Blood Wedding
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Synopsis
Inspector Max Romero investigates the death of a Muslim girl in Granada, Spain. The prime suspect may have terrorist links, but insensitive handling of the case leads to his suicide. As a result, Max is co-opted into a dangerous antiterrorist operation. P.J. Brooke is the amalgam of a husband and wife writing team, Philip O’Brien and Jane Brooke. They live part of the year in Scotland and part of the year in the old Moorish district of Granada. Blood Wedding is the first novel in a planned series set in Granada and Latin America featuring Inspector Max Romero.
Release date: December 1, 2008
Publisher: Soho Constable
Print pages: 368
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Blood Wedding
P Brooke
The lines from ‘Lord of the Dance’ by Sydney Carter are reproduced by kind permission of Stainer and Bell Ltd, London, England. They were first published in Greenprint for Song, Stainer and Bell, 1974, and then in Lord of the Dance, and other Songs and Poems, Stainer and Bell, 2003.
Excerpts of Spanish-language works by Federico García Lorca © Herederos de Federico García Lorca from Obras Completas (Galaxia/Gutenberg, 1996 edition). English-language translations © Translators and Herederos de Federico García Lorca. All rights reserved. For information regarding rights and permissions, please contact [email protected] or William Peter Kosmas, 8 Franklin Square, London W14 9UU.
Constable & Robinson Ltd55–56 Russell SquareLondon WC1B 4HPwww.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008
First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2008
Soho Press, Inc., 853 Broadway, New York, NY 10003www.sohopress.com
Copyright © Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien, 2008
The right of Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors’ imagination. With the exception of major historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental. Some localities actually exist, but our presentation of them is fictional. Our presentation of Federico García Lorca and of the Lorca family is with the approval of the Lorca Estate.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in PublicationData is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-741-1US ISBN: 978-1-84901-629-2US Library of Congress number: 2008019894
Printed and bound in the EU
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It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. The town was hungry, rationing enforced. The people, silent, bought what they could afford. They looked at no one. Carmelo, the young herdsman, eyes alert for danger, crossed the street. No Guardias, Franco’s fascist police. His buying done, he walked down the Río Sierra path, and turned right along the track towards El Fugón. He checked he was alone, hid his sack of food in the hollow trunk of an olive tree, looked around again, and continued down the track.
The guerrilla leader, Manuel Paz, El Gato, stepped lightly across the field of red poppies towards the olive tree. He sniffed the air: there was a faint smell of the harsh black-tobacco Gitanes. He reached for his gun.
‘Fire,’ shouted the officer. A volley rang out. The force knocked El Gato back. He fell among the flowers. Capitán Vicente González stepped up to the body, blood still seeping from the wounds, and kicked it hard.
‘That’s another Red bandit dead. Gracias a Dios.’
It was the feast of San Juan de Dios, 1947.
Leila smiled as she saved and closed the file on her computer. ‘That’s better. More fun than the thesis,’ she said to herself.
It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. Leila quickly crossed the square in search of shade. She had arranged with Hassan to take the bus up the mountain. A crowd, shopping bags full, lined the street outside the bus office. Hassan came round the corner. They smiled at each other. The bus from Granada pulled in and a mob of elderly ladies surged forward to grab the available seats. Leila and Hassan just managed to find two seats together. Crowded, noisy and overloaded, the bus took off up the steep, winding road.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s the thesis going?’
‘Great. Some fantastic interviews. Loads of new material. Did you know, this place really was in the front line of resistance to Franco?’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. There were guerrillas holding out for ages . . . in the hills just over there.’
Tentatively she put her hand on his. He moved it away gently. She looked out of the window, across the valley, and then upward: scraps of snow still sparkled in the highest valleys.
‘Will you be at the “Stop the War” demo next week?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Dad’s on the platform again.’
They got off the bus, and took a path that climbed steeply. The old mule track crossed a few streams, winding its way round the mountain. The air was sweet with wild thyme and rosemary, cooking in the midday sun. Olive trees lined the path. They passed a mulberry tree.
‘Hey, look what the Moors left us!’
‘Huh?’
‘They planted them to feed the silkworms – this was one of the world’s most important silk-producing areas. The Granada weavers once exported to Damascus.’
‘Yes, Leila . . . but that’s ancient history. Muslims are suffering today. In Palestine. In Iraq.’
‘But if you don’t understand what’s gone before, you won’t get things right now. Will you?’
‘Okay. Point taken.’
The mulberries were ripe. Hassan scrambled down the gorge to the mulberry tree.
‘Careful. Don’t fall.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been working out.’
He reached up to the lower branches, and began to gather the mulberries. The sun glinted on the hair of his forearms. ‘Here.’Leila smiled. ‘These are so good.’
The juice from the berries stained their hands purple. She glanced at Hassan’s lips, smudged with rich juice.
‘Hey, wait. Just like that,’ said Hassan. He took out his camera, and photographed her laughing at her mulberry-stained hands.
‘Let’s eat.’ Leila sat down, took off the small rucksack, pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, poured mineral water into the cup, and handed it to Hassan.
‘Go easy on the water. We may need it later on.’
She took out olives, cheese and bread. Silently they ate, looking across the valley to the mountains beyond. Leila stretched out on the bank, and gazed up at the silver leaves of the olive tree. Now and again a bird chirped. ‘Cool, eh? A bit of paradise.’
She sat up and smiled at him. Hassan’s gaze became more intense. Leila glanced at him again. The sun, filtered by the leaves of the olive tree, streaked across his face and lit up the mulberry juice around his mouth. All she could see were his eyes, luminous. She stroked his cheek. Her fingers ran round the outside of his eyes and along his lips. He froze.
‘Leila, don’t tease. You know I can’t get involved – I’ve got really important things to do at the Centre.’
Leila laughed. ‘More board reports to write then?’
‘No, but it’s important.’
‘Oh? So what is it then?’
‘It’s . . .’ Hassan faltered, and quickly added, ‘We’d better go. I can’t be late for my lift back.’
They set off down the path. She brushed his hand, but he pulled away.
‘Will you be at prayers tomorrow?’ she asked, more upset than she cared to admit.
‘Maybe.’
They reached the Café Paraíso, its large ‘Stop the War’ banner covering half the front wall. Javeed was waiting. The car horn tooted.
