by Don Boyd
“You must tell Carlos everything you know.”
Margot slowed her pace. Her heart was beating fast. She stopped walking and stared at her friend, who just smiled. Elvira was right, of course.
Chapter Twenty
The Cementiria del Sud Ouest lies below the circular road between the stadium and the Mediterranean. There are two entrances. Its main gate is within yards of Barcelona’s massive industrial port and a taxi ride from the Colom. The funeral cortege had wound its way from the hospital on the Barceloneta past cranes, refineries and containers and was now processing at a snail’s pace down the small hill which leads towards the public crematorium, a beautifully designed, sleek, white-walled futuristic building, at odds with the rest of this vast, unique cemetery.
Margot and Elvira’s walk up the Montjuic and through the Olympic stadia had led them to the cemetery’s other, less prepossessing gate in front of a disused training track. Thousands of graves, tombstones, mausoleums and chapels are literally carved into the stark, light brown cliffs which loom above the vast industrial seaport opposite the South face of the little mountain. At the summit, black marble gravestones, stone crosses and statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary clash with industrial silhouettes of cranes and container ships, another layer in a magnificent tableau stretching across the azure, backlit Mediterranean landscape. Thick stone columns are the guardians of rows and rows of memorials and coffins encased into carefully marked, square sealed cabinets, the final resting place for thousands of Barcelona’s dead. Tiny square plaques are neatly sculptured into walls of stone stretching up and down the undulating hillside like strange vestiges of an ancient civilisation. Dried flowers, faded photos, and effigies of The Holy Virgin are encased into small, sealed glass promontories which give each cubicle, (not unlike the cubicle in a morgue), a poignant, idiosyncratic atmosphere – a little personal identity which keeps them from being desperate and uniform.
As Elvira and Margot walked around the corner of the last of the endless array of cypress tree-lined avenues, they heard the sad, forlorn sound of a solitary set of bagpipes in the wind, which had already begun to whip itself up into the early stages of one of the city’s celebrated Mediterranean storms. The piper was playing a beautiful Caledonian lament. (Paolo had loved the bagpipes, which he had learnt to play at school in Scotland.) It seemed to be louder, closer. The cedar trees lining the avenues all the way to the summit of this extraordinary cemetery, were beginning to sway in the strong breeze, blocking out the bleak industrial sprawl which lies beyond the cemetery to the West.
Around the corner of the small road leading past the chapels of the richer families, a kilted piper came into sight ahead of a slow-moving black hearse. They were moving towards the entrance of the glistening white façade of the crematorium. Margot recognised the piper: Robert, in full tartan regalia. Behind the hearse, came a phalanx of mourners and the now crawling clump of cars. The entire ex-patriot community in Barcelona was determined to share in this exotic event.
A police car, a small blue and white Seat, was parked rather obviously away from the entrance. Carlos emerged and walked over to Elvira and Margot who had slipped behind the other mourners. He kissed Elvira on the cheeks and kissed Margot’s hand.
“Buenos Dias, señoras.”
He was dressed in his formal police uniform, which included a rather peculiar, ill-fitting helmet.
About half the mourners were under twenty-five, dressed colourfully and eccentrically. The balancing, older group was dressed in traditional black, sombre funereal clothes. This mixture of age groups gave the entire event a poetic poignancy. Paolo had been very popular amongst his peers and adored by his parents’ friends alike. A small group of men, the pallbearers, hovered around the hearse which was now parked in front of the steel doors of the post-modern chapel, housed in the crematorium building. One of them looked remarkably like Paolo. His brother. The cemetery workers, dressed in bright yellow boiler suits, were smoking a discreet distance away from the chapel entrance, their white tractor at the ready to follow the hearse and cortege after the service. Paolo was destined for a plot which would require their modern mechanised diggers and tractors. The coffin slid out of the glass compartment at the rear of the hearse.
As Margot and Elvira watched this unfold, Margot grasped Elvira’s hand. Dressed in an immaculate morning suit, as devastatingly good-looking and elegant as ever, Xavier, as one of the pallbearers, was lifting a corner of the coffin to his shoulders.
