tur
n leads to social unrest and a destabilising of the whole country merely for the sake of a minaret!”
The construction magnate’s eyes were glazing over. Marisol moved with grace and speed.
“Paz, my darling, how many times must I tell you that politics interests no one but politicians? It’s a good job my other daughters are less opinionated. Señor Vasconcellos, I hear you are an art lover. Did you see the piece in the hall? We picked it up at auction and I find it so intriguing. It’s through here. I’d love to hear an expert’s opinion.”
Aguirre watched his wife do what she did best and congratulated himself on his excellent judgement in marrying her. More beautiful candidates had scored poorly in the social arena, sexier possibilities had unimpressive backgrounds. Marisol, average-looking at best, beat them all with her blend of charm, contacts and determination. And for the losers, Aguirre was generous with his consolation prizes.
A silver shift and blonde hair shimmered past, a magnet for attention. Aguirre directed his eyes at Angel.
“Any news on the German supermarket contract?”
“I think,” Angel glanced at his sister-in-law, “we’ve been banned from talking shop. Today is all about Ramón. Inez and Paz insist.”
“You see, Angel, another classic example of how you are failing as a husband. A woman never tells me what I can and cannot discuss in my own home.”
Angel’s posture gave everything away. He recoiled, feigned amusement and attempted to hide his blush. Such a stupid man. The arrival of Guido, his other son-in-law, diverted his attention.
“Since when is pata negra an ‘amuse-bouche’? This catering company is run by a pretentious goat’s arse! Where did you find these people, Arturo?’
An equally stupid man. Proud of his oafish disrespect and ingratitude, assuming his nationalistic hubris will mitigate any offence. A baboon. But at least this baboon wasn’t firing blanks.
Aguirre rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it, Guido. Your mother-in-law attended some charity do and came back singing the caterer’s praises. I decided to give them a try. Pretentious, indeed, but I have to say she was right about the quality. After all, we wouldn’t want that bunch of cowboys who did your garden party, would we?”
And balance restored.
Across the lawn ran a gaudy troop of small boys, yelling at the top of their lungs. Basajaun was right in the middle, his features obscured by markings. Face paint, but at this distance, Luz had no idea what he was supposed to be. She smiled at their noisy enthusiasm, at the balloons, the stilt-walkers and the bubble-machine and wished she could join them. Just take off this dress, clean her face, drag on her jeans and run and laugh and play until she was exhausted.
She should join the party. She looked exactly as she’d hoped. Classy, groomed and a little bit sexy. But if he wasn’t there to see her, what was the point? She tugged at the Cartier diamonds in her earlobe. Today, she was a show pony, with no other purpose than to be admired and offered up to whichever poor devil her father had chosen. For a second, Luz considered her potential suitor’s lack of freedom. For as an Aguirre-in-law, his hands would forever be manipulated by invisible strings. In many ways, Tunçay was lucky. She should go.
A knock at the door made her start and snatch up her lipstick as an excuse.
“Come in. Almost ready.”
It was not, as expected, her mother, impatient and shrewish, but her oldest sister.
“Hi Inez. Sorry, my make-up took ages. I’m just on my way.”
Inez closed the door. “Relax, I’m not on sheepdog duty. I just fancied a few minutes peace. Talking of which, guess who’s on the warpath again. Ranting to Vasconcellos about Spain’s loss of identity to Islam, blah, blah, bloody blah.”
“She should shut her mouth. She has no idea what she’s talking about.” Luz blushed, aware her vehemence might arouse suspicion.
Inez didn’t notice, picking up pieces from Luz’s jewellery box and placing them against her neck. “I know. He’s quite a looker, actually. Tall, big brown eyes and dirty blond hair.”
“Vasconcellos? Bland. Looks like a catalogue model. I suppose he’s the recipient of my batted lashes today?”
“Yep. But you might get off lightly. Mama will be watching Papí and he’ll be watching his Polish slut.”
“He’s lining up a new mistress? What happened to the Brazilian model?”
“Luz, you are so out of touch. He’s been banging Klaudyna Kulka ever since our garden party in June. Is that dress new? It suits you. Flattering up top.”
“Thanks. Yours is fabulous. I love all the pleats.”
Inez sat on the bed, her eyes sly. “Yes, I’m hoping the pleats come in useful, in fact.”
