10. Nothing Ever Happens In Santa Pau
10
NOTHING EVER HAPPENS IN SANTA PAU
Alejandro
The Past
Santa Pau, Girona
C hief Inspector Miran Ferrer Idrissi of the SVA has a drinking problem.
It’s why he’s been banished to the ancient town of Santa Pau, about eighty miles northwest of Barcelona, for what his department calls “highly necessary surveillance of potential illegal activity.” Anyone with a pair of functioning brain cells would know it’s a load of bullshit. Nothing ever happens in Santa Pau.
It’s an off the grid, albeit gorgeous, village in Catalonia with shitty wi-fi and streets so narrow only two people can walk at a time. A popular summer tourist destination for Americans on day trips touring the countryside or the pretentious European backpackers who want to “detach” for a few weeks; it exists outside of time, in a world I know Dahlia would happily occupy if given the chance. The streets are a tangle of uneven cobblestone roads, some open to the late August light, and others overshadowed by building alleyways and lined with bird droppings. A bit of reality to muddle the fantasy.
El Castillo de Santa Pau sits at the center of this medieval village and is the North Star at which all roads and streets begin. Once the seat of the Santa Pau barons, the construction of the castle birthed the surrounding village and remnants of the ancient walls still exist all these centuries later. The town is over seven hundred years old and the castle is its oldest structure, now left abandoned because all efforts to return it to its former glory have been fruitless. The entire interior structure is corroded beyond repair and a renovation attempt would not only endanger the building’s stability but would likely cost a fortune.
Now it serves as a playground for the children who run across the grass-covered lawn and climb up the jagged stone steps.
I continue under the covered gallery of one of the buildings, its tan columns overgrown with green vines and summer flowers glistening under the sun. A man in a blue hat takes his time watering each pot and when I pass by him, he bows his head in my direction and I do the same.
“ It’s a beautiful day, ” he tells me in Catalan.
I stop to admire the flowers. A four o’clock flower with vibrant, hot pink petals blooms in the direction of the sun. I pluck it from its stem, along with the tiny sliver of paper tucked behind it. “Un dia molt bonic,” I reply and continue on my walk. “Very beautiful, indeed…”
A little girl on a bicycle whizzes past me and I drop the flower in her basket. I open the note, the scrap of paper no longer or wider than my pointer finger and read the address inside. Up ahead is a hostel that doubles as a bar and restaurant. A group of men are seated outside, under the protection of the gallery, to shield themselves from the merciless sun. On the second floor, a woman steps out onto the balcony to water her plants and, noticing her Catalan flag has gotten tangled around the flag post, gently unfolds it.
The three men are smoking, and I produce a cigar from the gold case I keep in my pocket. With a genial smile and my best Catalan, I gesture toward the lighter in the bald man’s hand. “Et importaria si agafo el llum?”
Diego’s the polyglot of the family and even Lettie has mastered Catalan with a level of fluency I could never aspire to. But when the occasion calls for it, I can convincingly play the role of local. So long as they speak at a steady pace.
He extends the lighter to me with an affable expression and pinch of the brows. “No, no importa. Voldries unir-te a nosaltres?”
The bearded man across from him produces a fourth chair and after a quick glance at my watch, I decide I can spare a few minutes.
I sit down and while the men are distracted, I set fire to the note and drop the paper to the ground, snuffing out the ashes with the tip of my shoe. We smoke and delve into conversation about the weather, fútbol, and how impossible it was for the fair-haired man to get a new refrigerator delivered to his house a few weeks ago. The middle-aged man, who is the youngest of them, laments over this year’s tourists; a pair of Americans from Milwaukee and his attempt at pronouncing the Wisconsin city pulls a genuine huff of laughter from my lips. When my cigar is done, I thank the gentlemen for the hospitality and get on my way.
I glance at my watch. Perfect. Ferrer should be home any minute.
He lives in a beautiful little stone house with a shingled roof and wooden front door. Tucked between two impossibly tight side streets, there isn’t much sunlight which is a blessing in the summer but a curse in the winter. God knows these old homes are a nightmare to heat. The winters here are foggy with a nasty chill that creeps up on you.
