Offering to the Storm

While talking to Padua, she had started to circle the house to escape the tiresome crunch of gravel outside the entrance. As she followed the line in the ground traced by rainwater dripping from the roof, she reached the corner at the back of the building where the eaves met. Sensing a movement behind her, she turned. The older woman from the photographs in the little girl’s bedroom was standing beside a tree in the garden, apparently talking to herself. As she gently tapped the tree trunk, she chanted a series of barely audible words that seemed to be addressed to some invisible presence. Amaia watched the old woman for a few seconds, until she looked up and saw her.

‘In the old days, we’d have buried her here,’ she said.

Amaia lowered her gaze to the trodden earth and the clear line traced by water falling from the eaves. She was unable to speak, assailed by images of her own family graveyard, the remains of a cot blanket poking out from the dark soil.

‘Kinder than leaving her all alone in a cemetery, or cremating her, which is what my granddaughter wants to do … The modern ways aren’t always the best. In the old days, we women weren’t told how we should do things; we may have done some things wrong, but we did others much better.’ The woman spoke to her in Spanish, although from the way she pronounced her ‘r’s, Amaia inferred that she usually spoke Basque. An old Baztán etxeko andrea, one of a generation of invincible women who had seen a whole century, and who still had the strength to get up every morning, scrape her hair into a bun, cook, and feed the animals; Amaia noticed the powdery traces of the millet the woman had been carrying in the pockets of her black apron, in the old tradition. ‘You do what has to be done.’

As the woman shuffled towards her in her green wellingtons, Amaia resisted the urge to go to her aid, sensing this might embarrass her. Instead she waited until the woman drew level, then extended her hand.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ she said, gesturing towards the open meadow.

‘To the bees.’

Amaia looked at her, puzzled.

Erliak, elriak

Gaur il da etxeko nausiya

Erliak, elriak

Eta bear da elizan argia fn1

Amaia recalled her aunt telling her that in Baztán, when someone died, the mistress of the house would go to where the hives were kept in the meadow and ask the bees to make more wax for the extra candles needed to illuminate the deceased during the wake and funeral. According to her aunt, the incantation would increase the bees’ production three-fold.

Touched by the woman’s gesture, Amaia imagined she could hear her Aunt Engrasi saying, ‘When all else fails, we return to the old traditions.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said.

Ignoring Amaia’s hand, the woman embraced her with surprising strength. After releasing her, she lowered her eyes to the ground, wiping her tears away with the pocket of the apron in which she had carried the chicken feed. Amaia – moved by the woman’s dignified courage, which had rekindled the lifelong admiration she’d felt towards that generation – maintained a respectful silence.

‘He didn’t do it,’ the woman said suddenly.

Trained to know when someone was about to unburden themselves, Amaia didn’t reply.

‘No one takes any notice of me because I’m an old woman, but I know who killed our little girl, and it wasn’t that foolish father of hers. All he cares about is cars, motorbikes and showing off. He loves money the way pigs love apples. I should know, I courted men like that in my youth. They would come to pick me up on motorbikes, or in cars, but I wasn’t taken in by all that nonsense. I wanted a real man …’

The old woman’s mind was starting to wander. Amaia steered her back to the present:

‘Do you know who killed her?’

‘Yes, I told them,’ she said, waving a hand towards the house. ‘But no one listens to me because I’m an old woman.’

‘I’m listening to you. Tell me who did this.’

‘It was Inguma – Inguma killed her,’ she declared emphatically.

‘Who is Inguma?’

The old woman’s grief was palpable as she gazed at Amaia.

‘That poor girl! Inguma is the demon that steals children’s souls while they sleep. Inguma slipped through the cracks, sat on her chest and took her soul.’

Amaia opened her mouth, confused, then closed it again, unsure what to say.

‘You think I’m spouting old wives’ tales,’ the woman said accusingly.

‘Not at all …’

‘In the annals of Baztán it says that Inguma awoke once and took away hundreds of children. The doctors called it whooping cough, but it was Inguma who came to rob their breath while they slept.’

Inés Ballarena appeared from around the side of the house.

‘Ama, what are you doing here? I told you I’d fed the chickens this morning.’ She clasped the old lady by the arm, addressing Amaia: ‘You must excuse my mother, she’s very old; what happened has upset her terribly.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Amaia. To her relief, at that moment a call came through on her mobile. She excused herself and moved away to a discreet distance to take the call.

‘Dr San Martín, have you finished already?’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘Actually, we’ve only just started.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve asked a colleague to help me on this occasion,’ he said, unable to disguise the catch in his voice, ‘but, I thought I’d let you know what we’ve found so far. The victim was suffocated with a soft object, such as a pillow or cushion. You saw the mark above the bridge of the nose; when you conduct your search, keep in mind the measurement I gave you. Forensics are currently examining a few soft, white fibres we found in the folds of the mouth, so that’ll give you some idea of the colour. We also found traces of saliva on her face, mostly belonging to the girl, but there is at least one other donor. It might have been left by a relative kissing her cheek …’

‘When will you be able to tell me more?’

