by Mario Bolduc
She didn’t say a word. Lost in thought. Max’s revelation forced her to think back on a period of her life she’d tried in vain to forget. Her past bubbled to the present, constantly, like heartburn.
“What happened, exactly?” Max asked.
Caroline described that tragic weekend when the family had gotten together for the last time at the rivière Saqawigan house. Kevin was morose, Raymond, too. The two men were incapable of thinking of anything except what had happened in Montreal.
“Nordopak’s bankruptcy?”
“It wasn’t official yet. Raymond was in constant contact with his board members, though unable to convince them to give him another chance. He’d lost all credibility.”
Max nodded.
“Kevin and Raymond, tormented, avoiding each other.” Caroline straightened. “Thankfully, Sharon was spending the week with us. And so was Josée. They both tried to drag Raymond out of his shell a little, without much success. I tried, too. Josée thought her mission was to support, reassure her father constantly, try to make him laugh a little. Sometimes there’d be this little moment of sunlight and he’d chuckle or smile, but the clouds would come back right away. Even darker than before.”
Raymond only seemed like himself when he played with Sacha. The child helped brighten his mood. When Sacha was just a newborn, Raymond had been annoyed by his babbling; it exasperated him. But the boy had grown on him, and Raymond had become a doting grandfather. He could spend hours with the child, never getting bored or losing patience, playing with him on the living room floor. He kept all of his smiles for Sacha, as if punishing his family for being there, witnesses to his misfortune.
And then there were all his old pals, Grande-Vallée’s fishermen. Every morning Raymond told Sharon, Kevin, and Caroline that he was off to pick up the mail in the village. While, in fact, he’d make his way to the bar to have a drink with his friends. He’d come back stinking of alcohol, but he never seemed drunk. Raymond had always been the sort of man to drink like a fish and not show the effects.
By early April, discussions with Nordopak’s board were becoming increasingly fraught. Raymond was looking to gain a little time, which the board refused to give him. The vultures were beginning to circle, Cambiano the first among them, ready to fall upon what was left of the carcass.
Raymond couldn’t sleep; he stalked the corridors of the large home all night.
One day Raymond simply disappeared. Kevin and Caroline thought he’d gone back to Montreal to confront the mob trying to sell his company out from under him.
Max now knew that Raymond had been in Woodlands, Manitoba, for an unknown reason. In any case, his trip had been fruitless; he returned from Manitoba more desperate than ever.
The end was unavoidable. Nordopak’s corpse fed to the vultures, and gone was Raymond’s life’s work.
His last day, now intolerable by its banality.
Sharon and Josée had driven to Matane to shop for groceries. Kevin, Caroline, and Gabrielle wanted to go for a bit of a hike, to get some fresh air. Raymond had been in a strangely good mood, offering to take Sacha for the day. An offer Caroline had accepted. A decision she thought of every day since, a decision that had ruined her life.
Raymond, preparing to leave a void behind him.
Caroline wasn’t telling Max anything new. He felt as if she was staying on the surface of things, giving him the official version of events. He had hoped for more. He didn’t blame Caroline, though. Raymond’s death had taken over their lives. A tragedy that, according to the official version of events, was no more than a common accident; no different in nature than the dozens or hundreds of other tragedies that happened every day. A death — two — caused by a moment of distraction.
Caroline’s story seemed to have exhausted her. Max realized she looked even paler than before, as if the retelling of events had made them worse. The only remedy she’d found had been silence, forgetting, and here was Max forcing the past back on her.
After a moment, Caroline said, “And the man in the picture …”
“Peter Kalanyos.”
Caroline closed her eyes. “I saw him in Grande-Vallée. With Raymond. The day before he died.”
32
As he returned to his room at the Albergue San Miguel, Max was stopped by the desk clerk, who gestured him over while still on the phone. As he waited for her to finish her call, he looked over the postcards in the display stand. Typical Andalusian landscapes. Pueblos blancos, an Iberian bull, sunny scenes. Decidedly, he’d have to return on vacation to visit this beautiful part of the world.
The clerk hung up and glanced at Max. “Was your friend wearing a tuxedo?”
Max had no idea. But if Kevin had been invited to a party, or wanted to infiltrate one, he might have. In some of the other pictures Marie-France Couturier had shown him, several men wore tuxedos.
The Norwegian woman remembered Kevin now. “He had a stain on his shirt. I remember it now because I helped him clean it. He was nervous. Like a teenager going to his first dance.”
Max showed her Kevin’s picture again.
“Yes, exactly, that’s him. I recognize him now.”
“A party during the day? Like a garden party? Do you know where?”
“He didn’t tell me.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, wait a second! I called the taxi for him because he didn’t speak Spanish.”
She rummaged in a desk and came out with a card for the cab company the Albergue did business with.
A thread. A thin, thin thread, but a thread nonetheless. And Max had nothing better to go on. He went to his Peugeot and left immediately for the suburbs of Granada, to Radio Taxi Andalucía’s headquarters. In a cul-de-sac, off a main street, a Repsol garage surrounded by a dozen cars, all taxis. Max had seen quite a few with the same branding in the streets of Granada near Iglesia de San Nicolás.
