Canary Islands Mysteries Collection

Chapter 10

The room is dark, the weak light of dawn barely squeezing through the c****s in the shutters. Beside me, lying on her side and breathing steadily, Gloria sleeps. Under her arm is the toy rabbit Celestino"s favourite uncle gifted when she was born; once plump, furry and white, with ears all straight and true, now much-loved, one-eyed and grey, the ears droopy, fur thin from the wear of a tight hand.

My eyes feel puffy and I remember crying as I lay beside Gloria, small tears of frustration over her disappointing birthday party, which transmuted into a gush of anguish over the vicissitudes of my married life.

The wind has dropped and I can"t hear any rain. Still dressed in yesterday"s clothes, I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen. Angela, an early riser, is making coffee.

"Sleep well?" she says without turning around.

"Sort of."

I take up the chair at the table"s end. Hoping to hide the puffiness around my eyes, I direct my gaze at the window. Thin mats of cloud drift across the sky.

"I need to nip back to Haría. Check on the studio, and the house."

"At least eat something first."

Angela comes over and hands me a cup brimming with milky coffee. I feel her eyes on my face as I take it.

"Mum, can I leave Gloria with you?"

"It will be our pleasure," Bill says, entering the room in his brown check dressing gown.

I wrap my fingers around my cup, feeling the warmth penetrate my skin.

He hovers. "Try not to worry. There"s bound to be a reasonable explanation. Something to do with the storm."

I can find little reassurance in his words and when Angela sets down cereal and toast I can"t muster the will to eat.

The road glistens, puddles yet to evaporate on the stretches still in shadow. The narrow streets of Máguez are empty save for the odd car parked up hard against a whitewashed wall, but that is not strange. The village with its ancient, cuboid farmhouses, their shutters and doors the same shade of green, maintains quietude when the rest of the island swarms with activity the whole year round. Like Yé and Guinate, two tiny villages a few kilometres further north, here the tourists are few and they pass straight through.

I head south. Before long, the village gives way to open fields edged with low stone walls. Despite my eagerness to discover what has happened, I drive carefully up the steep rise that separates Máguez from Haría, avoiding the silt smears on the road. At the crest, the village of Haría begins, and I wend my way down more narrow streets, built for feet and the occasional cart, streets scarcely wide enough for two cars to pass.

Down in the village centre, I park outside the front yard gates of the old mill house, mounting the right wheels on the pavement. I have to wait for a slow stream of oncoming cars to go by before opening the driver"s side door.

Celestino"s old blue car is nowhere in sight.

Mine is a Renault, a white ex-rental hatch and I dislike driving it. When I moved to the island I hadn"t wanted a car. Right through my pregnancy I was determined to rely on Celestino and buses. Even now, I spend as little time as I can behind the wheel, having regretted buying the vehicle the very day I drove it home from Arrecife. I took the scenic route via Teguise and up over the mountain, Peñas del Chache, to find the vehicle losing power down the switchbacks to Haría. I had to freewheel much of the journey. The alternator had died.

I push the mill-house door half-expecting it to open, but it"s locked. I push again to make sure, thinking the rain might have caused the wood to swell, but it doesn"t budge.

The windows facing the street are shuttered, and the only access around the back is through the front yard gates, which are always padlocked. I knock and wait. Knock again. I can hear a faint echo inside. I press my ear to the door but hear nothing more.

"Celestino." I call as loudly as I dare, taking a quick glance up and down the street.

I knock and call again. No response. I do my best to quell the tension tightening my chest, reasoning away an image of him prostrate on his studio floor. People don"t get murdered in Haría. They just don"t. And he"s in good health. People don"t drop down dead in their late-thirties. It"s unheard of.

I return to the car and drive on a short way to the tiny church of San Juan, set in a swathe of tarmac at the convergence of several streets, making it easy to turn around and head back the way I came. The village looks as it does on any other day, aside from the moisture on the parts of the road still in shade. Closed in by dwellings and high, whitewashed walls, it"s impossible to assess the storm damage. It"s only when I pull up outside our home that I see that the barranco opposite, usually a dry stream bed, is wet and littered with debris, and part of the wall on its far side has collapsed. Storm water must have risen to the height of the road; silt fans out, drying as the day warms.

The street is still. No sign of Celestino"s car, but he usually parks in the garage round the back. Anticipation stirs in my belly. I"m across the street and out the front of our little old house in a second. I push my key in the lock and take a breath as I open the door.

The hallway is dark. I remove my sunglasses as I step inside. My eyes are slow to adjust to the dim. I almost trip over one of Gloria"s toys. I curse and shove whatever it is to one side, realising as I do that Celestino is almost certainly not here; the door to the patio is as I left it, closed.

I pull open the door and nudge a wedge of wood under its base.

The wind rustles the leaves of the tree in the patio centre. Rainwater brims in Celestino"s chunky pot plant saucers. On the far side of the patio, a canvas chair left out is half dry.

Foliage sparkles in a sudden burst of sunshine, shards of white brilliance. I wince and turn and squint, the morning sun too bright on the kitchen wall. I go in to find the room as I left it; uncommonly clean and tidy, with the dishes washed and left to drain, the pans put away, the bench tops clear of condiments; and the shelves above, cluttered with jars of this and that, arranged in some sort of order. On the small table set to one side of the room are three green placemats, Gloria"s plastic cup drained of its contents, and a few coloured pencils that belong in the tin on top of the small bookcase nearby. There is no indication that Celestino has been in the room since I left for Máguez yesterday. When I open the fridge, the level of milk and juice look about the same and there is no food to be taken, just a near empty jar of artichoke hearts, another of pimientos in oil, and a half-used bottle of passata.