“He is one of the pallbearers!” Margot hissed her anguish.
Elvira was baffled. “Pallbearers?”
“The men carrying the coffin. The tall Englishman. That’s Xavier!”
She clutched Elvira tighter. Elvira immediately said something to Carlos. He nodded and left them to follow the cortege into the chapel of the crematorium. Carlos instructed the policeman videoing the scene and then trotted back to join the women. Elvira went over to chat to another of the officers and Margot looked around for Archie. He was waiting in the reception area of the glass and concrete building. The chrome and white marble of its geometric design blended awkwardly with the strange collection of mourners. It was a bright spring morning – a mixture of trendy tee-shirts and black lace blouses, pony-tailed young men in jeans and be-suited dignitaries in morning suits. There was a clutch of young Muslims – jaballahs, fez and yashmak. Beautiful brown eyes. And plenty of expensive wraparound sunglasses.
In the courtyard, was a small, circular fountain which hadn’t been serviced properly – old winter leaves had clogged it and a pungent smell mingled with the incense burners carried by the two altar boys accompanying a mauve-robed priest who was hovering rather awkwardly near a couple of multi-coloured vending machines inside the foyer. One of the boys was trying to buy a Coke but the machine was out of order. Archie signalled discreetly to Margot to join him and pass through the foyer and into the chapel. As they entered the air-conditioned auditorium, they walked past a small quartet of musicians who were playing a beautiful selection of seventeenth century ecclesiastical music.
“How are Tarquin and Sabrina coping?”
“Badly. They want to talk to you. They think that you must have some idea of what Tilly and Paolo were up to. Sabrina is very angry. She says it’s all your fault. She has been drinking, inevitably.”
“I’ve been worried sick about that. But I can’t tell them anything. As you know.”
“Where were you last night?”
“I slept in the studio. Archie, I can’t tell them anything. Please can you explain that to them? I am happy to see them…”
Hugo was handing out a service sheet. His eyes welled up as he welcomed Margot and Archie with a bear-hug of relief.
“Thank you for picking up Mum and Dad. I just couldn’t face them. We picked Emma’s folks up yesterday. I hope Mum didn’t give you a hard time. She has been drinking, as usual.”
Archie was as comforting as he could be. “Don’t worry, Hugo, it’s always a pleasure to see them. Your Mum was relatively calm. They insisted on coming here with Paolo’s mother. They are all staying at the Grand.”
“Emma is reading a poem… She would love to come with you to the ‘wake’, if that’s what we are calling it. Personally, I hate the word.”
“Of course she can. I will look after her.”
“Thank you, Archie.”
Archie and Margot moved in. The chapel seating was organised around a small ‘altar’, a black slab, that was obviously disguising the technology which took oak coffins towards the furnaces below. This chic form of purgatory was surrounded by four groups of raked, black leather chairs, which looked like the seats you might find in a luxurious private screening room. They had red-lined backs in the shape of a small cello. A striking black woman, dressed in a very short yellow dress, made way to allow Archie, Margot and Elvira to shuffle into their seats in the centre, clustering opposite the perfectly proportioned lectern with an adjustable Sennheiser microphone. Archie kissed Elvira, a
nd as Carlos joined them, shook his hand.
“The quartet are Jordi Savall’s protégés; they are playing part of the mass of Cristobal de Morales, one of the great Catalan composers…”
Archie could be counted upon to know these details. To many in the chapel they had great significance. Jordi Savall had single-handedly championed the Catalan musical tradition with his phenomenal musical energy and talents. His wife, Montserrat Figueras, was one of Spain’s great sopranos and a heroine for Paolo – he had a very large collection of the music Jordi had recorded with his family of musicians with their orchestra, La Capella Reial de Catalunya. He had been obsessively to every concert they had ever given and Archie had organised Paolo and Tilly’s visit to la Collegiata del Castillo de Cardona to hear them record. They had even been to the cathedral in Valencia for a performance, which Paolo had recorded to use in one of his videos. Maestro Savall and his beautiful, dark-haired wife sat on the other side of the chapel. The harpist sitting near the altar was Arianna, their lovely daughter. Margot and Archie had asked her to play at their wedding.