José López — or so the name tag on his overalls read — pulled himself from under a car he was working on and walked toward Max, chewing on a toothpick. Slightly round, bald, a sort of Sancho Panza disguised as the boss of a taxi company. He asked Max to go to the other pumps, not these ones, if he wanted to gas up his car. Max handed him a fifty-euro bill through his open window.
“I’m looking for a driver.”
López hesitated. As in many countries in the world, taxi driving was the domain of insomniacs and loners, but also ex-cons. It was a common occurrence for someone to want to know more about a driver, but it usually spelled trouble nonetheless. Only cops were interested in cab drivers.
“I run an honest business,” López said gently. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
An honest man always cost more.
Max pulled out another fifty-euro bill; the second was enough to buy him a strong espresso behind closed doors in López’s office.
“Every call is recorded, of course.”
López turned to an old computer dirty with grease and tapped on even filthier keys one finger at a time. Information on the night of July 19 appeared on the screen.
“The Albergue San Miguel, right? A dozen calls during the day and … only one in the early evening. Ramiro Bugalla …” López snorted. “You’re in luck. I’m about to fire him.”
There were hundreds of drivers who’d be happy to have his job. López explained that drivers worked in pairs, and Bugalla’s current partner wanted his stepbrother to work with him. And so Bugalla would have to go.
“So where can I find him before you fire him, this model employee?”
López looked at the Cinzano clock on the wall. “Here, in an hour, like everybody else. I mean, if he’s not throwing up his tapas in the bathroom of some bar somewhere …”
Ramiro Bugalla seemed sober when he parked his Fiat in the garage. José López knocked on his office window and pointed out the car to Max, who was sitting on a pile of old tires. Max let Bugalla turn the engin
e off at the far end of the parking lot, between two cabs, before making his way toward him. The man was vacuuming the back seat and didn’t hear Max approach. He startled when he saw two shoes right behind him, pulled his head out, and looked up.
“How’s your memory, Ramiro?” Max was smiling, enjoying the driver’s confusion.
Tall, lanky, grey hair falling to his shoulders, a hippie slowly approaching well-deserved retirement.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Bugalla answered in halting English.
“I’m not accusing anyone. Just asking you how your memory is.”
“You work with the FBI?”
Now it was Max’s turn to be surprised.
“You look like a cop.”
Max sighed. Clearly, he’d need to buy some new suits next time he was in New York.
“On July 19 you picked up a man in a tuxedo from the Albergue San Miguel. Sometime in the afternoon. He was off to a party.”
Max showed him Kevin’s picture. Bugalla examined it for a long moment, his brow furrowed, attempting to convince Max of how hard he was trying to remember. Max slipped him a fifty-euro bill to jog his memory.
“Yeah, something is coming back to me. Near the Alhambra.”
“Do you remember the address?”
“Hard to say.”
Max peeled out another bill.
“Yes, yes, it is all coming back to me now.”
Max reached the top of a narrow street that led to the Red One, as the Arabs used to call it. The same street used by tourists, on foot or by bus, as well as by Granada’s citizens. On hot summer days during the holidays, it was total chaos. In December, however, the street was almost empty. A few people out for a run, others walking dogs, a few students. Max followed a handful of tourists visiting the city during the low season. They’d probably driven from the Costa del Sol, disgusted by all the concrete there, looking for a bit of culture and beauty.
At the end of the street he moved away from the crowd. On the left, if you climbed higher still, the ticket booth and access to the citadel. On the right, a few hotels and restaurants. In the Antequeruela Baja, on the other side of those few businesses, the house Ramiro Bugalla had driven Kevin to that day. Four storeys, the last one high enough to glimpse the fortress through the windows. Max saw a covered rooftop terrace and what might be a dining room. From the street, you couldn’t see the garden, but likely the view of the citadel was breathtaking from there, as well. An ideal site for a party.
The house was shuttered, though, and graffiti covered its walls.
Max was caught off guard.
Tall metal fencing, already beginning to rust at its highest points, encircled the house. Max was stuck; there was no way he’d be able to climb that fence. That was when he noticed a small sign on a gate. The phone number and name of a real-estate agency, which Max committed to memory.
Max’s cellphone battery had died, and he made his way to a nearby café, right at the top of Peña Partida. The owner let him call from a phone booth at the far end of the bar whose door wouldn’t close, unfortunately.
“Señora Zarzuela isn’t available just now, but she’ll call you back as soon as she can,” the receptionist said. “Would you like to leave her a message?”
Max told the receptionist there was no need, that he’d call again a little later.
He walked back to the front door of the café. The barman behind the counter, the one who’d shown him where to make the phone call, was now staring at him, alarmed.
“You’re looking at Werner Landermann’s old house?”
He’d overheard Max’s conversation. A professional busybody, clearly, with the thick moustache to match the startled eyebrows.
The barman leaned over the counter. “It’s been in disrepair for three years. You saw the fence? It’s even worse inside. Rats in the basement, the roof needs to be redone.”