I deposit my bag, sunglasses and keys on the table and check the bathroom, accessed via a short passage off the kitchen. Finding the room undisturbed—toilet seat down, shower curtain drawn back, lid on the toothpaste—I go and unlock the back door which opens into the garage. The absence of his car comes as no surprise—he drove to the studio and has clearly not returned home—but disappointment prickles anyway. The atmosphere of this new reality I find myself in feels surreal, as though I"ve entered a life belonging to someone else.

I lock the door and make my way through the kitchen and the patio to the main hallway. Gloria"s bedroom is on the right. It"s in its usual disarray, her toys strewn across the floor, bed covers crumpled in a heap in the middle of the mattress.

The door directly opposite leads to the two tower rooms: a small square living room, with main bedroom above. The wooden staircase set against the near wall renders the living room even smaller. There"s nothing noticeably different, no empty coffee cup, no open book lying face down, or any other evidence of Celestino"s recent presence. What did I expect?

I climb the stairs cautiously, a tread at a time, taking in the sharp creaks as each tread yields to my weight. This is the last room in the house, the only place Celestino could be if he"s here at all. I stop halfway and brace myself, forcing myself on, wanting to find him, craving the relief I would feel at the sight of him, and not wanting him here all at once, for if he is here, in what state will he be? Unconscious? Dead? Ridiculous thoughts, I tell myself, as I reach the last tread.

I don"t know how to feel when I see that our bedroom, like the rest of the house, is exactly as I left it. The bed made in a haphazard fashion, clothes dotted about on chairs, on the floor. It is impossible to tell if any of his are missing. The books on each of the bedside tables appear unchanged. I check the wardrobe and his chest of drawers. All look normal. I go to the window overlooking the patio at the rear of the property. No sign of Celestino"s car in the laneway.

Finally, I turn to his home office crammed into the far corner of his side of the room. The old wooden desk he borrowed from his studio in the mill house seems no different. The drawers are locked as anticipated. Glancing at a small pile of manila folders on the floor underneath I hesitate. Knowing how annoyed he"ll be if he discovers I"ve riffled through his papers, I leave them undisturbed. Besides, I doubt he would leave anything that private lying around. The desk top is empty save for his computer and, open atop his keyboard, the letter acknowledging receipt of his application to secure a commission of indigenous artworks for La Mareta, a stately home soon to be opened to the public.

With the letter in my hand, I sit down on the bed, my search of the house complete. I take in the DRAT letterhead, feel the weight of the paper. The letter is a harbinger of hope, our future salvation locked into its print. The winner will be announced in eight days. I can"t help feeling Celestino"s absence as a betrayal. As though he"s run away to escape the responsibilities that might lie ahead of him if he won. It"s a ridiculous thought but even as I dismiss it, my mind traipses back to the worst days of our marriage, to a time when my frustration over our hand-to-mouth existence peaked.

It was a few months ago, and the local newspapers were filled with coverage of La Mareta, the first articles detailing how generous King Felipe VI was in gifting the former royal residence to the island, journalists singing the praises of all the dignitaries concerned. I was reading one such article in the local paper when Celestino walked into the kitchen and dumped his satchel on the table.

"La Mareta, another example of Manrique"s genius," he read aloud over my shoulder.

"It"ll attract tourists in their thousands."

"Bah!"

I looked at him strangely. Surely even he could see how the island benefited from using Manrique as its emblem. Yet he wasn"t alone in his attitude. An editorial in the same edition went on to cite a growing sense of injustice in the hearts of activists and community groups in the island"s north. Yet again, the ordinary people were shut out.

The media now had another angle to cover and the following day the La Mareta coverage was front-page news. For weeks after, the complaining and campaigning and protesting went on. Celestino ignored it all. Whenever I broached the topic, he waved it away with one of his dismissive scoffs.

Yet the campaigning proved a success. An opportunity arose, one shrouded in controversy and debate, for another artist to display their work in one small section of the residence. When I read the news, I could scarcely contain my excitement. I hurried Gloria into her shoes and walked briskly to the studio to tell him.

"What"s up?" he said after I pushed open the studio door and stood panting. I"d carried Gloria for half the trip.

I proffered the newspaper folded open at the article and explained in hurried sentences. The criteria were strict. The artist must be native to the island and all artwork must be identifiably of authentic indigenous merit.

"It"s made for you, Celestino."

"It is?"

"You must apply. Surely you can see that."

He wore his intransigent face. Even as he turned back to the work on his easel, I urged and cajoled, pointing out that the commission would sustain us for months if not years, and it would establish Celestino"s reputation and give him the prestige he so needed.

"Paula! Stop it!"

I froze. I"d never heard him yell like that before. Defiance rose up in me and I folded my arms and tilted my head to the side and told him that once La Mareta opened, in all likelihood coachloads of tourists would stop coming every Saturday to marvel at the Manrique residence in Haría. Privately I knew they wouldn"t but Celestino hesitated and I knew I"d got through to him.

As much as he couldn"t help but admire the late César Manrique, he despised the way one solitary man claimed all the attention, albeit posthumously, leaving little room for any living artist to make their mark. He especially despised the way this harsh reality was ground into his soul on a daily basis by the trickle of tourists passing by our house on a post-Manrique ramble about the village. Even then, I spent several tense weeks wondering if he"d go through with a submission.

I place the letter back on his keyboard. One quick glance around and I head downstairs without a clue what to do next.

The coffee I drank for breakfast on an otherwise empty stomach has left a cloying taste in my mouth. I go and brush my teeth. Moments later, I"m hungry. Without a second thought I down the last of the orange juice in the fridge, straight from the carton. After the toothpaste, it tastes bitter. I throw the dregs down the sink, leave the carton on the bench, and fetch a glass from the highest shelf, far from Gloria"s reach. The flagon of water we store on the floor under the sink. It"s almost empty. I fill my glass and put the flagon on the bench beside the juice carton. As I swill my mouth I collect my thoughts. It"s possible, not likely but possible, that Celestino is still at the studio. I have a vague recollection of a spare key. But I"m standing right by the phone: the logical next step. I don"t want to alarm our friends or appear to be overreacting but given the situation, there seems no choice. Pedro is Celestino"s closest friend. I dial his number first.

