Court of Lions Page 17

  Juan took the bottle from her. “I’ll be out back if you need me…Kate.” He gave her a long, quizzical look, then was gone.

  “What are you doing here?” Kate felt her heart beating and the blood rising in her face. He was taller than she’d remembered. Candlelight sparked in his dark eyes.

  “I came to find you. To ask you a question.”

  She swallowed. “So ask.”

  Abdou dipped his head for a moment, then held out his hand. “Hicham, at the Internet café, told me you had something like this.”

  Kate stared at the fragment of paper in his palm. Spiky symbols in faded ink, arranged as in short lines of poetry. At once she recognized the similarity to the slip of paper she had removed from the wall in the gardens. “My God,” she whispered. “How strange.”

  “I found it in the wall we were repairing in the Tower of the Captive. It was not the first one Omar and I came across. But that first one was too water damaged to make anything out on it. So I would very much like to see the one you have. Hicham described it to me, though he said you said it was just a bit of rubbish.”

  “You’re a friend of Hicham’s?” Kate asked hesitantly, remembering how curt he had been with her—rude, even.

  Abdou cocked his head and light fell across his fine features. “Not really, no. More like an acquaintance. His cousin Saïd is my friend.”

  Kate smiled. “I like Saïd.”

  Abdou grinned. “Hicham has…an awkward manner. He doesn’t know how to behave to women.” His eyes lingered on her.

  Kate felt a slow, warm tide swirling in her abdomen and tried to ignore it. She found she could not look away from him, no matter how uncomfortable. She tried to think of something to say, but her mind was empty of everything but sensation.

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The fragment like this?”

  She put a hand to her forehead as if to master her thoughts. “In my bag, I think,” she said at last. “Let me go and check.” It seemed rude to run away, leaving him there. “Would you like a beer? On me?”

  His eyes widened. “I can’t let you pay.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because I’m a customer in your bar, and we hardly know each other.”

  “Well, okay. Would you like to buy a beer?”

  His eyes darted to the price board then back to her. “Maybe not. A glass of water?”

  She fetched him one and set it down, then turned on her heel, feeling embarrassed that she might have appeared to have been flogging him a beer.

  The back room was cooler than the bar. She retrieved her handbag from under the bench and went straight into the cloakroom, where she locked the door. She ran her hands under the tap and patted her hot face. In the mottled mercury of the old mirror her eyes struck her as hectic, too bright, a little mad. She hadn’t felt this way, gauche and girlish, filled with stupid desire, since she’d first met Matty—and look how well that had turned out. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You know nothing about him, and anyway, he doesn’t seem interested in you, just the scrap of paper. Get a grip!

  She put the toilet seat down and sat on the cold plastic lid. The fragment of paper was in the zippered compartment where she’d put it for safekeeping. She fished it out and examined it under the bare electric bulb (no little luxuries like lampshades out here for the staff: typical Jimena). A thrill went through her. It really was similar to the one Abdou had just shown her, even at a glance: four lines of spiky, runic symbols. Maybe it was a short poem, or a prayer.

  Filled with purpose now, and slightly calmer, she returned to the bar. She was about to cross the threshold, when she heard raised voices. Or rather, one raised voice, and a familiar one at that.

  “What are you doing in here—drinking free water? I don’t serve Moors in here, let alone offer them charity. This is a respectable Spanish establishment.”

  Jimena had her hands on her hips and her jaw thrust out. Abdou set the glass of water carefully down on the bar. But he did not look cowed in the way she might have expected, the way she had seen other Arabs react to Jimena’s aggressive tirades: he had drawn himself up and held his head high. Hundreds of years of prejudice sparked between the two of them like an arc of electricity.

  “I came to see Kate.”

  “There is no Kate here.”

  Abdou frowned and looked past Jimena’s shoulder, and Kate felt her stomach flip inside as her boss turned.

  “There must be some kind of mistake. My name is Anna Maria,” she said, and watched as his gaze became hooded and wary.

