Sira, page 53
“Say, I wonder . . . ,” Félix mumbled.
I turned my attention to him in a flash.
“You wonder what?”
“I wonder if the highest authorities could intervene, like they did in the Perdicaris incident.”
“Who’s that?”
“A man who was involved in something that seems like fiction, but it’s real, and it happened right here in Tangier. Raisuli, a sharif from Jebala, sent his men to kidnap the American businessman Perdicaris and his wife’s son. President Theodore Roosevelt himself intervened to get them released.”
“And the kidnappers let them go?”
“I’m sure they did.”
“And when was that?” I asked anxiously.
He took a couple of seconds to answer, his voice subdued.
“At the turn of the century, I think.”
The closest thing to my hand was one of the sandals I’d just taken off. I threw it with fury and hit him in the head.
Other than keeping me company, beyond Félix going to the useless police and Candelaria visiting the parish church to plead with the Almighty, I sensed that my old friends would be of little use. I didn’t anticipate how wrong that impression would prove to be.
I didn’t want to go upstairs—it would make me fall apart even more to see Víctor’s empty cot, his folded pajamas, his cuddly rabbit, and the woolly sheep that was missing an ear. The three of us stayed in the living room, silent, dismayed, unable to bear the uncertainty. Candelaria made coffee and rolls with cold cuts and butter. I drank a couple of cups but ate nothing. At around three o’clock, she started to nod off. I insisted she go to bed but she refused. She ended up snoring in the armchair, thighs apart, neck twisted, and mouth half-open. Her eyes, not completely closed, were blank. Félix lasted a little longer, trying hard to orchestrate conversation to keep me distracted. But I didn’t want to talk; I didn’t want anything. Before four, he too succumbed to sleep, with his head against the back of the sofa and his glasses tilted, one lens on his cheek, the other over his eyebrow.
It was after five when I came out of the ball I’d curled myself up into. My back was hurting. I stole my friend’s packet of Craven A and book of matches. Leaving the two of them asleep, I went out into the garden in search of air. The temperature had gone down as it always did in the early hours, and I felt a damp Atlantic freshness in the air. Only the sounds of nature could be heard in that recently built-up area, near the old Bueyes Souk, stretches of countryside, and reedbeds.
My son’s absence tore viciously at my soul. Where was he, who’d taken him, why hadn’t Philippa protected him? I tried not to punish myself, tried to let the hours pass until I could go to the consulate. I lit a cigarette half-heartedly, breathing in the smoke. I was blowing it out again when I heard some footsteps on the pavement. Slow footsteps that crunched lightly on the gravel, as if someone were placing the soles of their shoes on the ground with great care. Someone was out on the street, out of my view. Close by, on the other side of the garden wall.
I heard another step, and another, and a third. Whoever it was, they were undoubtedly approaching the garden gate.
Within seconds, I could make out a silhouette.
77
“Son of a bitch.”
The words left my mouth like viscous phlegm. I threw the cigarette on the ground and rushed toward the gate, asking for my son, cursing the man, demanding that he return my boy to me.
“Shhh. Shout one more time and I’m gone.”
His voice was harsh. I lowered mine instantly.
“Where is he, where did you take him, how is he? Has he eaten, has he slept? And Philippa, what’ve you done with her?”
The questions came out in furious spurts. In front of me was Ramiro, ripping my life apart again. Ramiro Arribas: it was he who’d taken Víctor and the nanny. He knew them all too well. God knows what tricks he’d used this time on the unwary English girl.
I didn’t know why he was in Tangier or how he’d found me. I didn’t know, and at that moment I didn’t care. I was still in the garden, gripping the gate’s iron bars. He remained on the street, albeit practically within my reach. I stretched out a hand to try to grab him, wanting to shake an answer out of him. He took an agile step backward and I didn’t touch him. Lamps on each side of the gate cast their dim light on us.
“You thought you’d never see me again, didn’t you? You thought you’d gotten me out of the way with your dirty trick.”
“Give me back my son,” I begged. “Give the boy back to me, give him—”
“Shut up!”
I tried hard to calm myself, literally biting my tongue.
“It was very clever what you pulled on me, Sirita. You’re learning. The Grand Cross in my toilet bag, your scheming with Dodero . . . I never would’ve guessed you’d become such a resourceful woman, given how innocent you were when I took you to Tangier the first time. Speaking of which, hasn’t the city changed?” His whistle of supposed admiration cut through the early-morning air. “I haven’t had time to see much since I arrived at midday, just passing through. But the new hotels on the coast, the beach clubs, the banks on the boulevard, the modern shops . . . So many cars and tourists, some seeking the sun, others cheap gratification for their bodies. And all these newly developed areas . . . I bet this place is full of good business opportunities these days. A much more positive outlook than when you and I were trying to get that license for the Pitman academies . . . remember that?”
He was speaking in a feigned tone of indifference now, as if he were merely a visitor to the city. I didn’t dare keep asking after Víctor. I suspected it wouldn’t be wise to annoy him.
“It’s a shame I can’t stay to size up the situation. But, as you know, I have business to take care of in Buenos Aires. In truth, you may have done me a favor by sticking me in your friend’s ship. It’ll ultimately save me the fare.”
