The Songs of Manolo Escobar (7 page)

The men were fixated on a basketball game playing on a small television set attached high on a wall on the far side of the room. The game had reached a critical juncture, and we had to wait until the team in red had missed a penalty shot before we were afforded the attention of one of the officers.

‘
Si
,' he said curtly, without standing up.

Mama went through the same routine she had gone through with the cleaner in the Ajuntamente, handing him the photograph, which he held and scrutinised before throwing it down on his desk next to a plate of olive stones. He looked too old to still be working: his clothes hung off his skinny frame, and large, protruding gums dominated his mouth. His hair was pitch black, greasy and thinning, and he hadn't shaved for several days.

He talked slowly and unenthusiastically, frequently shrugging and pouting. He struck me as a time-server, seeing out the dog-end of his career in a backwater town. From his tone I might have deduced that he didn't know anything about Papa, if it hadn't been for the fact that his car was parked outside the building.

‘What's going on, Mama?' I asked.

She ignored me, continuing to address the policeman in a tone that became sharper and firmer the more she spoke. The mood changed quickly and the policeman exploded in anger. He stood up and gesticulated, presenting his upturned hands to Mama, jutting his head forward in a gesture of rebuke. He spoke for around a minute, apparently building a concise, empirical case. As he neared the end of his diatribe, Mama interrupted.

‘
¿Dónde está mi marido
?' she asked slowly and deliberately. ‘Where is my husband?'

The policeman ignored her question and continued with his rhetoric. She asked the question a second time, louder and more forcefully.

‘
¿Dónde está mi marido?
'

Again he ignored the question and raised his voice to compensate. Suddenly Mama snapped, her face reddened, and she began to shout at the top of her voice.

‘
¿Dónde está mi marido?
' she screamed. ‘
Quiero ver mi marido
.' ‘I want to see my husband.'

The other policeman, who until now had remained silent, stood up, white-faced, and intervened. He was clearly the good cop – younger than his colleague, and apparently the junior partner, but more eager to help. He turned down the sound on the television set with the remote control and offered Mama a glass of water, which she accepted. The bad cop sat down slowly and sheepishly concerned himself with something on his computer.

‘
Mi marido está muy enfermo
,' Mama said. ‘My husband is very ill.'

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a strip of tablets.

‘
Él tiene cáncer. Si él no toma su morfina regularmente, los efectos de su tumor serán muy dolorosos
,' she explained. ‘He has cancer. If he doesn't take his morphine regularly the effects of his tumour will be very painful.'

‘What did you say?' Pablito asked.

Mama put her hand over her mouth.

‘I'm sorry Pablito,' she said. ‘I didn't mean for you to find out like this.'

My brother rocked on his feet and I moved forward to steady him, then I lowered him on to a seat. He slumped down and stared at the floor.

The good cop spoke to Mama at length. She nodded appreciatively, occasionally mouthing ‘
claro'
, a term of understanding and conciliation. He took the pills from her and lifted a bottle of water from his desk, then he turned and unlocked a door immediately behind him, below the television set, that led into another room. Mama tried to follow him, but he closed the door behind him and locked it from the other side. He was gone only for a couple of minutes, and when he returned he picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

‘What's going on, Mama?' I asked.

‘Let's go outside,' she said. ‘I need some air.'

It was dark and cool and perfectly silent, and the sky was peppered with golden bright stars. It was at times like this I wished I smoked.

‘Your papa's in trouble,' Mama said tremulously.

‘I guessed that. What's he done?'

‘He went to the Ajuntamente and threatened the staff unless they told him who in the village had objected to his request.'

‘What request?'

‘He submitted an official request to dig a piece of ground but he was refused because several of the villagers objected.'

‘What?'

‘And when they refused to tell him who the objectors were, he went to the place, which is on a farm that grows olives on the edge
of the town, and he started to dig, and when the farmer moved to stop him he tried to hit him with the shovel and now . . .'

