Castro's Dream (16 page)

Castro was a sleek, honey-coloured mongrel with a dark-brown muzzle and carefully drawn eyebrows. He wore a dirty sock, once white, on his front right paw. Castro’s previous owner was a busker called André who was HIV-positive. André was taken into Bayonne hospital for pneumonia. He had no family or friends who could take Castro in, so he asked his nurse, before she put him on the respirator, to make sure his dog found a good home. She had told him her husband was a vet.

No fascists, André had told her. I beg you. Castro’s a political animal. I don’t want him with a fascist.

Mikel was drawn to Castro because he was so obviously not political.

Sit, boy, Mikel said.

Castro sat, then lay on the pavement outside the newsagent.

Mikel emerged from the tabac with a small packet of tobacco and a copy of yesterday’s
El
País.
He was looking forward to reading the news and smoking a cigarette on the bench outside the graveyard. An old yew hung over the wall above the bench, giving shade from the sun and shelter from the wind. He had a few minutes before he had to start opening up the van for the market.

Mikel sat on the bench and looked down at his new companion panting at his feet. It seemed to him that the dog knew he was looking at him but did not turn his head.

Let’s see that paw, Mikel said, laying down his paper.

Castro turned and sat. Mikel held out his hand for his paw. Castro looked about him, tongue lolling, while Mikel examined it.

Beneath the sock was a dressing. Mikel checked to see if there was any pus seeping through but the lint was clean. Two weeks ago Pascal Pasqua had removed a snapped syringe needle from the abscess between the dog’s pads.

We’ll be able to take that stupid sock off soon, Mikel told him.

He picked up his paper and turned to the sports pages. Astrid’s team, Reál, was top of the league. Atlético Bilbao was fifth.

The room in Biarritz had turned out to be unsuitable for Castro. The landlady, Hortense Tuya, had stood in the hall, her face glowing with night cream, and told him kindly that she loved dogs but not in the house, which was full of highly varnished wood and bibelots. She did not mind making a bed for Castro in the garage. Mikel had decided that he would look for a room somewhere in the country, preferably on a farm. Until then, he and Castro would sleep in the van.

Mikel looked at the patch of dark fur between Castro’s ears and felt a wave of gratitude. He had slept the night on his side with the dog curled up against his body. He had found that there was no need to train Castro. He was, Mikel felt, obedient because he chose to be.

I
dream
of
a
simple
life
with
you.

The dog turned and looked at his master.

Time to go? Mikel asked.

Castro stood up and wagged his tail.

Mikel dropped his cigarette, rolled up his paper and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

When they got back to the van, a fishmonger was pouring ground ice into polystyrene trays two slots down from him. She was a big woman dressed in a blue-and-white checked apron. Her face and hands were red-raw. He opened up the side of the van and pulled up the orange awning, transforming it into a stall. When he had finished arranging the goods, he sat down on the back step and smoked another cigarette. Castro lay at his feet and rested his head between his paws.

As he smoked, Mikel watched the dawn sky above the tall, square steeple change colour. He tried to see the change, tried to trace the colour gathering depth and intensity. He decided that not being able to see the change was a miracle. He had once written a letter to Astrid with the word phantasmagoria in it. The word had come into his mind a few days earlier and he had been waiting to use it. It had occurred quite naturally as the letter unfolded:

Mikel had always thought there seemed to be more space and light on the French side of the border. He looked at the clean, white church with its stone windows, its pure lines and the grand proportions of the oak portal. Basque villages on the Spanish side seemed huddled and defensive by contrast. One thing he had been right about was his suspicion that this side would never be dragged into open conflict. They had been pacified centuries ago. You could feel it in the sleepy air.

Delbos, the baker, arrived in a beige van with gothic lettering on it. Mikel dropped his cigarette and climbed into the van to await his first customers. In French his stall was a
quincaillerie,
a word he particularly liked. Sadly, though, his was not a real ironmonger’s because he sold only cleaning utensils. It was no surprise to him to learn from Etcheberry that this arm of Lamarck’s business thrived. He had always known that the women of his country were obsessed with order and cleanliness. It would appear that women on this side were the same. He sold everything they would need to preserve their illusions: brooms, mops, buckets (with or without sieves, in galvanised iron or plastic), sponges (organic and synthetic, abrasive or otherwise), sponge-brooms (with or without a squeezing lever), J-cloths, tea towels, packing-cloths and chamois.