Three rings and his wife picks up.

"¿Hola?"

"It"s Paula."

"Espera un momento," she says in carefully enunciated Spanish. There"s a long pause. I hear scuffles in the background and Kathy"s muffled admonishments. Three daughters, six and under—must be a handful by anybody"s measure.

"I"m sorry," she says, at last coming back to the phone, "but we couldn"t make it yesterday. The storm was crazy."

"That"s okay."

"How did it go?"

"No one made it."

"That"s no good. Poor Gloria."

"She"s fine. She didn"t seem to mind. My father kept her entertained."

"¡Ay, los abuelos!"

Did she really need to show off her Spanish like that?

"I have a present for Gloria. I"ll call in with it next time I"m up your way."

"No rush. Look, this might sound like an odd question but have you seen Celestino?"

"Celestino? Why?"

"He didn"t make it either."

"That is strange for him to miss such a special party."

"I know. I haven"t seen or heard from him since yesterday morning. He was finishing a painting and said he"d come later. But he never showed up. I"m worried, Kathy. I"m thinking of calling the police."

"The police? Calm down, Paula. Have you checked his studio?"

"I went there. It"s locked. I knocked but no one answered."

"Maybe try again. He might have gone up the street for some fresh air. You know what he"s like when he"s working on something."

"But…"

"He"d never put his art before his daughter," Kathy says as though finishing my sentence for me.

I can"t help wishing he would feel the same way about his wife.

"Don"t worry Paula. He"ll turn up." There is a brief moment of silence. Then, "I have to go. Pedro"s at the market and I said I"d join him with the girls. Aye …" her voice trails off as she attends to a commotion in the background. Then she comes back to the phone with, "We"re just heading out the door. Hasta luego."

"Bye, Kathy."

"Hey, maybe Celestino"s there too. I"ll have a look around."

"Would you? Thanks. Please call me if you find him."

"Of course." And she hangs up.

I have an almost identical phone conversation with Pilar.

"Something urgent must have come up," Pilar says in that reassuring tone people put on at times like this, a tone I"m already finding tedious.

"Then why hasn"t he phoned?"

"He probably ran out of battery."

I spy his phone charger plugged into the wall over by the kettle.

"I expect you"re right," I mutter.

"I better go. Miguel"s outside clearing up. We lost a section of wall."

"Is the house okay?"

"Sure. Thank goodness. And yours?"

"All good."

"Don"t worry, Paula."

"I"ll try not to."

Fernando hasn"t seen him either. He curates for a museum in Teguise, and is busy cleaning a new acquisition when I make the call. "He"ll turn up," he says, and abruptly rings off. The flippant tone of his voice seems dismissive. Yet perhaps he"s right. Perhaps they are all right, and I"m worrying about nothing.

I can"t think who else to call. Kathy and Pedro, Pilar and Miguel, and Fernando—they are Celestino"s only friends. Celestino, I discovered once I started living with him, is an intensely private man, maintaining his reserve with few exceptions. He interacts with his fellow villagers in a cordial manner, as though they are acquaintances; scarcely evident he"s known them all his life.

Standing alone in the kitchen of a house two hundred years old, situated in an ancient village on a narrow tongue of land barely three miles wide, I feel excluded; not only from aspects of Celestino"s life, but from the island I now call home. My reaction is strong, surprisingly strong, and I struggle to contain it. He appears to me now an absent presence. I sit down at the table, giving my mind the latitude it seems to want, as though through my recollections I"ll have much more success in manifesting the real man.

It was impossible to grasp when I first arrived how guarded the Lanzaroteños were when it comes to outsiders, especially in the relatively isolated villages of the north. The old ways are almost a distant memory, the island having long given itself up to tourism. Is a deep-seated resentment alive in the hearts of not just Celestino but many a local, especially the artists? Why shouldn"t it exist, fed by a knowledge of the perpetual injustices meted out against the people and their land? But it does nothing to alleviate how I feel, sitting in the kitchen with the phone in my hand. If I belonged, if I could enter the closed world of the locals, then I"d have a far better idea of what to do next. He might be inside the home of any resident of Haría, doing heaven knows what.

Then again, if I were in the islanders" shoes I"d maintain my privacy and do my best to ignore the foreigners in my midst. They"ve lost so much. Or am I romanticising? Gone the arduous tradition of farming to the mountaintops, yet gone too days spent amid those breathtakingly expansive views of land and sea. All sacrificed to the tourist dollar. Dollars lining the pockets of developers while the ordinary locals see little benefit in wages and conditions. Tourism in England is different. There"s so much else going on in the economy. It isn"t the be all and end all. Those, like Celestino—sensitive, creative, concerned—see in the development trend an enormous tragedy and they harbour a moiling discontent, one that sooner or later will erupt. It"s what drew me to him in the first place, his passion. For him, Manrique"s iconic sculptural tribute, Fecundidad, and the accompanying Museo del Campesino, constitute memorials, not venerations of a lifestyle still lived.

I"ve always known Celestino is staunch and outspoken when it comes to protecting the island"s interests. Although at first, I had no idea the extent of his passion, the lengths he would take to expose shady deals, especially when, as they invariably do, those deals impact adversely on the environment. Having worked in the tourism industry my whole adult life and seen first-hand the way the holiday mentality changes people into amoral pleasure seekers, I share his discontent. I have even started to help translate into English some of his reportage and exposés, which he posts on his anti-corruption blog under the pseudonym "Dana", after he pointed out that the mainstream media pump out pro-tourism p********a.