“Le tout Barcelona!” Archie remarked.
Robert had parked his pipes and shuffled along the row to sit next to Elvira. He leant over to Margot. “I didn’t know that my friend Xavier knew Paolo. Such a small world!”
“Xavier? A friend?” Archie was irritated.
Margot studied his face. What was he hiding and why?
“One of my oldest friends,” explained Robert. “We played cricket together after Oxford. He teaches in a language school here now. I introduced him to Margot at Lucia the other night… Are we going to the wake together?” Archie nodded as if he vaguely remembered Robert talking about him.
Margot wanted to scream. All these men with secrets in their past! Elvira squeezed her left hand as if she knew.
“Of course we are,” Archie whispered, “I brought the car.”
“You will also need the car to go to the burial. Their family plot is half way up the hill.”
Margot had managed to stay externally calm and bleated out something about the music.
“I think that’s Emma… one of the musicians.”
The singer began. A simple French chanson written by Josquin de Prés. Mille Regretz.
Mille regretz de vous abandoner
Et deslonger, vostre fache amoureuse.
J’ai si grand deuil et paine douloureuse,
Qu’on me verra brief me jours definer.
(One thousand pangs of sadness and regret. I am so distraught at the
idea of leaving you. My sense of loss and despair is so powerful that
it won’t be long before my days are numbered.)
The priest entered from the foyer and into the teak-roofed amphitheatre, flanked by his two altar boys, complete with swinging incense burners. Everyone stood up. The coffin had begun its short journey down the tiny aisle of the chapel and was laid down somewhat precariously on the black marble tablet designed for it, opposite the priest who now looked flustered. He kept looking anxiously at the entrance. The soprano had finished the chanson and a small choir on the opposite corner of the chapel began to sing from Cristobal de Morales’ Requiem Mass. Agnes Dei. “Lamb of God who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.”
When they had finished, there was a very long, awkward silence. The front seats on two sides of the chapel were ominously empty. They had obviously been reserved for the families. The rest of the arena was packed, standing room only. Tilly’s parents had agreed that the service should be as much a memorial for her as it would be for Paolo. Margot caught Xavier’s eyes. He was standing with the other pallbearers to the right of the priest. Was Xavier really waiting to carry the body of his victim to his grave? Another of his hideous, perverse and depraved scenarios, no doubt? Margot looked down and closed her eyes – she was feeling so ashamed that she had succumbed to this monster. Elvira whispered to her.
“I cannot believe this!”
A commotion behind the congregation signalled the entrance of another group. Paolo’s parents had arrived and were making their way in front of the lectern to their seats. His mother was flanked by Eusebio and Gianni, her third husband. They were followed by another exquisitely dressed quartet. Tilly’s father Tarquin, awkwardly dressed in a black morning coat, her mother Sabrina, veiled in a black smock, Hugo, Tilly’s brother, in black jeans and black tee shirt and finally Emma, chic in black ear-rings and a black zipper jacket over her dress. Laura and her husband Reggie, a tall, rather awkwardly-dressed, heavily set man with a red face, followed behind Eusebio.
Paolo had been very accurate when he had described his mother and her third husband to Margot. Gianni was tall, with a beautifully trimmed dark beard. He wore half glasses, which were often hung around his neck, and when he removed them, his small, brown piercing eyes were surrounded by pencil-thin eyebrows, giving him an enquiring gaze, which could be very intimidating. Today these eyes looked ahead – sad and grave. Eusebio looked dignified and wore dark glasses. Paolo’s mother, Alicia, was the most beautiful woman in the chapel. With her raven hair, she could have passed as Tilly’s older sister. Statuesque and with a perfectly formed neck, her pale face elegantly enveloped her large blue eyes. Not a trace of make-up. She smiled shyly at a couple of friends she recognised and shook the priest’s hand. Xavier walked over to shake Eusebio’s hand and kissed Alicia’s cheeks. Had she also been one of his lovers? She introduced him quickly to Tarquin and Sabrina.