I’m the first one to arrive which is convenient. It’ll give me time to inspect the space.
It’s a treasure trove of antiques and precious trinkets, many of which I doubt belong to Ferrer, if not the eighty-nine-year-old woman he rents from, who recently moved to Barcelona with her granddaughter to be closer to her doctors. Dozens of lamps and old light fixtures hang from the low, wooden beam ceilings. Porcelain plates, picture frames, and crosses are hung along the walls and the only modern appliances are the refrigerator, sink, and gas stove. Across the room is a fully functioning plate stove that I swear has to be almost three hundred years old.
I continue my assessment of the apartment; small living room, furnished with gaudy, dark wood furniture, a weathered but well-loved sofa, and plush rug. More bulky, heirloom furniture in the bedrooms, side tables in the narrow, cramp halls decorated with handknitted doilies, and an old radio that no doubt dates back to the second World War. I check drawers, under the furniture, in the tight, oddly shaped closets, under floorboards, and behind curtains and mirrors. A half hour passes before I’m satisfied with my handiwork and not a minute too soon because it sounds like someone’s home.
Seated in the living room, I have a clear view of the front door by the staircase from which Ferrer enters. Lost in thought, he moves through the halls, barely casting a glance in my direction, and heads toward the kitchen. The apartment is awkward in shape and layout because from this angle, I can see him but he can’t see me. He’d have to fully exit the kitchen and stand at the threshold of the small, informal dining room to do that.
He searches through his fridge for beer that isn’t there. I dumped every last can down the drain before he got here.
“I’d prefer if we had this conversation sober.”
Ferrer spins around.
“That is, if it’s all the same to you.”
One look at him and I can see how deeply transformative the last two years have been. He’s at least twenty pounds lighter and looks a whole decade older.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Even in his current state, he’s still sharp, still tactful. He closes the refrigerator door and doesn’t exit the kitchen, knowing that the direction from which my voice is coming is his blind spot. Instead of pouncing, he slowly exits the room and I watch as his hand reaches out to turn on the light switch. I can’t see from this angle but I already know he’s reaching for the gun he has hidden behind a picture of his landlord and her grandchildren.
I get up from where I’m seated on the sofa and enter the dining room. I extend my hand and open my palm. The bullets from his gun, and every other weapon in this apartment, are scattered across the plastic tablecloth. I dig deep into my pockets, produce more bullets, and drop them one by one.
Ferrer watches me with a trained eye then extends the gun, slowly lowering it to the table. I kick one of the chairs in his direction. “Sit,” I order.
He does, and grips the bottom of his seat?—
“Don’t bother.” I drop a pair of pocketknives and wad of scotch tape into the sea of bullets. “I got rid of those too.”
He grinds his teeth. “What do you want?”
“To talk about Sandro Sandoval.”
Ferrer’s eyes widen just slightly, the near black irises flickering with menace. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“Struck a nerve?”
Ferrer leaps from his seat and with a flick of the hand, I fire a bullet right above his head. A glass lamp shatters and he startles.
“This gun, unlike yours, is actually loaded. Now sit down.”
With no other choice, he sits.
“I’ll get straight to the point. I have a proposition for you,” I say. “I need someone on the inside of the Sandoval operation and you’re going to be that someone.”
He practically hisses at me. “Narvaez, you’re lucky I don’t arrest you right now, you piece of shit.”
I perk up in my seat. “Ah, so you do know who I am. Good. That’ll make this a lot easier.”
“If you’re looking for a corrupt agent, try Oviedo instead. I don’t play games with criminals.”
“Consider me the lesser of two evils then. You want to avenge your wife’s death, and I can help you with that.”
His hands clench into fists. Deliberate and patient with his words, he grinds out, “What do you know about Jordana?”