‘Need a lift?’ Hassan asked.
‘No, that’s all right. It’s not far. But thanks all the same.’
Javeed made Leila uncomfortable: there was something taut and hard about him.
She waved as Hassan got into the car, then she walked slowly back to her father’s house.
‘Dad, it’s me.’ She entered his study.
‘Hello, dear. Had a good day?’
‘So-so. Went for a walk with Hassan. He’s really sweet. But . . . he does go on and on about how important his work is at the Centre. Then when I ask him about it, he just clams up.’
‘Leila, I’m sure Javeed is doing excellent work. A European Training Centre for young Muslim entrepreneurs is quite a breakthrough.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Give him time. Zaida thinks he’s really keen on you.’
‘Hmm. Okay, dad. What are you doing?’
‘Making a few notes for my talk tomorrow. The graffiti by the mosque has upset some of our people.’
‘But we’re okay here, aren’t we? Remember when you came back from your first visit. You couldn’t stop talking about this valley – a little bit of paradise, you said.’
‘Maybe less so now. Sub-Inspector Max Romero wants to see me. He’s coming on Saturday for a chat.’
‘That’s nice. He’s cute.’
‘Cute? Leila, he’s a police officer. It’s not respectful.’
‘Dad, please! What time is he coming?’
‘About five. He asked after you. He said his grandmother is enjoying your interviews.’
‘Me too – she’s a gold mine! She even knew Lorca.’
The next day, Friday, was prayer day. Just before one, the muezzin gave the traditional call: ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! God is great! God is great! Come to prayers. Come to prayers. I testify that God is the divinity. That there is no other God but God, and that Muhammad is his messenger. La ilhaha illa Laah! There is no God but God!’
Leila found the simplicity of the call comforting. She hurried to the mosque, slipped off her sandals, placed them in the rack, and padded into the small female washroom. It smelled of bleach and floor soap. At the one cold tap, she washed her hands three times, then face, mouth and nostrils. Feet last, according to ritual. Refreshed, she climbed the staircase to the women’s balcony, overlooking the prayer hall. She used to resent this separation of male and female, but now accepted it. She looked down at the prayer hall with its plain, whitewashed walls and the arch facing Mecca, a small wooden platform and a plain chair placed within it. To the left was a framed print with the ninety-nine names of God written in classical Arabic, and to the right a row of brown pots on the shelf around the prayer niche. The hall was filling up now. But still no sign of Hassan.
Leila glanced down at her father, Ahmed. He stood up, and began the khutabah: ‘We created human beings in order to test them with suffering. Do people think that no one has power over them? They boast, “We are so rich that we can afford to waste riches.” Do they think that no one observes them?’
The door opened and Hassan slid in, late. He made no effort to glance up at the balcony. After prayers, Leila joined the women and children for their communal meal of rice, small fish and spiced lentils, while the men ate in the other dining room. She wanted to talk to Hassan, but couldn’t go next door before the meal was over. The meal ended, she slipped next door. Hassan was alone in the corner.
‘Hi.’
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘Good walk, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. It was good.’
‘The mulberries were great. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘The Abdel Karim band are in Granada next week. Some friends are trying to get tickets. Would you like to go?’
Hassan clenched his hands together. ‘Look. Er . . . Javeed has talked to me. I’ve got important things to do. He says it’s b—b—best if I don’t go out with you again.’
‘What! I thought you liked me! Can’t you decide anything for yourself?’
‘Leila. Please!’
Leila’s voice rose angrily. ‘Hassan, this is stupid. Sit there. I’ll get some tea, and we’ll talk this through.’
The whole room was looking at them. Leila ducked through the roses on the arch, and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with two cups of mint tea on a tray. Hassan had left. Leila banged the tray down on the table.
‘Damn you. Damn you.’ And then, caught in Zaida’s stare, she flushed crimson, and muttered, ‘Gotta go.’
Leila stomped up the hill to her father’s house. He wasn’t in. She went to her room, and opened her thesis notes. But she couldn’t concentrate. She needed to get out. She walked down the hill and then up to El Gato, the foreign hippies’ bar. She hadn’t tasted alcohol for months. The barman gave her an inquisitive look.
‘A Coke, please.’
She took the Coke, and retreated to the far corner. The bar filled up quickly. She recognized one of the men. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
‘Never expected to see you here.’
‘Just Coke.’ She lifted up her glass.
‘You’re looking a bit upset?’
‘Not really. Just angry with someone who can’t decide things for himself.’
‘Can I join you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’m Jim.’
‘Leila. I’m Ahmed’s daughter, over from Edinburgh.’
‘Ahmed. Oh, sure. I like your dad. He spoke at the peace rally in Granada. He’s good.’
Jim was a bit scruffy even by local standards, not what you would call good-looking. But okay. She had seen him with a wife or at least a regular. Never again a married man.
‘We’re having a gig, an Irish night, down at Felipe’s. Fancy coming?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘That’s good. I said I’d be there before eleven. Another Coke?’
‘Please. Without ice.’
Jim returned with the Coke, and a San Miguel beer. ‘How long you here for?’
‘Until the beginning of October. Have to be back in Edinburgh for the start of term to see my supervisor. Hey. Know why this bar is called El Gato?’
‘The Cat?’
‘El Gato was the nickname of the guerrilla leader here after the Civil War. He escaped to France towards the end of the Civil War, and then came back home to set up resistance to Franco. Got shot in 1947.’
Jim was a good listener. Within five minutes she was telling him everything about her thesis.
‘Jesus! Look at the time – it’s nearly eleven. We have to go.’ He took her round the corner to his battered van. ‘Sorry about the mess. The Ferrari’s in the garage.’
Leila laughed. The van clattered down the road to Felipe’s bar in the orange groves at the edge of town.
Inside Felipe’s, Jim took out his bodhran, the Irish finger drum, and started to play . . . first a steady pulse, then faster and faster, driving the fiddles and flute on and on. Couples got up to dance, swirling round and round. Leila began clapping, shyly at first, then louder and louder, faster and faster. A guy asked her to dance. Soon the wooden floor was shaking. Another dance. Another partner. Leila sank breathlessly into her seat. And then got up to dance again and again.
