by Tara Moss
The cellar where she had given too much of herself in order to survive.
The cellar that had changed her forever.
Always, her dreams brought her back to that unspeakable place. The grating metal cuff was around her ankle once more, the damned cuff of a convict or circus animal. In her fevered sleep she reached down and tried to soothe the torn flesh of her ankle beneath the unyielding metal of the cuff, some small part of her still naïvely hoping for a saviour — hoping that Bogey would find her.
Not knowing he was already dead.
Makedde Vanderwall woke from her siesta feeling disoriented and unrested. She remembered snatches of her nightmare, and she tried to block them out. The memories were not welcome.
The sun was high. An hour had passed, perhaps two. Through the metal slats over the window, streams of sunlight had come to rest on the bed where the sheets were twisted around her. Her bare legs were exposed, warm and sunlit. After only a short time in Spain Mak had recalled the importance of the traditional afternoon rest. Many businesses closed in the afternoons for the siesta. The locals took their evening meals very late. The many children’s parks in every suburb were still full at nine, and it was not uncommon to see locals walking prams well after sundown, hours after North American and Australian children would have been put to bed. Darkness was good for her anonymity and she embraced the early hours here, and the late ones. It was better to get into the rhythm of the locals, when she could. And sometimes, if she was lucky, she was spared her more vicious nightmares during the daily rest.
But not today.
Mak looked at the clock and noted that her alarm was set to go off in only one minute. She switched it off, sat up and stretched. This was an important afternoon and she’d wanted to be calm and rested. If she was not entirely rested, at least she could do her best to be calm. Mak made her way to the kitchen to flick on the cappuccino machine, which gurgled and hissed as it began to warm up. In the bathroom she brushed her teeth and rubbed damp fingertips over her eyelids, where mascara had streaked during her nap. Her eyes were red, as if she might have been crying.
She needed that coffee.
The counterfeiter, Javier Rafel, had asked her to come to his shop at five. As she prepared her afternoon coffee, determined to go about each step with equanimity — grinding the beans, packing the grip firmly, steaming the milk — she realised once again that her impending return to his shop filled her with anxiety. She had not felt comfortable in the man’s presence, but she supposed that was hardly surprising. He did, after all, create false documents for a living. He was criminal by trade and Mak was the daughter of a cop. Given her upbringing, she could be forgiven for finding the exchange uncomfortable. There was something else as well, she suspected, some other level of dread pushing at the edges of her subconscious, but it did not bear examination. She simply had to go to him and get her passport. She didn’t have to like the man.
Thirty minutes later, dressed in a sleeveless hoodie and jeans, with large sunglasses covering her eyes, Mak strode down the broad, sunlit promenade of La Rambla, bobbing and weaving between visiting tourists. The air was filled with the sounds of honking cars and chatter in Catalan, Spanish, Italian, French and occasional snatches of British English. The shops along La Rambla on either side were closed, their grubby, graffitied metal shutters locked down, providing a somewhat less aesthetic than usual view of the famous thoroughfare. But the city seemed much busier than usual. The long weekend had brought hordes of visitors from all over Europe. Had this been America, she suspected the obligations of a key religious public holiday could not hope to outweigh the capitalist possibilities of so many keen visitors. The shops would have been open from dawn to dusk for the influx of holiday cash.
Though the shops and markets were closed, the restaurants were overflowing, and the tatty stalls along the promenade were operating, still selling their cheap bags with BARCELONA! written on every square inch, their plastic flamenco dancers, their fridge magnets and their rolls of postcards and greeting cards plastered with images of Gaudí’s most photogenic work: Park Güell, Casa Mila, Casa Batiló, Palau Güell, Colònia Güell. Her eyes fell on a striking image of his famous church, the Sagrada Família, with its towering spires and exterior that seemed to melt, or rise from the ground like alien stalagmites, a building as iconic and controversial as any in the world, started in 1882 and still unfinished more than eight decades after its creator’s death.
She blinked.