Margot was overcome by a desire to leave, but Elvira restrained her. She was right, of course – whatever circumstantial evidence she was harbouring about Xavier, it had been totally compromised by this outrageous display of brazen hypocrisy. Nobody would believe her and to leave would be discourteous and mysterious. Margot tried to catch his eyes. In vain. For all his urbane charm and intelligence, is this man evil? Had his behaviour extended her definition of that word ‘evil’ beyond any of the extremes that she could have imagined, in studying the plethora of evil behaviour which came regularly as examples in her work with her clients? If he had been responsible for Paolo’s death, he would surely never have showed up as a pallbearer.
Archie held strong views about the word. He had taught a class on the subject of evil – particularly in the context of the Inquisition as it applied to the Holocaust and the genocides in Africa. Archie believed evil to be an individual phenomenon, not a collective one and for that reason he had no sympathy with anyone who argued that an entire nation could individually let themselves off the hook for their behaviour by hiding behind the notion that they had all behaved irrationally under some kind of subconscious collective hypnosis. Hitler was evil, but so were his cohorts, and those who were Nazis were evil. “An evil man is a man who commits an evil act when he knows that it is evil. We all know the difference. It isn’t difficult to differentiate between good and evil!”
Margot’s approach was more humanitarian, more forgiving. Her work constantly provided her with mitigating factors, which could provide rational explanations for irrational behaviour. She was more inclined to forgive, to reconcile. Margot also had powerful convictions about the subconscious mind. Her decade exploring Jung and his disciples had been the bedrock of her approach to life, and to her work. Archie had never really accepted her unstinting hero-worship. He was uncompromising, reactionary. “We are all responsible for our own actions.” Even subconscious behaviour, or collective hysteria, whatever excuse could be usefully invoked in this context, were all manifestations of that same phenomenon.
Margot knew that Archie would use his address to the congregation to expose this attitude to some extent. Tastefully. With subtlety. After the priest had welcomed everyone and said a simple introductory prayer, Archie walked to the lectern to replace him in front of the microphone, which he adjusted for his height. He then began what was the first of a series of short eulogies, readings and musical tributes from friends and family in bot
h Paolo’s and Tilly’s honour. Predictably, Archie read a passage from the last book of Paradise Lost, a book Paolo had adored. They used to enjoy long sessions reciting passages from the poem and argue about its meaning. His theory was that Milton, for all his Puritan ethics and moral turpitude, was actually a hip, cool guy who had wanted to write a story debunking our idea that Satan was necessarily an unsympathetic character. Archie explained this and read the section where Adam and Eve re-enter Paradise.
While these moving tributes built up a strong picture of Paolo’s special status, particularly amongst his group of young friends, Margot tried to find a way to distract herself from the grotesque realities of her situation. The quartet began to play a medley – their own, simplified versions of Paolo’s bizarre taste in music. This raised a laugh or two. Bach’s Cello Suites and Beethoven’s Choral Fantasia blended rather incongruously with The Beastie Boys, The Sex Pistols and Mark Anthony Turnage. Nina Simone – Margot couldn’t help shooting a fleeting glance at Xavier. He was laughing. They rounded off the medley with a sensationally moving rendition of the adagio from the Fourth movement of Mahler’s Resurrection. Margot noticed that Xavier now had tears in his eyes. Evil men cry, too; crocodile tears?
Desperate to avoid thinking about the grotesque tableau before her, Margot began to play a mind-game to be played in Church at weddings and funerals, which she had learnt from Archie – what a great liar he is. Play was the wrong, frivolous word. She used the game to distract herself. Choose a couple of painters. Look around the congregation and then imagine the way that painter might have depicted the scene. William Blake and Tintoretto. Blake was easy – his visions of Dante’s Inferno and Paradiso being easy to conjure up. Tintoretto more difficult – so many masterpieces. Stick to his painting in Venice, the Scuola San Rocco. Margot looked up at the teak roofing for some inspiration.