"Someone has to get the word out."

Yes, but why you?

I study the phone in my hand, run a finger over the buttons. What if Fernando is wrong and Celestino isn"t going to turn up? The thought that his disappearance has nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with his anti-corruption campaigns begins to insinuate itself into my mind. I should be looking for him but I"m strangely frozen. How dangerous is it to take his stance? I"ve often heard references to the island"s mafia but up until now I"ve never taken it all that seriously, despite the scandals. That an island so small, with a local population miniscule by global standards, could have the lucrative wherewithal to support the operations of the mafia has always seemed to me ludicrous. If the mafia does exist, it couldn"t compare to the real mafia of, say, Russia or Albania.

Only the once did I express this view to Celestino. I expressed it with a laugh, thinking how quaint, but my mirth fell away when I saw the outrage spread across my husband"s face. I"m embarrassed thinking about it. Have I underestimated the gravity of the island"s shady dealings all along? I"ve often wondered if his campaigns would put him in danger but he"s always reassured me that no one knows who Dana is. But any hacker with an ounce of know-how could discover the identity of a blogger. Celestino is being naïve. What would become of him if those corrupt officials did find out? I can only surmise it wouldn"t be pleasant.

The phone is still in my hand. I clasp it as if it alone will bring him back to me. But there is no one else to call.

Richard Parry pops into my mind and I despatch him immediately. An old acquaintance of Celestino"s after he purchased several of his large paintings, Richard is a temporary resident who uses his island home to compose his books. Since we married, Celestino has had little to do with the author. Richard no longer seeks him out on market days, and ever since he took offence at not having received an invitation to our wedding, things have been strained. He was at home in Bunton at the time, dealing with his irascible wife Trish, and we saw no point in posting an invitation. Once, I even saw Richard skirt the markets warily, and on another occasion, upon sighting Celestino"s stall he about faced and headed in the direction of his home. For an inexplicable reason, Richard chooses to hold Celestino responsible for what he conceives a personal snub, which allows him, conveniently perhaps, to remain on cordial terms with me. Although I suspect his animosity is due to the flop of Ico"s Promise, a book Richard hoped Celestino would help him research after his friend and local potter, Domingo, moved to Gran Canaria. His hopes were in vain. Whatever the reason for their strained relations, Richard will know nothing of Celestino"s whereabouts.

Ico"s PromiseI return the phone to the console. Hoping to locate the spare key to the mill house, I rummage through the bottom kitchen drawer. After some time shunting about tea towels, oven gloves, aprons, plastic bags, boxes of matches and candles, a roll of cling wrap, several cork screws and a never-used rolling pin gifted by my mother, I kneel down and extract the contents item by item, shaking and rattling until I find the key lodged in a small leather pouch. I shove everything back and close the drawer, ignoring the fingers of a rubber glove poking out.

Wasting no time, I thread the mill house key onto my keyring and leave the house.

Facing down the street I hesitate, thinking I might walk. But I might need my car; for what I can"t imagine, but I choose to drive instead.

Pulling up outside the mill house I feel subtly changed, as though the key in my hand represents a turning of much more than a lock.

I enter the vestibule half expecting to find Celestino emerging from his studio. I"m met with silence. Paying acute attention to things I normally take for granted, I notice the dirt and grime coating the tiled floor, the scrunched paper in the far corner, and a small bag of rubbish no one has had the presence of mind to take to the bin.

The vestibule leads to an internal patio; visible from where I stand is a stone staircase winding to the upper level. The balustrade is in good condition and looks freshly painted, but the steps are crumbling. Piles of rubble litter the paving at its base. I doubt anyone has ventured up those stairs in a long time.

"Celestino?"

I turn to my left and open the studio door.

A smell of fresh paint hangs in the air. At the flick of a light I see a new work on the easel. Celestino"s palette lies beside it on the long bench that lines the near wall. I go over. The paint splodges look dry. A single clean brush, separate from the others stored in old jars, rests next to a dirty rag. He must have stopped working on it sometime yesterday. There"s no sign of the commission for the Swedish doctor. Did he take the commission to his house? He must have done. What other explanation is there?

I step away and cast an eye around the room. Rows of paintings are stacked against the far wall. Motes hover in bands of sunlight filtering in through dilapidated shutters. Between the window and the door, another bench, wider but not as long, is covered in jars and tubs of tools, notebooks, art books, an assortment of acrylics and other paints. On the floor are old scraps of timber, a roll of chicken wire, two saw horses, and an array of power tools. Nowhere, not anywhere, do I see his phone.

I recall Kathy"s remark and know he didn"t just pop up the road. He"s vanished. I flick off the light and close the studio door.

"Celestino?"

The door opposite is kept locked. I try the handle but it won"t open. I head through to the patio and call again, directing my voice first up the stone stairs and then at the rooms out the back.

No answer.

He"ll answer. If he"s here, he"ll answer. Besides, as far as I know he never wanders about the building. Disappointed, I return to the vestibule and on outside, making sure to lock the door behind me.

Leaving the car safely parked with two wheels on the pavement, I cross Calle la Hoya and round the next corner, passing the small supermarket and entering the tree-lined plaza with its dense laurel leaf canopy. I stop outside the church to call my parents.

My father picks up.

"No news. Other than I can"t find him anywhere."

"Stay calm. Did you call his friends?"

"None of them have seen or heard from him."

"Where"s his car?"

"Not at home or the studio."

"There"ll be a perfectly reasonable explanation, Paula. Remember that."

"I hope so."

"What will you do next?"

"Ask around the plaza. Then I"ll come back I suppose. How"s Gloria?"

"Happy as Larry. Don"t fret."

I"m doing my best.