When she’d been ill, Bogey had given her a card with an image of the Sagrada Família on the front. They’d talked about Gaudí in their short time together. Bogey was very interested in design. He had never been to Barcelona or seen the celebrated Sagrada Família but wanted very much to go. They’d wanted to see it together. After Paris.
It was the same card, she realised. That man was selling the same card Bogey had given her.
Makedde looked away and continued walking, head down, grateful for the sunglasses that shielded her eyes from the crowd. The lenses slowly filled with tears as she walked. She’d dared to sit in the park in front of the Sagrada Família one evening as the sun set, two weeks after first arriving in Barcelona and breaking into Luther’s apartment. She’d sat on the bench until the sky was black. Alone. Numb. Unable to process all that had happened.
Bogey is dead. That life is over now.
Mak walked on, and as she approached the intersection of Carrer de l’Hospital she noticed chequered blue-and-white police cars and uniformed officers blocking the way. The street that ran along La Rambla on this side was free of vehicles. That was unusual. The traffic normally ran both ways, a single lane travelling south to the port on the west side of La Rambla and one running north on the east. This side was blocked off. Now she came around the corner of the street and paused. She lifted the sunglasses from her cheeks, wiped under her eyes and put the glasses back on again.
What is this?
Crowds of people filled the sidewalks on both sides of the single-lane street, packed shoulder to shoulder, several deep. Excited faces. Bodies shifting from foot to foot. There was a palpable anticipation in the air. Many people had cameras slung around their necks. They held their backpacks and purses protectively at their stomachs to avoid the prying fingers of pickpockets, or perhaps simply because of the crush. Small children sat on shoulders. The balconies of the apartments and hostels on either side were four or five storeys high and filled with spectators.
Good Friday. There would be some kind of Semana Santa — Holy Week — parade, she guessed.
It took some effort to weave her way through the thick crowd, past the closed shops. She passed the old church she’d seen before, but saw no indication of what was drawing people to the area. They were not filing in to pray, but were instead standing outside, watching for something, or someone.
When Mak arrived at Javier’s shop she found the metal shutter half shut. She ducked under it and straightened in the shadows on the other side, then stepped over his well-worn step, feeling tense. Inside, Javier was waiting for her. He spotted her and put down the silver spoon he was polishing.
‘You have the money?’ he said gruffly.
Mak stood in the centre of the small, cluttered pawnshop. With the shutter partially closed it was dark. It felt even more claustrophobic than before.
She nodded to him. ‘Si. I have your money.’
Javier left the counter heaped with someone’s discarded silverware to pull the shutter down outside his door yet further. Watching him shut her in caused her stomach to twist, and she wondered fleetingly if they were alone in the shop.
‘You come,’ he said and jerked his dark head in the direction of the back room. He led her to the small space that had alarmed her before, carrying the little polishing cloth in his thick, unwashed fingers. She followed him. In that tiny, cluttered room nothing had changed. No one else was there. Before saying another word, he shut the door.
Mak licked her lips. There was something i
n his eyes she did not trust. Something. But then, it had been there from the beginning, hadn’t it? Did he seem more nervous than before? He would not look her in the eye.
Just pay him and get out of here.
‘Do you have it?’ she asked him impatiently.
Javier nodded and paused.
A rope of tension slowly twisted inside her. ‘May I see it?’ she said.
He took his time washing his hands in a toilet basin, not using enough soap or effort to clean the stained nail beds, then he searched lazily through packages on top of a filing cabinet. Finally — mercifully — he handed her a manila envelope. She could feel the passport inside and, when she pulled it from its paper, she saw with some relief that it was just what she had ordered. He’d used the photograph she’d provided and the finished product looked authentic at a glance. She gestured to a small magnifier, the kind that was sometimes called a ‘loop’ in the modelling industry, which sat on the edge of a nearby box. Javier passed it to her so that she could examine the European passport in minute detail. Her face, framed by a curtain of black hair, sat next to the name of a stranger. His work was extremely good. She couldn’t fault it.