  “My error. I apologize.”

  Jimena gave Kate a hard stare. “You know my policy,” she said stonily. She turned back to Abdou. “Now, fuck off, bastardo de mierda.”

  He regarded her coolly, letting the vile words flow over him. Then, dismissing Jimena, he looked over her shoulder at Kate: “If you are interested in the matter we were discussing, you will find me at the Nest of Storks.”

  Before she could ask where this was, he was gone, leaving a sudden vacuum of highly charged air. Kate could feel the eyes of the tourists upon her and Jimena, disapproving, disquieted.

  “Fucking Arab scum,” Jimena said loudly. She rounded on Kate. “What the hell were you thinking of, letting him in as soon as my back was turned and giving him a glass of fucking water, like we’re some sort of refugee camp? Besides, I’ve seen that one before—he’s a terrorist.”

  Kate stared at her boss, her throat tightening as if she might vomit. It was not bile that came up, though, but words. “You know what?” she found herself saying, even as her fingers fumbled with the knot of her bar apron. “You can stick your job, Jimena. I’m fed up with working for such a foul-mouthed, bigoted old bitch.” She unlooped the apron strap from around her neck and threw it on the ground between them with a flourish, as if it were a toreador’s cape.

  From the table of tourists sitting by the mirrored wall there came a single quiet cheer, a couple of whistles and a round of applause. Jimena swivelled her head to regard them with a basilisk stare and they hunched over their beers again, grinning and whispering.

  Kate took her opportunity to retrieve her handbag from the back room, but as she re-emerged, Jimena stood in her path, her face dark with blood. “Not so fast, Anna Maria…or whatever your name really is.” As Kate tried to sidestep her, Jimena caught her by the arm, her nails digging in like talons. “You work out your notice, or I’ll be talking to the poli.”

  “Fine. You go talk to the police. I’m sure there’s plenty they’d like to know…about your employment practices. For a start I’ve regularly been made to work for more than the forty-hour maximum, without extra pay. I’ve been employed here for over a year and not been given my statutory vacation leave, and when you fired Gustav, you never paid him the finiquito he was due. I’m sure there’s plenty more I could come up with.”

  “¡Hija de puta!”

  Kate peeled Jimena’s fingers off her arm and pushed her aside. “Leave what’s owed to me with Juan or I’ll be back with a lawyer.”

  By the time she reached the corner of the street she was shaking. Not just a mild tremble of excitement but a full-on adrenaline-rushing, teeth-chattering spasm that made her clutch the wall before she fell. What had she done? Jacked in her job, her only means of support. Just because Jimena was being Jimena. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of an abyss—then she remembered Abdou’s dignity as the Spanish woman insulted him and her panic evaporated into the night. For the first time in ages she felt proud of herself. She had taken a stand: she had done the right thing, the sort of thing the Kate of old would have said and done, before James had reduced her to human rubble.

  Where was it Abdou had said to meet him? For a moment her mind was a perfect blank, then she remembered the name: the Nest of Storks. But the Albayzín was a labyrinth of little alleyways containing hundreds of cafés and bars. She should go to the Internet café and Googl
e it; better still, ask Saïd, who would surely know. But when she got there, she saw with a sinking heart that Hicham was behind the counter, and she hesitated, remembering how unpleasant he had been. Then before she could lose her nerve, she firmed her jaw and marched in. “Hello, Hicham. I’m looking for a place called the Nest of Storks. Do you know where it is?”

  He seemed taken aback. “Is not a place for people like you.”

  Was that contempt she read in his expression? She was still fired up by her encounter with Jimena. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Is for men. Women can’t go there.”

  “Well, this woman’s going there. So please tell me where it is.”

  “Why you go there?”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “I not tell you unless you tell me who.”

  Kate stared at him. “Why do you want to know?”

  Hicham stared silently at her in reply.

  The impasse stretched between them for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  “A zellij expert who works at the Alhambra, doing restoration.”

