by P J Brooke
They both sang along with Manu Chao: ‘This world go crazy.’
‘Come on, Max. Let’s dance.’
Max felt Margarita take his hands. He swayed from side to side, but his feet failed him and he flopped on to a sofa.
‘You got one thing right, Max. You can’t dance. Best get those wet clothes off then.’
He felt his wet jeans being pulled down.
He raised his hands as if in protest, and then let them fall.
Chapter 15
It was still raining when Max woke up. He stared at the carved wooden ceiling. His head throbbed. His eyes refused to focus. He closed them again, and then tried opening them slowly. It wasn’t his pillow. There was a snore. He never snored.
What? He had no clothes on. No pyjamas. He put out a hand and encountered bare flesh. Warm and smooth. Silky. He shut his eyes again. Refocused. The room swam into view. A lovely big room, but hellish messy.
He sat up with a start. Christ, what had he done?
A black cropped head lay on the pillow next to him, almost hidden underneath the quilt. Max groaned. Abuela Paula was right – never drink too much. Bad for your asthma, she used to say. Not just asthma. The head on the pillow stirred, and two green eyes peeked up at him.
‘Buenos días, Maximiliano.’
Then a roguish smile appeared as a hand pulled down the quilt a little.
‘What time is it?’ asked Max. ‘I have to rush, got a meeting at nine, you know.’
‘You men always do.’
Max blushed.
‘No need to apologize. I had to do all the work.’
‘Do you have any paracetamol?’
‘In the bathroom cupboard.’
‘Thanks. I – I –’
‘Go on, rush off. You can get in touch later if you want. If not, it was nice to meet you, Maximiliano. Un poli … Who would have thought it?’
Max gulped down black coffee and hangover cure, and dressed as quickly as he could manage. He was already late for his meeting with Chávez, and there was no chance of going home to change.
‘I’ll phone you,’ he said lamely.
She laughed. ‘You should see your face. Women can take the initiative, you know.’
For once, Max was lost for words. It was still raining. His clothes were still damp; the seat of his jeans was muddy. His head throbbed. And he was horribly late. He ran down to Plaza Nueva and jumped into a taxi.
‘Policía Nacional, por favor.’
‘Reporting a murder, are you?’
The taxi stopped outside police headquarters. Max put his hand into his pocket. Christ. No money.
‘Wait here a minute.’ Max got out, and ran up the steps. Fortunately it was Pedro on desk duty.
‘Pedro, for the love of God, lend me ten euros. I’ve a taxi waiting outside.’
‘Por dios, Max, you look rough. Look like you crawled out of a brothel,’ said Pedro, handing over a ten-euro note.
Max ran back to the waiting taxi. ‘Here, keep the change.’
The lift was out of order so Max sprinted up the stairs, his head thumping with every step, and knocked on Felipe Chávez’s door. At least he was reporting to Chávez. Davila would have had a field day.
‘Come in, Max. Oh dear.’
Chávez surveyed the muddy jeans, lank hair and deathly pallor.
‘You really have gone native. Well, what have you got?’
Max managed to pull himself together, and gave a reasonably coherent account of the conference.
‘They are definitely planning something to catch us by surprise, sir. But it was decided at a closed session which I couldn’t get into.’
‘Well, they’ve already got permission to assemble in Plaza Nueva, and march along the Gran Vía, and down into the university campus at Plaza Albert Einstein. So you think they might change the route?’
‘Maybe. My source suggested the probability of a protest outside the Regional Council offices, next to the Jardines de Triunfo.’
‘That’s useful.’
‘Another thing, sir. The conference was full of anarchists and hard guys from out of town. Francisco Gómez put forward a resolution for a non-violent protest, but he was outvoted.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘The militants said they would react only in self-defence.’
‘That’s always ambiguous. You never know who starts what. So there could be trouble?’
‘Sí.’
‘Did you pick up anything on leaders, then?’
Max fished into the pocket of his mountain jacket and pulled out a sodden notebook. He eased the pages carefully apart.