‘In a few hours.’

Amaia ended the call and hurried after the two women. She caught up with them at the front door.

‘Inés, did you bathe your granddaughter before you put her to bed?’

‘Yes, the evening bath relaxed her, it made her sleepy,’ she said, stifling a sob.

Amaia thanked her, then ran up the stairs. ‘We’re looking for something soft and white,’ she said, bursting into the bedroom.

Montes lifted an evidence bag to show her.

‘Snow white,’ he declared, holding aloft the captive bear.

‘How did you …?’

‘From the smell,’ explained Jonan. ‘Then we noticed that the fur looked flattened …’

‘It smells?’ Amaia frowned; a dirty toy seemed incongruous in that room where everything had been carefully thought out down to the last detail.

‘It doesn’t just smell, it stinks,’ said Montes.

6

By the time she left the house, Amaia’s mobile showed three more missed calls from Ros. She’d resisted the temptation to return them, sensing that her sister’s unusual persistence might herald an awkward conversation, which she didn’t want her colleagues to witness. Only once she was in the privacy of her car did she make the call. Ros answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting with the phone in her hand.

‘Oh, Amaia, could you come over?’

‘Of course, what’s the matter, Ros?’

‘You’d better come and see for yourself.’

Amaia parked outside Mantecadas Salazar and made her way through the bakery, exchanging greetings with the employees she passed en route to the office at the back. Ros was standing in the doorway with her back to Amaia, blocking her view of the interior.

‘Ros, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

Ros spun round, ashen-faced. Amaia instantly understood why.

‘Well, well. The cavalry has arrived!’ Flora said by way of greeting.

Concealing her surprise, Amaia approached her eldest sister after giving Ros a peck on the cheek.

‘We weren’t expecting you, Flora. How are you?’

‘As well as anyone could be, under the circumstances …’

Amaia looked at her, puzzled.

‘Our mother met a horrible death a month ago – or am I the only one who cares?’ she said sarcastically.

Amaia flashed a grin at Ros. ‘Of course, Flora, the whole world knows how much more sensitive you are than everyone else,’ she retorted.

Flora responded to the jibe with a grimace, then planted herself behind the desk. Motionless in the doorway, arms hanging by her sides, Ros was the image of helplessness, save for her pursed lips and a glint of repressed rage in her eye.

‘Are you planning to stay long, Flora?’ asked Amaia. ‘I don’t suppose you have much free time with all your TV work.’

Flora adjusted the height of the chair then sat down behind the desk.

‘Yes, I’m extremely busy, but I thought I’d take a few days off,’ she said, rearranging a pile of papers on the desk.

Ros pressed her lips together even more tightly. Observing this, Flora added nonchalantly, ‘Actually, given the way things are, I may decide to stay on.’ She pushed the wastepaper basket towards the desk with her foot then swept up the brightly coloured post-it notes and ballpoint pens with tasselled toppers that clearly belonged to Ros and tossed them in.

‘Great,’ said Amaia. ‘I’m sure Auntie will be delighted to see you when you stop by later. But, Flora, in future, if you want to drop in at the bakery, let Ros know beforehand. She’s a busy woman now that she’s signed a contract with that big French supermarket chain – that deal you were forever chasing, remember? – so she hasn’t time to tidy up the mess you leave behind.’ She leaned over the wastepaper basket to retrieve Ros’s belongings and replace them on the desk.

‘The Martiniés,’ Flora hissed under her breath.

‘Oui,’ replied Amaia with a mischievous grin. She could tell from Flora’s expression that her barb had hit the mark.

‘I set the whole thing up,’ Flora huffed. ‘I did the research, I spent over a year making the necessary contacts.’

‘Yes, but Ros clinched the deal on their first meeting,’ replied Amaia gaily.

Flora stared at Ros, who avoided her gaze, walking over to the coffee machine and setting out some cups.

‘Do you want coffee?’ she said, almost in a whisper.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Amaia, eyes fixed on Flora.

‘No, thanks,’ said Flora. ‘I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your precious time,’ she added, rising from her seat. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I came here to arrange Ama’s funeral service.’

The remark took Amaia by surprise. The notion of a service had never entered her head.

‘But—’ she started to protest.

‘Yes, I know, it isn’t official, and we’d all like to believe that somehow she managed to scramble out of the river and is still alive, but the fact is, she probably didn’t,’ she said, staring straight at Amaia. ‘I’ve spoken to the magistrate in Pamplona in charge of the case, and he agrees that it’s a good idea to hold a service.’

‘You called Judge Markina?’

‘Actually, he called me. A charming man, incidentally.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But, what?’ demanded Flora.