  An unreadable flicker in his expression. “Is not a bit late to discuss tiling?” He was playing with her now, his dark eyes insolent.

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  He jerked his head to the left. “Down the alley out back, left, then right.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to leave.

  “Puta.”

  Kate whirled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Only whores go there.”

  Before she could make a rejoinder, he was moving away, his mobile phone to his ear. She hurried outside.

  The Nest of Storks was identifiable by what looked like a child’s painting of a stork landing on a pile of sticks, to the left of an inset door. Above the door was an odd symbol, like a figure with bowed legs and uplifted arms. Kate frowned: it felt familiar.

  As if he had seen her staring, a man suddenly stuck his head out the door.

  “Hola,” said Kate, having meant to say Salaam.

  He eyed her up and down. Kate wished she’d worn a coat: his gaze felt penetrating. Doubts assailed her. Did she really want to see Abdou in this place? Wouldn’t it be easier just to go up to the Alhambra the next day and talk to him while he was working with Omar? But perhaps Omar didn’t know about the fragments. Perhaps there was a reason Abdou wanted to keep it quiet. That in itself was also alarming: she’d had enough of secrets.

  She steeled herself. “I’m looking for a man named Abdou,” she said quickly.

  “Ab-doooo…”

  The way he elongated the syllable was suggestive. In the darkness, Kate felt herself flush, remembering what Hicham had said.

  He took a draw on his cigarette and it flared to life in the gloom; then he tossed the butt down and stepped aside for her. Even so, she had to brush past him to enter the bar: she felt his hand touch her buttocks as she passed.

  “Hey, Abdelkarim!”

  The man called the name loudly over her shoulder and added something in what she presumed to be Arabic, and the whole place fell quiet. She felt like an unwanted intruder.

  It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the low illumination of the single hanging lantern. Scatters of jewelled light leaked from its leaded panes of coloured glass into the clouds of smoke but did little to help her pick out the man she knew as Abdou, whose real name appeared to be Abdelkarim. She remembered his closed expression as he registered her own assumed name and wondered just what he was hiding. The bar had an edgy feel to it that made her uncomfortable: was that because there were conspiracies in the making all around her; or because she was the only woman in here and everyone was staring at her?

  And then Abdou was in front of her and his smile dissipated her doubts. “Come,” he said, and guided her through the crowded bar. At a corner table a younger man rose, bobbing his head at Kate in greeting. He and Abdou exchanged a few words and he was gone, weaving his way through tables and chairs like a feral cat.

  Abdou pulled out the chair the young man had vacated for Kate, then sat down opposite her with his back to the wall. It was only when she sat down that she realized the clouds of smoke were not from cigarettes—at least, not just from cigarettes—but from little censers on the tables. She leaned in, inhaling—roses, something woody, something that caught at the back of her throat.

  “Incense,” Abdou said. “From the souks of Marrakech. Rose petals, agarwood and sandarac gum—a mixture that’s been used for centuries. The chambers of the sultans of Granada probably smelled just like this.”

  “Apart from the beer.” Kate grinned.

  Abdou tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’m afraid I ordered us tea.” At that moment the young man reappeared, carrying a small brass tray. “Thank you, Aziz.” He looked back to Kate. “My friend.”

  Aziz had a huge smile and a neat Afro: he was extravagantly handsome. He set down the tray, then turned to Abdou and flicked his thumb under his chin. Abdou laughed. It was not a gesture Kate recognized. “What did that mean?” she asked as Aziz left, mobile phone pressed to his ear. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered if Abdou was gay and Aziz his lover. It wasn’t impossible, was it? She felt a little sick for allowing herself to harbour absurd thoughts of romance.

  Abdou applied himself to swirling the tea in its little silver pot, then to pouring it into a small, gold-topped glass, but a light in his eyes danced with mischief. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

  “Yes, well, I quit my job.” Her words were clipped, determined as she was not to make even more of a fool of herself than she already had.

