by Joanna Glen
‘You look so well,’ I said, and a sob gasped up my throat.
Jean came downstairs in an almost fashionable shirt dress. Her hair had no grey in it, and fell in waves on her shoulders, with the unmistakable hallmark of my mother’s favourite blow-dryer in Chelsea.
We ate garlic bread and tricolore salad in the sun.
‘I’m encouraging Jean to branch out,’ said my mother. ‘I’ve thrown away all her home-made skirts!’
They both started laughing, which set Nigel off laughing, which set me off laughing – and then we all stopped and stared at each other.
‘I imagine you realise that Michael and I have split up,’ I said.
‘We did wonder,’ said Jean. ‘Are you OK?’
‘He looked like such a perfect boyfriend,’ said my mother. ‘But Jean reminded me that so did your father. I suppose it’s not enough to be head boy.’
I nodded.
That was almost funny – had she meant it to be funny?
We laughed some more and ordered coffee.
When we got home, Michael texted me to say he was feeling utterly wretched, but he’d decided to take his mother to Venice. I nearly replied: Are you going to give her a nice rectangular sapphire and diamond ring?
Instead, I texted one word: Arrivederci.
Chapter 85
I caught the evening flight back to Seville.
On the plane, I took out my secret photo, and I stared at it like I used to stare at Barnaby’s xx.
Oh, Barnaby Blue – this could have been our moment, if only you hadn’t been stupid enough to get engaged to Naomi.
I felt the shape of my birthmark through the thin silk of my harem pants.
Eva from Iberia, I said to myself, feeling a little surge of power.
Michael hated harem pants.
And now it didn’t matter.
Because I was free.
My ankle shackles had come off and I had the white stripe to prove it.
We landed, and I got out of the airport bus at Seville station, next to a street-lit wall, covered in graffiti. I took a pen out of my pocket and I wrote HAREM PANTS 4 EVER in very small writing.
I took the train from Seville to Córdoba, and Carrie came racing down the platform to meet me. She’d dyed her hair burgundy.
‘Nice hair!’ I said.
‘You look different too!’ she said, as we walked, arm in arm.
‘I feel different,’ I said.
‘You look kind of elated.’
‘I feel kind of elated.’
‘He didn’t propose, did he?’
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘Half.’
‘How can someone half-propose?’
‘They can buy the ring but not say anything.’
‘Evs, I can’t hold it in – your father came,’ she said. ‘But I want to ask you about the ring first.’
We stopped.
‘The ring can wait,’ I said. ‘He’ll probably give it to his mother!’
I felt myself shiver, actually shiver – apparently, it’s adrenaline, and I seem to have so much of it that it can make my teeth chatter.
‘What did my father say?’
‘He’s very charming,’ said Carrie.
‘Do you think of charming as a good thing?’ I said crossly.
She cocked her head.
‘Did you know that your father likes poetry?’
‘He loves books,’ I said. ‘Stories. I don’t know about poetry. He’ll say anything to make you like him.’
‘I told him to come back and see you,’ said Carrie. ‘And he definitely will. And I’ve got all his details. So if he doesn’t, we can find him.’
‘If he’s given you his real number,’ I said.
‘I think he has,’ said Carrie. ‘Give him a chance.’
‘I don’t think he deserves one,’ I said. ‘Please be on my side.’
Carrie hugged me.
‘Course I’m on your side,’ she said, letting me go. ‘But he might be able to help in the search.’
‘Carrie,’ I said – and it came out very fast. ‘I split up with Michael.’
‘I thought he half-proposed?’
‘I found the engagement ring in his pocket.’
‘Does he know?’
‘No. And he was taking me to Venice, but now he’s taking his mother!’
‘His mother?’
‘She told him not to marry me.’
‘What’s it got to do with her?’ said Carrie.
‘His mother’s right, isn’t she?’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to marry him. You knew that.’
‘You’re free!’ she said. ‘Does it feel good?’
‘I think so.’
‘Let’s stop for a drink!’ she said.
We ordered wine.
‘Evs,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking of not going back. Like. Ever. You know, dropping out.’
‘But we’ve only got a year left,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a waste?’
Could I stay here too? Not go back to London?
‘I’ve met someone,’ said Carrie. ‘He’s from Ronda.’
‘You’re always meeting someone.’
‘This one wears pink tights,’ she said.
I thought for a moment.
‘Don’t tell me he’s a bullfighter!’
She nodded.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit weird to murder animals for your job?’ I said.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But he’s very attractive.’
‘I don’t think bullfighters and vegetarians are the best match,’ I said.
She laughed.
‘You know, I don’t want to leave Córdoba either,’ I said.
And when I said it, I knew it was true.
‘Let’s elope!’ I said, and we clinked glasses.
‘With the bullfighter?’ said Carrie, laughing. ‘Let’s have a ménage à trois!’
‘Or à quatre?’ I said.
‘With the bull?’ she said, laughing.
‘Also, Carrie, today I did my first ever bit of graffiti – in Seville.’
‘What did it say?’
‘HAREM PANTS 4 EVER!’ I said. ‘But very very small.’
