Mariquita sits on the terrace at the back of the house staring out over the hills of Collserola down to the city below. She hasn't slept. The wind kept her awake most of the night, rattling the windows and whistling through the trees and when it finally died down it was almost dawn. She'd left the club early, earlier than usual. Usually, she stayed behind to count the takings and place them in the safe, making sure every penny was accounted for and recorded, with meticulous detail, in a big leather bound ledger. But last night she left early, just before midnight. Perhaps she was tired, it was a plausible explanation, a reasonable excuse but the truth was she was sick of the place. Standing, as was her custom, by the window in her office, her eyes flicking distractedly over the bodies on the stage in front she'd felt a weariness sink into her bones, pulling on her limbs. Pulling on her conscience. Resting her head against the window, she'd closed her eyes and relished the cold chill of glass as it stung her cheek. When she'd opened her eyes again nothing had changed, everything was still the same. The punters were still there pulling notes from their wallets, waving them in the air so that the dancers would move that little bit closer. Closer and closer. Bending down with their breasts swinging loose and the men straining forwards holding out those notes, creased and tempting, between their oily fingers. Her stomach had turned and not for the first time. Not even the thought of all those notes, piling up in the safe behind her could quell the nausea that lurched in her gut. So she told Carlos to put the money in the safe himself and enter the amount into the ledger. She trusted Carlos. She knew he would do as she said. And she left. Drove through the city with the streetlights glittering, the top of her convertible rolled down so that the wind whipped through her hair and blew it out behind her in a tangled mass. She didn't drive straight home either but made her usual detour through some of the most unsavoury parts of the city. The housing schemes, every city has them, the ugly slabs of concrete and crumbling debris that is pushed to the sides and tucked out of sight. And yet, she sought them out. For some strange reason, they soothed her, reminding her of where she'd come from and how far she'd had to crawl. She let the graffiti, the litter, the boarded up shops wash over her like a familiar hand swept across her brow because she needed them, after all this time. She needed them still. Like an addict needs a fix.
She must have arrived home sometime after two, although she couldn't be sure. She'd parked the car in the garage by the side of the house and walked around to the swimming pool at the back. And she'd stood for a moment by the side of the pool, looking out over the hill and down onto the myriad lights of the city below, letting her eyes wash along the length of the coast and out into the sea. Then she undressed. Stepped out of her clothes as if shedding a skin and danced. Danced alone. Danced for no-one. Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, weaving her arms through the stagnant air, grinding her hips slowly, luxuriously, her hands slipping over her breasts and down. Down to that restless place between her legs, over the fleshy slope of her thighs until she was breathless. Sweating and breathless, she'd jumped into the cool water of the pool with her body tensed, straight as a dart as she sliced through the surface. Sliced through the surface with her head tipped back and let the cool, clear water slide over her limbs, cleansing her. By the time she'd surfaced the wind had already picked up. Dripping wet, she'd gathered her clothes and hurried into the house.She stands up, cradling the cup in her hands and moves back into the house. She glances at the clock, it's just after ten and continues to the kitchen, snapping the radio on as she goes. The voice of woman rolls over her as she reaches for the coffee; the words fired rapidly, the tone flat and emotionless drips slowly into her consciousness.
A body has been found in the early hours of this morning in La Mina, as yet unidentified ... She is only partially aware that she is listening. She cocks her head as she pours the coffee. Police are appealing to the public for any information ... She lifts the cup to her lips and blows chastely over the liquid. Distinguishing mark is a tattoo in the shape of a rose on the forearm ... Hot coffee splashes her robe as the cup hits the floor and she bites her lip to ease the pain, or shock. Or both. She runs through to the living room, grasping the wet material with one hand and turning up the volume on the radio with the other.
Police have no real clues but are anxious to trace anyone who may know anything about the woman believed to be around twenty years old ...
She turns the radio off, unable to hear the rest and paces around the room. "
Fuck .. Fuck ..Fuck .." She repeats it slowly to herself, like a mantra, a way to contain her thoughts and control her emotions. Her hand rises to her head and grabs a fistful of hair, squeezing and twisting until the pain shoots through her skull and she stops. She stops dead in her tracks. She moves through the house and into the bedroom, quickly, effortlessly and picks up her bag, rummaging through the contents until she finds it. She pulls it out. A small, unassuming card, no frills no logos no magic. Just a name and a number. She holds it up and grabs the phone, her mouth still repeating the mantra and her fingers trembling over the buttons as she punches the numbers home.
The persistent trill of the phone enters Pepito's consciousness like a distant drip of water and rouses him from his slumber with annoying insistence. He struggles out of bed and lurches towards the door, cursing under his breath. What time is is, he can't be sure but he knows it's Sunday and perhaps that's why he grabs the phone from its cradle and rams it against his head.
"Detective Pons," her voice sounds strained, close to breaking, "I need you to come here straight away .. it's Rosa, I mean, I'm sure it's her .. they found a body .."
"A body?" He repeats her words although he knows it's dumb but he's stalling, trying to rouse himself, unclog his brain, unfurl his memory. "Where .." he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Where are you?"
