Blood Wedding (41 page)

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Okay. I’ll tell him he can come in. Don’t overdo it.’

The doctor left, and Inspector Martín Sánchez walked in.

‘Max, are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’ll survive. What happened?’

‘It was dreadful. A real massacre. They killed the marines on guard as they went in, and then started firing into the stag party. Some of the officers rushed next door into the wedding reception, and they followed them into that, firing all the time. The hotel security men managed to kill one of the terrorists. It was a massacre. The bridegroom was killed, and the bride injured. Your cousin Juan must have rushed over to help. He was wounded in the wedding reception room.’

‘Juan?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve checked with the doctors. He’ll survive. Lost a lot of blood, so he’s still unconscious.’

Martín leaned over Max’s bed in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Problem is, we have a serious political issue right now. One of those killed was a young Basque waiter. He turns out to have ETA connections. He was arrested in Bilbao a couple of years ago on an ETA demonstration which turned nasty.’

‘ETA?’ said Max. ‘I don’t understand?’

‘I know. But Allende and Linda are making the most of it. They’ve put out a press statement that this was a joint ETA–Islamist terrorist attack. The government has already instructed all of our embassies round the world to emphasize this. They’re attacking the Socialists for opening secret negotiations with ETA. It looks bad for the Socialists with the election just due. Have you got anything we could use to counter this?’

All Max could think about was the family. Was Paula okay? How badly injured was Juan?

‘Nothing.’ he said. ‘Except I don’t believe for one minute ETA was involved.’

‘We have to move fast. They’ve got this waiter story. We have to rebut it. We have to know what happened at the wedding reception.’

‘Have you spoken to Juan?’

‘He’s still unconscious. They won’t let me in. They might agree to you going in, seeing you’re a relative. It’s critical, Max. The election will turn on this.’ Martín stared at Max, his face pleading. ‘I don’t want the bastards to get back in. It would be bad for Spain, bad for peace.’

Max nodded.

‘Gracias
, Max. I’ll get the doctor. I’ll say it will help your recovery and Juan’s if you sit with him.’

Martín left, and returned with the doctor.

‘You’re Juan Romero’s cousin?’

‘Yes. We grew up together. It would help us both if I could just sit with him.’

The doctor smiled. ‘I want to get the best for our public health services. Inspector Sánchez here has persuaded me this might help. You may go.’

‘Thanks, doctor,’ said Martín. ‘Here, let me get you a dressing gown, Max. The hospital ones are not the most elegant, but they’ll do.’

The doctor, Martín and Max walked along the corridor to a single room. A man lay on a bed in the room. ‘I can’t let you both in,’ said the doctor. ‘Only close family at this stage. He should be regaining consciousness at any moment now.’

‘Okay, doctor,’ agreed Martín. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

Max sat on the chair by Juan’s bed. He held Juan’s hand. Max dozed for a while, and was awoken by a stirring in the bed. Juan had opened his eyes. Max squeezed Juan’s hand. ‘Don’t speak just yet. You’re fine.’ Max sat there for ten minutes and then went outside. An impatient Martín was waiting.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s conscious.’

‘Can he talk?’

‘I’d have to ask the doctor first.’

‘I’ll fetch him,’ and Martín pushed his corpulent frame into a run.

He returned shortly, panting. ‘The doctor’s on his way. This is vital. We haven’t long.’

‘But we don’t know what Juan will say. We don’t know what he saw.’

‘I know. But we haven’t much else to go on at the moment.’

The doctor came up to them. ‘You two stay here, and I will check the patient.’

He went in. Max and Martín peered through the glass pane of the door. The doctor talked to Juan, took his blood pressure and temperature, and then came outside.

‘Okay. Only the cousin can go in. Not too long, mind you.’

Max went in, and sat beside the bed. He and Juan smiled at each other.

‘The family?’

‘All okay.’

‘Thank God. You been in the wars too?’ Juan said.

‘They took me hostage. But I’m okay now, and you?’

‘No permanent damage, I think I was lucky.’

‘Juan, do you know what happened in there?’

‘I heard this shooting, and you’d just vanished. I should have known better, but I rushed over to find you. I ran into the wedding reception. Max, it was horrible – bodies, blood all over the place.’

‘Did you see anything? The waiter?’