He now smiled at his first customer, a chubby teenage mother with gold earrings that quivered on the end of her earlobes. Her baby was asleep in a buggy with a torn back. The baby looked like it was about to slip through the tear in the fabric but the young mother did not seem worried. Even when she was still, Mikel noticed, the earrings quivered. They reminded him of the earrings Astrid had worn at the press conference. The mother bought a packet of abrasive sponges and moved on.

Mikel could see that the world had shifted slightly in his absence but he could not identify the change. Like the sky, he knew it had happened but he could not say how. This must explain his feeling that everyone he met was involved in a game that he did not know how to play any more. He felt content in his van. He liked the pleasure he could see a woman got from buying a new sponge and he liked his dog.

Kader wandered the streets for hours in search of the first Arnaga. The office was on a street called Loyola but no one seemed to understand his pronunciation. In the end, he showed the address to a young cop who took a map from his breast pocket and puzzled over it for a long time. Kader could see that he was a simple and conscientious man and he suddenly felt sorry for all the shit his cop’s life would inevitably deal him. In the end the cop indicated that he would escort Kader to the address. Kader limped beside him through the streets until they reached a building that looked like a bank, with broad steps leading up to carved wooden doors.

Kader shook the cop’s hand and limped up the steps and into the big marble hall. White marble steps curved on either side of him to the first floor. He heard heels clicking along the balcony above him. The clicking stopped and a door opened and then closed. On the wall to his left were black plaques with gold lettering. He gathered that the place was filled with lawyers:
abogados.
He read, Elisegui, Lopez, Lopez; Fernandez, García, Sepel; Abberribat, Garcón, Ortega; Borges, Arnaga, Fando. It was on the first floor.

He stared at the opaque glass doors to Arnaga’s office and waited for his heel to cool down from the walk upstairs. He took a deep breath and blew air slowly out from his lungs as his karate teacher had taught him, then he knocked firmly. There was a buzzing sound and the door clicked open. A very pale young woman with steel-rimmed glasses and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail looked up at him. She did not smile, or speak, she just looked at him and waited.

I’ve come to see Monsieur Arnaga, he said in French.

He’s abroad, she answered. He could not believe how cool she was. He thought she might even be cooler than his sister, Aisha.

Maybe you can help me, he said.

Maybe.

Kader smiled stupidly.

I’m looking for a lawyer called Arnaga who defends a terrorist group. I’ve forgotten the name. They’re Basques.

The woman did not answer but went on staring at him. Her eyes behind her glasses were small and very blue. She seemed to be trying to hold perfectly still.

I guess I’ve got the wrong Arnaga, he said at last. I should go.

Why are you looking for this person?

He knows someone I’m looking for. A friend. It’s personal, he added.

The woman stared at him again as though she could learn more from what he did not say than what he did.

Kader let her stare. He was getting used to it.

If you can’t give me this man’s address then maybe you can tell me where I can find a doctor. I got bitten by a dog this morning and it’s fucking painful.

Let me see.

Kader walked over to the woman’s desk. She stood up and smoothed the creases from her skirt. She was wearing a brown suit of the kind that he would like Aisha to wear. Kader tried to get a look at her legs but he was too close. She smelt of lemons.

Show me, she said.

Kader turned round and pulled up the leg of his tracksuit. The bite was red and angry and swollen.

The woman sucked air in through her teeth.

You go and see a doctor right away. Before you do anything. Then you go and find your lawyer.

She stood up and walked back to her desk and sat down. She opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of plain white paper.

Kader watched.

You write fast, he said, watching her.

She looked up and almost smiled. Almost. She folded the paper and handed it to him.

The first address is the doctor and the second is the lawyer.

Kader put the paper in his pocket. Then he considered the woman a moment and decided that it could do no harm. He reached out and kissed her hand.

Thank you, he said, letting go.

You’re welcome, she answered, as if from far, far away.

