Blood Wedding Read Free Page A

‘increased surveillance of Muslims’ was really going to change his liaison role with la Brigada de Participación Ciudadano. It had taken months to develop good relationships with the different Muslim groups, and it could all go down the pan.
    As he shut the door of his flat he glanced up at the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevada mountains behind the fortress walls. He walked down the street, la Calderería Nueva, then along crumbling Calle Elvira. He crossed Gran Vía, dodging traffic, roadworks and tour groups. The police car park was past the fountains of la Plaza Trinidad, just behind the Faculty of Law and the old Botanic Gardens.
    It wasn’t a good idea to walk so far in the heat. By the time he reached his old Peugeot he was really sweating. He got into the car: the seat was hot enough to fry an egg.
    At least the new motorway cut the journey from Granada to Diva to less than an hour, and once out of Granada the air should freshen. Clear of the city, Max put on a CD by his mother’s group, the Maxwell Consort. ‘Time stands still, and gazes on her face,’ sang the soprano soloist. He immediately felt calmer. The mountains in the late afternoon sun were sentinels to another world: one where police procedures and violence had no part. The comment from his boss, ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’, still rankled. He had to be on his guard all the time in the police. The old guys dismissed the fast track graduate programme as liberal wankers who knew shit about real police work. Max’s sharp tongue hadn’t endeared him either.
    Perhaps he would see Leila for a coffee again. She was a real beauty. Bright and funny as well. He wondered how her interviews were going. His family never talked about the Civil War, though the Romero clan had done well under Franco.
    He passed the first houses in Diva and turned right, down the Río Sierra track towards his little summer cottage,
el cortijo.
He smiled as he remembered telling his Scottish friends that he, or rather, his grandmother, had bought a
cortijo.
They thought he had a mansion. No way. Just some old sheds slung together. Best ask Leila straight out whether she fancied a coffee in the evening. She must be dying to talk to someone about her thesis.
    He parked the car outside the big metal gates of his cottage, unlocked the padlock, pushed the gates open, and breathed in deeply. There was a perfume from the summer lemons. As he walked under the trellis of jasmine, he breathed in even more deeply – it was like smelling a fine wine.
    Max opened the front door, went to the fridge, and took out a San Miguel beer. He was just getting comfortable on his battered sofa when the phone rang.
    ‘Max, how are you?’
    ‘Fine, grandma. Just fine,
abuela.
How are the kids?’
    ‘Both well, but Encarnita is turning into a real little madam – and Leonardo should spend less time playing football, and more on his homework.’
    ‘So they’re growing up fast?’
    ‘Yes . . . but Isabel told Juan I was interfering with how she wanted to bring them up. And all because I said it was too late for Encarnación to stay up to watch a programme on television. I’m right, aren’t I, Max?’ Her voice broke. ‘I would never have let my children sit all evening in front of the television. I’m sure it’s not good for them.’
    ‘Abuela,
I’m sure Isabel didn’t mean to be hurtful. How’s the rest of the family?’
    ‘Juan’s very moody. I don’t think he’s spoken to Isabel for days – though I can’t blame him. But could you have a drink with him, Max? He won’t talk to me about his problems, of course.’
    ‘Sure. I’ll give him a ring. See you Sunday.’
    Max phoned Juan. Ten o’clock in el Café Paraíso. Just before ten, Max checked he had his torch, and then climbed up the goat track into town and on into the café. Juan was already there.
    ‘Beer, Max?’
    ‘Sí.
How’s business?’
    ‘Huh. Could be better.’
    ‘Problems?’
    ‘The mill conversion