‘The waiter, the poor bastard. He was really brave, threw himself on top of the bride. I saw him shot. Did he survive?’

‘No, he didn’t. Do you know which waiter it was?’

‘Yes. It was the one serving us, you know, the Basque guy.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. What’s all this about? Are you sure Paula and the kids are fine?’

‘They’re all right. Shocked and frightened. But fine. They should be here soon to see you and me. Juan . . . are you well enough to talk to the press about what you saw?’

‘You mean have my day of glory? I might as well get something out of this.’

There was a knock. The children were peering round the door, Paula and Isabel behind them.

‘Juan, the gang’s here. You can see them now, and then rest. I’ll work on the media,’ said Max.

‘Okay.’

‘We still don’t know who killed Leila. Javeed swears it wasn’t Hassan.’

‘It definitely wasn’t me. Thanks for believing me, Max.’

Max smiled. ‘You’re a lying bastard, Juan. But I think I know when you’re telling the truth.’

Max went outside. Paula hobbled up to Max, and embraced him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Max. I nearly died of worry. What with both you and Juan . . .’

‘I know,
abuela
. Me too.’

‘How’s Juan?’

‘Lost a lot of blood. But no permanent damage.’

Max turned to Martín, hovering in the background. ‘We’re in luck. The waiter died heroically, trying to save the bride.’

‘Is Juan willing to talk to the media?’

‘He is. But don’t tell him the background. I don’t think Juan would appreciate it, helping the Socialists.’

Martín got on his phone immediately. ‘Rolando. Get this out! No ETA connection. Basque waiter died to save bride. Yes. I’ve got evidence. Eyewitness. Yes, willing to give interviews. Get on to all the TV channels. We’ll shaft that bastard Allende, right up his skinny backside. And get some demos organized.’

Max looked at Martín. ‘Sometimes you seem more a politician than an anti–terrorist cop.’

‘These days there’s not much difference,’ he replied. ‘The TV and newspaper reporters should be here soon. Could they interview you first? Give Juan more time to recover.’

The interviews went well. Juan revelled in the publicity. Apparently both Max and Juan looked great on TV, and their photos in the press were dramatic. The headlines that evening created a furore. The popular media concentrated on the heroic dead waiter and the injured bride: the more serious ones emphasized the lies from the government about the ETA connection. The Socialists organized spontaneous demonstrations against the Government’s manipulation of a tragic event, accusing them of trying to influence the election, which they knew they were going to lose. The government responded that there was an ETA connection, and set up a special commission to investigate.

Jorge came to see Max that evening. Max was lying on his bed in hospital watching the dramatic events unfold on TV when Jorge entered with a big grin on his face.

‘Max, seeing you’re spending all your time lying around, I’ve brought you a little something.’ He unwrapped a bottle of wine, and put it on the table beside Max’s bed. ‘It’s the best Malaga
vino dulce
. So if the nurses say you can’t drink alcohol, tell them it’s not alcohol, but a sweet wine and that’s medicinal. You can quote me on that.’

Max laughed. ‘What’s happening in the outside world?’

‘Well, you and Juan are stars for a start. You both looked good on TV. Cousins risk their lives . . . Those hospital pyjamas and dressing gowns are all the rage.’

Max laughed. ‘Wrong colour. I’d prefer blue.’

‘Looks like you’ve swung the election. Even my monks are voting Socialist.’

‘Well, at least some good will come out of this.’

Max hoped Anita would visit. There was nothing to do but watch TV. He couldn’t turn it off. There was endless coverage of the dramatic events. Max got all the newspapers: the Israelis and the Americans broke off their negotiations with the Palestinians; the USA condemned the Palestinian authorities for the killings.

So you succeeded, Javeed, thought Max. You won. You pulled the plug on those negotiations. But have you won in the long run or just condemned the Palestinian people to another round of violence?

As the election results came in, Max breathed a sigh of relief. The last-minute spinning by the government made no difference. The Socialists had won an historic victory.

Max went home the next day. He went to see Juan before he left. Juan scowled at him when he entered his room.

‘You lying, manipulative toad,’ he yelled at him. ‘You never told me anything about this ETA stuff, and I’ve just helped put my taxes up. I’ll send you the tax bill when it comes in.’

‘There’s not much danger of your taxes going up.’

‘But we’ll have gay marriages, more women in Parliament and the Cabinet, and Christ knows what else.’