"I'm at home .." He can hear her breathing on the other end, a stifled, ragged gasp of breath, as though she has been crying or is trying not to. "You have to come now .. I'm sure it's her ... fuck ... fuck." She breaks into her mantra again and then stops, suddenly, as though she remembers something. She draws in her breath. "My God," she cries, "Carlos, I'll have to tell him ... I'll have to phone him now." Pepito manages to get her address before she hangs up but not much else. He hurries towards the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, running a hand over the toughened bristles as he slaps himself awake. But there's no time to shave as he dries himself quickly and returns to the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe and pulls out the first thing that comes to hand, a pale blue shirt and dark brown slacks and dresses with unusual haste. When he's ready, he pockets the piece of paper and slips his gun in its holster. He doesn't even bother to check himself in the mirror before he runs downstairs, two steps at a time and grabs the Vespa. He's already out the door and on his bike before he has time to check his watch.
He hopes by the time he reaches her house in Vallvidrera she will have calmed down, calmed down long enough to make more sense at least. As it was he'd grasped the basic premise - Rosa's body had been found. She was dead. He castes his mind back to the day before. The flat, the random signs of life, the mundane scraps of evidence that spoke of her existence. Even Rosa herself laying on the beach, laughing, one arm cupped beneath her breasts and her hand stretched out towards the camera in silent protest at being snapped at that particular moment last summer. Last summer, when her life had begun again, her second chance. Pepito shakes his head, an image of her cold and lifeless body stretched out on the mortician's slab keeps flashing before his eyes. At least, that's how he imagines it.
He pulls up outside the house and Mariquita steps out of the doorway and comes running towards him. She must have been waiting there, watching and waiting for him to arrive. He slides off the bike and pulls the helmet from his head and then he hears her. She's sobbing, swallowing great lungfuls of strangled breath. Startled, he stands motionless and when she throws her arms around his neck he buckles slightly under her weight. He moves his hand around her waist and holds her steady while she sobs into his shirt soaking the material, the wet fibres clinging to his skin and her body shaking beneath his grip. She stops, suddenly, as if at that moment she has just become aware of herself. Slowly, she pulls her head up, she steps back, dabs her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, her lips pressed tightly together and walks towards the house. Pepito follows, his fingers picking nervously at the damp stain as he walks. She leads him towards the back of the house, her hips restrained from their usual strut and steps out onto the terrace. She sits down heavily on a chair and motions for Pepito to sit opposite. He nods, his head dipping just a fraction as he pulls it forwards slightly so that his knees almost touch hers. Almost but not quite. He waits there until she's ready to speak. Slightly confused but eternally grateful that out of all the necks in the whole damn town, she chose to cling to his.
Carlos had been arrested. She told him in fits and starts, rising from her seat and pacing back and forth, between controlled sobs and genuine disbelief she spat out her story. She'd called, that was the extent of it, she'd called his flat but instead of speaking to him, she'd spoken to the police instead. They were taking him down to the station for further questioning. Then she tells him with repetitive detail what she had heard on the radio that morning, her voice almost as flat and emotionless as the original.
A body had been found .. on a building site in La Mina, as yet, unidentified ... female, around twenty years old with a distinguishing mark ... a rose on the forearm ...
She trails off, slumps forwards and buries her head in her hands. Pepito sits back in his chair and scratches his head. He's confused. With his eyes skimming the back of her head and his hand moving over his jaw he hits the rewind button in his head and runs over her story again for a closer look. What did she say? The body was found this morning and she thought it was Rosa, but the body was actually unidentified, which meant she was guessing and by the sounds of it, so were the police. Then what did they want with Carlos? Unless. He considers the possibility, stroking his chin with ponderous fingers, laying all the pieces of information he has at his disposal before him, placing them together, turning them over, examining them until it finally strikes him, like a fist in the gut. Someone must have had some information after all. Someone must have told the police. Someone must have blabbed. Any information? Of course it was obvious, even to a man like Pepito, slightly out of his depth and yet curiously rising to the challenge - someone had filled in the blanks. Pepito knows how it works, he knows the score. Except, the police didn't pay for their information, they had other means and the weight of the law behind them, which helped. Which is unfortunate for Pepito, who at this moment is becoming increasingly aware that he's in over his head. He shifts in his seat and cups his chin, his fingers moving backwards and forwards along his jaw, snagging on the tough little bristles massed there. He needs to think, he needs to be sure. He needs to be sure of what he'll do next. Which, at this point in time is anyone's guess. But at least he is sure that the police are no closer to the truth than he, after all, they'd picked up the wrong man. The most obvious choice and yet, Carlos is innocent. He was sure of that. Although, he couldn't say why, at least, not yet. Right now, his main concern is who pointed the finger in Carlos' direction but he has to be smart. The police would be close behind him and it was only a matter of time before they worked it out themselves. The best he can do for now ... is stay one step ahead. He stands up abruptly and leans towards Mariquita placing a hand on her shoulder. She looks up and smiles at Pepito who, in his own awkward way, smiles back.
"There's something I think you should know," she starts to say, her eyes glossy and wet. "Carlos is innocent, you have to believe that."
Pepito nods his head. "I know."
"You have to help him," she rises moving towards him of softly padding feet, "you have to help him get out of this mess."
"I understand and I'll do all I can to help him."
She reaches forwards and grabs his wrist. "No, you don't understand ... he means more to me that you know .." Pepito listens his head drooping downwards, bracing himself for the sting, knowing all the while there was something else but reluctant to hear it from her own lips. Loosening her grasp on his wrist she turns and moves to the edge of the pool. She stares down at her reflection, shimmering on the glassy surface.
"Carlos you see .." she continues, "Carlos is my son."
And now he knows. The phone call. The tears. The drama. The arms around his neck. Yes, even the arms around his neck.
Suddenly it all makes sense.
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