The Invisible Guardian

by Redondo, Dolores

  ‘You talk as if you’ve had to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. What do you think would have happened if you’d decided to do something different?’

  ‘I can tell you straight, this wouldn’t exist.’

  ‘Perhaps Ros would have taken it on: she always liked the pastry business.’

  ‘The business side, no, she likes making cakes, which is something different. I don’t want to imagine what this place would be like with Ros in charge, you don’t know what you’re saying … She can’t even manage her own affairs, she’s irresponsible, a little girl who thinks money grows on trees. If our parents hadn’t left her the house, she wouldn’t have anywhere to live. With that disgrace of a husband of hers, the worst kind of stoner and waster, who takes her money and goes off messing about with little girls. Is that the Rosaura who’s capable of taking this company forwards? She doesn’t have what it takes, otherwise, tell me, where is she now? Why isn’t she here showcasing her talents?’

  ‘Perhaps if you hadn’t been so hard on her …’

  ‘Life is hard, sister,’ said Flora with the sneering tone of an insult.

  ‘I think that Rosaura is a good person, and nobody is immune from making a mistake when choosing a husband.’

  It was as if Flora had been struck by lightning. Amaia sat watching her in silence and guessed she was thinking about Víctor.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to Víctor.’

  ‘Sure,’ Flora replied. And Amaia guessed that she was about to bring out the big guns.

  ‘Flora …’

  ‘Yes, the two of you are wonderful, full of good intentions, but tell me something, Little Miss Wonderful, where were you when Ama got ill?’

  Amaia shook her head in disgust.

  ‘Do you really want to go over all that again?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Little Miss Wonderful? Does it upset you to talk about how you abandoned your sick mother?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Flora, you’re the one who’s sick,’ protested Amaia. ‘I was twenty, I was studying in Pamplona, I came home every weekend, you and Ros were here, you were both working here and you were both married.’

  Flora stood up and walked towards her.

  ‘That wasn’t enough. You used to come on Friday and leave again on Sunday. Do you know how many days there are in a week? Seven days, and the seven nights that go with them,’ she said, holding up a hand and two fingers in front of Amaia’s face. ‘And do you know who spent each night at Ama’s bedside? Me, not you, me,’ she thumped her chest violently. ‘I used to spoon food into her mouth, I used to bathe her, I used to put her to bed, I used to change her nappies and put her back to bed, I gave her water to drink and she peed again and again. She would hit and insult me, she would curse me, me, the only one at her side, the only one who was always at her side. In the morning Ros would arrive and take her out to walk in the park while I opened the workshop, having spent the whole night on my feet. And when she went home it was the same again, day after day with no kind of support, because I couldn’t count on Víctor either. Although, all things considered, she wasn’t his mother. He looked after his mother when she fell ill and died, but he was luckier, she caught pneumonia and it carried her off within two months. I had to fight for three years. So, you two little angels, tell me where you were and then tell me I don’t have the right to call you irresponsible.’

  Flora turned her back on Amaia and walked slowly over to her table, where she sat down again.

  ‘I think you’re being unfair. I know that Ros did extra night shifts in order to be with her in the mornings, and you were the one who insisted that Ama came and lived with you after Aita died. You always got on well, there was always something special between you that she didn’t have with Ros and certainly not with me. Furthermore, you were the older sisters, I was just a young girl and I wasn’t living locally. I came as often as I could and you know that both Ros and I agreed entirely that she should be admitted when she got worse. We gave you our full support when it was necessary to commit her, we even offered money to help pay for the centre.’

  ‘Money, that’s how you irresponsible people try and make everything better. I’ll pay up and then the problem will go away. No, it wasn’t a question of money; you know that Aita left more than enough money when he died. It was a question of doing one’s duty, and committing her wasn’t my idea, it was that damned doctor’s,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  ‘For God’s sake, Flora, I’m amazed we’re talking about this again. Ama was ill, she was no longer capable of taking care of herself, let alone the business. Dr Salaberria suggested it because he knew how difficult we were finding it; you know that the judge wasn’t in the slightest doubt it was the right thing to do, I don’t know why you torment yourself about it.’

  ‘That doctor got involved without anyone asking him to and you two gave him free rein. I shouldn’t have let you commit her. It wouldn’t have ended like that if her pneumonia had been treated at home. I knew it, I knew that she was very delicate and that the hospital was a bad idea, but you didn’t want to listen to me and it all went wrong.’

  Amaia found herself wincing at her sister’s hostility. Once upon a time she would have leapt in impulsively with a retort, joining Flora in her game of reproaches, explanations and condemnations, but her work as a police officer had taught her a lot about self-possession, control and judgement which she had had to put into practice hundreds of times when faced by people so mean-spirited they made Flora seem like a pig-headed, childish schoolgirl in comparison. She lowered her voice even further, and almost in a whisper said, ‘You know what I think, Flora? I think you’re one of those women who make sacrifices and dedicate themselves to being the rock of a family without anyone asking them to, just to have a good arsenal of blame and reproach to attack everyone else with. You’re like a millstone, dragging all those around you under until you’re alone with your self-sacrifice and your reproaches that nobody wants to hear. That’s what’s happening to you. In the end, by trying to act all moral and take charge and boss people around, all you manage to do is push everyone away from you. Nobody asked you to be a heroine or a martyr.’