‘Be good for the country, you reactionary old sod. I’m off home. I’ve talked to the doctor. He said you should be allowed home to rest in a week or so. I’ll come round and see you before then.’

Juan smiled. ‘Okay you left-wing fanatic. See you. We did well in the end, didn’t we, Max? I still have to go and see Ahmed. Thanks for believing in me. You’re a true friend.’

Max left. Anita hadn’t been to see him. He took a taxi to his flat, and climbed the stairs slowly. He went straight to his terrace, and looked up at the Alhambra. The doorbell rang. It was Anita.

‘Max, I heard you were getting out today so I thought I’d come round here to see you. You’re all over the TV and papers, you know.
Dios
, those pyjamas were awful. You should have put on the blue ones, blue suits you.’

‘I didn’t get a choice,’ said Max. ‘Come in. I’m so pleased to see you.’

They sat on the terrace, blinking in the sun, as Max told his tale.

‘Anita, if you’re not doing anything better this evening, can I buy you a decent meal?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Let me take you to Duende – I’m dying for a thick steak, and chips cooked in good olive oil. The hospital food was awful – cold chips, soggy vegetables. You’d have thought they could give you fresh fruit and yoghurt.’

‘Oh, Max, I went round to Paula’s before I came over. She gave me this to give you,’ said Anita, handing over a small jiffy bag.

‘What this?’ said Max. ‘A tape. I’ll play it later.’

They sat watching the sun set, a fiery red over the Alhambra, until it was time to leave for the restaurant.

‘Let’s walk,’ said Anita. ‘It’s such a lovely evening.’

They strolled down the Albayzín, along el Paseo de los Tristes, across Plaza Nueva, and then into a little side street off la Acera de Darro.

‘Max,’ said the owner of Duende. ‘You’re famous. I’ll have to give you free meals so I can advertise you eat here.’

‘You can begin with your very best steak with a bottle of your best Rioja.’

‘Two steaks,’ added Anita.

Max showed Anita around, pointing out Manolete, el Triste.

Towards the end of the meal, Max put his hand on Anita’s. She put her other hand on top of his.

‘Gracias
for a lovely meal, Max. That’s a good wine. I think I’m slightly tiddled.’

‘Me too. I’ve hardly had a drop for days. Shall we go back to my place for the coffee? I’ve got a bottle of the best brandy, Solera Lepanto, courtesy of Juan.’

‘Why not?’

Max, feeling a little tired, hailed a taxi. They giggled their way up the stairs.

‘I’ll put on the coffee if you get the brandy,’ said Anita.

They settled down comfortably on Max’s sofa. After the first sip of brandy, Max ran his finger lightly over Anita’s cheek. She shivered slightly. He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on her mouth. She leaned back.

‘Max,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. It’s just . . . I’ve never been out with a man. I’ve been out with girls . . . women. You understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?’

Max sat upright.

Anita took his hand in hers. ‘Max, I’m very fond of you. You’re sweet. You’re different to all the other men I’ve met. The lads in Güejar were not exactly sensitive souls, and as for cops, forget it. Dad didn’t do mum any good, and after that well . . . I just gave men a wide berth.’

Max said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Anita, I . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well after midnight. It’s really late. You’ll have missed the last bus. You’d better stay the night. You can have my bed. I can sleep here.’

‘I’m sorry. You’re not angry with me, are you?’

‘No. No. It’s not that. I’m just taken aback, that’s all. I’d better change the sheets – I haven’t changed them for weeks.’

‘Here, let me help.’

Once finished they went back into the living room. They sat on the sofa, some distance apart. Anita broke the silence. ‘Max, I’m sorry. I need time to think about this. Can you give me some time?’

‘You’ve got all the time in the world.’

Anita laughed. ‘When I’m ready I’d gladly accept your invitation and spend a weekend in
el cortijo.’

Max yawned.

‘We’re both tired,’ said Anita. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’ She kissed him gently on the mouth.

Max curled up on the sofa. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. The thought of Anita lying in his bed didn’t help. Should he just go and snuggle in beside her? The thought was so tempting. But he couldn’t trust himself to just cuddle. Max tossed and turned: Leila, Linda, Anita, even Penélope danced over him. He awoke after a wet dream. He went into the kitchen, and drank a cold glass of water.