‘I’ve got two names. David Costa and Alejandro Castro. They’re local, the Black Angel Anarchist group. But my source says that the real hard guys are out-of-towners, probably the Italian and Greek anarchists, but she doesn’t know them.’
Chávez raised an eyebrow. ‘She?’ He noted the names down. ‘These Black Angels and the other guys – will they be at the back of the demo or mixed in with the rest?’
‘I don’t know for a fact, sir. But I was told by a reliable source –’
‘The same she?’
‘Sí – that they expected the police to infiltrate the conference. So I guess the militant groups are going to be mixed in with the others.’
‘That could make life difficult for us.’
‘One other thing. I’m afraid I was robbed at the conference. I’ve lost my police ID card, my money and my credit cards.’
Chávez laughed. ‘Some cop. Robbed at a radicals’ conference. I ask you. Anything else happen to you? A bit of a hangover, by any chance?’
‘No. Nothing. There were some good speeches. Apparently we can expect a major financial crisis.’
‘Oh. More budget cuts for us again. You did well, Max. I suggest you go home and get some sleep.’
‘Did Roberto Belén pick up anything?’
‘Very little, unfortunately.’
‘Oh, one more thing, sir. Some of the people from the conference will be joining Francisco Gómez at the Procession of the Virgin of All Beings.’
‘So it will be a bigger group than last year. That’s useful.’
‘I’m sorry it’s not more, but nobody was going to spill the beans to some guy they’ve never heard of.’
‘Some girl did, though?’
‘Er …’
‘Thanks for that, Max. And Max, go home quick before anyone else sees you.’
Max managed to squelch along the corridor and check his emails without being spotted. But his luck ran out as he passed Davila’s office. The door opened, and Davila emerged.
‘What – Romero! Have you seen yourself? You look a disgrace. Get inside.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Max.
‘Your bum’s muddy. No. Just stand there. I don’t want my chairs wet. What the hell were you doing? Drinking with hippies in the street?’
‘I had to blend into the crowd at the conference.’
‘Blend in? You look like you’ve come from some bloody botellón. I’ve just had a phone call from your famous conference organizers. Someone’s handed in your wallet to something they describe as their media centre.’
Davila sniffed and looked down at his notepad. ‘A girl called Margarita. Your police card was in it, credit cards etc. But no money, of course. What sort of idiot cop are you to lose your wallet when on duty? I can’t tell you how bad this looks.’
‘I know, sir. I was robbed.’
‘Robbed? A police officer. Of your rank and experience. Robbed by a bunch of long-haired scruffs?’
‘They’re probably experts, sir.’
‘Romero, if I hadn’t just had a phone call from Chávez, your arse would definitely be on the line. He said you did a good job. Okay. You’re on extra overtime tonight.’
‘But sir –’ protested Max
‘Romero!’
‘Yes, sir. Where do we assemble?’
‘We? I will accompany the Brotherhood of
the Bell from outside their church. And you, my lad, will be with those hippy scruffs and their ridiculous Virgin of All Beings – whatever that’s supposed to mean. They leave from that trendy priest’s church in Almanjáyar, Cristo El Benefactor, at midnight.’
‘But, sir –’
‘No buts, Romero. From the look of you, a long walk will do you good. You should join the penitents, and do it barefoot. You’d better go now. I don’t want my office covered in mud and smelling like a doss house.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Max turned to go. Then he remembered. ‘By the way, I discovered something which might be useful on the Paco Maya case. It seems that Francisco Gómez knows Catalina Maya very well.’
‘Now that really is interesting.’
‘I saw them together and someone commented that they’d been married.’
‘Leave it with me, Max. I’ll chase that up. Gómez swore on a stack of bibles he didn’t know Paco Maya. Now why did he do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because he’s lying, Max. And if he’s lying on this, he’s lying on everything.’
Max squelched back along the corridor and reached Reception without bumping into Navarro.
‘Pedro, could you lend me another ten euros for a taxi?’
‘Christ, Max. You’re not becoming an alky, are you? I know Barcelona ain’t doing too well, but there’s no need to take it so hard.’
