With this in mind she put as much concern as possible into her voice as she answered him. ‘Will Rafael take care of everything for you? Is there anything I can do directly to help you?’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘This isn’t work for you, Joana – you should know that. Believe me, it’s better for you not to get too involved.’
She lowered her eyes, and said quietly, ‘I thought I already was involved.’
‘Please, Joana, just do what I ask you to. It’s very important.’
It was the first time he had said please to her for many years. Joana raised her eyes again and met his uncompromising gaze. Enough for now, she thought, and she gave him an accepting smile, and then rose to leave.
As she came out of the front door of the prison she turned towards the town centre to look for a taxi. She wasn’t looking where she was going, and nearly walked into a man who had just crossed the road, heading towards the prison. He apologised, but then shot her a long, interested look which she couldn’t quite fathom. He seemed familiar, too, though she couldn’t quite place him. Was he a colleague of Sergi’s coming to try to gain admission to see him? Perhaps he already had an appointment? The thought chilled her, but then she thought that if he was really a high enough level colleague to win access to Sergi then he should be better known to her. The man was only hazily familiar. Perhaps he was one of Sergi’s looser band of henchmen, in which case she might have seen him in passing in the past. If so he was surely too junior to be visiting. But why was he here?
The question nagged at her on the taxi ride, but then she let it go. She went home and had lunch, and then when she couldn’t justify waiting any longer she made the call to Miquel. Any hopes that he might be out for this Sunday were dashed when he answered the phone himself, and by five o’clock he was at the house to collect Sergi’s note, eager for news. He was quite clearly stunned by Sergi’s arrest, and she surmised that his own political future might be linked to Sergi’s fortunes, which would explain how upset he looked as he took the note from her, and how avidly he read it.
‘You’ve seen Sergi?’ he asked, though the answer must be obvious. She nodded.
‘I’ve been trying to get in to see him myself,’ he continued. ‘They say I should be able to see him tomorrow or more likely Tuesday.’
This was good news. If he didn’t get his instructions from Sergi until Tuesday, then she could make sure she didn’t hand over the money to him until that evening, and he wouldn’t even be able to begin to start work until the Wednesday morning, three whole days away. He’d be keen to clear Sergi’s name as much as possible, she thought, to reduce the impact of his fall on his known supporters, but after that he’d be wise to step backwards from Sergi’s orbit, and find someone else to help him up the ladder.
That evening she visited the apartment again. Carla was there, full of news, with the wedding date set for Thursday. Luc had been right, it seemed, and they’d had the fullest cooperation from the young, modernising priest in Luc’s parish. Paperwork that could often take three weeks to organise had been finalised in record time, and there seemed little doubt that the priest fully intended Luc’s marriage to take place before any baby could arrive.
But Carla’s new good spirits took a knock when Joana told them about Rafael.
‘He’s seeing Sergi tomorrow or Tuesday?’ she fretted. ‘So if Sergi really wants to get me he could have a posse up in Terrassa by Wednesday at the latest!’
It took all of Joana’s persuasion to convince her that Rafael was not one of Sergi’s thugs, and wouldn’t be doing that kind of dirty work.
‘He could take a note though for someone else!’
‘Calmi, Carla. Even if he did send some of his henchmen up to Terrassa, which I doubt, they wouldn’t have the police with them, and all you would need are enough men to stand up to them. Remember how Uncle Josep stood up to them in Barcelona? That’s all you’d need. And Sergi himself won’t be out and free to come after you with police friends until after his release and his hoped for return to some power.’
‘She’s right, Carla,’ voiced Victor, from where he sat playing cards with Martin at a little table in the corner. ‘Stop fretting over nothing! You’ve left that young man of yours in good hands, being cosseted like a baby, if what you tell us is right.’ Carla grinned in acknowledgement, and Victor continued, ‘And by Friday you’ll be a married woman. You’ll have to work on your cooking skills, but otherwise you’ll be all right.’
