Authors: P J Brooke
‘Are you well,
abuela?’
‘I can’t complain. Max. Did you speak to Juan?’
‘Yes. As you thought – it’s money problems.’
‘That’s not too bad. I thought it was bedroom problems. It would be better if la Católica spent less time in church, and more on her back.’
‘Abuela por Díos!
And you being a good Catholic and all.’
‘You know what I mean. Isabel wants a modern house closer to town. The silly bitch. Here is ideal for the children.’
Max adored his grandmother. At eighty-three she felt she had the right to say exactly what she thought – and boy, did she take advantage. She picked up an antique glass vase.
‘Max, would you like this? Isabel’s been admiring it. What’s bothering you, love? You didn’t laugh. You can tell your
abuela,’
she said, putting her arms around him.
‘I’ve got some bad news. I can’t think of an easy way to break it to you.’ Max took her hand in his. ‘It’s about Leila. She’s been found dead. I’m afraid it might be murder.’
‘Oh Sweet Mary! Murdered? No, she can’t be. Can’t be.’
Max put his arms around her. She cried in short, gasping sobs.
‘She was so young. Such good company. I was hoping you and she, you know, might have gone out together. It’s time you settled down.’
Max said nothing, just held her in his arms.
‘Don’t worry,
cariño.
I’ll be all right. I’ll miss our afternoons together. You know, she was really interested in the past, in our family. She loved all the stories.’
And she started crying again.
‘A little glass of brandy?’
‘No.
Anís dulce,
please.’
‘Sit down here,
abuela.’
Max went through to the living room, opened the old tiled inset cupboard, and poured a generous portion of the sweet liquor. ‘Have this, it will do you good.’
Paula sipped the
anís dulce.
‘That’s better. I’ll be fine now. We’d better go and join the others.’
Arms linked, they went into the garden. The table under the old olive tree was covered with bottles of wine, water, a mountain of rough bread, bowls of olives, peaches and cherries. Sitting at the table were Isabel, her two children, Leonardo and Encarnación, and Isabel’s parents, over from Granada for the day. Juan was at the barbecue, blowing the vine twigs under the big pan of paella. Juan always took charge of the barbecue.
‘The
langostinos
are great,’ he called out to no one in particular.
Paula sat at the head of the table. And she burst into tears again.
Isabel’s mother rushed up, clean hankie in hand. ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’
Everyone came up to comfort Paula.
‘It’s Leila. She’s gone . . . Max says she’s been murdered.’
‘Dead? Murdered?’ exclaimed Isabel’s mother.
‘What happened, Max?’ asked Isabel.
‘We’re still not sure. But it might have been an accident. Her body was found under the Jola road bridge last night.’
‘Do you know who did it?’ interrupted Isabel’s father.
The questions billowed around like choking smoke. It was Paula who finally took charge.
‘Isabel, please, say a prayer for her soul. Then, let’s eat and enjoy our meal. Leila would have wanted that.’
Isabel bowed her head in prayer for the soul of a dearly departed friend. ‘Hail Mary, Mother of God, Forgive us our sins. Look down upon us. We beseech you to intercede for the mercy of the soul of Leila, our dearly beloved friend. Hail Mary Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee . . .’
Everyone round the table joined in. As Isabel began the third Hail Mary, Paula intervened. ‘Come. No need for the whole rosary. I’m not sure Leila would appreciate it.’
Juan, pale, stayed at the barbecue. Meals at Paula’s were usually boisterous affairs with Max and Juan arguing continously: Barcelona or Real Madrid? Vote for the PP and get lower taxes or PSOE and social spending? Support the Yanks or not? But today everyone was subdued, apart from the protesting meow from David, allowed on to the table by Encarnación and then knocked away by Isabel. Max had to give all the details. He concluded: ‘The funeral will be tonight, at eight.’
‘I’m going,’ announced Paula firmly.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Juan. ‘It will be Muslim.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I loved the girl, and I’m going anyway.’
When Paula had made her mind up, that was usually that. But this time Juan tried to argue; only to be told to shut up.
‘I’m going myself,’ said Max. ‘I’ll take you.’