‘Pedro, I’m on a mission. Deep undercover.’
‘Okay then. Sure I can’t join you? You look like you had fun.’
Max laughed. ‘I did.’
Back home, he dumped his dirty clothes in the linen basket and had a long, hot shower. The laundry hanging up in the bathroom still wasn’t dry and he’d forgotten to pick up his dry-cleaning. All he had that was clean and dry was the pale blue cashmere sweater his mother had given him, not exactly a conference thing. Fortunately his old mountain jacket had dried out. He walked down to the Gran Vía, bought a ham and cheese bocadillo from one of the cafés, then took the little number 30 bus to the trade union centre. The conference had stopped for lunch, but the media centre was still open.
‘I’ve come for a wallet,’ Max mumbled. ‘It was handed in this morning. It’s plain black leather, and it should have my ID inside’
‘Ah. The cop. We knew the cops would be here, but didn’t expect you to lose your wallet. You’re very welcome to attend, you know. It would have been courteous to let us know you were coming. We’ve nothing to hide.’
The man at the desk looked at Max and smiled. ‘That sweater’s a bit of a giveaway.’
‘My wallet, please.’
He opened a desk drawer, took out a wallet and handed it to Max. Once outside, Max checked the contents. Everything was in place apart from his money. And there was something new, a carefully folded piece of paper. He opened it.
‘Thanks for everything. I had fun. I owe you 50 euros – my treat next time? Big kiss, Margarita. 658 272930.’
Max smiled. The girl had style.
He walked back to his flat, still feeling pretty grim. The fresh air helped but he felt like death warmed up, despite the coffee and paracetamol. His mobile rang as he was walking up the stairs.
‘Dígame,’ he muttered.
‘It’s Juan. Are you okay? You don’t sound too well.’
‘I’m fine. Just a cold. All this rain, you know.’
‘Thought I’d phone to give you the good news. I’ve been accepted by the Brotherhood of the Bell. And I’ll be joining el paso tonight as a penitent. Isabel is coming to watch. We’re staying at Isabel’s parents’ house in Realejo afterwards.’
‘Isabel will be pleased. She’s always said you have a lot of penitence to do.’
‘Nice one, Max. No, I’ll do the hood and all that. But I won’t do the barefoot stuff, not with all that dog shit in the Albayzín.’
‘That’s not real penitence then. I’ll probably see you tonight, Juan. I’m on duty. I’m just going home for a nap, then I start again at midnight.’
He washed his face, cleaned his teeth, and then curled up on his bed and fell asleep. He awoke with a start. His phone was ringing. Wrong number. Max looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock already. He could do with a little drink before the procession. He walked down the hill, into the Bodega la Castañeda. He couldn’t stop thinking about Francisco. Why had he lied?
Chapter 16
Max sat at the counter bar of the Bodega la Castañeda, staring at the stuffed bull’s head above him.
Ramón, the barman, came over. ‘Got the blues, Max?’
‘Hangover, Ramón, hangover.’
‘One of those days, eh? Hair of the dog? I’ll get you a calicasas.’
‘Heavens no, man. A beer will be fine.’
Max gazed at the bull again, and then at the barman. There definitely was a family resemblance.
‘Ramón, would a guitarist ever leave his guitar face down on a concrete floor?’
‘Never. You kidding? You treat your guitar like a baby. You never, never put it face down.’
A group of fit young guys in identical T-shirts had materialized at the other end of the bar.
‘Un momento, duty calls. Back in a minute.’
Max’s head still nipped. The paracetamol was wearing off.
Once the food orders had been taken and the drinks served, Ramón returned to his usual spot.
‘Ramón, do you have a couple of paracetamol?’
‘Max, if you work here, you live on them. How many do you want?’
‘You couldn’t give me a packet, could you? I have a feeling I’m going to need them. I’m on night duty with the Virgin of All Beings.’
‘Oh, I thought the Archbishop had banned them.’