I hang up and slip my phone in my pocket. The plaza is quiet. Down at the other end, tables, arranged four-deep outside the two cafes, are mostly empty. I make for the second, the one on the corner, the only café Celestino will frequent.

La Cacharra is owned by the Bandala family, originally from Guinate. The Bandalas were fortunate enough to make sufficient pesetas from the sale of their land to the developer of the former Guinate Tropical Park—once home to thousands of exotic birds and other animals—to open a restaurant. La Cacharra has been a success from the start, not only having the best location in the village, but also the best chef. Tío Pepe prided himself on the finest roasted meats and authentic local stews—potajes, lentejas, estofados, or various kinds of stew to the uninitiated—building on the notoriety of old Inez of Calle Cruz de Ferrer, who for decades gave over her home to feed the locals.

The Bandalas make a significant contribution to the community. One Bandala or other can be found on the committees of all of Haría"s community groups, from sporting clubs and festivals to the arts. And they"re generous with their donations. But never, Celestino has it on good authority, when it comes to filling the coffers of unscrupulous mayors.

Antonio, son of old Tío Pepe, is wiping down the counter when I walk in. He"s spritely for his age, although his closely cropped beard is more grey than black, and in the few years I"ve been here he"s thickened at the waist, but nothing can detract from his ebullient charm. His face lights up when he sees me.

"Hola, Paula. ¿Como estas?"

I force a smile in return, wanting to tell him I"m fine, but I must have betrayed my concern as Antonio"s own face falls.

"¿Qué pasa?"

"¿Ha visto Celestino?" I say in my clunky Spanish, preparing to concentrate on his response.

"¿Hoy? No." He shakes his head and says in very clear Spanish, "Celestino no ha pasado por aquí."

Somehow, I didn"t think he"d been here. Even so, I can"t help asking, "¿Estás seguro?"

Antonio is certain. He"s been working since they opened that morning. He glances at his watch. Two hours ago.

I persist. Thinking about the dried paint in the studio, I"m more interested in yesterday. "¿Y ayer?" I ask, watching him closely.

"¿Ayer? Yo estaba trabajando todo el día mas o menos en la lluvia, y yo no lo vi."

I picture Antonio, shunting the chairs and tables under cover, then huddling under the canopy behind the al fresco servery, no doubt wondering why he bothered to open. If he was there all day, as he says, and Celestino did pass by, then he"d have seen him. And he hadn"t. Although he did caveat his remark with "more or less". If he went inside, out the back to the bathroom or to the kitchen, Celestino might have passed by, or even called in. Unlikely, unless he had a message for someone or he dropped something off or picked something up. A rendezvous. Something so brief it occurred without Antonio"s notice. I pull myself up. My thoughts are running off like headless chickens. And I can"t think of a single reason why Celestino would do such a thing. It"s too out of character. Besides, the other staff will have seen him, I only need inquire and I"ll know for certain. And Antonio will surely ask around. It"s human nature. Pre-empting the obvious I ask him who was working yesterday.

"Yo y Carmen."

Seeing my concern, he goes to the kitchen door and calls out. Moments later, Carmen rushes into the restaurant. A strapping woman in her twenties, Carmen is Antonio"s second daughter. She"s training to be a chef and, he hopes, will one day take over the restaurant. She prides herself on turning traditional cuisine into dishes favoured by the tourists and the locals alike. Since she"s taken over the kitchen, the café has outcompeted every other eatery in town.

"Estoy cocinando, Papa," she says reproachfully, her hands coated in flour.

"Carmen, espera. ¿Ha visto a Celestino?"

"¿Cuándo?"

"Hoy o ayer."

She hesitates, thinking back. Then she shrugs her shoulders and says, "No." She stares at me, puzzled. "Why?"

Antonio stands beside his daughter. "¿Sí, why?"

"Celestino ha desaparecido." Disappeared—it sounds even worse in Spanish. Maybe "disappeared" is the wrong word. I should have said "missing". He"s missing. It"s less dramatic, less emphatic, less ominous somehow. But it"s too late, the word is spoken.

Antonio and Carmen exchange glances.

I try to look nonchalant, then I smile and fob off my remark with quips and suppositions. Must have used a barranco as a waterslide and washed up on Graciosa. Probably busy helping some poor farmer clean out his goat shed after a mudslide. It"s no use. I"m suddenly acutely aware that my interrogation of the Bandalas means word will spread throughout the village, embellished no doubt with speculations on the state of our marriage, and told-you-so references to the time he spends away from his family at his studio. There"s nothing I can do to arrest that flow. I add somewhat lamely, "I can"t find him. I mean, no puedo encontralo."

Antonio gives me a sympathetic look. "¿Café?" he says, leading me to a table in the far corner. "Siéntese aquí." I sit with my back to the wall.

The café has an old and worn feel with tables and chairs of solid wood, a high counter displaying an array of tapas, and glass shelves lining the back bar, filled with bottles of spirits. The walls are covered in brown and blue patterned tiles. Three old men have taken up the table near the entrance. At the next table, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat of vivid red is reading a newspaper. Outside, a middle-aged couple are seated at one of the tables under the trees. An ordinary scene on an ordinary day, yet for me existing in a strange new reality, nothing looks as it did the day before.

Antonio comes over with my coffee and a small pastry. I reach for my purse but he raises his hand and walks away, his attention caught by a party of six entering the café, followed closely behind by two couples. He herds them all to the seating outside. "But it"s windy," I hear one of the women complain. "It"s better, it"s better," Antonio says in thickly accented English.