He cocked his head at Joana. ‘Meanwhile, this guy here can’t play botifarra for toffee, and I need your help. One of you has to help him or take his place, it’s up to you, but something needs to be done!’
It was Carla who stepped in to help Martin, while Joana stepped back and sat with Maria to help sort through some odd ends of wool, brought out to make baby clothes. Covertly she watched the so familiar card game, studying her daughter, who was animated and happy as she laughed at Martin’s mistakes. It hurt to think of the years of estrangement she had allowed to happen between them, just as it clenched her chest every time she thought of Carla leaving.
And Martin? Don’t start any new worries about Martin! He was a bridge-builder, an exceptional person, and he would make a very good doctor, and over time he would forget her, or at least forget how he had felt about her. He had such a bright future. As she watched him, Joana compared it with her own, and felt that clench in the stomach again. Whatever brave face she might put on it, her future looked tough, challenging and ambivalent at best, lonely and confined at worst. She watched the young people and tried not to think about it.
Over coffee it was Martin they talked about. He’d been kicking his heels all day, and had dragged Victor out for a long walk that afternoon, it seemed. Should he leave tomorrow? That was the discussion, and it was hard to imagine what he could still do to help them now. He should return to his studies, Maria insisted. He agreed, with his usual composure, but he looked miserable, and Victor sat with his arm around him, looking not much happier. He would wait until after her next visit to Sergi tomorrow, they decided, just to be sure, and then leave in time to be back in France by evening. It was agreed.
But in the morning Joana didn’t make it to the prison. A telephone call came from Miquel Gibert, Sergi’s lawyer. Was Joana at home? Would she please be kind enough to receive him immediately? She waited on tenterhooks, and within fifteen minutes he was being ushered into the sitting room.
‘Dear lady, can we sit down? I am the bearer of bad tidings – really such terrible tidings!’ His suave manner had taken a serious rattling, and his teeth almost chattered together as he continued. ‘Señor Olivera – your dear husband – was attacked in his cell this morning. He has been seriously injured – yes, very seriously – and has been taken to hospital.’
Joana could only stare. ‘Sergi has been attacked?’
‘Yes, Señora, he received such a severe beating that I wonder, really I wonder …’ His voice tailed off, and he didn’t seem to know how to continue.
Joana brought her thoughts into order. ‘But who attacked him? Señor Gibert, you told me that I was the only person, other than yourself, who had been permitted to see my husband. So who could have attacked him?’
‘I am afraid that it may have been one of the guards. We can’t prove anything, of course, and no one is going to admit such a thing. The official story will be that Señor Olivera somehow got out of his room and was attacked by a prisoner. It is not unheard of for one prisoner to attack another violently in this way.’
‘But you don’t think it could have been so?’
‘Really I couldn’t say for sure, Señora, but if you ask merely my opinion I would say no. The attack happened at a time of day when prisoners are all locked up, and so far your husband has been kept in solitary confinement. But I was only notified after your husband had been removed to hospital, and there is no way anything could be proved – nor would I even attempt to.’
‘And you are sure, Seño
r, that no one other than you and I has been allowed access to Sergi?’
‘As sure as I can be, yes.’
‘So tell me, how badly is he injured?’
‘I have just seen him.’ A look of distaste came over his face, and he took time before continuing. ‘He has severe head and body injuries.’
‘And unconscious?’
‘Oh yes, he is unconscious. I am sorry, Señora Olivera, but I have to warn you – the doctors warn that there may have been some damage to your husband’s brain.’
Joana sat digesting what she had been told. In the back of her mind raced the thought that now Luc and Carla would be safe, and she was by no means as distressed as the lawyer clearly expected her to be, but she mustn’t show this. She needed to see Sergi, and as she thought of him beaten up and unconscious her stomach tightened and she had no problem showing the right level of distress to Gibert.
‘Señor Gibert, can I see my husband? I need to go to the hospital!’
‘Indeed, dear lady, I understand, and I will accompany you there, but are you sure you are ready for what you may see?’