‘Wait a minute, I'm lost – start again,' I pleaded. ‘Papa was digging in an olive field, and he tried to hit a farmer with a shovel? Mama, what the . . .'

‘. . . and now the police want to charge him with violent behaviour and trespassing on to someone's property and criminal damage.'

She began to cry.

‘Stop crying, Mama, and explain to me what this is about. Why did Papa travel halfway across Spain to dig a hole in the middle of the countryside?'

‘He was looking for bodies. He wanted to exhume them and give them a proper . . .'

‘Bodies? What bodies?'

‘His parents,' she said calmly. ‘He was looking for the bodies of his parents.'

I felt shocked but not surprised. Deep within me, I'd always imagined a day like this would come.

T
he good cop emerged from the police station and beckoned Mama over. They spoke for a few moments, his expression earnest throughout, but I could tell from the easing of tension across Mama's face that he had good news.

‘What's happening?' I asked after he'd returned inside.

‘The policeman has spoken to his superiors in Lerida, and, because of your papa's age and his illness, they will release him. The farmer he threatened doesn't want to press charges, no one wants to . . . what's the English expression? . . . pick old sores.'

‘So he's free to go?'

‘On the condition that he leaves Alguaire and returns to the resort, where he must stay until we leave Spain.'

We were made to wait until Papa had signed some forms. I needed some time alone, so I decided to go for a walk, wandering the deserted streets until I found myself back in the main square where the Ajuntamente was located. Opposite it was a tall building with a bell tower I hadn't noticed earlier in the day. It was the only structure in the village that looked anything like it might pre-date the last century. It had obviously been badly damaged at some point and only a small proportion – a gable end and part of the facing wall – remained of the original yellow sandstone structure, which dated, I guessed, from the eighteenth or early nineteenth century. There had been a restoration attempt, but it looked rushed and unsympathetic, with cheap red house-bricks replacing the damaged parts.

It was possible to imagine the building in a previous incarnation, handsome and impressive, perhaps municipal chambers, or even a church, but now it had the disfigured look of a poorly
healed burns victim, an ill-considered hybrid of old and new, principle and compromise.

A figure emerged from the darkness, crossing the square, and on impulse I stopped him and asked him if he spoke English.

‘Of course,' he said, as though I had insulted his family.

He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, with thin rimmed glasses and a neatly cropped beard.

‘I was wondering about that building over there. Why is it like that?'

‘It was damaged during the Civil War, I believe,' he said.

‘Was it shelled by the Nationalists?'

He gestured across the road to the Ajuntamente. ‘Why don't you ask at the town hall? They'll be able to help.'

I explained to him that I'd be leaving the village that night and wouldn't be returning. ‘I'd really like to know what happened to this building.'

He smiled. ‘I'm sorry, I don't know.'

‘Is this your hometown?' I asked.

The smile dropped from his face, and he eyed me suspiciously. ‘Yes it is. Where are you from?' he asked, suddenly disconcerted.

‘I'm from Britain.'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘I'm half Spanish. My family is from Alguaire.'

His expression softened. ‘Oh. Well, good luck with your inquiries.'

Papa was guided from the police station by the good cop, with Mama's coat draped over his shoulders. He crouched in the back seat of the car, head bowed like a prisoner under escort, and Pablito followed close behind him, dazed and robotic.

Despite telling the police that we would return to the resort immediately, Mama and I agreed Papa was too tired to endure a two-hour drive back that night, so we decided to stay in Lerida. We drove the short distance in silence and circled the centre for a few minutes before settling on a smart-looking hotel on the edge of the old town.

Pablito seemed close to tears and said he was going straight to bed. Mama didn't want him to be alone, so she volunteered to sit with him. Neither Papa nor I had eaten all day and we were both hungry. I suggested we dine in the hotel restaurant, which was almost empty, but he wanted to go into the town.