One of the men puts an affectionate arm around his partner"s waist and gives her a squeeze before she sits down. He takes up the chair opposite then reaches for her hand. Young love? Well, not so young. He has grey hair and she has to be over fifty. But their love has the fresh spontaneity of youth. Were Celestino and I ever like that? All lovey dovey and holding hands? In the days after we met he was kind and considerate and transparently in love, and in those first weeks after I moved to the island we were certainly close and Celestino attentive, yet his is not a demonstrable, ardent kind of love. What has grown between us is more a mellow affection born of respect and an enduring tolerance of each other"s differences. Even through the burden of Gloria"s quick arrival and the ensuing financial hardship—the sale of my house back in Ipswich paid out the mortgage and the estate agent"s fees, little more—our love was never in question. We don"t fight and, apart from that awful day when I confronted him over the La Mareta commission, rarely argue. But, there"s little togetherness. Gloria takes up most of my attention and Celestino spends most of his time at the studio or upstairs in his corner of our bedroom, immersed in his latest anti-corruption campaign.

There are days I crave his company, his undivided attention, but I"ve learned to bury the yearning in domestic and motherly routines. I keep telling myself I need an interest of my own, a fulfilling occupation of some kind, but I"ve no idea what that might be. I do my best to follow the issues associated with the island"s tourism but only at a distance. Almost all the in-depth material written on the history and culture of the island is in Spanish and not seeing any role for myself in terms of employment, my enthusiasm has waned. And I"m too full of Gloria"s needs to nurture any pursuits of my own.

I drink my coffee in a few large gulps and leave the pastry untouched. I"m about to stand when in walks my neighbour, Shirley, sashaying to the counter in a long-sleeved velour pantsuit of deep purple, a diamante clutch bag in hand. She has an assertive gait for her age—late sixties I surmise—her figure straight-backed and trim. She"s a whole head and shoulders shorter than me, and she dyes her short fine hair a smoky blonde. I"ve never seen her without one of those matching and garish earring and necklace sets adorning her personage. On this occasion, it"s a pearl and crystal choker with globular pendants. She"s an energetic woman too, the sort with somewhere to go, something to do, someone to meet. A busy body in the literal and metaphoric senses of the word. And despite her age and independent means, she works part-time for a local estate agent, work that suits her personality.

Shirley hasn"t noticed me seated in the back corner, and I decide not to attract her attention. Of all the people in the village, she"s the last person Celestino will have told of his whereabouts. I find her harmless but Celestino loathes her.

Once, as we were arriving home from a trip to Gran Canaria to show Celestino"s family the baby, Shirley pulled up in her Maserati right behind his car, coming to an abrupt stop a few inches from his rear bumper. I was standing on the pavement watching Celestino extract the baby carrier from the back seat. Alarm shot through me. I was about to say something when Shirley said, "Whoopsie daisy," and scurried across the road to her house, disappearing inside before Celestino had manoeuvred himself and Gloria out of the car. He was livid.

Inside the kitchen, I put Gloria, asleep in her carrier, on the floor by my feet. Celestino set about making coffee. It was then he told me the trouble Shirley had caused him after she came to Haría in the late 1990s. The trouble started a few years after her arrival, when he was in his early twenties and had just graduated in fine art, and with both parents recently deceased.

"Shirley claimed that the adjoining property boundary extended well into my backyard and that in fact, my shed was illegal and would have to be demolished." I caught his eye, pointed at Gloria and pressed my fingers to my lips. He lowered his voice. "She argued for months over the boundary, then came the lawyer"s letters and eventually the matter ended up in court. I had to represent myself."

"How did it go?"

"She won. The site plans for her property did in fact include half of my shed. And the plans for mine were so old and poorly drawn that it didn"t matter that the shed in question had existed in that spot for two hundred years. I had to demolish it and move twenty metres of dry stone wall." He stood with his back to the bench. "She was victorious."

"I can imagine."

"Steer clear of her, Paula. She"s dangerous by association. She won that boundary dispute because she was married to Juan Mobad."

The coffee burbled. He waited a moment before turning off the flame. Then he put two cups on the table and poured.

"He died, didn"t he?" I said, taking my cup.

"Good riddance. He was a property-developing shyster implicated in numerous scandals involving the island"s mafia."

"Shirley must miss him."

Celestino sat down in the chair opposite. "I"m sure she does. She blames me too. I never liked Mobad. After the boundary dispute, I worked doubly hard to expose his involvement in a corruption scandal."

"What did he do?"

"Money laundering. He was arrested during a wide scale anti-corruption sweep of the island."

"Did he stand trial?"

"The cases against the others involved were protracted. Before he was due to stand, Mobad was found at the bottom of El Risco, or rather, bits of him."

The way he said it seemed callous. Shirley has never recovered from his suicide. If it was in fact suicide. It"s impossible to tell. Fourteen kilometres of cliff, all of it remote, much inaccessible; if he"d been pushed, there"d have been no witnesses. After his death, Shirley became exceptionally extroverted, her days brimming with distractions. Once in a private moment she confided that if she didn"t keep busy she"d go off the rails.

I wanted to take Celestino"s side—I"m as opposed to corruption as the next person—but I felt sorry for Shirley. Behind Celestino"s back, I forged a cordial if secret friendship with my neighbour. Besides, we had something in common; having married local men placed us both in a cultural void. We were neither properly local nor properly expat. We were allies, despite the history between Shirley and Celestino. Although I was well aware he never wanted "that woman" to ever set foot in his house.

Later, as Gloria became a toddler and a handful, I would even, on occasion, ask Shirley to mind Gloria during her afternoon nap, while I dashed to the supermarket in the fishing village of Arrieta.

It"s a short drive and the supermarket favourably priced, and well stocked too, unlike those catering for a much smaller clientele in Haría. Grocery shopping is much easier without grabbing hands. I"m cautious never to let the childminding occur when Gloria is awake, in case she lets something slip to her father. Come to think of it, I"m amazed I take the risk and admonish myself over the deception, quickly justifying it to myself along the lines of "needs must".