‘Well …’ Amaia swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she spoke: ‘Until we find her body, we can’t be sure she’s dead.’

‘For God’s sake, Amaia! You saw the clothes they dragged out of the river. How could an old, crippled woman have survived that?’

‘I don’t know … In any case, she isn’t officially dead.’

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Ros broke in.

Amaia looked at her, astonished.

‘Yes, Amaia, I think we should turn the page. Holding a funeral for Ama’s soul will close this chapter once and for all.’

‘I can’t. I don’t believe she’s dead.’

‘For God’s sake, Amaia!’ cried Flora. ‘Where is she, then? Where the hell is she? She couldn’t possibly have escaped into the forest in the dead of night!’ She lowered her voice: ‘They dragged the river, Amaia. Our mother drowned, she’s dead.’

Amaia squeezed her eyes shut.

‘Flora, if you need any help with the arrangements, call me,’ said Ros calmly.

Without replying, Flora picked up her bag and strode to the door.

‘I’ll tell you the time and venue as soon as I’ve arranged everything.’

With Flora gone, the two sisters settled down to drink their coffee. The atmosphere in the office was like the aftermath of an electrical storm, both women waiting for the charged energy in the air to subside and for calm to be restored before speaking.

‘She’s dead, Amaia,’ Ros said at last.

‘I don’t know …’

‘You don’t know, or you haven’t accepted it yet?’

Amaia looked at her.

‘You’ve been running from Rosario all your life, you’ve become accustomed to living with that threat, with the knowledge that she is out there, that she is still out to harm you. But it’s over now, Amaia. It’s over. Ama is finally dead, and – God forgive me for saying so – but I’m not sorry. I know how much she made you suffer, what she almost did to Ibai, but I saw her coat with my own eyes: it was sodden with water. No one could have climbed out of that river alive in the middle of the night. Trust me, Amaia: she’s dead.’

Amaia parked her car opposite Aunt Engrasi’s house and sat for a while, enjoying the golden glow illuminating the windows from inside, as though at its heart a tiny sun or fire were perpetually burning. She gazed up at the overcast sky; night was falling, and although the lights had been on all day, it was only now that they shone in all their glory. She recalled how, as a child, she’d look forward to the occasions when her aunt would ask her to take the rubbish out because it meant she could steal away to the low wall down by the river. She’d sit there, entranced by the sight of the house all lit up, until her aunt began calling for her. Only then would she go inside, her hands and face burning with cold. The sensation of returning home was so intensely pleasurable that she turned it into a custom, a way of drawing out the joy of re-entering the house. She thought of it as a kind of Taoist ritual, one that she’d carried into adulthood, only abandoning the habit when she became a mother. She so longed to see Ibai that no sooner did she reach the door than she would rush inside, eager to touch her son, to kiss him. Tonight, rediscovering this secret, magical game, she reflected on the way she clung, to the point of obsession, to those rituals that had kept her sane through her traumatic childhood. Perhaps it was time for her to leave the past behind.

She climbed out of the car and made her way into the house.Without stopping to take off her coat, she entered the sitting room, where her aunt was clearing up after her game of cards with the Golden Girls. James was holding a book, distractedly, watching Ibai who was in his baby hammock on the sofa. Amaia sat down next to her husband and took his hand in hers.

‘I’m so sorry, things got complicated. I couldn’t get away.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said, without conviction, and leaned over to kiss her.

She slipped out of her coat and draped it over the back of the sofa, then gathered Ibai into her arms.

‘Ama’s been gone all day, and she missed you, did you miss me?’ she whispered, cradling the boy in her arms. He grabbed a strand of her hair, tugging it painfully. ‘I suppose you heard about what happened at the funeral parlour this morning,’ she said, looking up at her aunt.

‘Yes, the girls told us. It’s a terrible tragedy. I’ve known the family for years, they’re good people. Losing a young baby like that …’ Engrasi broke off to go to Ibai and tenderly stroke his head. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’

‘No wonder the father went mad with grief. I can’t imagine what I’d do,’ said James.

‘The investigation is ongoing, so I can’t comment – but that isn’t the only reason why I’m late. Clearly, she hasn’t been here, otherwise you’d have told me already.’

James and Engrasi looked at her, puzzled.

‘Flora is here in Elizondo. Ros was in a real state when she called me – apparently, the first thing Flora did was stop off at the bakery, just to wind her up. Then, when I arrived, she announced that she’d come to arrange a funeral service for Rosario.’

Engrasi stopped ferrying glasses back and forth, and looked at Amaia, concerned.

‘Well, I’ve never had much time for Flora, as you know, but I think it’s a great idea,’ said James.

‘How can you say that, James! We don’t even know for sure that she’s dead. To hold a funeral would be utterly absurd!’ exclaimed Engrasi.