‘Excellent!’ she said.
We ordered more wine.
‘There’s something else,’ said Carrie. ‘I have a significant lead in the nun-hunt.’
A wave of hope ran through me.
‘It only happened this morning.’
‘Tell me everything.’
‘I was at a Dominican convent just out of town, the one where they sell those little honey cakes, and there was an elderly nun.’
I listened intently.
‘I showed her the photo, and she noticed the cross, you know, that you were chewing in the photo, and she said only Franciscans would wear one like that, shaped like a T.’
‘Yes?’
‘There was apparently a group of seven Franciscan nuns—’
‘When?’
‘Well, it was founded by someone called Sister María Soledad. She was born here around the turn of the century, and she wanted to look after the sick and poor in the city. A benefactor gave them a house around 1920-ish.’
‘1920’s no good—’
‘But wait – it kept going until a couple of years ago. There were always seven of them, because seven’s a holy number, or something. And they took in beggars and the homeless and—’
‘Babies?’
‘She wasn’t sure.’
I felt my face fall.
‘But listen,’ said Carrie. ‘Another benefactor appeared in the seventies when it was half falling down and he bought it and did it up for them. So it had another lease of life.’
‘And is Sister María Soledad still alive?’
‘She died last summer, but her sidekick’s still alive,’ said Carrie. ‘She’s called Sister Ana, and she’s the only one left – and I have the address. Here it is.’
Carrie handed me a post-it note. Sister Ana lived in Plaz
a de la Paz, and there was apparently a huge oak door, and to the left, a bench, a bell to ring and a little wooden flap, where they used to offer prayer to passers-by.
‘There is one problem,’ said Carrie. ‘Sister Ana’s got dementia – and she often doesn’t answer the door.’
‘Ideal,’ I said.
‘I need to go to Ronda to see Pink Tights,’ said Carrie. ‘And then we’ll call on Sister Ana when I get back.’
Chapter 86
When we got back to Hostal Jardín, there was no letter from Bridget, but there was an envelope for me in Barnaby’s unmistakable writing.
‘I’m standing here hoping that an engagement has split up,’ I said to Carrie. ‘Does that make me a terrible person?’
‘It’s always a good thing if an engagement splits up because it’s one way of stopping a divorce,’ said Carrie, smiling.
‘Are you being serious?’ I said, too seriously.
‘I am if it makes you happy!’ said Carrie. ‘I know how much you love Barnaby! But I’d advise a little pause in proceedings. You haven’t been single since you were about nine years old. Perhaps you should try it for five minutes.’
I opened the envelope.
Barnaby and Naomi hadn’t split up.
They were coming to Córdoba – was I around? Was Michael? Could we meet for dinner?
‘I’ll call and say I’d love to meet them both for dinner,’ I said to Carrie, as we climbed the wrought-iron steps to our room.
But when I called the next day, I left out the both.
I said: ‘I’d love to meet you for dinner.’
Which left me wondering whether Naomi was coming or not, since we have no distinction between the singular and plural you in English.
Carrie packed her kimono and flip-flops into her feathery bag and set off for Ronda with bows on the end of her burgundy plaits.
I wished she hadn’t.
Our room felt too quiet.
I walked up the wrought-iron staircase, thinking that when Barnaby had to choose, he chose Naomi, and when Michael had to choose, he chose his mother. And also that Bridget didn’t love me any more.
I lay on my bed, trying to convince myself that Barnaby wanted to be with me – despite the fact that he’d just got engaged to Naomi, and her bosoms were like mangoes.
Then I thought it would be better to think of something else.
I read the address on the post-it note, and I said aloud, ‘Sister Ana.’
I wasn’t sure I could wait until Carrie was back.
Chapter 87
The heat was searing, so I walked close to the walls, heading for Plaza de la Paz. Yes, there was the square, with a hexagonal tiled fountain in the centre. And yes, next to a huge wooden door, there was a tiled bench-seat built into the wall, and above it, a little hinged flap and a bronze bell.
I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.
I put my hands in the fountain and splashed my hot face.
The air blew at me like a hairdryer.
I stood and looked around me at the shuttered windows.
I walked up to the bell and rang it.
The sound of it clanged into the thick silence, and I stepped back, listening.
But there was nothing except the rippling echoes of the bell.
And the thickness of the heat.
The silence re-established itself.
I looked up at the windows of the surrounding buildings.
Nothing.
I opened the wooden flap.
I listened.
A chatter of birds.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
I shut the flap as quietly as I could.
I hesitated by the enormous wooden door, but I couldn’t find the courage to knock.
I headed back towards the river, walking fast, head down, and a horse and carriage came trotting over the cobbles – it was our friend Luis, who we met on Carrie’s first day in Córdoba.
‘¡Qué calor!’ he said, wiping his face with a red handkerchief, and lamenting the lack of tourists in the heat.
Did I want a ride, he asked.
I nodded.
‘¡Súbete!’ he said, and I knew I should go back.
I asked him to drop me at Plaza de la Paz.