  Flora stared into the middle distance; she was leaning her elbows on her desk and had her hands in front of her mouth, as if silencing herself, a silence that would only be temporary, that would only be maintained until she found the right moment to fire her poisoned arrows, and then she would be unstoppable. When she spoke, her voice had recovered its control and her normal urgent tone.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come here for something other than to tell me what you think of me, so if you’ve got something specific to ask me, ask me now, otherwise you’ll have to leave. I don’t have time to waste.’

  Amaia took a small cardboard box out of her bag, opened the lid and looked at her sister before removing the contents.

  ‘What I’m about to show you is police evidence that was found at the scene of a crime. I hope you understand that all detail pertaining to it is secret. You can’t mention it to anybody or discuss it with anybody, not even with the family.’

  Flora nodded. Her expression had changed to one of interest.

  ‘Alright then, take a look at this and tell me what it looks like to you,’ she said, taking the bag containing the aromatic little cake that had been found on Anne’s body out of the box.

  ‘It’s a txantxigorri. Was that found at one of the murder scenes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At all of them?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Flora.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer was eating it.’

  ‘No, it looks more likely that it was left there to be discovered, the bit that’s missing is the bit we sent to the laboratory. What can you tell me?’

  ‘Can I touch it?’

  Amaia held it out to her. Flora took it out of the bag, lifted it to her nose and smelled it for several seconds. She squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger and scraped a tiny bit off with her
nail.

  ‘Is there any chance this has been contaminated or poisoned?’

  ‘No, they ran tests at the laboratory and it’s clean.’

  She put a crumb in her mouth and tasted it. ‘Well, they will already have told you what the ingredients are.’

  ‘Yes, now I want you to tell me everything else.’

  ‘Top quality ingredients; fresh, and combined in just the right proportions. Baked this same week, I’d say it’s not more than four days old, and, based on the colour and porousness, it was most likely baked in a traditional wood oven.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Amaia, genuinely impressed. ‘How can you tell all that?’

  Flora smiled. ‘Because I know how to do my job.’

  Amaia ignored the veiled insult.

  ‘And who makes these other than Mantecadas Salazar?’

  ‘Well, I suppose that anyone with the recipe could make them. It’s not a secret, Aita’s recipe for them is in my first book, and it’s also a typical local dessert; I’d say there are probably about a dozen variations on the recipe in the valley … although not of this quality, not with such finely balanced proportions.’

  ‘I want you to make a list of all the workshops, patisseries and shops around here that sell or make them.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult. The only people who make them of this quality are me, Salinas de Tudela, Santa Marta de Vera and perhaps a workshop in Logroño … well, to be honest, theirs aren’t this good. I can give you a list of my clients, but here in Elizondo I know they sell them to tourists and visitors as well as to people from the town. I don’t know if it will be of much use to you.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, just make the list. When do you think you can have it ready?’

  ‘Last thing before I leave, I’ve got a lot to do today already, and you know who I can thank for that.’

  ‘This evening will be fine.’ Amaia didn’t want to fall for her provocation. She picked up the bag with the remains of the cake. ‘Thanks, Flora. Inspector Montes will come by and collect it.

  Flora remained impassive.

  ‘They told me that you two had met.’

  ‘Well it’s nice to know that you’re well informed for a change. Yes, I know him, he’s very pleasant. Inspector Montes came by to introduce himself just when it was time to close up so he kept me company for a while, I showed him round the town, we had a coffee; he proved to be charming and we talked about all kind of things, including you.’

  ‘Me?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes, you, little sister. Inspector Montes told me how you tricked them into assigning this case to you.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Well, not quite in those words, he’s a true gentleman and very warm-hearted. You’re lucky to work with such a professional. Perhaps you’ll learn something,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Did Montes say that, too?’

  ‘Of course not, but it’s easy to work it out. Yes indeed, a charming man.’

  ‘I was thinking exactly the same thing,’ said Amaia, getting up to put her cup in the dishwasher.

  ‘Yes, all your colleagues seem very charming … I saw you with a very handsome man in the graveyard this morning.’

  Amaia smiled, amused by her sister’s malice.

  ‘Your heads were very close together and he seemed to be whispering something in your ear. I wonder what James would have to say if he’d seen it.’

  ‘I didn’t see you, Flora.’

  ‘I didn’t come in, I couldn’t attend the funeral because I had a meeting with the publishers, but I walked up to the cemetery afterwards. I arrived early and I saw you standing in front of a grave. You were leaning over the grave and he embraced you.’

  Amaia bit her lower lip and smiled while she shook her head.

  ‘Flora, Jonan Etxaide is gay.’

  Flora was unable to disguise her surprise or her disgust.

  ‘I only leaned over the grave of one of my primary school teachers, Irene Barno, do you remember her? I slipped and he caught me.’

  ‘How sweet, do you visit her grave?’ Flora mocked her.

  ‘No, I only leaned over to stand up a plant pot that had been blown over by the wind, then I recognised her name.’