‘Let’s see the dawn in, at El Fugón,’ shouted Jim.
They all staggered into cars and vans, and then drove off through the town to the valley of El Fugón. In a few minutes a bonfire was blazing. The music started again, this time, plaintive, sad Irish tunes, Jim’s voice drifting like smoke.
Everyone was silent, waiting for the sun’s rays to crest the mountains and fill the valley. She hadn’t seen Jim most of the night. He came over.
‘I’m for my bed. Fancy joining me?’
Leila laughed, not offended. ‘Thanks, but no.’
‘Sure? You look like you could do with a good hug.’
‘Maybe another time, Jim.’
‘I’ve a spare bed. You can kip down there.’
The spare bed was a single mattress in the back of the van. In five minutes she was asleep, snoring heavily.
She slept until the early afternoon, woken by the stifling heat inside the van. Jim was up, brewing tea on a gas ring.
Leila looked at her watch. ‘Help! It’s nearly two. My dad will have a search party out for me in a minute. Oh no . . . I should have called back and said not to wait up for me. I didn’t tell him I’d be staying over. I have to get back. I’ll phone him now.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift home. I’m off to the beach this afternoon. Fancy coming?’ said Jim.
‘Maybe some other time. But not now. Gotta make peace with dad.’
Jim drove slowly. The springs had nearly all gone. Leila held on to the van door handle to lessen the bumps.
She pointed: ‘See that hollow olive tree over there . . . it’s haunted. It’s where they shot El Gato.’
Leila jumped out at the traffic lights. She failed to notice Zaida’s black look. The women often disapproved. Inmodestia was just the polite term they used to describe her. When she got home, her father was out. She called him on his mobile and left a message to confirm she was home, then went straight to her computer, her mind racing with ideas. She typed fast, and this time the El Gato story just seemed to flow.
She smiled. With luck she might finish early next year.
She clicked on Save, then Turn Off, waited a minute and then shutdown the computer.
After showering and washing her hair, she put on her new linen trousers, white silk tunic, flat gold sandals and her mother’s turquoise earrings, carefully arranging her headscarf so a few black curls framed her oval face. A breath of fresh air might help. She closed the door behind her and set off down the Jola road. There was a slight breeze. The green figs were out, hanging over the irrigation canals alongside the road. She passed a garden with a little girl on a swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. De norte al sur de sur a norte. A mother’s voice called, ‘Jane. Jane. Get off that swing, come and get ready. It’s nearly five. We have to leave for the airport right now.’
Leila smiled and waved to the girl. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she called out. ‘Got another silly rhyme for you!
“My young friend JaneIs leaving Spain.We think that’s an awful pain.But we’re both sure you’ll come again.”’
Jane stopped, giggled, waved and then ran inside.
Leila walked on quickly. As she crossed the road bridge, the sky suddenly darkened. Leila looked up at the mountains. Dark, pregnant-bellied clouds were drifting down lower and lower. A colder breeze blew. The tops of the mountains disappeared. Rain. Sullenly, persistently the rain fell. Leila stopped, turned, and walked quickly back. A car stopped at the ravine bridge.
‘Get in,’ a voice called.
Leila approached the car. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
She got into the car. It was exactly five in the afternoon.
On the same day, Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Sub-Inspector Max Romero arrived at the house of Ahmed Mahfouz.
A cinco de la tarde.Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
At five in the afternoon.It was exactly five in the afternoon.
Frederico García Lorca, La cogida y la muerte
(The Goring and the Death)
Thank God it’s Friday. Practically the whole weekend off, thought Max. He looked at his watch. It was time to leave. What to wear . . .? Meeting Ahmed tomorrow. Leila might be there. Okay, pack the light grey Paul Smith shirt, and the Pedro de Hierro charcoal jeans. He checked the mirror. Not bad. His mother’s Scottish blue eyes, and his father’s aquiline Spanish looks stared back at him. ‘Not the face of a cop,’ Davila had once said critically. Max regarded that as a compliment.
He picked up the briefing from his boss, Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila of el Grupo de Homicidios de Granada, from the table, and glanced at it again. ‘Inspectora Jefe Linda Concha and Inspector Martín Sánchez from the Anti-Terrorist Group, el Comisario General de Información, (CGI), have confirmed they are due to arrive at Granada Airport, Thursday, 31st July 2003 at 14.00 hours. Be on time, and dress smartly. Remember, the Prime Minister himself has stated the fight against terrorism is top priority and surveillance of Muslims must be stepped up.’
Max sighed. Could be worse. Madrid was sending Linda. It would be nice to see her again. She’d been a good tutor. Her presentation on the new terrorist threats had been good – perceptive and funny. And she’d joined him for a beer and tapas most lunchtimes. But this ‘increased surveillance of Muslims’ was really going to change his liaison role with la Brigada de Participación Ciudadano. It had taken months to develop good relationships with the different Muslim groups, and it could all go down the pan.
As he shut the door of his flat he glanced up at the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevada mountains behind the fortress walls. He walked down the street, la Calderería Nueva, then along crumbling Calle Elvira. He crossed Gran Vía, dodging traffic, roadworks and tour groups. The police car park was past the fountains of la Plaza Trinidad, just behind the Faculty of Law and the old Botanic Gardens.
It wasn’t a good idea to walk so far in the heat. By the time he reached his old Peugeot he was really sweating. He got into the car: the seat was hot enough to fry an egg.
At least the new motorway cut the journey from Granada to Diva to less than an hour, and once out of Granada the air should freshen. Clear of the city, Max put on a CD by his mother’s group, the Maxwell Consort. ‘Time stands still, and gazes on her face,’ sang the soprano soloist. He immediately felt calmer. The mountains in the late afternoon sun were sentinels to another world: one where police procedures and violence had no part. The comment from his boss, ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’, still rankled. He had to be on his guard all the time in the police. The old guys dismissed the fast track graduate programme as liberal wankers who knew shit about real police work. Max’s sharp tongue hadn’t endeared him either.
Perhaps he would see Leila for a coffee again. She was a real beauty. Bright and funny as well. He wondered how her interviews were going. His family never talked about the Civil War, though the Romero clan had done well under Franco.