A cockerel crowed in the distance, though it was still dark out. The sound reminded him to cut his spiel short.
“Well, let’s not waste any more time. Ten thousand dollars. That’s what I want if you want them both back. And I need it now, immediately.”
He might’ve asked me for ten million dollars or ten cents, but it was all the same—I was incapable of thinking in terms of sums.
“Tell me where my son is, tell me how—”
“Stop asking me about the fucking boy!”
I bit my lip, driving my teeth into the flesh inside my mouth almost until I bled. He went on, authoritative in his demands.
“I’m not going to tell you anything, I’d rather let you squirm. I repeat, ten thousand dollars. Keep that figure in your head. And I need it now, at the end of the day, as soon as it gets dark. Right here. I’ll come to collect the money from this corner.”
He gestured to one side with his chin, and I made out the dark form of a car.
“Ten thousand dollars in legal tender, banknotes,” he insisted. “Hard cash. Some can be sterling, and I’ll also accept some French francs. Moroccan francs and Spanish pesetas, on the other hand—don’t even think about it. They can’t be exchanged anywhere, and I don’t intend to return to these parts.”
My mind was incapable of doing the math, but I knew the amount he’d named was beyond my reach.
“I don’t think . . . ,” I stammered.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to clear my head. It was then that he took the chance to slip his hand through the bars. Before I could react, he grabbed my neck and squeezed hard.
“You listen to me,” he growled as he pulled me toward him like a ragdoll, jamming my face against the space between two iron bars. “I have every reason to do away with you, bitch. To smash your little brat’s head in and fuck the little English girl till she breaks.”
I couldn’t breathe, I needed air. He could’ve choked me to death if he’d wanted to. But I didn’t even move, or defend myself, or do anything to free myself from his hooklike fingers. I simply looked down, away from the demands of his eyes.
“But maybe I shouldn’t get my hands dirty.”
He suddenly let go, shoving me at the same time. I took a few awkward steps back, stumbling, unbalanced. Then I bent over, my hair falling over my face, and coughed up strings of saliva.
Ignoring me, he continued, unmoved.
“If you let me down, perhaps the best thing to do would be to put them in the car I rented when I arrived and head out of town, anywhere. I’m sure I’d find a turn somewhere that would lead to some wasteland. I could simply leave the daft nanny and the tender infant there in the parched wilderness with no trace of life nearby. No food, no water, not even a miserable bit of shade in which to take shelter from the sun. The two of them all alone in the hands of God, waiting for nothing.” He paused, as if doing a mathematical calculation. “How long do you think they’d last, Sira? Two, three days? Who do you think would drop first, the nanny or your little prince?”
I managed to straighten myself. My eyes were stinging and I still felt the pressure on my throat. He gave a cynical smile.
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, treasure. I got a little agitated. Let’s finish up here. It’ll be light soon and I want to get out of here.”
I nodded. We’d better come to an agreement, yes. Before Candelaria or Félix woke up, before there was movement on the street. Just the two of us, without anyone else involved.
I coughed for the last time and wiped the saliva, tears, and snot from my face with my bare forearm.
“I’m not resentful, Sira. I took you for a ride back then when I ditched you. And you paid me back, selling me out to the authorities. Tit for tat, we’re square. But you refused to give me a hand when I begged for help with Dodero, and that blocked my path to a good deal and made me lose a very large amount of money. And now, you’re going to compensate me for that cash that I didn’t earn and that I urgently need.”
Some dogs barked in the distance. There was the sound of an engine and the rattle of a van, perhaps delivering early-morning milk and eggs. It would be light soon, and life was beginning to stir.
“It wasn’t so hard getting off the Hornero, you know,” he said, picking up the pace. “Once Evita had left Spain, the Argentine sailors stopped caring about me. And so, as luck would have it, in the end the ship left without me.”
“And you went in search of me, I suppose,” I said, my voice little more than a croak.
“Of course. On the first Barcelona-to-Madrid express, wasting no time. But being the clever, farsighted girl that you are, you’d already taken precautions, and there was no trace of you or your family in Hermosilla. Luckily your father has a rather useless porter, and thanks to his stupidity, I managed to have a nose around the big flat. It was so easy to get in that I went back and stayed there a few nights. It was helpful to not have to pay for a hotel, and it gave me time to conduct some deals. If Gonzalo Alvarado wants to get back some of his oil paintings—say, if they’re family heirlooms or he’s fond of them—tell him I sold them at the flea market. The watches, pens, and a few pairs of cuff links, I’ll keep as a souvenir. There wasn’t much else—surprising, considering how impressive the flat is.”
I didn’t bother to ask how he’d found me. He offered up the information willingly.
“Since you weren’t returning to Madrid, I admit I decided to throw in the towel and head back to Argentina. You almost earned another victory. A travel agency on Gran Vía told me there was an Ybarra company ship that would put in at Cadiz on its way to Buenos Aires, so I headed there by train to wait for it. But its departure was delayed, and I had to stay in Cadiz for a few days, in a filthy guesthouse near the port. I was sick of it all, sick of Spain, and stewing in my anger toward you, when on the fourth day after I arrived, while I was having a coffee to pass the time, bored and leafing through a newspaper, I found this.”