Jordana Carbajal Duan, a Barcelona native born to a Spanish father and second-generation Chinese mother. Went to private school her entire life before moving to the US for college where she graduated magna cum laude from MIT and then pursued a graduate degree at the University of International Studies of Barcelona. It was there that a professor introduced her to Miran Ferrer, an SVA agent whom she had hopes of interviewing because although she was bright and talented, a particular career path had yet to stand out to her.
Three years later they were married, and Jordana was an agent in the SVA. Two years after that, she was promoted to sub-inspector and gave birth to their only child, a son, Teodoro. And two years ago, when investigating the Sandoval operation, she was murdered in a drug bust gone wrong.
Ferrer fell into a deep depression, took up drinking, and in the process, lost custody of his son to his sister-in-law, Lisha. From my understanding, the simmering contempt between them is mutual.
“Everything. I also know you haven’t seen your son in six months,” I reply. “If you want to make the men who killed your wife pay for what they did, than I can help you.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Nothing. I have bigger things in mind for Sandro. This is part of it.”
Ferrer sits back in his seat and his throat works with a swallow. From the intel my cousin Arias was able to get me, Ferrer was on an upward trajectory. One of the best in his section of the SVA, he was sky-rocketing toward a brilliant, trailblazing career in law enforcement. Always the youngest, brightest, and most talented in the room, he and his wife were considered something like a dynamic duo. The two of them had gotten a little too close to the inner workings of the twelve families a few years ago. I remember when millions of euros’ worth of Sandoval merchandise had been seized on its way from Galicia to here. Somehow, Sandro managed to save himself and the last any of the twelve apostles heard of the SVA snooping around, was when Sandro set them up during a drug bust.
Apparently, the same one in which Ferrer’s wife was killed.
Finally, Ferrer releases a steadying breath. “I’m an agent of the law.”
“Fuck the law,” I tell him. “I’m giving you the opportunity to seek out your own justice.”
“I don’t need your help doing that,” he snaps.
“Just the same. Do this for me and I’ll make sure a judge grants you visitation of your son. Don’t, and you’ll never see him again. Those are your options.”
Ferrer seethes in place, torn between accepting such an ethically corrupt offer or strangling me to death. Unfortunately, none of this will get him what he wants and he seems to realize this faster than I thought. He runs a finger through his dark waves and his hand is shaking; whether it be from rage or apprehension, I can’t be sure.
“If you get anywhere near my son?—”
“I won’t?—”
“I’ll kill you,” he says it which such finality, such certainty. His gaze is level with mine and his stare is determined. Unwavering. “Do you understand? If you or any of your people so much as breathe in the vicinity of my son, there isn’t a corner of this earth far enough or safe enough that you could go where I would not find you. I would kill you very slowly, very painfully, and I will make anyone who has ever loved you, sit there and watch. Are we clear?”
I stare at him a moment. “Crystal.”
He gives a curt nod. “So what’s this plan of yours?”
“I’m hosting the son of a very important Italian family in Trieste—last name’s Coppola. Do you know them?” He shakes his head. “He’s a bit of a hot head and his temper got him into trouble back home. My grandfather owed his family a favor so he’s been with us for a little while until things settle down. We lost someone a few weeks ago—Manuel…”
Ferrer notices my hesitancy but doesn’t push.
“Anyway, it’s triggered a bit of rearranging within my inner circle.” He nods, signaling he’s following along. “I’ll make sure it gets out that you’re my right hand man. As close to me as my brother Diego.”
He shakes his head in protest. “It’ll never work. The moment anyone looks into me they’ll find out?—”
“Let me worry about that. I’ll take care of cleaning up your background with the SVA. You just worry about what I’m telling you,” I cut him off. “We’re going to stage a hit at El Rey. There’s an old building out here in the countryside, not far-off the main highway, about a hundred years old and several stories high. It was abandoned up until a few years ago. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
“That’s El Rey. We’re going to make it seem like there was a shootout and because of my mishandling of things, it got several of our men killed, and gave you a near fatal injury in the process. Rumors will spread of your discontent. I’m incapable of running the family, I’m slipping,” I gesture vaguely with my hand. “It’ll get back to Sandro. His sister Regina is going to need a new bodyguard soon. He’ll offer you the job and you’re going to flip.”