Kader went to the second address first. He wished he hadn’t because the avenue was steep and miles long. A bus rushed past him. He watched it pull into the next lay-by, its lights flashing. Kader broke into a hobbled run, slowed down as it pulled away. His throat was dry and his body ached. He sat down on the pavement and smoked a cigarette. As he smoked he tried to remember the woman he was doing all this for. He closed his eyes and tried to see her face but he could not. All he could see were horizontal red bars.

When he reached the address the sun was setting. A black Mercedes was parked on the pavement in front of the house. A big man with a shaven head was sitting behind the wheel. He had the windows up and the engine running but Kader could hear the thumping bass line of some dance track coming from inside the car. He stood at the bottom of the steps staring at the number on the house: 1277. It was a big house made of yellowish stone with a flag sticking out from the balcony above the front door, as if it were some kind of embassy. The flag was red, green and white. It was not a flag he recognised from any World Cup so he thought it must be Basque.

He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. A bronze plaque beside the door, engraved with curving letters, read: Eugenio Riano Arnaga. A woman opened the door. She had short dark hair and shadows under her eyes like bruises.

She spoke in Spanish. Her voice was soft and weary.

I’m looking for Monsieur Arnaga, Kader told her in French. The woman held the door just wide enough for her tired face to poke through. I am a friend of his daughter’s. She stared at him. Astrid Arnaga.

She opened the door and let him in.

You can sit here, she said in French. She was pointing to a low, squat armchair. Kader knew that if he sat down, it would be hard to get out of it.

I’ll stand, he said.

She left him, disappearing through a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The hall was covered in portraits of old men, some of them with wigs, some without. The most modern was a painting of a man wearing a tweed suit and a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses of the sort that white DJs often wore. He was
holding a book. The background struck Kader as botched.

The woman was coming back.

It’s not finished, he said, pointing to the painting.

She glanced at it, then seemed to decide not to reply.

He will see you.

Is it safe to leave this here? he asked, pointing to his bag.

Of course.

He followed her through the double doors into a large, bright room with grubby mirrors on every wall and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A little old man in a maroon three-piece suit was sitting behind a large, white desk with gold trimmings on it. The man, he thought, must be loaded. He held out his hand.

Kader Benmassoud. Pleased to meet you.

Astrid’s old man had a face like a mask that was too big for him. His skin was yellowish and he looked sick. Ignoring Kader, Arnaga spoke in Spanish to the woman. He had a voice like a loud whisper. Kader watched her leave the room, then turned back to the old man.

I won’t take up your time, he said. I just want to ask you something.

Even if you want to ask me what my favourite colour is, Arnaga said in perfect French, you have to make an appointment.

Kader nodded, unsure whether or not to smile at this. Without a tone in his voice, it was hard to gauge the man. Kader looked at the wet, black eyes, at the sagging cheeks, the thin, slack mouth. There was no trace of Astrid anywhere.

It’s a question about your daughter, he said.

Arnaga sat back in his chair.

Which daughter?

Astrid.

What about her?

Kader cast about him.

Can I sit down?

Please.

There were two chairs opposite Arnaga’s desk. Arnaga looked at the one to Kader’s left. Kader sat down in it.

She’s in danger, Kader said.

Arnaga did not answer for what felt like a long time. Kader was not relaxed. At last the old man said,

Would you mind telling me who you are?

Kader Benmassoud, a friend of Astrid’s. She operated on me … on my liver. We became friends. She called me two nights ago saying she had to leave Paris. She said she had received threats over the phone.

What kind of threats?

Kader had not rehearsed this. The old man’s scrutiny was making him uncomfortable.

She told me she was taking her sister and going home. Then she hung up. I rang straight back but it was engaged. I rang the next day. Still engaged. The operator said the phone was off the hook. I got on the train and here I am. I knew she was in the Basque Country but I didn’t know where.

Arnaga leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk.

What do you want?

It occurred to Kader that the old man had gone soft in the head.

I need the name of the village.

Why?

So I can go to her and make sure she’s OK.

I don’t know you.

I’m her friend. I know all about her. I know she had a stone goat in the garden. I know her mother drank …

I have no interest in knowing the level of your intimacy with my daughter, Arnaga croaked. Who she chooses to tell her life story to is none of my business.

