Castro's Dream (14 page)

I’ll be over there, when you’re ready.

Where in Spain do you want to go?

San something. He couldn’t remember the name of the place.

San Sebastian.

Kader pointed at him.

That’s it.

It’s our next stop.

Kader waited a moment in case the man should decide to look up. He watched the gobbling couple a moment, then wandered back to his table. He dreaded to think how they fucked.

Kader ended up on his own with René, the man with the tattoos. The girl went in the truck behind. René was a knife-thrower and the girl was what he threw his knives at. He had a little dog who pulled the knives out of the board with his teeth. Its body was white and it had brown markings on its face like a mask. The dog growled at Kader as soon as he climbed into the truck. René kept the dog at his feet, just in front of the pedals.

All I ask, René told him, is that you don’t catch his eye.

Kader glanced down at the dog.

Why?

Just don’t or he’ll attack.

Kader grinned.

You’re kidding.

I’m not.

Cool.

Kader settled into his seat. He knew René was not going to hit on him and he was happy: soon he would be in Spain. Kader looked at the designs on René’s arms, which seemed to depict trees with tits. He found them quite beautiful.

How did you get into knife throwing?

My uncle. He runs this circus. He taught me in secret. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid but always in secret because my mother
was against it. When she died, I left my job and joined my uncle.

What was your job?

Security.

Where?

Bordeaux. Malls, mostly.

Shit job, Kader said. I’ve done it.

Not for nineteen years, you haven’t.

No fucking way. I walked out after a week. I got a great job after that, opening oysters in a fancy restaurant in Paris. I worked with an old man from Brittany called Yann. He was a racist cunt but he loved me. He was sad to see me go.

Why did you go?

I got into a fight with a client.

René shook his head.

No. No, no. Kader held up his hand. Just listen. The man walks out of the restaurant with his wife. I swear his wife walks past me and gives me this look so full of sex it makes me blush to think of it. Frankly, it was indecent. Then this short-arse starts insulting me, using words of four syllables just to say: do us a favour, stop hitting on my woman. If he’d been polite I would have raised my hands above my head but he was a pain in the arse. Old Raoul down there reminds me of him a little bit, I have to say: short and touchy. Anyway I told him it wasn’t my fault if his bitch was trouble and he called the manager. He was a regular, so that was that.

I avoid trouble, René said after a long silence. If I get into trouble, someone gets hurt.

Kader could tell this was no boast.

Have you ever stabbed the girl?

Carla? No. I caught the girl before her, just here. He pinched the flesh of his armpit.

Kader winced.

She was fine. But I had to let her go. When you’ve hit someone once, it’s for a reason. It’s too easy to do it again. Carla is unique. She has a technique when we’re working that took me by surprise. When I first threw with her I could feel her wanting me to hit her,
willing
me. When you concentrate hard enough you can pick up on things like that.

She sick, or what?

No. Just a bit numb. René paused. She’s had a hard time.

Raoul was growling again. Kader looked down and the dog showed its teeth.

She’s all right now, René went on. She still tries to get me to hit her but that’s the game. It’s a battle of wills.

Are you two? A couple?

René looked at him.

A couple?

Yeah. You know. Do you love her?

We’re not a couple. And I love her.

What does that mean?

Carla is alone, René said. She always has been. Any man who’s been stupid enough to try and harness her to him in any way, got bitten – hard. Luckily I like her the way she is, so she lets me get close.

Man, you’re surrounded by things that bite.

René smiled.

I am, he said.

Kader folded his arms and watched the road ahead of them. A road from this height was a beautiful thing, especially on a day like this. He liked this journey and he liked his goal. This new sense that he was in the right place and doing the right thing made him want to sing. So he sang. It was a song Khaled sang called ‘Bakhta’:

Bakhta
is
the
light
of
Oran,
he sang.
Her
beauty
burns
me
like
the
sun.

His mother loved the song because it had an old-fashioned melody. He could tell from the way René was listening that he was enjoying it too.

Kader woke to find himself alone in the truck. He could tell from the light that it was late afternoon. The sound of people shouting came through the open window. His wounded arm was aching. He sat up and looked out. They were on a wide, flat piece of land about the size of a football stadium. On one side was a flyover thick with traffic, and on the other was a railway line. The circus people were grouped together about fifty metres away. It felt like a fight. Kader climbed out and began to walk towards them. He could see René towering above everyone. He was shouting in
Spanish. On the breeze he could smell something sickly like rotting vegetables. He looked about him and saw a mountain of multicoloured rubbish beneath the flyover straight ahead of him. As he drew near the group, Kader stopped. Two men in uniform were facing the group. They were wearing strange-looking uniforms with red berets tilted at a stupid angle on their heads and white holsters for their weapons. They may have looked like toy soldiers but there was no doubt they were cops and whatever the discussion, their answer was No. Kader decided it would be better for him not to get involved. He turned and walked idly back to the truck. Within seconds Kader heard the dog’s strangely womanish growl. He spun round to kick out but it was too late. The dog’s teeth clamped down on his heel. A fierce pain shot up his leg. He felt his balls contract and for a moment he was completely blind. He heard himself cry out. The smell of refuse was making him feel sick. His sight returned as René was prising open Raoul’s jaws. Kader thought he saw the dog resisting, saw its bared incisors, saw the blood seeping through his white sock.

