The Return Read Free

city’s central point. According to the map, everything emanated from here.The narrow alleyways seemed an unlikely way to reach it but it was only when Sonia saw some railings and two women sitting begging in front of a carved doorway that she looked up for the first time.Towering above was the most sturdy of buildings. It filled the sky, a solid mass of distinctively fortress-like stone. It did not reach up to the light, like St Paul’s, St Peter’s or the Sacré-Coeur. From where she stood, it seemed to blot it out. Nor did it announce itself with a huge empty space in front of it. It lurked behind the workaday streets of cafés and shops, and from most places in these narrow streets was unseen.
     
    On the hour, however, it reminded the world of its presence. As the two women stood there, the bells began to toll.The volume was enough to make them reel back. Resoundingly deep, metallic clangs banged inside their heads. Sonia cupped her ears with her hands and followed Maggie away from the deafening noise.
     
    It was eight o’clock and the tapas bars around the cathedral were already filling up. Maggie made a speedy decision, drawn to the place where a waiter stood outside on the pavement, smoking.
     
    Once they were perched on high wooden stools, the women ordered wine. It was served in small stubby tumblers with a generous plate of jamon and each time they ordered another drink, more tapas magically appeared. Although they had been hungry, these small offerings of olives, cheese and pâté slowly filled them up.
     
    Sonia was perfectly happy with Maggie’s choice of venue. Behind the bar, ranks of mighty hams hung from the ceiling, like giant bats suspended upside down in trees. Fat dripped from them into small plastic cones. Next to them were chorizos , and on shelves behind sat huge tins of olives and tuna.There were rows and rows of bottles just out of reach. Sonia loved this dusty chaos, the rich, sweet smell of jamon and the hum of conviviality that wrapped itself around her like a favourite coat.
     
    Maggie interrupted her reverie. ‘So, how is everything?’
     
    It was a question typical of her friend. As heavily loaded as the cocktail stick onto which she had speared two olives and a cherry tomato.
     
    ‘Fine,’ answered Sonia, knowing as she said it that this response would probably not do. It sometimes annoyed her that Maggie always wanted to get straight to the heart of things. They had kept conversation quite light and superficial since they had met up at Stansted early that day, but sooner or later, she knew Maggie would want more. Sonia sighed. This was what she both loved and loathed about her friend.
     
    ‘How’s that dusty old husband of yours?’This more direct question could not be deflected with one single word, especially not ‘Fine’.
     
    Since nine o’clock, the bar had filled up rapidly. Earlier in the evening the clientele had been mostly elderly men, gathered in tight-knit groups. They were neat figures, Sonia observed, small and smartly jacketed, with highly polished shoes.After that, slightly younger people began to pack the place out and stood chatting animatedly, balancing wine and plates of tapas on the narrow ledge that ran around the room especially for this purpose.The volume of noise meant that conversation was more difficult now. Sonia drew up her stool so close to Maggie’s their wooden frames touched.
     
    ‘Dustier than ever,’ she said in her ear. ‘He didn’t want me to come here, but I suspect he’ll get over that.’
     
    Sonia glanced over at the clock above the bar. Their flamenco show was beginning in less than half an hour.
     
    ‘We really should go, shouldn’t we?’ she said, slipping down off her stool. Much as she loved Maggie, for the time being she wished to deflect her personal questions. In her best friend’s view no husband was really worth having, but Sonia had often suspected that this might have been something to do with the fact that