BETWEEN THE SHEETS #3
The boy was nodding, backing away into the dusty street.
I let him go, and went to struggle into the brassiere, and find my hat.
Hilde was deep in conversation with the decorator, Bouzid and Langham shut up in the study.
The thought of knocking on the door and hearing their voices cut off, knowing he was keeping secrets from me, was too much for my strained nerves.
Instead, I scrawled a note on a piece of brown paper and left it on the kitchen table.
Gone to tailor, back soon. A.
I walked the alleyways of the casbah, moving to the side to make way for a lady with two brimming buckets of water.
I tipped my hat to Hilde’s friend Mademoiselle Alisée, who sat outside the Café Central sipping Pernod with her florid gentleman.
I strolled freely, just a young man about his business, without worrying for my safety, without cringing at stares or catcalls; finally, I felt the streets were mine.
With a light heart, I pushed open Souissa’s door.
‘Hola, friend,’ I called, ‘I hear you are having some trouble—’
Something smashed into the back of my head, driving the sense from me. I staggered and tried to turn but hands were seizing my jacket, throwing me on to the dusty, pin-strewn floor.
My ears were ringing, eyes flooding, but still I heard the door being slammed and locked.
Panic shot through my body. I knew I should run, should shout or scream but I was winded, my lungs like useless scraps of cloth.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a boot, drawn back to strike and I closed my eyes in terror.
‘Enough,’ someone said.
One heave, two and my lungs filled at last. Gasping, I looked up.
Two eyes, yellow as a goat’s, stared back at me.
‘Hola, del Potro,’ said Cabrera.
He was sitting on the little tailor’s stool, elbows on his knees. Souissa was nowhere to be seen.
I struggled to hide my fear.
‘What do you want?’ I coughed, wiping my lips on my sleeve, trying to make my voice as gruff as possible. How much did he know?
Cabrera leaned back. ‘You were more courteous the other night. That food, by the way.’ He looked heavenward. ‘I haven’t eaten so well in years. It was like being back home, in Andalucía.’
He smiled, and a wave of fear escaped my control.
If Souissa had talked … I tried to look about me for some way to defend myself, some way to escape.
My knife. But I didn’t have it. Dar Portuna had made me forget the lessons I had learned so hard from Morales.
I felt something trickle on to my collar and reached up to find my scalp wet with blood.
It was Márquez who had hit me, I realized, looking up into the gloom, Márquez with his terrible breath.
‘Where’s the tailor?’ I demanded.
‘He is in the back.’ Cabrera was still watching me. ‘The new suit looks marvellous by the way.’
‘The bastard can keep it.’
‘Ah,’ Cabrera clucked his tongue. ‘Don’t blame Souissa for your own foolishness, chico.
’ He threw a piece of paper at me. I recognized it immediately; stationery from Langham’s writing case, covered with my own writing, ordering the white flannel suit.
‘You shouldn’t entrust such letters to street rats. ’
He must have been watching the house ever since he visited, I realized, waiting for an opportunity, like the one I had stupidly handed him.
‘Get on with it. What do you want?’ Despite my efforts, there was a tremor in my voice.
Cabrera shook his head at me. ‘I have to say I am impressed. Getting yourself employed by Langham like that. That took cojones.’ He looked deliberately at the crotch of my trousers. ‘Perhaps when all this is over, we can work together.’
‘I’d rather eat shit.’
A blow between my shoulder blades sent me sprawling again. This time it was Cabrera himself who pulled me to my knees.
‘Easy,’ he said to Márquez. ‘Not where it shows.’ He sat back and looked into my face. His smile was turning down at the edges. ‘Monsieur Langham and I have had a disagreement which needs to be resolved. He refuses to meet with me himself, so you are going to help me set up a little rendezvous.’
I stared at him, the blood pounding in my head.
‘No.’ I hated how my voice shook.
Cabrera leaned forwards. ‘You don’t have a choice, Alejandra.’
That name … There was nothing I could do to stop the horror that flooded across my face. How did he know?
‘It’s all right.’ Cabrera was still too close, I could smell his stale sweat, his pungent cologne.
‘Souissa’s given us all the details.’ He flicked a hand towards my chest and laughed when I recoiled.
‘I admit, I was surprised. I’d never have guessed.
You make a better man than you did a whore, I’ll wager. ’
He took a case of cigarettes from his pocket, and offered me one. I didn’t move. I was imagining smashing them into his face.
‘But you should’ve chosen a better name.
Del Potro. Anyone from Andalucía who moves in certain circles knows the Hostería.
’ He lit a cigarette. ‘It was all over the Spanish papers, you know, for a while. The Córdoban Murderess, the puta cook turned killer, vanished in the night, last seen heading south.’ He laughed out some smoke.
In that moment, I would have gladly become the murderer everyone said I was and taken a bottle to his throat.
‘All right,’ I spat. ‘Name your price.’
Cabrera smiled. ‘Good girl. Let’s talk business.’