He passed the first houses in Diva and turned right, down the Río Sierra track towards his little summer cottage, el cortijo. He smiled as he remembered telling his Scottish friends that he, or rather, his grandmother, had bought a cortijo. They thought he had a mansion. No way. Just some old sheds slung together. Best ask Leila straight out whether she fancied a coffee in the evening. She must be dying to talk to someone about her thesis.
He parked the car outside the big metal gates of his cottage, unlocked the padlock, pushed the gates open, and breathed in deeply. There was a perfume from the summer lemons. As he walked under the trellis of jasmine, he breathed in even more deeply – it was like smelling a fine wine.
Max opened the front door, went to the fridge, and took out a San Miguel beer. He was just getting comfortable on his battered sofa when the phone rang.
‘Max, how are you?’
‘Fine, grandma. Just fine, abuela. How are the kids?’
‘Both well, but Encarnita is turning into a real little madam – and Leonardo should spend less time playing football, and more on his homework.’
‘So they’re growing up fast?’
‘Yes . . . but Isabel told Juan I was interfering with how she wanted to bring them up. And all because I said it was too late for Encarnación to stay up to watch a programme on television. I’m right, aren’t I, Max?’ Her voice broke. ‘I would never have let my children sit all evening in front of the television. I’m sure it’s not good for them.’
‘Abuela, I’m sure Isabel didn’t mean to be hurtful. How’s the rest of the family?’
‘Juan’s very moody. I don’t think he’s spoken to Isabel for days – though I can’t blame him. But could you have a drink with him, Max? He won’t talk to me about his problems, of course.’
‘Sure. I’ll give him a ring. See you Sunday.’
Max phoned Juan. Ten o’clock in el Café Paraíso. Just before ten, Max checked he had his torch, and then climbed up the goat track into town and on into the café. Juan was already there.
‘Beer, Max?’
‘Sí.How’s business?’
‘Huh. Could be better.’
‘Problems?’
‘The mill conversion in Recina – you know, the one that went really over budget – well, it came on the market just when the Brits stopped buying. So I still haven’t sold one of the damn flats, and the bank’s being a pain now.’
‘You’ll sell. It’s another rotten summer in Britain. Another cerveza, Juan?’
‘Why not? No point in spoiling Friday night.’
Max raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Barcelona. This season is going to be ours – I just know it.’
‘No way. Real Madrid will sweep the board. We’ve made some really good signings. You just wait and see.’
‘I’m not too sure. I doubt the Brits will fit in – not their style of play.’
More drinks, more football.
Juan looked at his watch, ‘Better go. Isabel and Paula are scrapping again. Isabel’s wanting to move into town. Difficult. It’d break Paula’s heart to lose the kids.’
‘Sí. And Paula couldn’t stay in that big house on her own anyway. I’m sure it will all blow over again. Chao, Juan. See you Sunday.’
As Max left, he noticed Sargento León from Diva’s Guardia Civil drinking alone in the corner. He smiled, and saluted him.
Saturday morning was hot and sticky. His neighbour, Alvaro, was already pulling up weeds when Max took his breakfast on to the terrace.
‘Hola, Max. Mucho calor. This is going to be a real pig of a day . . . look at those clouds. Need some rain though. How long you staying?’
‘Just the weekend.’
‘Your land’s a jungle. Mariana saw a tiger in it last week.’
‘Okay, okay. Point taken. Never thought it would be so much work.’
‘Just get on with it, city boy, before it’s too hot.’
By one o’clock, Max had managed to clear the last major patch of weeds. He still had time to wash, get changed and drive up to the supermarket before it shut at two. Home again, he sat quietly under the old olive tree, waving his hands to keep the noisy flies away from his sandwich. The black clouds had come right down the valley. Rain would arrive soon. Max picked up his book – a new biography of Federico García Lorca. At the end of the third chapter, he glanced at his watch. 4.40 p.m. – time to go to Ahmed’s. As he walked up the track to his parked car, the rain began to fall.
Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Max arrived at Ahmed Mahfouz’s house. Rain was falling heavily as he rang the bell. Ahmed opened the door.
‘Hola, Max. Good to see you. Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Messenger. Not too wet, I hope? Do you need a towel?
‘Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Let’s go to my study. It’s more comfortable there. Leila’s not back yet – looks like she’s not gone far. So she shouldn’t be long. Tea?’
‘Thanks.’
Max looked round the neat study, lined with books, classical and Arabic music CDs, photographs of Leila graduating, Leila on her mother’s knee, Leila on holiday. The photographs did not do her justice. He looked at the book lying on the table, Islam: Art and Architecture. He opened the pages at random: a photo of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. The alternating brick and cream stone columns always made him feel slightly dizzy.
‘Good photo,’ said Ahmed. ‘An oasis in stone, quite mystical.’
He placed the tray on the table, and poured the jasmine tea into small elegant glasses.
‘Yes,’ replied Max. ‘Here’s to the Golden Age of Andalusia, the most tolerant and artistic place in the world.’
‘I agree. So what’s it about this time?’
‘Well . . . I’m worried this war is going to put a real strain on inter-community relations. I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
‘This invasion of Iraq is a terrible mistake. No Muslim can support it. It’s only increasing support for the extremists. I was thinking . . . we need more popular education on Islam and the history of the Middle East. Perhaps an exhibition of modern Islamic culture would help, just to show we are not all fanatics. Maybe something on food and music.’
‘That could be useful. If you could work up some ideas, I’ll look into funding.’
‘I’ll talk to my colleagues . . . and Leila of course. I’ll try to get you an outline next week.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It has always been good to work with you, Max.’
‘That’s the easy thing I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘And the difficult thing?’
‘We think there might be some terrorist cells here in Andalusia. We’d be grateful if you reported anything suspicious to us.’
‘You mean act as a spy? You’re crazy. Look, you know I have no sympathy with terrorism, but I can’t go reporting every odd character I come across who happens to be a Muslim.’
‘We’re not asking you to do that. Just to report the real fanatics.’
‘But who are they? Every Muslim sympathizes with the Palestinians, and hates this war. But I’m not going to write a dossier on everyone I know. How could you even think of it?’
‘No. No. But Spain could be a target now.’
‘But terrorists aren’t going to tell me if they’re planning to blow something up, are they?’
‘Okay, okay. How’s Leila? How’s her thesis going?’