‘He has. But he can only stop them going inside churches. And now that trendy priest in Almanjáyar and his buddy at San Miguel Alto have got their act together, so I’m going to have to walk from bloody Almanjáyar to bloody San Miguel Alto, right at the top of the Albayzín.’
‘Hombre, that’s some distance. But they’ll be going along the Haza Grande road and then round the back of the city walls, won’t they?’
‘No chance. They’re going the hard way, on the old pilgrims’ path, straight up the front of the San Miguel hill.’
‘You know half their team are girls?’
‘Sí, and that’s probably why they want to do it the hard way.’
‘Mark my words, no good’s going to come of it. Girls carrying a palio. My old dad would be spinning in his grave. Still, the thought of all those pretty girls, all hot and sweaty …’ And he grinned wolfishly at Max.
‘Modern times, Ramón, modern times. At least I’ll end up near my flat, so I can crash out there. Mierda, is that the time? I’ll have to get a taxi.’
Max paid, pocketed the paracetamol, and grabbed a cab at the rank in Plaza Nueva. In Almanjáyar, a large crowd had already gathered outside the darkened church. He noticed Roberto Belén and Pedro having a smoke together as they waited for the procession to move off.
‘Roberto, Pedro. Sorry I’m late. Everything okay?’
‘No problems,’ said Roberto. ‘It’s a pretty mixed crowd, but they seem good-natured.’
‘Where’s Chávez?’
‘Over there behind the palio.’
‘Ah, Max,’ said Chávez. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘I was delayed.’
‘Okay. I’ve put you on the palio with the Virgin.’
‘That’s the last thing I need at the moment.’
‘That bad, is it?’
At the palio, Catalina Maya was talking to a girl wearing a red bandanna round her crisp dark hair. The girl turned round. It was Margarita, looking as fresh as a daisy. Max smiled weakly.
‘Max, I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘On duty, keeping an eye on the palio.’
‘So you can keep an eye on me as well. I’m una costalera. In this cofradía we do it fifty–fifty. Equality, you see.�
��
‘It’s a long way to be carrying that palio. It looks bloody heavy.’
‘It’s high-tech – the underside’s aluminium, so it’s much lighter than the old ones, but still heavy enough to be a challenge. Max, you do look rough. Cops these days … just no stamina.’
‘Cheeky thing. I’m fine, thanks.’
As Max took up his position beside the palio of the Virgin he noticed Francisco Gómez, splendid in a green velvet jacket, black trousers and shiny shoes, proudly holding a silver mace. Of course, he realized. El Capataz, the Master of Ceremonies.
A Granadino sculptor had designed the image of the Virgin cradling her dead Son as a memorial to his brother, an aid worker who had died in Ecuador. The carving was simple, without sentiment, and Ecuadorian parishioners had made the cloak for the Virgin themselves, telling the story of the Ecuadorian rainforest. A panel showed ranchers burning the forest, another reforestation by local villagers. The cloak was beautiful, but not exactly standard stuff for a Granadino Virgin.
Cycling up and down beside the palio were a bunch of kids. Max thought he recognized Angelita and the boys who had been outside abuela Espinosa’s house. Tough-looking lads, they were, especially the one with streaked hair.
‘Tomasito,’ a voice called out. ‘Remember, make sure Angelita’s home before 2 a.m.’
The tallest boy turned round. ‘Don’t worry, madre. I’ll get her back on time. There’ll be no problems, I promise.’
Max turned to look at the mother. She was a tall, thin gypsy woman, a worn-out beauty. But she was smart in an expensive black jacket and skirt. Her henna-dyed hair was held in an elaborate comb, and she carried both a rosary and a candle. She wore black stockings, but no shoes. She was a penitent who would do the whole route barefoot.
In front of the palio of the Christ was a group of green-shirted musicians, mostly carrying guitars, drums or flutes. Father Gerardo and the Jesuit priest from San Miguel Alto, Father Oscar, were talking to the band leader. Behind the band was a group of men, some holding hands. Pedro stood beside the group of gay Catholics, his face a picture of mortal embarrassment.
‘Pedro. You’ve finally come out. Well done, man.’