The narrow lanes were bustling with people shopping before closing time. Elegant boutiques hawked expensive jewellery, designer clothes and handbags, and in the windows of smart
dulcerias
and
pastelerías
there were elaborate displays of hand-made sweets and pastries. We strolled across the main plaza, which sat in the shadow of a baroque cathedral. The night was pleasantly mild without a hint of a breeze, and chic couples and students sat at café terraces, nursing glasses of wine, chattering loudly in hypnotic, quickfire Catalan. It was a modern, affluent centre, difficult to reconcile with Papa's impoverished background.

His progress was slow, but he looked relaxed as he breathed the sweet, balmy air. We settled on a small back-street café and sat at one of a handful of pavement tables. The waiter arrived and I deferred to Papa, who ordered tapas. It was the usual selection of
gambas, calamares, albóndigas, chipirones
and
tortillas
, served in small terracotta dishes, nothing that wasn't available in any number of the tapas bars that had sprung up in London in recent years, but Papa knew little of that world, and he marvelled at the authenticity it all.

He was starving, and he ate voraciously. I was keen to quiz him about his behaviour in Alguaire, but I was prepared to wait until there were no distractions. After a few minutes all the dishes were empty.

‘So, do you want to tell me what all that was about back there?' I asked.

He sat back in his chair, looking small and hunted.

‘Come on, Papa, you didn't think you could get away with something like that without at least an effort at explaining what it was all about?'

He raised his head slightly and his eyes turned upwards, white with defiance.

‘Wha you say explain? I nae explain nothin.'

My body tensed. I leaned across the table and grabbed hold of his arm. He winced and tried to pull away from me, but I grabbed it tighter. He scowled.

‘Do you hear what I'm saying?'

‘
Si
, I hear,' he said through the pain.

The waiter came over to collect the empty dishes, so I let go of Papa's arm and ordered two
carajillos
– small glasses of coffee fortified with harsh country brandy. Papa protested – he hadn't touched alcohol for years.

‘Come on, Papa. It will do you good.'

The waiter stood by patiently until Papa backed down.

The drinks arrived and Papa ventured a sip, wincing, but he continued to drink, a small amount at a time, until it was finished. When the waiter passed our table, I ordered another two. After a while Papa's shoulders relaxed, and his face acquired an opiated grin.

‘Any time you're ready,' I said.

We sat in silence for another few minutes, and I was beginning to doubt whether the message had got through to him, whether he understood that I was serious, but then suddenly he spoke.

‘Is cold – 1937 is coldest winter ever in Alguaire,' he said airily.

This wasn't what I had been expecting, but I kept quiet and let him continue.

‘The
gasolina
in trucks it freeze, and the ground is so hard we use dynamite tae dig trenches. The Fascist bombs they grow louder. All the time the German planes they fly over and cause explosion but all we can think is tae keep warm and eat.'

‘Who's we?' I asked.

He looked at me impatiently.

‘My mama, my papa and my two brothers.'

‘So you had a family?' I asked.

He nodded.

‘What were their names?'

‘Your grandfather, he is called Antonio, this is how you get your name.' He smiled warmly. ‘And your grandmother, she is called Josefa.'

‘And your brothers?'

‘Paco and Josepe, who we call Pepe.'

‘What were they like?'

He smiled. ‘Paco is good shot. In fields he shoot rabbits. Very quick.'

‘How old was Paco in 1937?'

He waved a hand dismissively in my direction.

‘Ach, I nae remember this,' he said irritably.

I felt anxious, determined to get as much information from him as I could during this brief opportunity when he was feeling relaxed.

‘Come on, Papa, try to remember.'

‘Pepe, he is oldest.'

‘How old was he, then?'

He reclined and arched his neck, staring at the sky, which was peppered with millions of dots, as though he was contemplating an issue of great importance. Then he looked at me with a grin. ‘He is very handsome. Very good-looking. All the girls, they like Pepe.'

My gentle approach wasn't getting me anywhere, so I decided to be more direct. ‘Why were you digging in a field today?'