‘She’s fine. She was hoping to see you. I don’t know what could have happened to her. I’ll ask her to give you a ring when she gets back.’
‘Sure. It would be nice if she phoned.’
Max stood up. He looked at Ahmed’s lined, ascetic face. He liked him, and did not want to press him hard. But his superiors wanted information on terrorist sympathizers.
‘How do you think this invasion in Iraq will end?’ Max asked Ahmed.
‘It will be a disaster. The American, British and Spanish governments have
Excerpts of Spanish-language works by Federico García Lorca © Herederos de Federico García Lorca from Obras Completas (Galaxia/Gutenberg, 1996 edition). English-language translations © Translators and Herederos de Federico García Lorca. All rights reserved. For information regarding rights and permissions, please contact [email protected] or William Peter Kosmas, 8 Franklin Square, London W14 9UU.
Constable & Robinson Ltd55–56 Russell SquareLondon WC1B 4HPwww.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008
First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2008
Soho Press, Inc., 853 Broadway, New York, NY 10003www.sohopress.com
Copyright © Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien, 2008
The right of Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors’ imagination. With the exception of major historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental. Some localities actually exist, but our presentation of them is fictional. Our presentation of Federico García Lorca and of the Lorca family is with the approval of the Lorca Estate.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in PublicationData is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-741-1US ISBN: 978-1-84901-629-2US Library of Congress number: 2008019894
Printed and bound in the EU
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It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. The town was hungry, rationing enforced. The people, silent, bought what they could afford. They looked at no one. Carmelo, the young herdsman, eyes alert for danger, crossed the street. No Guardias, Franco’s fascist police. His buying done, he walked down the Río Sierra path, and turned right along the track towards El Fugón. He checked he was alone, hid his sack of food in the hollow trunk of an olive tree, looked around again, and continued down the track.
The guerrilla leader, Manuel Paz, El Gato, stepped lightly across the field of red poppies towards the olive tree. He sniffed the air: there was a faint smell of the harsh black-tobacco Gitanes. He reached for his gun.
‘Fire,’ shouted the officer. A volley rang out. The force knocked El Gato back. He fell among the flowers. Capitán Vicente González stepped up to the body, blood still seeping from the wounds, and kicked it hard.
‘That’s another Red bandit dead. Gracias a Dios.’
It was the feast of San Juan de Dios, 1947.
Leila smiled as she saved and closed the file on her computer. ‘That’s better. More fun than the thesis,’ she said to herself.
It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. Leila quickly crossed the square in search of shade. She had arranged with Hassan to take the bus up the mountain. A crowd, shopping bags full, lined the street outside the bus office. Hassan came round the corner. They smiled at each other. The bus from Granada pulled in and a mob of elderly ladies surged forward to grab the available seats. Leila and Hassan just managed to find two seats together. Crowded, noisy and overloaded, the bus took off up the steep, winding road.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s the thesis going?’
‘Great. Some fantastic interviews. Loads of new material. Did you know, this place really was in the front line of resistance to Franco?’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. There were guerrillas holding out for ages . . . in the hills just over there.’
Tentatively she put her hand on his. He moved it away gently. She looked out of the window, across the valley, and then upward: scraps of snow still sparkled in the highest valleys.
‘Will you be at the “Stop the War” demo next week?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Dad’s on the platform again.’
They got off the bus, and took a path that climbed steeply. The old mule track crossed a few streams, winding its way round the mountain. The air was sweet with wild thyme and rosemary, cooking in the midday sun. Olive trees lined the path. They passed a mulberry tree.
‘Hey, look what the Moors left us!’
‘Huh?’
‘They planted them to feed the silkworms – this was one of the world’s most important silk-producing areas. The Granada weavers once exported to Damascus.’
‘Yes, Leila . . . but that’s ancient history. Muslims are suffering today. In Palestine. In Iraq.’
‘But if you don’t understand what’s gone before, you won’t get things right now. Will you?’
‘Okay. Point taken.’
The mulberries were ripe. Hassan scrambled down the gorge to the mulberry tree.
‘Careful. Don’t fall.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been working out.’
He reached up to the lower branches, and began to gather the mulberries. The sun glinted on the hair of his forearms. ‘Here.’Leila smiled. ‘These are so good.’
The juice from the berries stained their hands purple. She glanced at Hassan’s lips, smudged with rich juice.
‘Hey, wait. Just like that,’ said Hassan. He took out his camera, and photographed her laughing at her mulberry-stained hands.
‘Let’s eat.’ Leila sat down, took off the small rucksack, pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, poured mineral water into the cup, and handed it to Hassan.
‘Go easy on the water. We may need it later on.’
She took out olives, cheese and bread. Silently they ate, looking across the valley to the mountains beyond. Leila stretched out on the bank, and gazed up at the silver leaves of the olive tree. Now and again a bird chirped. ‘Cool, eh? A bit of paradise.’
She sat up and smiled at him. Hassan’s gaze became more intense. Leila glanced at him again. The sun, filtered by the leaves of the olive tree, streaked across his face and lit up the mulberry juice around his mouth. All she could see were his eyes, luminous. She stroked his cheek. Her fingers ran round the outside of his eyes and along his lips. He froze.
‘Leila, don’t tease. You know I can’t get involved – I’ve got really important things to do at the Centre.’
Leila laughed. ‘More board reports to write then?’
‘No, but it’s important.’
‘Oh? So what is it then?’
‘It’s . . .’ Hassan faltered, and quickly added, ‘We’d better go. I can’t be late for my lift back.’
They set off down the path. She brushed his hand, but he pulled away.
‘Will you be at prayers tomorrow?’ she asked, more upset than she cared to admit.
‘Maybe.’
They reached the Café Paraíso, its large ‘Stop the War’ banner covering half the front wall. Javeed was waiting. The car horn tooted.
‘Need a lift?’ Hassan asked.
‘No, that’s all right. It’s not far. But thanks all the same.’
Javeed made Leila uncomfortable: there was something taut and hard about him.
She waved as Hassan got into the car, then she walked slowly back to her father’s house.
‘Dad, it’s me.’ She entered his study.
‘Hello, dear. Had a good day?’