Shirley is facing the window. The men, huddled together at the front table, burst into laughter. I shift my gaze. The woman in the red, wide-brimmed hat lowers her newspaper, revealing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. There is something furtive about her. I catch her eye and she quickly looks away.

While Shirley exchanges some loose change for the brown paper bag Antonio proffers, I think I might seize the opportunity and slip to the bathroom to escape her notice. But instead of turning towards the plaza, Shirley faces into the café.

"I thought I saw you there," she says loudly and marches over, pulling up a chair. Before she sits she plants a customary kiss in the air beside each of my cheeks and drops a large bunch of keys on the table. One of her earrings, an oversized faux silver hoop, snags on the collar of her velour top. She tilts her head to free it.

"Survive the storm up at Máguez?" she says, searching my face.

"The house is on a rise," I say lightly.

"Rotten luck it came on little Miss Gloria"s birthday. Was she awfully upset?"

"She had a ball, actually."

"People came then? In that weather?"

"No one came. My father kept her entertained."

"Good for him! I expect you all rallied. It"s what families do."

It"s a strange remark, as though Shirley is voicing envy when she"s always maintained she is childless and loving it.

"We did our best, given the circumstances," I say, not wanting to sound evasive or give her the impression family life is a joy, at the same time rueing that I"ve already revealed more than I wanted. We might be allies, but I strive to keep my guard in deference to Celestino.

I"m aware I"ve failed when Shirley says, "And what circumstances are those?" Quick off the mark, she adds, "I sense you mean more than just the weather."

I wring my hands in my lap. "Celestino didn"t show up," I say bluntly.

"To his own daughter"s birthday party! That"s outrageous."

"I"m sure he had good cause."

"That"s as may be but he should at least have made an appearance, come what may."

Noticing that the woman in the red hat has again lowered her newspaper and seems to be paying close attention to our exchange, I drop my voice.

"All I know is I can"t find him."

"You"ve been to the house and the studio, naturally."

"Yes."

"And you"ve tried his phone?"

"It"s dead." I shudder as I say it.

Shirley doesn"t seem to notice. "What time did you say he was due at your parents?"

I didn"t. "At two."

"Two o"clock? Hmm. I thought the party would have been much earlier. You left in the morning, I recall."

I had no idea I have a nosy neighbour. Or maybe Shirley just happened to have been by her front window at the time.

"Now I"m confused," Shirley says, leaning forward in her seat. I lean forward as well, preferring to keep the conversation away from curious ears. "I definitely saw him leave the house between one and two." She pauses. "Must have been about one thirty."

"You did?"

"I"m sure of it. Can"t miss the sound of that old bomb of his."

"Which way was he heading? Do you recall?"

"There"s only one way down our street, Paula."

"But did you see him turn left, or did he head straight into the village?" My thoughts are racing. Left means Máguez, and straight on means his studio, or on down to Arrieta. From there he could have gone anywhere south.

Shirley looks thoughtful. "Right," she says, nodding slowly. "Yes, he definitely turned right."

"Right? But that"s crazy."

Shirley sits back and shrugs. "I wouldn"t know."

"In that direction, he could only have been heading up the switchbacks to Teguise, or down to Tabayesco. Either route would have been a nightmare yesterday."

"Dangerous, true. It"s a wonder he didn"t get himself killed, but then again, he"s a local. Maybe he thinks he"s indestructible."

"Shirley," I say reproachfully.

"I"m sorry. I didn"t mean it. Look, he didn"t, or you would have heard by now."

"Even so. I should check the hospital." I should have thought to do that before.

"If it"ll put your mind at rest." She sounds vague. She eyes me appraisingly before she goes on. "I have to say you look dreadful, Paula. He"ll turn up. They always do."

"Who? Who always turns up?" I say with sudden irritation.

"Just a figure of speech." She furnishes me with a sympathetic smile, collects her bunch of keys and stands. "Pop round for a coffee later. You look like you could do with some company."

"I"m staying with my parents," I mutter. "While Celestino"s missing, I mean. They"re looking after Gloria."

"Bit melodramatic, don"t you think?"

"At least this way I only have to worry about one person, not two."

"Fair enough. Tomorrow then. Promise. You"ve got me worrying now."

I don"t believe her. I watch her swan out of the café and head off down the plaza. I remain seated, taking in her revelation. Celestino left the house at about one-thirty, she said. He should have been heading for Máguez but Shirley insisted she saw him driving towards the mountain. Why would he go in that direction and at that time? He wouldn"t have been heading to Mancha Blanca to deliver that painting to the Swedish doctor at one thirty, for he"d never have made it back to Máguez for Gloria"s party, so I suppose I can rule that scenario out. He might have been heading to Kathy and Pedro in Tabayesco, or to Pilar and Miguel in Los Valles, but both couples and their children were meant to be at the party. And both sensibly stayed home in that storm, when the switchbacks and the sweeping bends would have been treacherous. There could have been a landslide. If Celestino headed that way then maybe he was swept off the road and had hurtled down the mountainside, and now he lay broken in a heap at the bottom. Somewhere obscure where no one could see. A large clean up must be underway, the whole island was inundated. They could easily overlook a lone car half buried by silt, rocks and debris.

I grab my pastry, take a bite and return it to the plate. The woman in the red wide-brimmed hat stuffs her newspaper in her large handbag and stands abruptly. She seems young, early thirties maybe, although it"s hard to tell. She has on a polka dot, wasp-waisted, wiggle skirt and figure-hugging top, an outfit entirely incongruous with the setting. She belongs in a film. As she walks away her stiletto heels make sharp taps on the floor, faintly audible over the background noise.

Cautious without reason, I wait for the woman to disappear before I leave.

"Gracias, Antonio," I say, catching his eye on my way out.

I skirt a group of tourists dithering around one of the outdoor tables, and rush down the plaza, annoyed with myself for having left the car parked outside the studio, making a mental note not to do anything like it again, not under current circumstances.