He was looking at her as if she were a helpless little girl, and she saw that she could turn this to her advantage.
‘Well, I’d like to have my mother and daughter with me,’ she answered. ‘And we will probably bring my cousin as well, so that I’ll have a man with me, Señor, and you will not have to stay with me.’
‘Indeed,’ he sounded very relieved. ‘You need to have your family about you at a time like this. It is what Señor Olivera would wish for you.’
Joana doubted that Sergi would want anything of the sort, but she agreed, and sent Toni to bring Maria, Carla and Martin directly to the hospital. It would be good to have allies.
She gave the lawyer a coffee before they headed off themselves in his car. She listened to his stream of sympathy in silence, and he accepted this as the normal signs of shock and distress. But when they entered the hospital he fell silent, and when they were shown into Sergi’s room he stood to one side in an attitude of complete gravity.
Sergi was worse than she’d imagined. She could only see his face, but it was swollen beyond recognition, his eyes and even his eyelids completely invisible behind a wall of angry swellings. His head was wrapped in bandages, but blood had oozed through them on one side of his skull. Gingerly she drew down the sheet which covered him, and his torso was badly bruised, and partially bandaged. His arms had escaped damage, as had his legs, and as she drew the cover back over him she realised that the attack had been carefully directed at his upper half, and particularly at his head.
They had brought Sergi to the private hospital. The room he was in was modern, and he was attached to state-of-the-art machinery, which was presumably designed to keep him alive. A nurse hovered by the door, and within minutes of their arrival a doctor appeared, attentive and courteous, and adjusted the machine before he turned to Joana. Yes, he confirmed, her husband had severe head injuries, plus a punctured lung and some broken ribs. But the most serious damage was to the head, and Señor Olivera was at risk still as his brain continued to swell from the blows he had received. He had a very good chance of coming through, though, and the doctor did not want to distress her unduly.
And if he did pull through? Well, then there would be a very long, slow recovery process, possibly of many months, and the Señora should prepare herself for the possibility of some brain damage.
How much? Well, that was impossible to say for now, but the next few days should reveal more. X-ray results suggested that the parts of the brain responsible for both speech and movement had been affected, but he had seen worse cases. The Señora should prepare herself but by no means despair, since her husband was truly in the best of hands.
‘And if he does pull through, the brain damage will be temporary? He will recover?’ Joana asked.
‘In part at least, Señora. There are many cases of people with such injuries resuming almost normal lives eventually. We have seen some remarkable recoveries against all expectations, but even after months of recovery your husband may be left slow of movement and speech, and indeed of thought. I wish I could tell you more, but we don’t know enough about brain injuries as yet to be able to diagnose long-term effects with conviction, especially when the injuries are so recent. And this was a very strange attack, which was targeted at the head, as though someone wanted to do the maximum amount of damage.’
The doctor shook his head sorrowfully, gave another tweak to the machine and checked various tubes, and then eased himself out of the room, just as Maria and Carla and Martin arrived. Martin stayed in the background as a flood of explanations in Spanish were exchanged, and the lawyer assured Joana of his continued attention to all her needs.
Joana was still reeling from the doctor’s reference to the attack being a seemingly deliberate attempt to damage Sergi’s brain. But the very thought of such a thing seemed to be hastening lawyer Gibert on his way. His inherently proper nature clearly recoiled from this whole sordid scenario, and he just didn’t want to be involved, or at least only from behind the protection of his mahogany desk.
‘Come to see me in my office when you are ready,’ he told Joana, ‘and we will talk about how best you should manage your husband’s affairs. For now I will leave you with your family, and would urge you not to distress yourself too greatly.’
He took Joana’s hand briefly in his, and manoeuvred himself towards the door with grace, and a respectful bow to Maria and Carla, not actually meeting their horrified eyes. Then he was gone, and Joana was left with Maria and Carla and Martin, whose combined gaze was fixed on Sergi in utter, stunned bewilderment.
