Asturias (16 page)

31

BURNING BRIDGES

ALEX'S STORY

“My name is Donny Faalo. I've come for Marco.”

He just stood there on the doorstep, like he was picking his son up after a birthday party or something. I looked at him for a couple of seconds before answering.

“You've got the wrong house.”

But as I slammed the door, he shoved his boot into the doorway, jamming it open.

“Don't try getting smart, boy.” There was an edge to his voice, like ice, but I held his gaze. “I could snap you in half as soon as look at you.” Then he smiled. “But I don't need to. I'm Marco's … legal guardian. The court says so, and if you don't produce him, I can get an order. Or I can just call the cops and charge you with kidnapping.”

I stayed in control. Just.

“Are you after his money, or did you just run out of women to beat up on?”

The question wasn't what he'd expected, and it threw him a little. I pressed my slight advantage.

“Do you have the order?”

He hesitated, some of the cockiness fading slightly.

I waited for a moment longer.

“No? Then get your stinking foot out of my door and piss off. Or I'll call the cops. You're trespassing.”

I could see his brain turning that one over. Then the confidence returned.

“Okay. I'm patient. But I'll be back. Tell Marco his daddy says ‘Hello'.”

Then he was gone. I closed the door and turned back into the room. Marco was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Time for me to go.”

I shook my head. “You don't have to. We're not scared of —”

“It's not a matter of being scared, Alex. It's the law. I have to do this my way. I can't hide out from him. Not in my line of work. I just have to beat him at his own game. If I need any help, I'll call you. Promise. For now, I'm going home. To pick up some things.”

His mind was made up. I didn't know what he had planned, but something in the way he spoke made me think better of trying to talk him out of it.

“He's moving quickly.”

MacAllister opens the conversation before he reaches the seat which Symonds has indicated.

“He has custody of the kid sewn up, and his lawyers are challenging Mrs Faalo's competency to sign the original contract, citing drug-dependency and pain-induced mental instability as grounds
—”

“Will it hold water?” Symonds interrupts the lawyer impatiently.

“It could. She was on morphine long-term for the pain, and there have been cases of the chemo and radiation therapies having side-effects which
—”

“Bottom line! Can he have the original contract overturned?”

“Quite possibly.” The lawyer looks uncomfortable. “But we can fight it. Get witnesses as to her competency
—
doctors, friends
—”

“Forget it. We don't fight it. We let him get it overturned. If you can, get one of your juniors to make a couple of mistakes. Make it easy for him.”

“
But …” Symonds watches his legal adviser with amusement. The man is a fighter. The best. That is why he commands such exorbitant fees. What is being suggested is against every instinct. After a moment he continues, “How long do you think he could tie us up? First the incompetency claim, then an appeal if he loses. And if he doesn't, negotiations on a new contract. With something in it for Daddy — as personal manager, maybe? And on it goes. But he's made one huge mistake.”

MacAllister waits. He has seen Symonds at work before. The fat man pauses to sip from a glass of malt whiskey. He has offered the lawyer nothing.

“His whole strategy is based on the assumption that we
want
his son to stay. His only weapon is the threat that he'll pull the kid out if he doesn't get what he's after. But the only reason the kid's not back on the streets already is that we haven't been able to come up with a cheap way to break the contract. Right?”

A smile grows on the lawyer's thin face as the fat man's logic begins to bite, but he doesn't interrupt. Symonds is a master strategist, and it is always an education to watch him operate.

“Well,” Symonds goes on, downing the remainder of his drink and pouring another. “This … bozo has just given us the perfect out. We let him have the contract ruled invalid, make him think he's won round one, then just refuse all negotiations and get another drummer. No breach of contract suit, because there's no contract to breach. We're out, free and clean, and we can even hit the kid for the return of the twelve thousand dollars he was paid under the invalid contract for the first six months.”

Cold as ice …

The thought crosses MacAllister's mind, even as he nods his appreciation of the fat man's subtlety.

Even a shark has the courtesy to flash its dorsal fin before it attacks …

MAX'S STORY

At that point I called it quits.

You can keep selling your soul, telling yourself it's all for the best, that you can do more good on the inside than you can if you've been canned. But then you find yourself making more and more concessions, until you end up as guilty as the people you're trying to control.

It was bad enough with Tim.

I can still see his face as I broke the news. He did a good job of controlling his emotions, but I knew I was tearing his heart out, and there was nothing I could say to ease the pain of it.

I reached out to touch him, but he pulled away.

“I think you'd better leave,” he said. And they were the only words he spoke.

I watched him for a moment longer, then I did as I was told.

I guess I should have quit then, but it's hard to let go of the dream. There's an emptiness to deal with when you realise that it's all been for nothing.

Not nothing, I suppose. For twelve months they had it all. “Fame and fortune”. But it could have been, it
should
have been, so much more. And I should have been a part of it all.

Instead, I'd been turned into Symonds' chief executioner. He passed sentence and I carried it out, because I was too gutless to say no.

And he knew it. Or so he thought.

Maybe that, small as it was, was his only miscalculation.

Tim had disappeared. No one had seen him since he'd left Chrissie in a cloud of dust almost a week before, and everyone was worried sick.