“Why would she need a new bodyguard?”
“Because I’m getting rid of the other one.” I lean forward. “Everyone knows the real Don of the Sandoval family is Regina. As her bodyguard, you’ll be untouchable, with access to everything you could possibly need.”
Ferrer waits a long while before responding. “I know why I want to see him fall. Why do you?”
“He set fire to my father’s lounge while the woman I love was inside. She almost died in there. I went in and dug her out from under the rubble.”
He regards me with renewed interest, a slight tilt to his head betraying his own curiosity. I know my candor has caught him off guard but I need a man like him to make this plan work. And if it comes at the cost of exposing my vulnerability, then so be it.
Ferrer says, “When do we start?”
W hen I get home it’s a quarter after seven and the house is quiet.
I head straight upstairs to shower and change but am surprised to see Dahlia standing in the dressing room wearing a cocktail dress with full makeup, as if ready to go out. Her head turns in my direction and upon seeing me, she quickly checks the time on her phone before releasing a sigh of relief.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Shit. Where did I put that thing?
I tap my pockets and eventually find it tucked into my blazer. Now I remember—it died an hour and a half ago and I couldn’t find the wire in the car to charge it.
“One of these days there’s going to be a real emergency and no one will be able to reach you. Even your grandfather is better with his phone than you are.”
I hate cellphones and the access they give us to other people. No one should be able to reach anyone twenty-four hours a day without limit or restriction. It’s just unnatural.
“Sorry.” I wander inside and watch as she secures a diamond earring in place. “Why are you all dressed up?”
Dahlia whips her head around. “That’s not funny.”
My lack of response draws a sound of distress from her lips.
“ Alex. The art show. ”
Oh my God.
She’s going to kill me.
“Please don’t tell me you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget,” I lie.
“You did!” she exclaims, suddenly flustered. “Alejandro, you promised!”
All summer there’s been an art exhibition on the other side of the city where a famous French photographer has been showcasing their work; a collection of shots taken all across Europe, in abandoned castles, exclusive palaces, and ancient villages. From my understanding, it’s supposed to be a rare glimpse into the continent’s architectural treasures, as it highlights some of the most exclusive, remote, and unknown destinations. An abbey lost deep in the Romanian countryside, an eight-hundred-year-old church on an oft forgotten Greek island, and a palace in Vienna that hasn’t been open to the public since before the World Wars.
The first six weeks of the showing were booked through within minutes on the website. By the time Dahlia finally made it through the queue, she was lucky to grab tickets for the event’s penultimate showing.
And that’s tonight.
“You shouldn’t be going anywhere with your foot like that.”
“Stop deflecting. I must’ve reminded you a hundred times this week.”
Did she? To be honest, I can’t remember. Most of my days are a blur. They all blend together into one massive memory that feels more like a dream than reality. Like stumbling through the recesses of your mind where different scenarios bleed into each other but they all make sense because deep down, you know it isn’t real.
I don’t have time to go tonight. Now that Ferrer is on board I need to meet with the mayor and get him to strongarm one of the judges on his blacklist into a favor. As a show of good faith, I’m going to get Ferrer a few hours of visitation with his son this weekend. Seeing as how it’s already late Thursday evening, I don’t have much time to make it happen.
First I need to shower and get out of these clothes. Hopefully hide the fact that there’s a splatter of blood on my right sleeve and get away without having to change my bandages this evening. Although, maybe the latter isn’t such a good idea. My palms have been burning since early this afternoon and the pain has only intensified since my meeting with Ferrer a few hours ago.
“I’m sure you did. I’m sorry but I can’t tonight. Something came up.” I remove my suit jacket and button down, rolling both up into a ball before tossing them into the laundry basket, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Why don’t you call Lettie? She’ll be happy to go with you.”
“That’s not the point.” She follows me into the bathroom. “We were supposed to go together. We haven’t gone on a date in ages; I hardly see you anymore.”