‘So-so. Went for a walk with Hassan. He’s really sweet. But . . . he does go on and on about how important his work is at the Centre. Then when I ask him about it, he just clams up.’
‘Leila, I’m sure Javeed is doing excellent work. A European Training Centre for young Muslim entrepreneurs is quite a breakthrough.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Give him time. Zaida thinks he’s really keen on you.’
‘Hmm. Okay, dad. What are you doing?’
‘Making a few notes for my talk tomorrow. The graffiti by the mosque has upset some of our people.’
‘But we’re okay here, aren’t we? Remember when you came back from your first visit. You couldn’t stop talking about this valley – a little bit of paradise, you said.’
‘Maybe less so now. Sub-Inspector Max Romero wants to see me. He’s coming on Saturday for a chat.’
‘That’s nice. He’s cute.’
‘Cute? Leila, he’s a police officer. It’s not respectful.’
‘Dad, please! What time is he coming?’
‘About five. He asked after you. He said his grandmother is enjoying your interviews.’
‘Me too – she’s a gold mine! She even knew Lorca.’
The next day, Friday, was prayer day. Just before one, the muezzin gave the traditional call: ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! God is great! God is great! Come to prayers. Come to prayers. I testify that God is the divinity. That there is no other God but God, and that Muhammad is his messenger. La ilhaha illa Laah! There is no God but God!’
Leila found the simplicity of the call comforting. She hurried to the mosque, slipped off her sandals, placed them in the rack, and padded into the small female washroom. It smelled of bleach and floor soap. At the one cold tap, she washed her hands three times, then face, mouth and nostrils. Feet last, according to ritual. Refreshed, she climbed the staircase to the women’s balcony, overlooking the prayer hall. She used to resent this separation of male and female, but now accepted it. She looked down at the prayer hall with its plain, whitewashed walls and the arch facing Mecca, a small wooden platform and a plain chair placed within it. To the left was a framed print with the ninety-nine names of God written in classical Arabic, and to the right a row of brown pots on the shelf around the prayer niche. The hall was filling up now. But still no sign of Hassan.
Leila glanced down at her father, Ahmed. He stood up, and began the khutabah: ‘We created human beings in order to test them with suffering. Do people think that no one has power over them? They boast, “We are so rich that we can afford to waste riches.” Do they think that no one observes them?’
The door opened and Hassan slid in, late. He made no effort to glance up at the balcony. After prayers, Leila joined the women and children for their communal meal of rice, small fish and spiced lentils, while the men ate in the other dining room. She wanted to talk to Hassan, but couldn’t go next door before the meal was over. The meal ended, she slipped next door. Hassan was alone in the corner.
‘Hi.’
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘Good walk, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. It was good.’
‘The mulberries were great. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘The Abdel Karim band are in Granada next week. Some friends are trying to get tickets. Would you like to go?’
Hassan clenched his hands together. ‘Look. Er . . . Javeed has talked to me. I’ve got important things to do. He says it’s b—b—best if I don’t go out with you again.’
‘What! I thought you liked me! Can’t you decide anything for yourself?’
‘Leila. Please!’
Leila’s voice rose angrily. ‘Hassan, this is stupid. Sit there. I’ll get some tea, and we’ll talk this through.’
The whole room was looking at them. Leila ducked through the roses on the arch, and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with two cups of mint tea on a tray. Hassan had left. Leila banged the tray down on the table.
‘Damn you. Damn you.’ And then, caught in Zaida’s stare, she flushed crimson, and muttered, ‘Gotta go.’
Leila stomped up the hill to her father’s house. He wasn’t in. She went to her room, and opened her thesis notes. But she couldn’t concentrate. She needed to get out. She walked down the hill and then up to El Gato, the foreign hippies’ bar. She hadn’t tasted alcohol for months. The barman gave her an inquisitive look.
‘A Coke, please.’
She took the Coke, and retreated to the far corner. The bar filled up quickly. She recognized one of the men. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
‘Never expected to see you here.’
‘Just Coke.’ She lifted up her glass.
‘You’re looking a bit upset?’
‘Not really. Just angry with someone who can’t decide things for himself.’
‘Can I join you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’m Jim.’
‘Leila. I’m Ahmed’s daughter, over from Edinburgh.’
‘Ahmed. Oh, sure. I like your dad. He spoke at the peace rally in Granada. He’s good.’
Jim was a bit scruffy even by local standards, not what you would call good-looking. But okay. She had seen him with a wife or at least a regular. Never again a married man.
‘We’re having a gig, an Irish night, down at Felipe’s. Fancy coming?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘That’s good. I said I’d be there before eleven. Another Coke?’
‘Please. Without ice.’
Jim returned with the Coke, and a San Miguel beer. ‘How long you here for?’
‘Until the beginning of October. Have to be back in Edinburgh for the start of term to see my supervisor. Hey. Know why this bar is called El Gato?’
‘The Cat?’
‘El Gato was the nickname of the guerrilla leader here after the Civil War. He escaped to France towards the end of the Civil War, and then came back home to set up resistance to Franco. Got shot in 1947.’
Jim was a good listener. Within five minutes she was telling him everything about her thesis.
‘Jesus! Look at the time – it’s nearly eleven. We have to go.’ He took her round the corner to his battered van. ‘Sorry about the mess. The Ferrari’s in the garage.’
Leila laughed. The van clattered down the road to Felipe’s bar in the orange groves at the edge of town.
Inside Felipe’s, Jim took out his bodhran, the Irish finger drum, and started to play . . . first a steady pulse, then faster and faster, driving the fiddles and flute on and on. Couples got up to dance, swirling round and round. Leila began clapping, shyly at first, then louder and louder, faster and faster. A guy asked her to dance. Soon the wooden floor was shaking. Another dance. Another partner. Leila sank breathlessly into her seat. And then got up to dance again and again.
‘Let’s see the dawn in, at El Fugón,’ shouted Jim.
They all staggered into cars and vans, and then drove off through the town to the valley of El Fugón. In a few minutes a bonfire was blazing. The music started again, this time, plaintive, sad Irish tunes, Jim’s voice drifting like smoke.
Everyone was silent, waiting for the sun’s rays to crest the mountains and fill the valley. She hadn’t seen Jim most of the night. He came over.
‘I’m for my bed. Fancy joining me?’
