Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery

by Marcia Morgan

  “Alex reluctantly left her and found his way back to the seedy guesthouse. His friend was a bit better, but not well enough to run for his life, and wouldn’t be for another couple of days. Excited at the thought that the black-haired girl might actually appear, he cleaned himself up and hurried through the cobblestone streets to the plaza. All types of people, young and old, were engaged in revelry of some sort. It was difficult to believe that the Festa de San Fermín had begun as a religious observance.

  “He waited first in front of the Café Bar Torino, hoping for a glimpse of Hemingway, but concluded it was too early in the evening. He strolled the perimeter of the plaza and looked into two more bars for the same purpose. He didn’t find Hemingway or Julieta, so he walked to the center of the plaza, gazing into the groups of people milling around, and finally he saw her standing demurely at the edge of the crowd. He approached, and when she spotted him she smiled. They spent that evening together, and the next, and the next.

  “At one point, in a moment of youthful lust, he took her in his arms and kissed her— right there in the crowd of revelers. After that night they became inseparable— wandering the neighborhoods together, watching people, generally getting to know each other. He carried a Spanish dictionary and tried to speak her language when he could. But neither of them thought far enough ahead to realize that if he didn’t declare himself, their time together in Pamplona could end right along with the celebration.”

  Ben stopped talking for a moment and Ana said, “I’m hooked! This would make a good movie. But first you have to write the book.”

  “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. It wasn’t all smooth sailing. My grandfather almost blew it. A couple of days later, when the friend had gained back his strength, the group of guys made their plan to join the bull run the next day, which was also the last day of the festival. When he met Julieta that evening he was wearing his ‘whites’ along with the traditional red waist tie. He had decided to get the ‘feel’ of the outfit and also get some of the attention he had seen other runners get from the crowd.”

  “Uh Oh,” Ana said, “I can see trouble in paradise.”

  “Yep, and it was a turning point in his life. Julieta issued him an ultimatum. I think you can guess what it was. She told him that if he ran with the bulls and managed not to get killed, she’d never speak to him again and he’d never see her again.”

  “A strong-minded young woman. I like that. Kind of sets the boundaries for the burgeoning relationship in general.”

  “He had to decide whether to look like a wimp in front of his friends and break the vow they had taken, or take the chance of losing her forever. He had no way of knowing whether she was bluffing.”

  “Knowing how important bravado is to young men of that age, I could see him going ahead with the original plan to run. To give that up for a girl would have opened him up to a lot of put-downs and teasing, and maybe his buddies would have given him the complete brush-off.”

  Of course Ana had pre-determined what the outcome had been, but Ben waited to continue, trying to build a little suspense. “I don’t think I have to tell you what happened. Here I am— one result of his choice.” He glanced aside and saw she was smiling.” He uttered two more words. “The end.”

  “How lovely,” she said. “How many years were they married?”

  “When my grandfather passed away they had been married sixty-six years. She followed shortly after, which isn’t unusual for people as close as they were.”

  “You would definitely honor them by including something of their story in one of your books.”

  “That was my plan, but right now the thoughts I have of Pamplona are anything but pleasant. I hope that changes. I had always planned to go to that plaza— find those bars, have a drink and toast them— but I never expected my return to Spain would be so negative. I was just a kid the only time I was here, and then it was just Madrid.”

  “Did your grandmother ever try to teach you Spanish? Kids learn languages so easily. I’ve forgotten most of what I learned at my grandmother’s knee.”

  “No, she didn’t. I think she was focused on me becoming a proper English gentleman. That’s something I never really understood, with her being Spanish. I would’ve thought she’d have had me in a little bullfighter’s suit.”

  They both laughed and continued to find their way toward the bridge. A couple of blocks on they rounded a corner, coming upon a small cobblestone plaza dominated by a colorful tile fountain. Seated on the edge was a man, sixtyish perhaps, with his beret— boina— tipped just right. He was tuning his guitar, concentrating as he prepared. He began to play, and Ana recognized Francisco Tárrega’s Recuerdos de la Alhambra. The melody took her back to childhood and her grandmother’s love of Spanish music.

  As if being conducted by magic, the water splashed and fell in a rhythm complementary to the music. At a nearby tienda a young girl stepped from behind an outdoor rack of brightly colored clothing. She seemed shy, but began to move to the music. The guitarist gestured an invitation for her to dance. The girl approached and they exchanged a few words before she began to sway gently to the music. Ben and Ana stayed to watch the scene unfold. The girl turned toward the tienda’s entrance, where an old woman had come out to watch her. The girl seemed excited to show the woman the Flamenco steps she had learned and began to dance. The old woman began to sing the old gypsy cantos and clapped the traditional rhythms to accompany the dance steps and the guitar. The sun was low, and at the taberna across the square, fairy lights began to sparkle in the flowering vines surrounding an outdoor seating area.

  The musician finished his song with a flourishing run over the strings then tipped his boina to the young dancer. She giggled and waved goodbye as she was ushered back into the building. A brightly painted door closed behind them, and soon a sign saying cerrado appeared in the window. The man got up, put his guitar in its case, walked over to the taberna and disappeared inside. It was suddenly very still but for the sound of the fountain, its own melody carrying into the evening.