Symonds had ordered the auditions for a new keyboard player, and like a wimp I arranged them.

Of course, none of the band turned up to watch. There would be no veto, this time, anyway. That aspect of the group's operations was finished. The fat man had made it perfectly clear who “owned” Asturias. Besides, they would have boycotted the whole process anyway.

Not that
my
heart was in it. If the bastard knew what was best for everyone, then he could damned well make the decision. I just laid down the audition tracks with Terry, and sent the hopefuls home with the usual “don't call us …” line.

I don't know why Symonds even let me in on his plans for Marco and his jerk-off father. I think he was just so pleased with himself that he wanted to rub it in.

There being nothing I could do about it anyway.

Well, there was
one
thing.

First, I tried to argue.

“What's the kid done wrong? He's worked his guts out, and he's part of the most successful project you've had since CTT sent you out here. But you're perfectly willing to ditch him because his father wants to cause waves. There has to be another way …”

“The decision's made, Max. Live with it.” There was that supercilious grin again. “You can work with me on this, or you can —”

“Or I can quit? Consider it done, you egotistical … toad!”

If you're going to bum your bridges, you might as well do it big-time.

“There's more to this business than the bottom line, and if you bothered to get your fat hands dirty sometime, you might see it.

“Maybe you've forgotten, but it's the music that counts in the end, not your bloody ego. And these kids are the ones who make it all happen. How do you know what'll happen, now you've stuffed around with the balance?”

He just smiled. “It's been done before. They'll adjust. There's too much at stake for them. We've kept the essential elements of the band, and they're not going to turn their backs on a million-dollar contract for the sake of a couple of kids who couldn't cut it. This is the real world, Max. Not everyone's as bleeding-heart ethical as you.”

“And not everyone's quite as big a sleaze as you. One day, Symonds, someone's going to surprise you. And I hope I'm there to see it.”

“But you won't be, Max, will you? You just quit. And be a good boy, will you? Close the door on the way out.”

For a moment I almost snapped.

I reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him to his feet.

But the look on his face stopped me. He was actually afraid of whatever he saw in my eyes. And that scared me. I pushed him back into his seat, and it almost tipped over from the impact. Then I picked up the heavy onyx paperweight from the desk, and raised it above my head in one hand.

He flinched as I moved, but at the last second I turned and hurled it with all my strength across the room. The window was toughened glass, but it cracked like a lightning bolt from top to bottom. The paperweight split in half and ricocheted off, scoring a direct hit on the vase of flowers that stood on a low table beside the lounge, shattering it, and pouring dirty water and flowers across the white carpet.

“Close your own damned door!”

I threw the words over my shoulder, as I left the office for the last time.

CHRISSIE'S STORY

He looked terrible.

I opened the door and he was standing there. He looked like he'd slept in his suit, and for once his hair wasn't combed.

“I've quit,” he said. Just like that. And he walked past me.

I closed the door and followed him inside. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn he'd been drinking. He was standing next to the fireplace, facing the wall. It was turning cold, but I hadn't needed to light a fire in it yet. Not that he would have noticed.

I spoke to his back.

“What do you mean ‘I've quit'?”

He turned and looked at me.

“I mean I called Symonds an egotistical toad and a sleaze, broke his window and his Armani vase … And quit.”

Then he sat down and told me everything.

“I've let you all down, and I don't know what to do about it.”

He had finished his account, and he sat with his hands between his knees and his head bowed. “I should have seen it coming. But I thought if I was there, I could —”

“Protect us? It's not your fault, Max. I just wish you hadn't —”

He looked up.

“Burnt my bridges? I couldn't have stayed, Chriss. Not after what he told me. I've gone that route, and it's impossible. There was nothing more I could do. If I'd stayed I'd have ended up doing everything he told me, just hoping I could limit the damage. Then there would be no hope for me at all. At least this way, I can start again.”

I sat down next to him. “And us?”

He looked at me, and a strange expression crossed his face.

“ ‘Us', the band, or ‘us', you and me?”

It was the first time he'd ever mentioned it directly, and it took me a little by surprise. I'd figured out how he felt ages ago, but somehow … I guess it had to do with mixing business and …

“The band can wait.”

I heard myself saying it, and I don't know which of us was the more surprised when I leaned over and kissed him.

32

LEAVING

CLAIRE'S STORY

“We are lucky, no one knows abou' us an' wha' we do in the Lorca group.”

Once you got off the personal stuff, Abuelito opened up. He was telling me about the aftermath of the war. How some people killed themselves, or hid in cellars for as long as thirty years, rather than fall into the hands of the Fascist government. How the prisons were full, and stayed that way for years, and how thousands of Republicans were killed, the executions taking place in the bull-rings and football stadiums. Or beside open pits in the country. Franco and his army were less than generous in victory.

Some people said that as many were killed in the “cleanup” after the war as died during the fighting. In some towns the tribunals and “war-crimes” investigations became an excuse to settle old scores, and to be accused was to be convicted.

But not in Consuegra.

Though no town in Spain had been untouched by the bloody war, Consuegra had survived intact, and the old neighbourhood loyalties had held fast. That fact alone seemed to make the old man proud.