Leila laughed, not offended. ‘Thanks, but no.’
‘Sure? You look like you could do with a good hug.’
‘Maybe another time, Jim.’
‘I’ve a spare bed. You can kip down there.’
The spare bed was a single mattress in the back of the van. In five minutes she was asleep, snoring heavily.
She slept until the early afternoon, woken by the stifling heat inside the van. Jim was up, brewing tea on a gas ring.
Leila looked at her watch. ‘Help! It’s nearly two. My dad will have a search party out for me in a minute. Oh no . . . I should have called back and said not to wait up for me. I didn’t tell him I’d be staying over. I have to get back. I’ll phone him now.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift home. I’m off to the beach this afternoon. Fancy coming?’ said Jim.
‘Maybe some other time. But not now. Gotta make peace with dad.’
Jim drove slowly. The springs had nearly all gone. Leila held on to the van door handle to lessen the bumps.
She pointed: ‘See that hollow olive tree over there . . . it’s haunted. It’s where they shot El Gato.’
Leila jumped out at the traffic lights. She failed to notice Zaida’s black look. The women often disapproved. Inmodestia was just the polite term they used to describe her. When she got home, her father was out. She called him on his mobile and left a message to confirm she was home, then went straight to her computer, her mind racing with ideas. She typed fast, and this time the El Gato story just seemed to flow.
She smiled. With luck she might finish early next year.
She clicked on Save, then Turn Off, waited a minute and then shutdown the computer.
After showering and washing her hair, she put on her new linen trousers, white silk tunic, flat gold sandals and her mother’s turquoise earrings, carefully arranging her headscarf so a few black curls framed her oval face. A breath of fresh air might help. She closed the door behind her and set off down the Jola road. There was a slight breeze. The green figs were out, hanging over the irrigation canals alongside the road. She passed a garden with a little girl on a swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. De norte al sur de sur a norte. A mother’s voice called, ‘Jane. Jane. Get off that swing, come and get ready. It’s nearly five. We have to leave for the airport right now.’
Leila smiled and waved to the girl. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she called out. ‘Got another silly rhyme for you!
“My young friend JaneIs leaving Spain.We think that’s an awful pain.But we’re both sure you’ll come again.”’
Jane stopped, giggled, waved and then ran inside.
Leila walked on quickly. As she crossed the road bridge, the sky suddenly darkened. Leila looked up at the mountains. Dark, pregnant-bellied clouds were drifting down lower and lower. A colder breeze blew. The tops of the mountains disappeared. Rain. Sullenly, persistently the rain fell. Leila stopped, turned, and walked quickly back. A car stopped at the ravine bridge.
‘Get in,’ a voice called.
Leila approached the car. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
She got into the car. It was exactly five in the afternoon.
On the same day, Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Sub-Inspector Max Romero arrived at the house of Ahmed Mahfouz.
A cinco de la tarde.Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
At five in the afternoon.It was exactly five in the afternoon.
Frederico García Lorca, La cogida y la muerte
(The Goring and the Death)
Thank God it’s Friday. Practically the whole weekend off, thought Max. He looked at his watch. It was time to leave. What to wear . . .? Meeting Ahmed tomorrow. Leila might be there. Okay, pack the light grey Paul Smith shirt, and the Pedro de Hierro charcoal jeans. He checked the mirror. Not bad. His mother’s Scottish blue eyes, and his father’s aquiline Spanish looks stared back at him. ‘Not the face of a cop,’ Davila had once said critically. Max regarded that as a compliment.
He picked up the briefing from his boss, Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila of el Grupo de Homicidios de Granada, from the table, and glanced at it again. ‘Inspectora Jefe Linda Concha and Inspector Martín Sánchez from the Anti-Terrorist Group, el Comisario General de Información, (CGI), have confirmed they are due to arrive at Granada Airport, Thursday, 31st July 2003 at 14.00 hours. Be on time, and dress smartly. Remember, the Prime Minister himself has stated the fight against terrorism is top priority and surveillance of Muslims must be stepped up.’
Max sighed. Could be worse. Madrid was sending Linda. It would be nice to see her again. She’d been a good tutor. Her presentation on the new terrorist threats had been good – perceptive and funny. And she’d joined him for a beer and tapas most lunchtimes. But this ‘increased surveillance of Muslims’ was really going to change his liaison role with la Brigada de Participación Ciudadano. It had taken months to develop good relationships with the different Muslim groups, and it could all go down the pan.
As he shut the door of his flat he glanced up at the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevada mountains behind the fortress walls. He walked down the street, la Calderería Nueva, then along crumbling Calle Elvira. He crossed Gran Vía, dodging traffic, roadworks and tour groups. The police car park was past the fountains of la Plaza Trinidad, just behind the Faculty of Law and the old Botanic Gardens.
It wasn’t a good idea to walk so far in the heat. By the time he reached his old Peugeot he was really sweating. He got into the car: the seat was hot enough to fry an egg.
At least the new motorway cut the journey from Granada to Diva to less than an hour, and once out of Granada the air should freshen. Clear of the city, Max put on a CD by his mother’s group, the Maxwell Consort. ‘Time stands still, and gazes on her face,’ sang the soprano soloist. He immediately felt calmer. The mountains in the late afternoon sun were sentinels to another world: one where police procedures and violence had no part. The comment from his boss, ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’, still rankled. He had to be on his guard all the time in the police. The old guys dismissed the fast track graduate programme as liberal wankers who knew shit about real police work. Max’s sharp tongue hadn’t endeared him either.
Perhaps he would see Leila for a coffee again. She was a real beauty. Bright and funny as well. He wondered how her interviews were going. His family never talked about the Civil War, though the Romero clan had done well under Franco.
He passed the first houses in Diva and turned right, down the Río Sierra track towards his little summer cottage, el cortijo. He smiled as he remembered telling his Scottish friends that he, or rather, his grandmother, had bought a cortijo. They thought he had a mansion. No way. Just some old sheds slung together. Best ask Leila straight out whether she fancied a coffee in the evening. She must be dying to talk to someone about her thesis.
He parked the car outside the big metal gates of his cottage, unlocked the padlock, pushed the gates open, and breathed in deeply. There was a perfume from the summer lemons. As he walked under the trellis of jasmine, he breathed in even more deeply – it was like smelling a fine wine.