While the water runs, I stop in front of her, cupping her face between my hands and planting a brief kiss on her lips. “I know, I’m sorry. Really. But I can’t spare the time tonight. It’s important.”
“Everything is more important than me nowadays.”
I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “ Nothing is more important than you. Nothing.”
I hate disappointing her and when her eyes gloss over, I force myself to look away. She doesn’t leave the bathroom so I undress in front of her and turn the shower on. Before I step in, she says, “You can’t get those wet.”
I look over and she’s holding up a pair of plastic gloves. Sighing, I take them and pull them on, yearning for the day I can take all the bandages and ointments and hideous medical gloves out of the bathroom and throw them into a sacrificial fire.
After a while, Dahlia starts speaking, and I look over my shoulder, unable to hear her over the rushing water. The glass is foggy but I can still make out her silhouette, sitting on an ottoman across the room with her phone pressed against her ear. I only catch snippets of her conversation but it’s enough for me to know she’s talking to Lettie.
I turn the water off and when I open the shower door, she extends a towel to me, expression morose as she stares at her ugly black boot.
“Yeah…I’ll wait for you at home.” She pauses. “No, he’s here. Abandoning me to my fate.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Lettie’s much more fun than I am.”
Dahlia ignores me and continues her conversation with my sister, giving her instructions on what to wear, as she spent the night at Abuelo’s and won’t have time to change when she gets here. By the time Dahlia finds me in the dressing room, I’m already halfway dressed and struggling with the buttons on my shirt. She disappears into the bathroom again and returns a few minutes later with the brightly decorated basket she now keeps all the bandages and medicine in. I won’t lie and say it isn’t a relief when she cleans and redresses the wounds, the cool ointment working overtime to extinguish the heat burning in the centers of my palms. When she’s done, she buttons up my shirt and returns the basket to the bathroom in silence.
“I don’t know what time I’ll be back,” I say into the empty room, knowing my voice will carry over to wherever she is. “But I’m all yours tomorrow. I was thinking, why don’t we go somewhere for the weekend? Pack an overnight bag and see where we end up.”
She comes up beside me and as I pull on a clean suit jacket, she smooths her hands over my shoulders, flattening out any wrinkles. “Actually…I have a ton of studying to do.”
I crack a smile. “Studying? Let me guess, you’re trying to figure out how to repair a 19 th century lift by hand?”
“No,” she hedges carefully. “The semester starts next week. I want to get ahead of my reading.”
Dahlia’s on guard the moment I turn to face her. Before I can get a word out, she’s already frantically shaking her head.
“No…don’t do this to me?—”
“Why don’t we revisit this in the spring? Aside from the fact your boot isn’t coming off for another few weeks, I’d prefer it if you weren’t out all hours of the day.”
“You expect me to do nothing for another six months? I’m going crazy in this house all day.”
“The renovations are going well?—”
“That’s not enough!” she pleads helplessly. “Alex, I’m here, all alone, day in and day out. I don’t have any friends, Karina’s in New York, and you’re always working.”
There’s no easy way to do this. How do I explain the necessity of her safety without exposing the truth about the fire? How do I explain that this isn’t me pulling away but surviving in the only way I know how? This is the side of me she’s never seen before. Riddled with fear, panic, uncertainty. And more than anything else, anger.
It’s always there, simmering under the surface of my skin, tempting the thin restraints of my self-control within an inch of snapping. A time bomb ticks inside of me and seconds count down on a clock I cannot see. Eventually, the timer will stop and when it does, I’ll lose control. The temper my grandfather has always warned will be my undoing might finally succeed in extinguishing the last remnants of my humanity I’ve always fought so hard to preserve.
I can’t run the risk of her being on a campus full of hundreds of students, staff, and faculty I don’t know. I can’t run the risk of Sandro finding a way to hurt her again.
The answer is right there on the tip of my tongue, like a confession between me and my maker, but something stops me.
Dahlia’s lips purse and she spins away, snatching her purse and stomping out of the room as best she can in her boot. I think I hear a soft cry but it’s muffled by the sound of the door slamming shut.