David looked at Amy. She was gazing out of the window. He looked back.
José was sipping a sherry; Fermina was busy in the kitchen, making coffee it seemed. It was the right moment. David filled the silence, and asked José if he’d like to hear the story, the reason for David’s mission to Spain. José sat back.
‘Of course! But as I said in my texting message, I think I know the answer already. I know why you are here!’
David stared at the old man.
‘So?’
He paused dramatically. ‘I knew your grandfather. As soon as Amy told me the name, Martinez, I knew.’
‘How? When?’
‘Long time ago – so many years!’ The old man’s smile was persistent. ‘We were childhood friends in…in Donostia, before the war. Then our families fled to France in 1936. To Bayonne. Where they have the Jewish chocolate. The best chocolate in the world!’
David leaned close, asking the most obvious question.
‘Was my grandfather a Basque?’
José laughed with a scornful expression – as if this was a surreally stupid query.
‘But of course! Yes. He did not tell you? How very typical. He was a man of…some enigmas. But yes he was a Basque! And so was his young wife, naturally!’ José glanced pertly at Amy, and then back at David. ‘There now, David Martinez. You are Basque, in part at least: a man of Euskadi! You can play the txistu on San Fermin day! And now, have I answered all your questions? Is the mystery solved?’
David sat quietly for a few seconds, absorbing the information. Was this all there was to it? Granddad was a Basque, but never admitted it?
Then David remembered the map, and the churches. And the inheritance. How did that fit in?
‘Actually no, José. There is more.’
‘More?’
Amy interrupted: ‘José…The stuff in the papers. The bequest…The map. You didn’t see it?’
‘I never read the newspapers!’ José said, his smile slightly fading. ‘But what is this other mystery? Tell me! What else must you know?’
David gazed Amy’s way, with a questioning expression: she shrugged, as if to say, go on, why not, we’re here now.
So David began. He told the story of his grandfather, and the churches, and the bequest. As he did, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the map, marked with blue stars.
The atmosphere in the cottage was transformed.
Fermina was standing by the kitchen door, wrapped in a consternated silence. The old man was frowning as he stared at the map. Frowning very profoundly: almost tragically. He looked almost…bereaved.
Shocked by the effect of his story, David dropped the map on the table. It was as if the light in the room had dimmed; the only brightness came from the soft white pages of the map itself.
José leaned over and took the map in his hands. For a few minutes, he caressed the worn paper. Opening it, he examined the blue asterisks, muttering and mumbling. No one moved.
Then he looked up at David.
‘Forget about this. Please, I beg you. Forget about this. You don’t want to know any more about the churches. Keep your money. Get rid of this map. Go back to London. Por favor.’
David opened his mouth. No words emerged.
‘Take it away,’ said José, handing the map back. ‘Get it out of my house. I know it is not your fault. But…get it out of my house. Never mention these matters again. Ever. That…that map…the churches…this is the key to hell. I beg you both to stop.’
David didn’t know what to do; José’s wife was wiping her hands on a cloth, still at the door to the kitchen. Wiping her hands over and over, full of nerves.
The tension was heightened by a noise. José Garovillo looked up; the scrunch of the gravel outside the house was distinctive.
A red car was pulling up.
Amy had a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh no…’
José was gasping.
‘But no! I told him not to come. I am sorry, I told him you were coming but I asked him to stay away. Barkatu. Barkatu. Fermina!’
The very tall man climbing out of the car was unmistakable: Miguel Garovillo. A second later he was pushing the farmhouse door and was inside the house, tall and wild and glaring – at Amy and David. And gazing at the map in David’s hand. A little twitch in his eye was quite noticeable, likewise a slender scar above his lip.
‘Papa!’ said Miguel, his voice rich with contempt.
The son had his hand raised; for a ghastly moment it looked like he was actually going to clout José, to beat his own father. José flinched. Fermina cried out. Miguel’s black eyes flashed around the room; David saw the dark shape of a holster, under the terrorist’s leather jacket.
Fermina Garovillo was pushing her son away, but Miguel was shouting at his father, and at Amy and David, shouting in Basque, his words unintelligible – the only thing that was obvious was the ferocious anger. José shouted a few words in return – but weakly, unconvincingly.
And then Miguel shouted in English. At David. His deep angry voice vibrated in the air.
‘Get the ffffffuck out of here. You want the whore? Then take her. You take all this shit out of here. Go now.’
David backed away. ‘We’re going…We’re going…’
‘First time I hit you. Next time I shoot you.’
Amy and David turned and ran into the yard and jumped in the car.
But Miguel followed them outside the house. He had taken out his gun, he was holding a black pistol in the air. Holding it – as if to show them. David got the strange jarring sense of something inhuman about him: a giant. A violent jentilak of the forest displaying his strength and anger. The gun was so very black. Glinting in the watery sunlight.
David urgently reversed. He spiralled the wheel – and at last they turned, revving in the mud, and then they rocked down the track, skidding out onto the road.
For half an hour David drove fast and hard, into the green grey foothills, just driving to get away.
When the panic and shock had subsided, David felt a rising anger, and a need to stop and think.
He pulled over. They were halted at the edge of a village, with a timberyard on their left. The distant Pyrenees seemed a lot less pretty now; the pinetops of the forest were laced with an insistent and smothering mist. A church, surrounded by circular gravestones, sat on a hill above them.
Everything