He took something from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded a newspaper page, and held it out to me. Had it not been such a sinister situation, I would’ve burst out laughing.
The photograph took up half a page. Eight men, and me in the middle—one of the images that accompanied the report on the International Press Association’s dinner. My light-colored dress with its narrow waist, my cleavage and bare shoulders, were in stark contrast to the formal males on either side of me. At the foot of the picture was an eloquent caption.
The editors of the España newspaper with Mrs. Arish Bonnard—collaborator of Mrs. Barbara Hutton—who recently took up a summer residence in a villa near Parque Brooks to prepare for the American millionairess’s arrival in the international zone.
What was supposed to have been a merely informative tag couldn’t possibly have given more clues as to my whereabouts.
Stacks of the España crossed the strait from Tangier every day, El Chato had explained to me in detail. Once on the Iberian Peninsula, they were devoured by readers, even when, after choppy crossings, copies arrived wet. That, in essence, was how I’d ended up in front of Ramiro in a Cadiz café.
What had started out as an innocent bit of descriptive text had come back to haunt me, with cruel fury.
78
Candelaria burned the toast on the stove.
“That son of a bitch has made my blood boil. Even my hands are trembling!”
It was starting to get light, and she’d woken up when she heard me come in from the garden. And when she began asking questions at the top of her voice, Félix, still sprawled on the sofa, had woken up, too. In a few words, I told them about Ramiro’s visit. When I’d finished, so that I wouldn’t collapse again, Candelaria set about making breakfast.
“Do you think he’s capable of doing something to them?” murmured Félix as soon as our friend was back at the stove.
My voice was hoarse. I could still feel his hand on my throat.
“I don’t know, Félix. He’s desperate for money, he must be up to his neck in debt. And he’s also full of bitterness and resentment.”
I took barely two bites of the toast with oil and sugar. Unable to eat any more, I rubbed my eyes and announced, “I have to get moving.”
Neither the British nor the Spanish consulate. Neither Ignacio nor Diego Tovar nor the apathetic Belgian policeman. I wasn’t going to turn to any of them for help. I would deal only with Ramiro. This matter was between me and him—a one-sided contest, given that I was prepared to surrender from the start. When he’d come to Spain, I’d gained the advantage, but now, I would lose without even putting up a fight. I would give in to his demands. I’d look for the money under stones, if I must—anything to get my son and his nanny back. It didn’t have to be the whole ten thousand dollars. I knew Ramiro well and, in his eagerness and ambition, he always aimed high. I sensed he would be content with an approximate amount. The problem was how to obtain it.
“Candelaria, how was the workshop left last night?”
She held her hands to her head, cursing her forgetfulness. Broom in hand, she set off to sweep up the loose thread, trimmings, and fabric remnants left on the floor. I followed her, picking up my notebook full of jottings and measurements. It wouldn’t be notes about sleeve lengths and back widths that I would write down now, but figures of another kind.
“When Maruja and her women arrive,” I warned, “don’t say a word. See to them. Tell them to carry on following yesterday’s instructions. Get them working as if nothing’s happened.”
I finally ventured upstairs, crept into the bedroom, and ran my fingers over the cot’s rail. Tears returned to my eyes, sharp and painful. Even so, I was no longer up against the unknown but rather an opponent with a name and a face, and that fact had lifted a little of the weight from my shoulders.
Sitting at the foot of the bed, I started doing some quick calculations, one after the other. I had Marcus’s and my money that I’d brought from Jerusalem, the sums that Dominic had paid into my account from the will, and what I’d been paid for my work as a supposed BBC reporter following Eva Perón’s tour. The problem was that it was all in England. Plus, the insurance company had only paid me an advance, and I wouldn’t receive the bulk of my money until I finished the job. There was also Ira Belline and what she would pay me for my creations for Barbara Hutton. Again, it wasn’t yet in my hands.
I turned to a new page and wrote a single word: loans. The first person I thought of was my father, but I immediately recalled that, following his foundry’s closure and the war, he had few assets beyond his flat. Even Ramiro had noticed how little there remained of value in it. That was, in any case, a property his legitimate children would inherit, and in principle, I wasn’t entitled to even a part of it. My next thought was his beloved Olivia, my mother-in-law. I’d written to them both at the house on the Boltons when I arrived in Tangier but still hadn’t received a reply.
Remembering the London mansion, something stirred inside me. Perhaps that was where my salvation lay. Legally, as Marcus had stipulated and as his friend Dominic had confirmed was the case, the house was ours: mine and Víctor’s. I would never throw my mother-in-law out, but she herself had once had the idea to sell it. Perhaps now I could use it as a guarantee for a loan.
With my head full of numbers, I took a shower. Wrapped in a towel, I untangled my hair in front of the mirror. In my reflection I saw a dejected face, dark rings under my eyes, and some ugly marks from a man’s fingers around my neck. I gathered my hair in a bun, dressed plainly in a gray dress, and tied a silk scarf around my throat to hide the sinister evidence.