But he had left Consuegra a little over a decade later, never to return, taking his wife and his baby daughter halfway across the world to start a new life in a new country.

“How did Juana feel about leaving?”

I had just managed to get the question out when Alex burst into the room.

“Trouble," he said. “We have to get over to Chrissie's. Like now!” He looked at Abuelito. “Will you be alright for a while?”

The old man just nodded. I think he was probably relieved to avoid having to talk about Juana. Since our discussion in the car a few days earlier, his dead wife seemed to be a topic he didn't want to discuss further. Even though I kept finding ways to bring her into the conversation.

We left the house running, and the old man watched us go from the lounge-room window.

How did Juana feel
…?

Should he tell the girl that it was Juana's idea? The move, the running away. The new start. That for her the ghosts refused to die. Or the guilt …

Manuel Moreno watches the car speed off, and starts to raise a hand, but the two young ones are already looking the other way, discussing whatever new crisis has come crashing into their life.

Time passes, and the young become old. How many of these crises will return to haunt them, when they are too old and weak to do anything about them?

His mind begins to drift.

Go to him,
she says, in a strangled whisper that still echoes across the years …

30 July 1939
Consuegra

“Go to him
…
Please.”

Her words are a stifled cry of pain, and he responds, stumbling from the room to follow his brother out to the back of the house.

Ardillo stands hunched over the pump in the garden. He has doused his head with water and is letting it drip down over his neck and shoulders. It soaks into his blue shirt like sweat, and he makes no effort to wipe it from his face.

“Ardillo?” The word comes hard, like a sharp stone lodged in his throat.

His brother turns, but there is no hatred in his eyes. No hint that the betrayal he has just witnessed has even taken place.

“Manuel, I have been meaning to tell you. I have to go away. There are some things that I must do, and it may take some time.”

“But
—”

“Please
hermano.
I must go. Don't try to talk me out of it. There are things you do not understand
…”

“What you saw …” He reaches out a hand, to place it on his brother's shoulder, expecting resistance, but Ardillo does not flinch. “Juana and I
…”

“It does not matter, Manuel. Nothing matters. That much I have learned. What was alive in me died with Francisco. And Juana, she is not made to love a dead man. She has too much life in her. If I could feel, it would have killed me to see what I have done to that spirit. But I cannot feel. I am empty. And so I must go.”

He looks towards the distant Sierra, and shades his eyes from the setting sun.

“Do one thing for me?” Manuel nods. “Say nothing to her until after I am gone. It will hurt her if she says goodbye, and I can show no pain.”

“It will hurt her more not to say it.”

“Do this for me, Manuel.” This time it is not a request. It is an order from the older brother to the younger. From the head of the house to the one who must obey. Again he nods assent.

“Look after her. She has so much to give. She is the strongest person I know, and she will love you like no one else can … And one last thing. My guitars. Keep them for me until I return.”

“You will return?”

What might once have been a smile touches Ardillo's lips, and then is gone.

“We all return, little brother. In the end.”

He places his good arm around his brother's shoulder and tightens his grip.

They stand together for a long time as the sun slips down the sky, for they both know that it will also be the last time
…

“You lied to me, Ardillo …”

The old man speaks the words aloud, as he feels the memory seep away. He opens his eyes and allows them to become accustomed to the dark room.

“You lied to me …”

“And what is truth?”

He hears the words, and turns. In the shadows of the dark room a figure has appeared, dressed in white, and barefoot.

“She loved you like no other could, did she not?”

“She never forgot
you,
though.”

“And you never forgot, either.” Slowly he walks into the faint light from the window. “Not anything important.”

“Is it really you?” The old man reaches out a hand to touch his brother's young face. The touch is cold.

“Or are you going mad?” Ardillo laughs, and the action lights his face. “Ask the boy.
He
never questioned it. But then, he was young. It is easy to have faith when you know no better. You did well with him, you and his father.”

The old man nods.

“Si,
we did well. We and the music.”

As he leans against the window-sill, Ardillo smiles.

“You got old, little brother …” A long pause, then, “Are you ready?”

“Now?” There is surprise in the question, but no fear, and the old man realises it. “I think I am. What is it like?”

“So impatient! Why don't you come and see?”

This time he reaches out both hands. The old man notes the action and returns the smile.

“Maybe I will.”

And he takes his brother's hands. This time, the touch is warm …

ALEX'S STORY

When we finally got home it was too late.

He was sitting in the chair, exactly where we'd left him, but he didn't wake when I shook his shoulder.

I think I knew before Claire checked the pulse in his neck, but I didn't want to believe it. With the whole thing falling down around our ears, Abuelito was the one constant for me.

And now he was gone.

I'd managed to stay calm and controlled through everything, but this was too much. I remember I sank to my knees beside the chair, and just stared up at him.

He looked so calm. There was no pain in that old face, and somehow that made it worse. Like he'd found a way to escape, and hadn't thought to stick around for my sake.

I know. It's stupid. I realised that, even while I was going through it. But knowing it's stupid doesn't stop you feeling what you feel.

There's nothing logical about grief.

Ask Marco …