Outside she heard a sudden, muffled roar of applause. She jerked her head around and listened. Something was happening on the street.
With her passport now in hand, an even stronger sense of claustrophobia came over her. She twitched. Javier nodded and she handed him his money in two thick envelopes. He counted it with irritating leisure while her eyes flitted about the room. I need to get the fuck out of here. Finally, she turned and went for the door herself, eager to get back onto the busy, narrow street, into the relative safety of the crowd of strangers. She wanted desperately to get away from the swarthy man and his untrustworthy eyes. To her relief, Javier held his ground in the small, awful room, leaving her to let herself out.
‘Gracias,’ she muttered and left him.
I have it.
Mak stepped out of the shop and pulled the metal shutter back up with a jerk. The street was even busier than before and she found herself pressed against the front of the shop.
There came a drumbeat, perhaps from a marching band she could not see. In response the crowd went up in thunderous applause again. She felt the urge to run, or to climb up, but there was nowhere to go. With effort she pressed through, gaining only a few feet, but then she stopped as two mounted guards pushed their way onto the street in front and the crowd leaped back. There was one white stallion and one black, and the guards wore beautiful uniforms, plumes of feathers atop their helmets. The crowd continued to back away, wary of the hooves. Behind the horses were two cleaners in green uniforms, holding brooms and pails, and more uniformed police. The police were clearing a path for someone, pushing the crowd back with open hands. Bodies pressed against her.
She looked left, looked right.
The shutter began to close behind her.
The Australian woman — or was she American? — emerged from Javier’s shop, stooping to get under the metal shutter. She straightened and frowned, finding herself at the edge of the crowd. Hundreds more had arrived while she was inside. The shutter began to close behind her.
Yes. It is her.
Makedde Vanderwall looked like her photograph — tall and pale, with a slim build and long hair. He’d seen photographs of her looking like Claudia Schiffer, with blonde locks many women from his hometown would envy, but now she had black hair that did not suit her. She was still attractive, though. Today she was wearing jeans and a hooded top with oversized black sunglasses, evidently trying to blend in as much as she could, which wasn’t a lot. She was somewhat taller than Fausto and, with her height and bone structure, she stuck out in the busy crowd. She pulled her hood up, but it only made her more visible.
He could see Javier’s legs as the counterfeiter pulled the roller door down. Javier’s work was done. He had his money from her — he’d doubtless charged her a lot before sending her out to her death — and he’d brought her to precisely the right place at the right time. Now the rest was up to Fausto.
There were many policía managing the crowd of spectators for the Semana Santa Good Friday procession, but that did not worry him. They were focused entirely on the procession, as was everyone else, including the woman. Their job was to keep the Cofradías, the brotherhoods, safe. The crowds in his hometown of Seville were yet bigger. That was where his mother would be, praying with the rest of the family. But Fausto was here for something else entirely. This crowd would permit him to get far closer to the woman than he could otherwise manage without arousing her suspicion.
Fausto moved in, foot by foot, keeping his face tilted in the same direction as everyone else, towards the direction of the church. He would not take her too close to Javier’s shop, if he could avoid it. The counterfeiter would be unhappy with blood on his doorstep. The woman was looking around earnestly, clearly wanting to escape. If she found an opening, she might move quickly. She was only two metres away now, but the crowd was a thick wall between them. He wanted to get closer.
The stiletto was tucked up his sleeve, the blade waiting.
A drumbeat and a plume of incense.
The crushing crowd was unyielding, all the watchers facing the church, straining forwards to see some important person or event. They anticipated some sort of procession, from what Makedde could tell. The mounted guards had cleared a path in the street and now waited for the others. She shook her head. Surely Javier would have known this was not an ideal time to come and go from his shop? The streets were packed. It could take her some time to escape the area.
A band began to play. There was movement ahead.
Finally, Mak could make out the centre of the crowd’s focus.
She gaped.