Abandoning all pretence at make-up, Luz turned to her sister. She’d seen that expression of cunning triumph before.
“What is it? Tell me.”
A smile spreading across her face, Inez reached into her Hermès handbag and brought out a plastic bag. She unwrapped something from the tissue paper and waved it in a figure of eight in front of Luz.
A jolt of delight hit Luz as she realised what she was seeing. “Oh my God, are you pregnant?” she whispered.
Inez shrugged. “Nothing’s certain till I’ve seen the doctor, but the test says yes.”
Luz jumped to her feet and hugged her. “I’m so happy for you! You and Angel, I mean, you’ve waited so long. And I’m going to be an auntie again. Oh, make it a girl, will you? Paz is having another boy ...”
“That doesn’t surprise me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Paz was a man.”
Luz laughed, a little shocked. “So you must give me a little niece, so I can buy her beautiful things and play princesses.”
Inez laughed and squeezed her sister’s arms. “I’ll try. Now listen. No one knows, not even Angel. I want confirmation before I tell anyone. And try and keep Mama away from me. She’s stressed as hell at the moment, but I swear she can smell when something’s going on. I don’t want her to guess, I want to surprise her and Papí. I can’t wait to see their faces.”
“And Angel’s!”
Inez took Luz’s place in front of the mirror and tilted her head left and right. “Yes, you’re right. I guess it will come as a bit of a surprise to Angel. Listen, they’ll ring the gong in about five minutes. We should get down there. I’ll go first and keep your Vasconcellos entertained till you arrive. He’ll need rescuing from Paz by now.”
She slipped out the door and blew a kiss.
Luz took one last look in the mirror then decided she didn’t care. He could like what he saw or not. It made no difference. She had no interest in him and would tell him so.
Aguirre worked the room, expressing admiration and pleasure everywhere he went, but kept Klaudyna and Marisol in his peripheral vision. His impatience at his youngest daughter’s absence grew along with his geniality. He glanced at his watch and across at his wife. Eyes as bright as a lighthouse, Marisol picked up Aguirre’s intentions, excused herself and ascended the stairs. When the housekeeper appeared at his elbow to ask if she should sound the lunch gong, he hesitated, but then spotted Luz skulking along the wall in the direction of the garden. He instructed Carmina to wait fifteen more minutes. The dress Luz wore was spectacular, undoubtedly chosen by Marisol, but the guilty look and withdrawn posture showed it at its worst. He moved as fast as his status allowed, kept his focus on her and broke into a huge smile as he cut off her escape.
“My beautiful little girl!” he boomed, attracting attention from every corner. “No, no longer a little girl, an elegant woman. Look at me!”
“Papí,” she moved to kiss his cheeks, partly to hide her embarrassment, he noticed.
Aguirre turned to the nearest party; a judge and two executives from the TV station who cast approving looks at his daughter. On cue, the producer nodded. “They grow so fast, don’t they? She’ll be breaking hearts soon, I’ll bet.”
Aguirre acknowledged the compliment with a modest bow of his head.
&nb
sp; “Come, my little jewel. There’s someone I want you to meet.” His hand firmly on his daughter’s elbow, he smiled at the ingratiating faces.
“Papí, I thought I’d find Ramón first. I haven’t said ...”
He dropped his voice. “You should have thought of that earlier. There’s only quarter of an hour before the gong. Didn’t you see what time it is? And I’d like you to escort Señor Vasconcellos to the buffet. Your duties are firstly to our guests.”
He steered her back in the direction of their group. Luz pulled her arm from her father’s grasp but continued walking in the right direction. No more than Aguirre expected. Had it been Inez, a full-blown row could easily have erupted. But Luz was gentler, more malleable and always did as she was told.
According to family tradition, Marisol would escort the most senior male figure, today a French count in his eighties, while Aguirre charmed one of the influential ladies. His daughters had instructions to target some useful contact or other and the rest could fend for themselves. He expected nothing of his sons-in-law. Angel was positively dangerous when he opened his weak mouth. Guido, slow-witted and dull, would find someone with whom he could argue football. Perhaps his third son-in-law might break the pattern by being rich, well-connected and intelligent. Aguirre waved Vasconcellos over.
“Simon, let me introduce my daughter, Luz. The jewel in our family crown. She lives up to her name, a very bright girl. Bright and beautiful.”