No doubt Señora Zarzuela must love this guy … Max could imagine the man discouraging every potential buyer who, just like him, came to make a phone call to the real-estate agent.
Max sat at the bar and ordered a beer. He described himself as an American tourist looking for investment opportunities in Andalusia. While his wife visited the citadel, he’d decided to wander around. The barman introduced himself as Javier.
“Can I meet the owner, this Landermann …?”
“He’s been dead for a dozen years. Cirrhosis of the liver. An amazing man. Stayed strong to the end.”
“Though he left his house rotting to pieces.”
“That’s the agent’s fault. She’s supposed to take care of it and then sell it. But she barely does anything, and the price is too high, anyway.”
“Because it’s near the Alhambra?”
“Right. But you couldn’t turn it into a hotel or a restaurant. It’s just not built that way. I’m not complaining, though, believe me. There aren’t enough tourists during winter already, so if people start opening restaurants here and there and on every other corner, soon enough …”
A fine sort, Landermann was, Javier added. He’d come and have a drink regularly. And then he’d meet a German tourist and the whole thing would turn into drinks for everyone, every time. Must have cost him a fortune. The barman had even stocked German beers that he had specially imported just for Landermann.
“He hated the Spanish brands” Javier whispered. “He wasn’t in the wrong there, either.”
Sometimes the drinking sessions lasted into the wee hours of the morning. And so Javier courageously dragged Landermann back to his house, where his wife waited for him. The worst sort of stuck-up princess you ever saw, Javier claimed, and she’d order Javier to drag her husband to a couch upstairs in a small den. Landermann’s wife would hand him a bill or two, as if he’d returned her lost cat.
“He must’ve slept on that couch often, the poor man,” the barman added.
“Quite the love story, right? What happened to her?”
“She died. Just like him. I can’t remember when, but not too long ago.”
“Cirrhosis, as well?”
“I doubt it.”
And so the house was for sale. And the way Javier was advertising it, it wouldn’t be sold for a long time.
At the foot of the Alhambra near Gran Vía de Colón, Granada looked like a typical European city again, with the requisite Mediterranean zest: angry drivers, their hands resting on their horns and their middle fingers on quick draw. Max called the Albergue San Miguel from a restaurant on Plaza de las Pasiegas where he’d stopped to have a bite to eat. The receptionist told him a Raquel Zarzuela had tried to reach him and left her cellphone number. Max called the real-estate agent from the restaurant, and they agreed to meet thirty minutes later in front of Werner Landermann’s house.
Raquel arrived, glittering, energetic, with a smile full of straight white teeth that could be spotted a mile away. She reached the house a few minutes early, practically leaping out of her Volvo with the elegance of a predator. Though night had fallen, she had life enough for both of them. Ready to sell this godforsaken house she’d been stuck with for months. For once, a potential buyer wanted to visit the place! Max walked toward her to shake her hand. A cloud of perfume overcame him. He gave a small cough.
The woman stood straight as a rod, ready to spin her tale. “This house is just perfect for you.” She looked Max over, seemingly satisfied by what she saw.
“Listen —”
“You didn’t choose it, did you? It’s more like it chose you among the hundreds of people who walk down this street every day. Do you believe in fate?”
“Señora —”
“What’s your sign?”
Raquel took Max by the arm as if he were her son, though she was younger than him, leading him toward the Landermann residence. Max didn’t know what to say but finally asked, “So how’s business in Granada?”<
br />
“So-so. But my properties never stay on the market for long. Because I choose them carefully, take care of them personally … because I love them. As much as I love men,” she added, a sly smile on her face.
“You knew Landermann?”
She burst out laughing. “Do I look that old?”
With her long, bright red nails, Raquel tapped a password out on an electronic keypad before inserting a card in a slot. The gate opened, and with it the lights that surrounded the entire property came on. Max felt as if a well-rehearsed play were beginning.
The señora indicated the window. “We had to board up the windows because of thieves.”
“The neighbourhood’s dangerous?”
Raquel had made a mistake. She found a way out elegantly. “The whole world, señor. Here as elsewhere. If you leave a house abandoned, it’ll quickly become prey to looters! In every neighbourhood, the good neighbourhoods like the bad ones.”
“Thieves! They lack all decency.”
From up close the deterioration Javier had spoken of didn’t seem quite so bad. But it was nighttime. Anyone who knew anything about real estate would tell you never to visit a house after dark.
Another card and another code for the front door. It stood tall, grand, really, double doors swinging open. Raquel turned the light on. An entrance hall two storeys high, a monumental chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A staircase, on the right, led to a mezzanine that continued to the back of the home. It felt like first class on a luxury liner.
“Sumptuous, isn’t it?”
And of rather startling kitsch. Chandeliers, mirrors, friezes, and lace. As if the architect had been held back, contained when he designed the exterior, and had gotten his revenge inside, letting loose his mad imagination. From one moment to the next, Max expected to see a major-domo or a maid pop out from behind a carpeted door. The Landermann couple, clearly enough, hadn’t had much of a sense of humour. Or they were the funniest people in Spain. Had to be one or the other.