Tall black cones became visible above the heads outside the church. They moved and swayed between the assembled bodies. She blinked and looked again. The cones were hoods, and they had eyes. She could now see a steady stream of figures, swathed entirely in black, wearing long robes and tall pointed hoods completely covering their faces, with only round holes cut out for the eyes. They were sombre, silent, their formal walk accompanied by the processional music. From what she could see, each black figure held aloft an ornate staff of gold and silver, or tapestries decorated with images of Jesus. One figure held a large gilded crucifix, his hands cased in black gloves. The faceless spectres moved slowly into the street, single file. The crowd cheered. On every balcony of the hostel and from every terrace, people pressed against the railings, clapping or taking photographs.
Mak gawked, unused to the spectacle.
Each pointed hood was four feet high, perhaps taller, in some cases seemingly as tall as the person wearing it. These dark figures brought to mind the notorious Ku Klux Klan, or a team of medieval executioners. But no. They were the Nazarenos. The hooded penitents. In some part of her memory she recalled having read about them. She knew these processions were a centuries-old ritual in places like Seville and Granada, but they walked in Barcelona, too, it seemed. This was the Catholic brotherhood taking part in the traditional procession of Semana Santa. She could see that they were still filing out of the large medieval church she’d noticed earlier. Drummers beat their snares, marching between the penitents. It was odd. Spectacular. Mak pushed forwards to get a closer look. Yes. There were more of these hooded men with their hidden faces, these ones dressed in white. Another pulse of excitement went through the crowd and a second cloud of incense filled the air as a giant, gilded float emerged out of the arched entrance. A life-sized statue of a stooping Jesus appeared, his inert body appearing to be weighed down by an enormous cross strapped to his back. All around him the ornate golden float was decorated with angels and hundreds of fresh blood-red roses. It looked very heavy as it moved unsteadily into the crowd, shifting back and forth with the sway of the human bodies holding it up almost invisibly from underneath.
‘… No puc veure!’
Mak was tapped on the ar
m and turned to find a small, middle-aged Catholic woman articulating angrily with her hands. She was clearly complaining about Mak’s height.
‘No puc veure!’ she repeated, hands waving around above her. I can’t see!
Mak put her palms in the air and shrugged. There was nowhere for her to go. She was as hemmed in as everyone else and it hardly seemed fair to pick on her, as she wasn’t as tall as the children on parents’ shoulders dotting the crowd. She bent down a bit at the knees and was promptly pushed sideways by another group jostling for a better position.
She felt a sharp stabbing pain in her side. A camera lens. It jolted her out of her awe.
Time to get out of here.
Clutching her valuable new passport tightly, Mak began to push through the sea of people. Thankfully, nearly everyone was shorter than she was, apart from the odd English or German tourist, so she could see the scene clearly. It was impossible to cross the street ahead now, she noticed. The Nazarenos were filing down the centre, walking slowly, carrying their staffs. She would not dare run between them. Crowd barriers and uniformed police blocked some areas, arms extended, barking orders. Getting back to La Rambla could prove difficult. She could not go back the way she had arrived. She had to fight through the other way, against the crowd, past Javier’s shop and into the back streets where the crowds would be thinner. She didn’t know the streets on this side of La Rambla, but she could circle back somehow, she was sure. Determined, she pushed against the throng, inch by inch, the crowd pouring into every gap of available space like water. Some yelled at her again for blocking their view and finally, Mak relented, stooping down to half her height and holding her hands in front of her like a surfer diving under a wave.
Minutes later Mak broke out of the excited crowd, stood up to her full height again and looked back at the mad spectacle. The gilded float was moving up the street to further cheers and adoration, followed by still more hooded penitents, this time in red garb to indicate another brotherhood, the points of their hoods sitting up far above the crowd. It was quite a sight. All eyes were on them, showing Mak nothing but the back of thousands of people’s heads — except for a couple of faces that looked at her from the crowd. Two men. Watching her. The older one turned around again, but the closest was moving her way, still several metres back in the thick swamp of people. He looked frustrated. He, too, was trying to get out, she supposed.