  Flora looked her in the eye.

  ‘You never go and visit Ama.’

  ‘No, Flora, I never visit Ama, but tell me, what use would that be now?’

  Flora turned towards the window and whispered, ‘No use at all, now.’

  There was the loud noise of a motor in the courtyard and a shadow crossed her face for a moment.

  ‘That will be Víctor,’ she murmured.

  They went to the back door of the workshop where Flora’s ex-husband was parking a vintage motorbike.

  ‘Oh Víctor, it’s amazing, where did you get it from?’ asked Amaia in greeting.

  ‘I bought it at a junk yard in Soria, but I can assure you it didn’t look like this when I brought it home.’

  Amaia walked round it to take a better look.

  ‘I didn’t know you were interested in this sort of thing, Víctor.’ Even after everything that had happened, she still had a soft spot for him.

  ‘It’s quite a new hobby, I got interested in motorbikes a couple of years ago. I started off with a Bultaco Mercurio and a Montesa Impala 175 Sport, and since then I’ve restored four including this one, which is an Ossa 175 Sport … One of the ones I’m most proud of.’

  ‘I had no idea, but you’ve done a fantastic job.’

  Flora huffed, making her disapproval clear, walked towards the door and said, ‘Well, let me know when you’ve finished playing, I’ll be inside … working,’ she shut the door with a bang and disappeared.

  Víctor forced a smile.

  ‘Flora doesn’t like motorbikes, she thinks this hobby is a waste of time and money.’ He tried to justify it. ‘When I was still a bachelor I had a Vespa and I even used to take her out for rides.’

  ‘That’s right! I remember it, it was red and white! You used to come and pick her up just here, in the courtyard, and when you said goodbye she always used to tell you the same thing, to be careful and …’ she cut herself off abruptly.

  ‘And not to drink,’ finished Víctor. ‘As soon as we got married she persuaded me to sell it, and, as you see, I only listened to the first part.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Víctor …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Amaia, I’m an alcoholic, it’s something I’ve found hard to admit, but it’s part of me and I live with it. I’m like a diabetic, although instead of living without cake I’ve been left to live without your sister.’

  ‘How are you doing? My aunt said you’re living at your parents’ house …’

  ‘I’m doing alright; apart from the house, and with excellent judgement, my mother left me a monthly sum to live on. I go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in Irun, I restore motorbikes … I’m not complaining.’

  ‘And what about Flora?’

  ‘Well,’ he looked towards the workshop door with a smile, ‘you know her, she’s the same as always.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘We haven’t divorced, Amaia, she won’t even hear it mentioned, and neither will I, although for different reasons, I think.’

  She stared at Víctor, in his freshly ironed blue shirt, shaved, smelling slightly of cologne and leaning against his motorbike … He reminded her of the boyfriend he had once been and she was struck by the certainty that he still loved Flora, that he had never stopped loving her, in spite of everything. This certainty perplexed her and she immediately felt a wave of affection towards her brother-in-law.

  ‘The truth is that I made things pretty difficult for her. You can’t imagine what alcohol can make you do.’

  I would say you can’t imagine what twenty years of living with the Wicked Witch of the West can do to you, thought Amaia. I’m sure that drowning his sorrows made it easier to put up with her.

  ‘Why do you go to Irun t
o go to AA meetings? Aren’t there any closer ones?’

  ‘Yes, in the parish centre, on Thursdays, I think, but I prefer to keep being the familiar drunk here.’

  Spring 1989

  It was undoubtedly the ugliest school satchel that had ever been seen, dark green with brown buckles, a kind that nobody had used for years. She didn’t touch it, at least not that day. Fortunately term was just about to finish and she wouldn’t have to use it until September. That’s what she thought. But she didn’t touch it that day. She remained silent as she looked at that horror sitting on a kitchen chair and, unconsciously, lifted a hand and ran it through her extremely short hair, which had taken her aunt a great deal of trouble to even out, as if she understood on a very basic level that the two offences were connected. Her eyes filled with the tears of a little girl on her birthday, tears of pure disappointment. Her two sisters looked at her with eyes as wide as saucers, half hidden behind large mugs of steaming milk. Neither of them said anything, although Rosaura would sometimes cry silently when Rosario told Amaia off.

  ‘What’s wrong with you now?’ asked her mother, becoming impatient.

  There were many things she wanted to say. That it was a horrible present, that she had already known she wouldn’t be getting the denim dungarees, but she hadn’t been expecting anything like this. That some presents were really intended to degrade, to humiliate, to wound, and this was a lesson that a little girl shouldn’t learn on her ninth birthday. Amaia realised this as she looked at the horrific object, unable to hold back her tears. She was coming to realise that that horrible satchel was not the result of negligence or a last minute rush to find a present, and nor did it fulfil a need. She had a perfectly good canvas shoulder bag she used to carry her books. No. It had been planned and chosen with the utmost care to cause the desired effect. A resounding success.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ asked her mother.

  She wanted to say so many things, things she knew deep down or could somehow foresee, but which her child’s mind was incapable of processing. She only muttered, ‘It’s for a boy.’