‘What happened?’ Maria whispered.
‘Some prison guard or guards have beaten him up, that’s what!’ Joana whistled. ‘God knows why, but it was a vicious attack. You see how they targeted the head specifically? The doctor says he’ll have some brain damage, long term, and that it may be permanent.’
Maria was horrified. ‘Santa Mare! Who could have wanted to harm him like this? You mean the guards had something against him? How could they be so brutal?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps some official paid the guards to do it?’ Joana raised her hands. It was all too sudden, and too brutal.
Carla had gone sheet white, and Joana worried that maybe she shouldn’t have come here in her condition. She reached out and took her by the arm. Meanwhile Martin had gone over to stand beside Sergi, and was gazing with almost clinical interest at his swollen face. It was he who spoke.
‘Someone wanted to destroy your husband’s brain here. Why should any official need to do this to him? Didn’t we agree that his career is effectively over? He didn’t represent a threat to anyone in government.’
‘He had enemies, though.’
‘But why put themselves at any risk by arranging this, when he was already down?’ He had his eyes still fixed on Sergi, and seemed to be fretting frustratedly at the senseless of it all. ‘Was there anyone to whom he was still a threat?’ he asked, turning to face the three women.
‘Just me.’ It was Carla who spoke, in a very small voice, leaning into Joana’s arm.
Joana held her, gratified, and gradually the truth dawned on her. ‘You, yes Carla, but also the blackmailer! I’m just remembering – I saw a man yesterday going towards the prison, and he looked at me as though he knew me. He was kind of familiar too, but I couldn’t figure out who he was. Well, now I remember – it was him I saw when he came to the house for that first meeting with Sergi!’ She looked past Martin to where Sergi lay. Oh dear, had Sergi been attacked because his erstwhile blackmailer thought he would now be on his hit list?
Carla made a little frightened sound. ‘You think he had some friends among the guards? Someone who could do dirty work for him?’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, but if that’s the case then he’s achieved his object, hasn’t he, and I don’t imagine we’ll ever hear from him again.’
&nbs
p; Martin backed her up. ‘It’s over, Carla. I’m sure Joana’s right, and it was the blackmailer who organised this, and now he’ll be happy.’
Joana shivered, and leaving Carla she took a step forward towards the hospital bed where the shell of Sergi lay. Martin stood to one side, and she had a clear view of her husband. What did she feel? He looked so different, lying there with those bandages covering most of his head, and the tubes everywhere, and that white sheet over him was like a shroud. She shivered again, and Maria came to stand beside her and put a hand on her arm. She leant her head against her mother.
‘Poor Sergi,’ she said, and meant it. ‘Do you know, Mama, I think the person who best understood him was you, or at least you understood where he’d come from and why he was so driven and angry. He always had something to prove, but he was never quite sure he had really proved it, so it drove him further and further, and built that anger in him. What he couldn’t dominate he had to hurt. But I don’t think he was ever happy. And you know what? I don’t think he killed Alex, either. I don’t think he felt that powerful in those days, and I think he just said it the other day to hurt Carla, because she had bested him.’
‘I hope that’s true, vida meva,’ Maria commented, in hushed tones, her eyes still fixed on Sergi, and the machines that blinked all around him. ‘But do you realise that you’re speaking about him in the past tense?’
It was true. But somehow Joana was sure Sergi was going to live.
‘Yes,’ she answered, slowly. ‘Because the past is dead – that old Sergi.’
‘So you think he’ll live?’ It was Carla who spoke, her voice doubtful.
‘The doctor says there’s a chance he may not, but I’d say he’ll live, just because it’s Sergi! He’s a tough cookie. But he’ll be ages in here, whatever happens, and the doctor spoke of possible long-term problems in movement and brain function.’
She looked down at him again. ‘Do you think he’ll be happier, if all that ambition and aggression is gone? I could look after him, you know, if he becomes easier to deal with. He’ll need me now.’
Autumn in Catalonia Page 23
