5. Haría-5
1367 Words
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.
- Writer