I"m breathless when I reach it. I put the key in the lock with an unsteady hand.

Once seated I pause and make myself wait and catch my breath. The chances are I won"t find Celestino"s old bomb on its side halfway down the mountainside. I let a few cars pass before starting the car.

Heading for the mountain I take the first right and wend up Calle las Eras, past rows of old farmhouses, some freshly renovated, others old, dilapidated, crumbling. And small black fields, cultivated with maize and potatoes. The sight of the land in use instils in my frazzled mind a moment of normalcy. Further on, and the farmhouses give way to low walls, rendered white. On the high side, a newer-style farmhouse is set amid large cultivated fields, the picón w**d-free. It all looks so cared for.

At the next intersection, I turn left and head up and out of the village. Rows of canary palms flank the road for a stretch. Then the road makes its steady incline up towards Peñas del Chache. Here and there picón and silt have spilled onto the tarmac. Otherwise there"s little evidence of yesterday"s storm. I slow, careful, keeping an eye out for rockfalls on the road ahead, snatching glances at the fields on the low side beside me, just in case, wishing I had a passenger, a second pair of eyes, ones that didn"t need to watch the road. I slow even further when I reach the turnoff to Tabayesco, unsure which route I should take first.

I carry straight on towards the mountain. The terrain on the lower slopes is a carpet of green, sprinkled with the pretty pinks, yellows, blues and whites of the wild flowers in springtime bloom. The undamaged crash barriers indicate no one has recently tumbled to their death. In places where the crash barriers are absent, I slip gear down to second and crane my neck, ignoring the car on my tail.

At the first switchback, at the sight of a small rockfall in the cutting, I brake and change down to first, crawling round the curve in case I meet oncoming traffic. In my rear vision mirror I catch the driver in the car behind gesticulating. I ignore him and approach each switchback in the same manner.

My zigzag journey up the mountainside proves uneventful. There"s little debris on the road and the crash barriers are all intact.

I pull into the car park of the restaurant Los Helechos, perching on the crest just after the last switchback. The car behind me roars up the road ahead.

The restaurant is closed. The location, one of numerous island lookouts, is especially magnificent for its view of the crags and deep gullies nearby and of the massif and the volcanoes that are the restaurant"s namesake. From here I have an almost aerial view of the valle de Temisa, with the tiny village of Tabayesco in the distance. I go over to the railing and look down, scanning below. Nothing.

The last time I stood in this spot was on my wedding day. I was so heavily pregnant we couldn"t risk a picnic at bosquecillo, the little wood tucked in the folds of the mountain beside the cliff edge with its panoramic ocean views. Instead, we drove up here for photos and I threw my bouquet into the wind. That day I became Paula Diaz, witnessed only by our few friends, a special day in anyone"s life, momentous, and I was ecstatic. Only, we announced the event to our respective families after the fact, ostensibly to avoid a fuss. We agreed it was for the best, but ever since I"ve harboured secret feelings of rejection, as though as far as his family are concerned, I"m the estranjera who carried his child out of wedlock.

Fluffy clouds, low lying, scud by. The wind is strong, stronger up high. I face into it, letting my hair fly from my face, letting that indifferent wind blow away my memories.

I walk back to my car, realising it would be ridiculous to drive on. If Celestino had been in a car accident, someone would have found him by now. It"s hard on this island to disappear. There are few secret clefts and crevices. No dense undergrowth or thick forest. Only the caves and they are inhospitable. Besides, I haven"t eaten save for that one bite of pastry and my stomach aches from hunger.

Alone and wretched, as though I"ve reached the end of my search and face into a void, the passion that I haven"t felt for my man in years wells up in me.

I pull out of the car park heading for Máguez, staying in low gears on the descent to save driving down on the brake. Fifteen minutes and I"m opening my parents" front door.

Angela rushes forward as soon as she sees me.

"Any news?"

"I … I need to…" I can"t finish my sentence. Instead, I go straight through to the kitchen to the phone. I pick up the receiver then put it back in the cradle. "Can I have your phone book?" Angela fetches it and I locate the number I want.

I have to wade through the options menu and then I"m left on hold for what seems like an age. At last a woman answers and I put my query. Another wait and finally the woman says in an authoritative voice that no Celestino Diaz has been admitted in the last two days. She hangs up.

I stare in disbelief at the handset. Perhaps the hospital is swamped with admissions, although I doubt that straight away. It isn"t, it couldn"t be, because of my accent. I tell myself at least he hasn"t come to harm. Or at least it"s a little easier to assume he hasn"t come to harm. How many hours have passed since Kathy"s insinuation that I was overreacting when I mentioned calling the police? Not many. Not nearly enough for them to take me seriously. It"s less than twenty-four hours since Celestino disappeared. Or apparently disappeared. A grown man. They would be right to dismiss my inquiry.

"I ought to be getting Gloria home."

"I"ll fetch her." She goes out to the patio.

Moments later Bill appears with Gloria on his hip. He lets her slide down to the floor. Taking a discerning look at me he says, "Might be best if you spend another night with us."

"What if Celestino comes back?"

"If he does, and he finds you not there, then he"ll phone here. He"s bound to. If you go back you"ll never settle. You"ll be jumping at every noise."

"I don"t want to be a burden."

"You will be if you leave, it seems," Angela says, "to yourself, I mean. Anyway, your father has set up the cubby house on the patio. He"s teaching Gloria to count to twenty."

"Ten."

"Twenty."

"She"s one smart little girl," Bill says. "Takes after her …"

"Don"t."

But I relent. The company will make the time pass. Give me a chance to pull myself together. For I"m overreacting, surely? And this reaction isn"t helping anyone. It won"t influence the outcome whatever that turns out to be.

My self-talk proves of small comfort.