I didn’t look at him, he moaned. I didn’t even look at the bastard.

Mikel stood in the entrance, half in and half out of the shop. The shop smelt strongly of bait. Monsieur Lucky was serving a fat man with a dagger dripping blood tattooed on his fleshy arm. The man was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a Hawaiian pattern on it. His dark hair was shoulder-length and greasy. He bought a reel of nylon thread and a box of hooks. Monsieur Lucky had seen Mikel but gave no sign of recognition. Mikel watched the two men shake hands, then stood aside to let the fat man pass. The man cast his sleepy eyes down at Mikel. He had an imperviousness about him and a docility that reminded Mikel of the dog that he planned to own.

When he had gone Mikel hovered a moment in the doorway.

Come in, Monsieur Lucky said. His name, as Mikel had learned from his card, was Pierre Etcheberry. They shook hands. Etcheberry picked up his Lucky Strikes from the counter and held out the packet to Mikel. He took one.

Thanks.

You found my card, Etcheberry said.

Mikel nodded, patting his pocket.

Thanks.

Etcheberry drew on his cigarette and started looking for something behind the counter.

He put a black notebook on the counter.

You mentioned you were looking for a job.

So I did talk then.

A little. Etcheberry went back to the book. I have a friend. He has vans that sell stuff. He needs someone to cover the markets.

Which side?

I’m sorry?

Here in France?

Yes. Is that a problem?

No, no. A van that sells stuff. That sounds good. What does it sell?

Some of them sell underwear and some sell brooms.

Mikel laughed too loudly, then he couldn’t stop. The little shop was filled with his stupid laughter. Etcheberry looked on, a little embarrassed, waiting for him to finish.

I’m sorry, Mikel said, wiping his eyes. Oh dear.

Go and see him. His name’s Lamarck. We were in the merchant navy together. Etcheberry wrote down the number and handed it to Mikel. He’s a loudmouth but he’s OK.

He had written the number on another of his cards. Mikel thanked him and put it in his pocket with the other one.

I’m grateful, he said.

Etcheberry looked at him and Mikel saw that the man ran on alcohol. His eyes were pale blue and set in cloudy yellow.

You’d do the same for me, he said.

Mikel shook his hand and turned to go. He was eager to get the dog before he met Lamarck. In the doorway he turned back.

Can I ask you one more thing?

Etcheberry opened his hands.

There is someone I’m trying to get in touch with. May I give her your number? Until I get one of my own.

Of course.

Thank you.

What’s her name?

Mikel considered.

Carmen. Her name’s Carmen.

Lovely.

If she calls … Mikel stopped himself from giving more information.

I’ll let you know, Etcheberry said.

Mikel stood in the doorway, wishing he could take back his request. But it was too late. Etcheberry was looking at him expectantly, in readiness to give more.

Can I buy you a drink later on? Mikel asked him.

I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m going fishing tonight. You’re welcome to come if you like. Philippe, the big bloke who was just in, has a boat. We meet up with a group from the other side, from Hondarribbia. We see who can take the biggest catch. The losing boat has to shout the winners a meal at a place called Chez André in Biarritz. He planted a kiss on his fingertips.

Suddenly Mikel did not trust him.

Maybe another time. He held up the card. Thanks again for this.

Etcheberry shook his head.

No problem. If you need a place to stay I know a woman who takes in lodgers. Here in Saint Jean but it’s cheap.

Mikel wanted to be out of reach of the man’s kindness.

Thank you. You’ve done too much already, he said.

Tuya, the woman’s name is. Hortense Tuya. Say I sent you. She’s in the book!

But Mikel had left the shop.

He walked along the port to the same call box where he had called Astrid. He was angry that he had been unable to trust Etcheberry. In prison, knowing as he did how the environment could erode faith, he had forced himself to trust people and it had paid off. He would never anticipate betrayal. On the few occasions that it had come, he dealt with it according to the nature of the betrayer. Mateo Cruz he beat because there was no alternative and the Fuentes kid he ignored. Both had tried to make amends. Now that he was free, he felt himself closing up, turning inwards. The man was offering friendship. He had been out for forty-eight hours and he already had a worthy friend. But he did not want a friend. The only relationship he could contemplate now was with a dog.