Max opened the front door, went to the fridge, and took out a San Miguel beer. He was just getting comfortable on his battered sofa when the phone rang.
‘Max, how are you?’
‘Fine, grandma. Just fine, abuela. How are the kids?’
‘Both well, but Encarnita is turning into a real little madam – and Leonardo should spend less time playing football, and more on his homework.’
‘So they’re growing up fast?’
‘Yes . . . but Isabel told Juan I was interfering with how she wanted to bring them up. And all because I said it was too late for Encarnación to stay up to watch a programme on television. I’m right, aren’t I, Max?’ Her voice broke. ‘I would never have let my children sit all evening in front of the television. I’m sure it’s not good for them.’
‘Abuela, I’m sure Isabel didn’t mean to be hurtful. How’s the rest of the family?’
‘Juan’s very moody. I don’t think he’s spoken to Isabel for days – though I can’t blame him. But could you have a drink with him, Max? He won’t talk to me about his problems, of course.’
‘Sure. I’ll give him a ring. See you Sunday.’
Max phoned Juan. Ten o’clock in el Café Paraíso. Just before ten, Max checked he had his torch, and then climbed up the goat track into town and on into the café. Juan was already there.
‘Beer, Max?’
‘Sí.How’s business?’
‘Huh. Could be better.’
‘Problems?’
‘The mill conversion in Recina – you know, the one that went really over budget – well, it came on the market just when the Brits stopped buying. So I still haven’t sold one of the damn flats, and the bank’s being a pain now.’
‘You’ll sell. It’s another rotten summer in Britain. Another cerveza, Juan?’
‘Why not? No point in spoiling Friday night.’
Max raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Barcelona. This season is going to be ours – I just know it.’
‘No way. Real Madrid will sweep the board. We’ve made some really good signings. You just wait and see.’
‘I’m not too sure. I doubt the Brits will fit in – not their style of play.’
More drinks, more football.
Juan looked at his watch, ‘Better go. Isabel and Paula are scrapping again. Isabel’s wanting to move into town. Difficult. It’d break Paula’s heart to lose the kids.’
‘Sí. And Paula couldn’t stay in that big house on her own anyway. I’m sure it will all blow over again. Chao, Juan. See you Sunday.’
As Max left, he noticed Sargento León from Diva’s Guardia Civil drinking alone in the corner. He smiled, and saluted him.
Saturday morning was hot and sticky. His neighbour, Alvaro, was already pulling up weeds when Max took his breakfast on to the terrace.
‘Hola, Max. Mucho calor. This is going to be a real pig of a day . . . look at those clouds. Need some rain though. How long you staying?’
‘Just the weekend.’
‘Your land’s a jungle. Mariana saw a tiger in it last week.’
‘Okay, okay. Point taken. Never thought it would be so much work.’
‘Just get on with it, city boy, before it’s too hot.’
By one o’clock, Max had managed to clear the last major patch of weeds. He still had time to wash, get changed and drive up to the supermarket before it shut at two. Home again, he sat quietly under the old olive tree, waving his hands to keep the noisy flies away from his sandwich. The black clouds had come right down the valley. Rain would arrive soon. Max picked up his book – a new biography of Federico García Lorca. At the end of the third chapter, he glanced at his watch. 4.40 p.m. – time to go to Ahmed’s. As he walked up the track to his parked car, the rain began to fall.
Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Max arrived at Ahmed Mahfouz’s house. Rain was falling heavily as he rang the bell. Ahmed opened the door.
‘Hola, Max. Good to see you. Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Messenger. Not too wet, I hope? Do you need a towel?
‘Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Let’s go to my study. It’s more comfortable there. Leila’s not back yet – looks like she’s not gone far. So she shouldn’t be long. Tea?’
‘Thanks.’
Max looked round the neat study, lined with books, classical and Arabic music CDs, photographs of Leila graduating, Leila on her mother’s knee, Leila on holiday. The photographs did not do her justice. He looked at the book lying on the table, Islam: Art and Architecture. He opened the pages at random: a photo of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. The alternating brick and cream stone columns always made him feel slightly dizzy.
‘Good photo,’ said Ahmed. ‘An oasis in stone, quite mystical.’
He placed the tray on the table, and poured the jasmine tea into small elegant glasses.
‘Yes,’ replied Max. ‘Here’s to the Golden Age of Andalusia, the most tolerant and artistic place in the world.’
‘I agree. So what’s it about this time?’
‘Well . . . I’m worried this war is going to put a real strain on inter-community relations. I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
‘This invasion of Iraq is a terrible mistake. No Muslim can support it. It’s only increasing support for the extremists. I was thinking . . . we need more popular education on Islam and the history of the Middle East. Perhaps an exhibition of modern Islamic culture would help, just to show we are not all fanatics. Maybe something on food and music.’
‘That could be useful. If you could work up some ideas, I’ll look into funding.’
‘I’ll talk to my colleagues . . . and Leila of course. I’ll try to get you an outline next week.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It has always been good to work with you, Max.’
‘That’s the easy thing I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘And the difficult thing?’
‘We think there might be some terrorist cells here in Andalusia. We’d be grateful if you reported anything suspicious to us.’
‘You mean act as a spy? You’re crazy. Look, you know I have no sympathy with terrorism, but I can’t go reporting every odd character I come across who happens to be a Muslim.’
‘We’re not asking you to do that. Just to report the real fanatics.’
‘But who are they? Every Muslim sympathizes with the Palestinians, and hates this war. But I’m not going to write a dossier on everyone I know. How could you even think of it?’
‘No. No. But Spain could be a target now.’
‘But terrorists aren’t going to tell me if they’re planning to blow something up, are they?’
‘Okay, okay. How’s Leila? How’s her thesis going?’
‘She’s fine. She was hoping to see you. I don’t know what could have happened to her. I’ll ask her to give you a ring when she gets back.’
‘Sure. It would be nice if she phoned.’
Max stood up. He looked at Ahmed’s lined, ascetic face. He liked him, and did not want to press him hard. But his superiors wanted information on terrorist sympathizers.
‘How do you think this invasion in Iraq will end?’ Max asked Ahmed.
‘It will be a disaster. The American, British and Spanish governments have
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