Just before eight, Max and Paula arrived at the mosque. Paula in the suit and veil she had worn to her husband’s funeral ten years ago. Max had explained to Paula that many Muslims did not allow women and non-Muslims into the mosque for a funeral. He had checked with the community, and they had no objections to non-Muslims attending, but would prefer it if women did not go to the burial.
‘Paula, even in this mosque men and women will be separated by a screen, and you will have to stay behind at the mosque, while I go to the burial. The women will look after you and give you tea afterwards, while I am at the graveyard.’
‘More rules than the Holy Mother Church then. I thought we were bad enough,’ she replied. ‘But I’m glad to be here.’
The service was simple. Leila’s washed body lay on a plain wooden table, wrapped in five white shrouds. The mosque was full. Ahmed began the Salat-ul-Janazah, the funeral prayers. As he spoke, a plain wooden casket was placed in front of him. Ahmed finished the prayers, and Leila’s body, still wrapped in the five shrouds, was placed in the casket. Four men lifted the coffin and carried it outside. Max and all the men silently filed out of the mosque and followed the coffin up the hill. The procession passed the little white round hermitage of San Joaquín, built on top of both a Visigoth chapel and then a mosque, and entered the small field where one plain headstone testified to an earlier death within the community. As the body was lowered gently into the grave, Ahmed, weeping silently, began to mutter the last prayer, joined in unison by all the Muslim men gathered round the grave, and then went through the rituals.
Each man stooped, took three handfuls of earth and threw them into the grave, repeating the same words: ‘We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.’ Facing the grave, they offered a prayer, invoking Allah’s mercy on Leila, and then turned from the grave, and facing the headstone in the bare field intoned: ‘Greetings of peace to you all. Allah-willing, we will also join you. May Allah forgive you and all of us!’
When they had finished Max and three other non-Muslims went to Leila’s grave, picked up three handfuls of earth and threw them on the burial spot. Max stood quietly, looking down at the grave. He did not believe in any God or life after death. Your body would be recycled back into life on earth, and that was it. But the quiet dignity of the ceremony, the loss of a life so full of promise, affected him. He said his farewells, a tear trickling down his cheek.
Max returned to pick up Paula. She was sitting in the courtyard of the mosque, sipping mint tea, with Zaida, a handsome woman, her face framed by an elegant blue headscarf.
‘Max, this is Zaida, a close friend of the family. We were talking about Leila. She has something to tell you which may be important.’
‘Yes. I saw Leila on the Saturday. It must have been about two twenty in the afternoon. The shops had just shut. I was standing at the traffic lights, you know, by the church, when Leila got out of this really battered van. She looked a bit of a mess. I didn’t really see the man she was with, scruffy type. He drove off immediately, and Leila headed for her home.’
‘That’s interesting. It makes you the last person we know to have seen Leila alive.’
‘Oh dear, that’s an awful thought.’
‘Can you remember anything else about the man or the van?’
‘Not really. I just remember the man looked a mess, long hair, unshaven. A traveller, I’d say. The van . . . well, I don’t know one make from another.’
‘Can you describe it?’
‘It was really battered. A bluish colour, I think’
‘Anything else?’
‘It was rusty. And there were sunflowers painted on the side.’
‘Zaida, that’s really helpful. Did you speak to Leila?’
‘No. She dashed off.’
‘You said earlier she looked a mess. What did you mean by that?’
‘Just that. Looked as if she had slept in her clothes.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’s normally so careful about her appearance, a bit vain. Oh dear, the poor girl.’
‘Thanks. We’ll need a formal statement later, if you don’t mind. I suppose you don’t know where she was Friday night?’
‘No. She’s a bit wild sometimes. Ahmed gets worried about her, but really dotes on her. She needed a mother. She needed guidance, and in my view, he’s too soft with her. I have spoken to him about this. But he won’t face up to the problem. It’s too late now. She was a lovely girl.’
‘Problem?’
‘You’ll find out sooner or later, I suppose. Yes. Leila, was a bit, well . . .
inmodesta.’
‘Immodest?’
‘With men. You know.’
‘So you think she could have spent the night with the bloke in the van?’
‘No. I’m not saying that. I just don’t know.’
‘Oh, come on,’ interrupted Paula. ‘Leila was a very pretty, lively girl. You don’t expect a girl of twenty-three to be a virgin these days.’