There was no phone book in the call box so he went to L’Amiral and asked the barman if he could look at his Yellow Pages. He found a vet that caught his eye on the Rue Garispe called Pascal Pasqua. He drank a beer and smoked a roll-up and walked with his new stiff walk, past the beautiful church where a great French king had married a Spanish princess in an attempt to stop the bloodshed, past the shops selling berets and sheepskins and fudge and local textiles, past the tall, narrow houses which inclined a little towards him and were now inhabited only by people who could afford to live somewhere else.

Pascal Pasqua’s surgery was down an alley that smelt of human urine and air freshener. Above the frosted glass door was an illuminated sign with blue letters saying
Vétérinaire.
Mikel rang the bell and the door clicked open. He entered a waiting area with a red lino floor and pale-green walls covered in soft-focus
posters of cats and dogs. An old man was waiting with an old labrador. Mikel nodded at him and sat down two seats away from him, but even this was not far enough to elude the smell of the labrador.

Soon the old man and his dog were summoned by Pascal Pasqua whose tanned face appeared around the door. Mikel sat reading a leaflet about animal vaccines and rabies and wondered at the new physical affliction, which had set in as soon as he had stepped out through the prison gates and which he had attributed to the sudden change in his circumstances: a strange numbness in his legs that made him want to kick out or run. As he had no desire to run, he decided that his legs or perhaps his nervous system must have an albeit rudimentary mind of their own. He must remember to ask Astrid about it. Astrid.

He could see her face, captured by the TV camera during the press conference that was held when she was let out of prison. He had guessed that it had been because of that face that Euskal TV had taken an interest in her case in the first place and followed the campaign for her release. She had become the picture of innocence, the symbol of wrongful punishment. He had sat and watched the report for the local news, faintly irritated by the sound of inmates playing ping-pong in the background. Even as he contemplated the cynicism of the press, he too had been beguiled by that face. He had seen the pallor, put there by prison life, and the shadows under her eyes and the little gold hoops, glinting against her dark hair, a tiny vanity, and he had believed that behind the beauty he could see all her strength and patience and compassion. He had believed then that if Astrid could love him, he might have a chance, and he had begun to write to her.

Mikel watched Pascal Pasqua escort the old man and his dog to the door. The dog was now limping and the old man looked cowed. It seemed like the vet’s affability was too much for him and he left with his head low.

We’re on, Pasqua said with an encouraging nod, and Mikel followed him into his surgery, which smelt of the same air freshener as the alley. The walls in here were covered with posters relating to golf: a golfer in full swing, an impressionistic drawing of a golfer and the sea and a watercolour of a woman in twenties clothes leaning on a golf club.

In the centre of the room, beneath a neon strip light, was a Formica table on which Mikel thought the animals must struggle and slide beneath the vet’s grasp. Pasqua leaned against the table, his legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded.

How can I help you?

I’m looking for a dog. Mikel hesitated. To adopt.

Pasqua looked at his shoes. Through the thin, blond hair Mikel could see a bald patch the size of a communion wafer on the crown of his head. Mikel looked down. The man’s shoes were long and tapering with leather tassels on them. At the sight of them, he felt he had come to the wrong place.

There is a dog, Pasqua said, looking up. He’s quite old though. His owner’s been hospitalised and can’t keep him. I’ve been treating him for an infected paw. The dog, I mean. My wife’s treating the man. He smiled. She’s a nurse.

Mikel arrived at the animal shelter late in the afternoon. It was outside a village in the hills behind Biarritz. It had taken him three hours on foot. If the dog were badly injured he would have to hitch back. As he walked up the dusty drive the chorus of barking grew more and more frantic. Some dogs threw themselves at the chicken wire, others barked from a safe distance. Mikel watched them fondly, his ears ringing.

A young woman in dungarees made her way through the crowd towards him. The dogs clamoured around her, hindering her progress as if she were their guru. The girl stood on the other side of the gate and asked him sourly what he wanted.

I’ve come to see about a dog called Castro.

No one told me anything. Who sent you?

Pascal Pasqua, the vet.

The girl looked him up and down. She had a ring in her eyebrow and a silver stud in her nose and her dark hair was cropped short.

I need I.D. and proof of residency.

Mikel fished in his pocket.

He held up his frayed I.D. card. She peered at it through the chicken wire. The photo was over twenty years old.

A German shepherd jumped up at her.

Down Toto, she said softly, scratching him behind his ears.

You’re Spanish, she said curtly. We don’t send dogs to Spain if we can help it.

I live here.

I need to see a bill or something.

I’ve just moved here. I live in Saint Jean. I’m lodging with a Madame Tuya. She’s in the book.

The girl scowled at him.

Castro’s injured.

I know.

He needs to be given medication. Antibiotic cream. Every day.

Mikel’s heart was pounding in his chest.

That’s fine, he said, watching her unlock the gate.