Kader stared. Something about this man intimidated the shit out of him.

Listen, he said. Let’s keep it simple. Just tell me where I can find her.

There is no need for you to find her. I know where they are. If they were in any danger I would know about it and would do what was necessary to protect them.

Then he looked down and opened a large red folder on his desk and began to look through some papers.

Kader was staring again. He felt like a kid.

Just give me the number.

No, Arnaga said without looking up. Now please go. I have work to do.

He sounded out of breath.

Kader’s ears were red-hot. He stood up. As he left the room, he felt as though he were watching himself. It was a sorry sight.

In the hall he looked at his Adidas bag and stopped. For some reason the thought of Amadou made him bold. He sat down in the squat armchair.

I’m going to wait, he told the woman. She was opening the front door.

You can’t, she said. You’d better go.

I can, Kader said. I’m going to sit here for as long as it takes.

The woman sighed and shut the front door, then she went into one of the rooms off the hall. Soon he could hear the pitter-patter of her typing fingers.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Suddenly it came to him: Aisha Benmassoud, you have to break free. She had to free herself from all of them: himself included. Amadou might be the one to help her and he might not. Kader told himself that the next time his sister saw him, she would not know him. She would love him and respect him.

Kader woke up to find the big chauffeur striding towards him across the hall. He was wearing a ridiculous navy-blue blazer. Kader did not have time to react. He could only prepare himself improperly for the collision. The big man plucked him from the chair by his tracksuit. Kader registered the look of alarm in the sad, tired eyes of Arnaga’s secretary as he floated past her in the hall. He was being borne aloft by the ogre who had foul-smelling breath and he knew seconds beforehand what was coming to him. He saw the front door wide open and he could feel in the man the purpose and concentration of the discus thrower. And when the big man let go of him Kader felt his bowels contract. It felt as if all his internal organs were shrinking back in preparation for the impact, which was long in coming. He had time to smell traffic dust in the warm air, register the darkness, see the white steps below him, the tree tops all lit up by the floodlight of a small football stadium and the exhaust from the Mercedes curling into this same beautiful light, and then, only then, did he hit the pavement.

Kader had no sense of how long it was before his Adidas bag came flying after him. He was lying on his side, half in the road
and half on the pavement. His head was in the exhaust fumes of the Mercedes but he could not move. He was thinking about his father, Adel Benmassoud. He could not remember a time when the very sight of his father had not annoyed him. Everything about him, his face but in particular his eyes, which were so sad, made Kader want to scream: Shit, man, how do you ever expect anyone to give you a decent job with eyes like that? You make a man want to weep. And yet Adel had the same eyes as his father who had been a successful horse dealer in Oran. But that was because sad eyes in a horse dealer were a good thing, like long arms in a boxer. No, not like that. Kader heard himself moan as the Mercedes pulled away. It was the idea that he might be bleeding again. He could not face losing any more of his blood. He imagined he could feel the stuff pouring out of him into the gutter, down the hill and through the sewage grill.

Kader woke up to pain. There was pain everywhere. It had got inside him, like cold. He looked up at the sky. It was still dark but he could already smell day. The birds were singing. He turned and saw that his Adidas bag had gone and Amadou’s Discman with it. He could still feel his wallet in his back pocket; they had not turned him over. He closed his eyes. There was no blood.

When he woke again the pain was no longer tolerable. It made him curse and grimace like a street crazy. It was all in one place now, in his left hip. Kader tried to stand but could not. His left leg would not move and the pain was draining all his upper-body strength. He ran his hand over his hip and felt something hard that he knew was his bone, poking up under the skin. He cried out. Waves of nausea swept over the pain and he passed out.

When
he came to he was surrounded by faces all speaking at him in Spanish.

French, he said.

A red-headed woman with freckles all over her face, even on her lips, barked orders at two men who were lifting him onto a stretcher. Kader saw they had cut a hole in his tracksuit.

Fuckers, he groaned.

They must have given him something because the pain had gone and he was grinning from ear to ear. He could not help it. Straight away he could smell it: hospital.

Bliss, he murmured.

The blue day floated behind the window.