‘In our community we do.’
Max bit his lip.
‘Sorry, I’m tired now,’ said Paula. ‘Max, take me home, please. Thanks, Zaida. You’ve been very kind. Look after the poor girl’s father. It’s been so nice talking to you. And thanks for the recipe. I’ll try it. We must talk again soon.’
Paula limped out of the courtyard, into Max’s car.
‘Max, this is the first time I’ve ever been inside a mosque. They seem good people. Oh, why do we always emphasize our differences. So absurd.’
Max didn’t reply. They drove silently back to the house.
‘I’m glad you came,
abuela.’
‘Glad you took me, Max.’
Paula said goodnight and kissed Max affectionately.
‘Buenas noches, cariño.’
‘Buenas noches, abuela.’
Max waited until she entered the house. His heart beat. Leila’s death reminded him that even his beloved
abuela
could not live for ever. It would be hard to imagine life without her. He drove away slowly. The rain had cleared the sky. Bright stars and a full moon illuminated the black road. Max glanced at the moon, and murmured one of Lorca’s invocations:
‘“Night here already
Moon’s rays been striking
Evening like an anvil.”’
Los caballos negros son,
Las herraduras son negras.
Sobre las capas relaces
Manchas de tinta y de cera.
Black are the horses,
The horseshoes are black.
Glistening on their capes
Are stains of ink and of wax.
Frederico García Lorca,
Romance de la Guardia Civil Española
(
Romance of the Spanish Civil Guard
)
Monday morning, the sun rose, an inflamed red, over the Sierra: another scorching day. Max drove to the police station, next to the town hall. Davila had agreed he should stay over in Diva to help. He regretted he did not have his uniform with him. It was the sort of thing González would note, and make remarks about. It was a little after nine. González looked pointedly at his watch.
‘Seems like an accident. Don’t understand what all the fuss is about, but Falcón wants you involved. Remember I’m in charge. León here wants a little operations room at the back, Operation Leila. He’s been watching too many police movies.’
González’ big belly looked even bigger; his bald head was sticky with sweat, and his breath even worse than usual . . . cheap brandy, mints and mouthwash.
Fuck it, Max thought. He’s going to make a speech, a pompous one at that. Best be polite.
At last González came to a close. ‘Right. Almost certainly an accident, but we need to move fast on this one. Don’t want to waste Max’s time, after all – he tells us he has important business in Granada.’
‘Remember she’s a Muslim,’ said León. ‘Max’s experience with Muslims could be very helpful. And these days we’ve got to go careful with them. Why, I don’t know. Don’t trust any of the bastards. But we don’t want any more complaints about religious or racial bias.’
‘You’re right, León. A lefty paper might create a fuss. And our General López would not like that. No siree. But as far as I’m concerned if it ain’t an accident, then every goddam Muslim in our patch is a suspect until proved innocent.’
With that González moved to the stand, and dramatically flipped the cover over.
Oh my God, thought Max. A flip chart. It’ll be a Power-Point presentation next.
‘Perhaps Max would like to write up for us what we know. After all, he has been to university.’
‘Certainly.’
Max went to the front, and waited, the felt tip pen poised.
González continued. ‘The girl’s name, Leila Mahfouz, a Muslim, the daughter of a British Muslim, resident here.’
Max interrupted. ‘She’s actually not resident here, but visiting from her university in Scotland to do research on Diva during the Spanish Civil War.’
‘What for?’ asked González. ‘That’s past history. Best forgotten.’
‘That’s what history is,’ explained Max, ‘a study of the past.’
‘She’s no right to go poking her nose into other people’s business. We’ve learnt to live and forget.’
Max smiled. Everyone knew that González’ family had been Franco supporters, and had made a tidy pile out of the Civil War.
‘She’s no right to do that. We don’t go over to England and dig up dirt there. Okay. Let’s get this show on the road. What else do we know about her?’ asked González.
The two other police in the room, Anita Guevarra and Mario León, looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders.
‘Nada,’
they said in unison.
Max waited. It wasn’t his job to conduct the investigation.
‘I have a preliminary report from Forensics,’ continued González. ‘Time of death was Saturday afternoon, about five, with the usual fifteen minutes each way. And it started raining, León . . . at about four thirty, yes?’