  They just stood there a moment before Ana said, “I’ll have you know I had my own castanets.” She looked down, a bit embarrassed by her revelation.

  Ben backed away and gave her a quizzical look. “What’s the story on that?”

  “My grandmother wanted me to learn Flamenco, the traditional baile Gitano— flamenco Roma— the original gypsy form— to get in touch with my heritage. I did love the music though. She would quiz me on who had composed whatever music was playing. I gave it my best, but I was hopeless… no decent sense of rhythm.”

  “You’d never know it to look at you,” he said, teasing. “I can see there’s still a lot to learn about you, Ana Doherty.”

  “Well, my middle name is Cristina, for my mother and my grandmother. You’ll just have to discover my hidden qualities… but let’s change the subject. I’m getting hungry.”

  They left the enchanting little plaza and strolled toward the Puente Nuevo Bridge. At some point, Ana had no idea when, Ben had managed to collect some facts about Ronda and was anxious to share them.

  “Of course you probably know that Hemingway spent a lot of his time in Spain— even fought in the civil war. Ronda was a favorite of his. He called it the most romantic village in Spain. It’s a bit more than a village now, but you can see what he meant.”

  “You’ve certainly done your part to help renew his observation,” Ana said, putting her arm through his.

  “It’s also called ‘the city of dreams,’ but when you consider the atrocities perpetrated here through the centuries it’s hard to think of it in only romantic terms. There’s a lot of history since it was declared a town in the fourth century— by Julius Caesar.”

  “I’m not up on the history, and maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “I won’t be generous with description, but that ‘romantic’ bridge— and the gorge— were used for easy executions. One good push— problem solved.” Ana didn’t react so he conti
nued. “In Hemingway’s novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Fascist sympathizers are thrown from the bridge. Many people believe this fictional story about the Spanish civil war was based on what actually happened.”

  Ana put an end to the negative turn of the conversation, and said, “I prefer to think of all the special moments lovers have had on the bridge.”

  “You mean like the one we’re about to have?” Ben asked.

  “Exactly.”

  They hurried on, reached the bridge, and strolled out toward the center. Ronda’s elevation allowed the summer twilight to linger, and they could just see the river, it’s water still reflecting the sunset’s last vestiges of color. Yet parts of the gorge were already in near-blackness. As Ben and Ana leaned out to look at the river, their arms touched. Both were quiet until he slipped his arm around Ana’s waist and pulled her close to him. Ben turned his head toward her and she instinctively did the same, looking up to lock with his gaze. A seductive yet self-conscious smile crossed his face and he paused, trying to find his words, remembering his past.

  Ben would admit to being somewhat of a lothario in his youth. An idealistic and aspiring writer, he was brimming with love sonnets just waiting to be offered to the parade of desirable girls who frolicked through his college days. Now he found himself tongue-tied and sure it was real— this love— because it had turned his brain to mush. The water was deep and turbulent, but he dove in, refusing to lose Ana to his silence.

  “I wanted to tell you before this, but conditions weren’t right… I’m in love with you, Ana.”

  He studied her expression, waiting impatiently for a response. Ana’s heart was pounding with an odd mix of joy and fear. She fought hard not to become vulnerable, but there was no denying this man had her heart, probably since that first night, watching him sleep with an icepack on his shoulder. She put her arms around him and her face against his chest, taking in the familiar scent of the leather jacket.

  “I love you too,” she said softly.

  Ben leaned down and kissed her gently. “That’s a relief,” he said, pretending to wipe his brow. “A guy is never really sure until he hears the words.” He stared for a few moments at the great expanse of the gorge, pondering what to say next, and then he faced her again. “So I guess I’ve got my story. Would you be interested in living a sequel with me?”

  For a moment Ana didn’t understand. He hurried to add, “I mean live the stories with me— travel, research, have the adventures— be my inspiration.”

  Then she realized he was going to incorporate all that had happened to them into a novel, and the sequel he referred to would, or could, be a story to last for the rest of their lives. His declarations were the last thing Ana expected, but she remained composed and answered that yes, she was interested in living a sequel— along with anything else he had in mind. Ben pulled her close, gave her a lingering kiss then smoothed away a lock of hair that had blown across her face.

  Ana took his hand in hers and asked, “Now that I’ve said yes to your sequel, do you think maybe we could do that interview?”

  Ben laughed and said, “We could if you still had a job!”

  Ana shrugged her shoulders and smiled. After a moment’s hesitation, she took Ben’s face in her hands and kissed him hard. For that moment there was no one else in the world. They turned back to the view, watching as the sun disappeared and the river turned from blue to gray to black. Ana grew pensive as she took in the beauty around her and considered the direction her life had taken. She leaned closer to Ben and said, “Have you ever watched a leaf drop into a path of rushing water and start its journey— bobbing, tumbling, slowing, spinning, ricocheting off one obstacle after another? Our lives are like that…”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The author has an ongoing interest in location inspired story-telling. Her own travel experiences, along with some imagination, help to create a backdrop for characters to find their way through the story.