  A small stream of golden tea spilled onto the tray. “Really?”

  “Jimena’s a cow. I’ve been meaning to leave for a long time.”

  “Hard on cows. I’m sorry. It was probably my fault.”

  “She’s always like that. It was time I stood my ground. Anyway…” The intensity of his gaze was disconcerting. She tried to change the subject. “I brought the bit of paper I found.” She placed it carefully out of the way of the tea.

  Abdou set the teapot aside and craned over the fragment, his head almost touching hers. “Incredible.”

  He raised his eyes and Kate found she was holding her breath, as if he might kiss her—ridiculous, in this place, in front of all these people, and anyway, he might not even like women, let alone her…

  He straightened up and the spell was broken, until he brought a folded card out of the pocket of his leather jacket and from it extracted his own fragment. Laid side by side, there was no question the writing was in the same form, and the same hand. Kate’s heart began to thud. “What do they say?”

  “A good question. I don’t know.”

  Disappointment was a stone in her chest.

  “I recognize the language,” he went on. “It’s the language of my people.”

  “Your people?”

  “The Imazighen—‘Free People,’ which is a joke.” His lips twisted.

  “I’ve never heard of the Immer—Ima— Sorry.” She gave up.

  “Most people call us Berbers, though that’s an insult. It’s what the Romans considered us—from barbari, meaning barbarian. Just like the Spanish, though we were the ones civilizing them! We brought them baths and irrigation and beautiful buildings built around pools that reflected the sky, and now they treat us like shit! They will always hate us. But if their King Fernando had had his way, the Alhambra would have been blown to ruins and the tourist industry—the only thing that makes Granada any fucking money—wouldn’t exist.”

  He looked so angry. She thought of how insulting Jimena had been. She and James would get on like a house on fire, she thought, then wished she hadn’t thought about him at all. She bowed her head over the fragments of paper, not knowing what to say.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked.

  “In a wall in the gardens.”

  “I know that. Where, exactly? It matters
, I th—”

  Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a ruckus at the entrance to the bar, and as Kate turned to see what was going on, Abdou shot to his feet. Someone shouted “Poli!” and there was a sudden rush for the back door.

  Abdou reached down and swiped the two fragments of paper. “Sorry!” he called over his shoulder. “Got to run.” And then he was gone.

  Kate sat there, disbelieving, anger rising at being abandoned in this hostile place. But she was just as angry that he had taken the fragment with him. How dare he? But before she had time to stand up and go after him, four armed officers stormed into the bar.

  “ID cards and passports!” one cried. “Everyone line up by the wall, hands on heads, papers in hand!” Another officer repeated this in Arabic.

  Kate blinked. She was a European national and had every right to be in the country. Nevertheless, she felt afraid. Perhaps she was picking up on the anxieties of the men around her. Or that bit of graffito she passed every time she walked to the top of the Albayzín—Don’t trust the cops! How many of the men here were in Spain illegally? she wondered. Or engaged in activities on the black market? Or, and she felt a chill, in terrorism?

  She chided herself for falling into Jimena’s way of thinking. The Muslim population had been rising steadily in the city, especially since the mosque had been built in 2003. The Nest of Storks was just a bar in which North African men liked to gather to drink tea or coffee or beer; to smoke and play cards and talk in their own language. What was wrong with that? She got to her feet and bent to retrieve her handbag.

  “Leave that!”

  Kate looked up, to find a pistol pointing at her. Trembling, she raised her hands.

  “Passport?”

  She didn’t have her passport with her. It was in a drawer in her rented apartment: she never carried it for fear of losing it. She tried to explain this, but her terrified brain suddenly forgot every word of Spanish it had ever known. Pathetically, she felt her eyes sting with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said in English. “I don’t have it with me.”

  The officer’s face was stony. He exchanged some machine-gun-fast words with one of his colleagues who was patting down the ranged men and checking their papers.