‘Plaza de las Monjas, we call it,’ he said. Square of the Nuns. ‘They used to take in the down-and-outs there. Only one of them left, I think. And she’s lost her marbles.’
He drew the carriage to a halt.
I headed up the narrow street to the square, almost running so I wouldn’t lose my nerve, sweating in the heat.
I knocked loudly on the door, three times.
I heard footsteps.
Real ones.
The door shook.
A key was going into a keyhole.
The door shook more.
It opened.
The nun in the grey dress with the folding chair and the laugh and the honest smile – the one I saw when I first arrived, who said it looked as if a cathedral had been dropped on the mosque from the sky.
I’d seen her there several times since, taking food to the homeless.
‘¿Sí?’ she said, opening the door a few inches.
‘Sor Ana?’ I said.
She nodded.
‘Tengo una foto,’ I said. I have a photo.
I took it out.
I pointed at the photo: the grey body and the teething baby – me, because it had to be me – and the possible wooden T-shaped cross in my mouth and the statue of the angel behind.
She pointed at the angel in the photo and said, ‘San Rafael.’
And I was going in.
I was going in!
I was in a kind of barn, or stables, with a beamed roof, slightly falling in.
I peered through the gaps at the bright blue sky.
When I looked ahead, I had to reach out and steady myself on an old stool, or was it a lectern, I’m not sure what it was, but it was covered in bird crap.
In front of me was an inner courtyard, rectangular, large and open to the air.
I stared, but I couldn’t move.
‘Well, get a move on,’ she said.
But I was paralysed.
Here was my photo, come to life.
It was, it was, it was – and undoubtedly – my memory palace: the crumbling whitey-cream statue of the angel, the one that stood behind the faded baby that was me, in the faded hands of the beheaded person. The old wooden wagon wheel was leaning on the wall to the right, and there were the stone troughs of hydrangeas, and the pots of geraniums all over the walls.
I walked to the angel, and I laid my shaking hand on his arm.
The paint flaked off in my hand.
‘I wouldn’t touch San Rafael,’ said Sister Ana. ‘He’s falling to bits.’
‘The Jews say that Rafael is the angel that tends the wounds of children, don’t they?’ I said to her, and my voice came out with a strange trembly texture to it.
She placed her folding grey chair beside the angel and stared at him, and stared at me, her eyes dulling and her face freezing over.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’ I asked. ‘Did you take in unwanted children?’
‘Unwanted children?’ she said with no expression to her voice.
I kept talking to try to warm her up.
‘Don’t Christians think Rafael is the angel who stirred the water at the healing pool?’ I said, clasping my hands together to stop them trembling. ‘You know, in the Gospel of John?’
A yellow budgerigar chirped from its cage, and Sister Ana’s mouth thawed into a smile, which headed upwards, unfreezing her, until her eyes lit up again.
‘You shut up!’ she said to the budgerigar, laughing.
Then she turned to me.
‘Isn’t Rafael the fourth major angel in Islam?’ I said.
‘Major angels!’ she said cheerfully.
This was not going to be easy.
She pointed to a door.
‘Find a ch
air!’ she said.
I went into a musty room, with little flurries of flies against the windows, and an old globe on the stone sill, a room which had perhaps once been a dining room, where now cats (yes, hot, dusty cats!) lay sprawled on newspapers on the battered old table. The battered old table? Not the shiny dark one in Jerez. I felt its surface with my hand: it was gnarled and dented and covered in crumbs. I reached into my mind for memories, and there were the bearded men around the table, breaking and turning like the repeating patterns of a kaleidoscope.
She followed me inside, picked up her globe, closed her eyes and spun it.
‘Venezuela!’ she said, and went out, holding the globe.
I swallowed, blowing air down my nose to dispel the musty smell in the room, and took a chair outside, sitting down with Sister Ana beside the angel.
I breathed in geranium.
The metal smell hit me.
The one that had followed me to London.
Sister Ana put the globe at her feet, and picked up the cream-coloured cat by the scruff of its neck.
‘They think he’s mending clocks,’ she said, closing her eyes, her face soft and girlish for a moment. ‘But he takes me out to the back of the shop, and he says stand there, that’s it, move a little to the left, and he takes photographs. He says look how beautiful you are. He’s the only person who ever said that.’
She smiled drowsily, and stroked the cat.
‘Who’s mending clocks?’ I said. ‘Who takes photos of you?’
‘Lorenzo,’ she said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
She clenched her face as if something hurt.
‘I don’t like people coming here,’ she said. ‘Not now everyone’s gone. So perhaps you should leave.’
‘But I’ve only just come,’ I said smiling.
She nodded.
‘I know, darling, I know.’
She took my hand in her hand – and I remembered the soft hand I used to feel underneath my mother’s brittle fingernails.
‘What I really wanted to know, quite urgently, was whether you ever took in babies,’ I said. ‘You know, a long time ago?’
Her eyes dulled again.
‘Babies?’ I said, louder. ‘It’s important.’
‘Important babies!’ she said, roaring with laughter.
I took out the photo and pointed to the headless woman.
‘Where’s her head?’ she said, rocking with laughter.