‘I disagree. It’s been over a month since the river took Rosario—’

‘We don’t know that,’ Amaia broke in. ‘The fact that her coat was in the water doesn’t mean a thing. She could have thrown it in there to put us off the scent.’

‘To do what? Listen to yourself, Amaia. You’re talking about an old lady, wading across a flooded river in the dark during a storm. You’ve got to admit, that’s highly unlikely.’

Engrasi was standing between the poker table and the kitchen door, lips compressed, listening to them argue.

‘Highly unlikely? You didn’t see her, James. She walked out of that clinic, came to this house, stood where I am now and took our baby boy. She trudged for miles through the woods to get to the cave where she intended to offer him up as a sacrifice. That was no feeble old woman – she was determined and able. I know, I was there.’

‘It’s true, I wasn’t there,’ he replied tersely. ‘But if she’s still alive, where has she been all this time? Why hasn’t she turned up? Scores of people spent hours searching for her, they fished her coat out of the river – she must have drowned, Amaia. The Guardia Civil thinks so, the local police force thinks so, I spoke to Iriarte and he thinks so. Even your friend the magistrate agrees,’ he added pointedly. ‘The river swept her away.’

Ignoring his insinuations, Amaia shook her head and carried on rocking Ibai, who, disturbed by their raised voices, had started to cry.

‘I don’t care. I don’t believe it,’ she muttered.

‘That’s the problem, Amaia,’ snapped James. ‘This is all about you and what you believe. Have you ever stopped to think what your sisters might be feeling? Has it occurred to you that they could be suffering too, that they might need to walk away from this episode once and for all, and that what you believe or don’t believe isn’t the only thing that counts?’

Ros, who had just come in, was standing in the doorway looking alarmed.

‘Everyone knows you’ve suffered a lot, Amaia,’ James went on, ‘but this isn’t just about you. Stop for a moment and think about what other people need. I see nothing wrong with what your sister Flora is trying to do. In fact it might prove beneficial to everyone’s mental health, including mine, which is why I’ll be going to the funeral, and I hope you’ll come with me, this time.’

There was a note of reproach in his voice, and Amaia felt hurt, but above all shocked that James should bring up a subject she thought they’d resolved; it wasn’t like him. By now, Ibai was screaming at the top of his lungs, wriggling in her arms, upset by the tension in her body, her quickened breathing. She held him close, trying to calm him. Without saying a word, she went upstairs, ignoring Ros, who stood motionless in the doorway.

‘Amaia …’ Ros whispered to her sister as she brushed past.

James watched her leave the room then looked uneasily from Ros to Engrasi.

‘James—’ Engrasi started to say.

‘Please don’t, Auntie. Please, I beg you, don’t feed Amaia’s fears, or encourage her doubts. If anyone can help her turn the page, it’s you. I’ve never asked anything of you before, but I’m asking you now – because I’m losing her, I’m losing my wife,’ he said dejectedly, slumping back in his seat.

Amaia kept rocking Ibai until he stopped crying, then she lay down on the bed, placing him beside her so that she could enjoy her son’s bright eyes, his clumsy little hands touching her eyes, nose and mouth until gradually he fell asleep. Just as his mother’s tension had overwhelmed him earlier, she felt infected now by his placid calm.

Amaia realised how important the show at the Guggenheim had been for James; she understood why he was disappointed that she hadn’t gone with him. But they’d talked about this. If she had, Ibai would probably be dead. She knew that James understood, but understanding wasn’t the same as accepting. She heaved a sigh, and Ibai sighed too, as though echoing her. Touched, she leaned over to kiss him.

‘My darling boy,’ she whispered, marvelling at his perfect little features, enveloped by a mysterious calm she only experienced when she was with him, bewitching her with his scent of butter and biscuits, relaxing her muscles, drawing her gently into a deep sleep.

She realised she was dreaming, and that her fantasies were inspired by Ibai’s scent. She was at the bakery, long before it became the setting for her nightmares; her father, dressed in his white jacket, was flattening out puff pastry with a steel rolling pin, before it became a weapon. The squares of white dough gave off a creamy, buttery smell. Music drifted through the bakery from a small transistor radio her father kept on the top shelf. She didn’t recognise the song, yet, in her dream, the little girl who was her was mouthing some of the lyrics. She liked to be alone with her father, she liked to watch him work, while she danced about the marble counter, breathing in the odour she now realised was Ibai’s, but which back then came from the butter biscuits. She felt happy – in that way unique to little girls who are the apple of their father’s eye. She had almost forgotten how much he loved her, and remembering, even in a dream, made her feel happy once more. Round and round she spun, performing elegant pirouettes, her feet floating above the ground. But when she turned to smile at him, he had vanished. The kneading table was empty, no light penetrated the high windows. She must hurry, she must go home at once, or else her mother would become suspicious. ‘What are you doing here?’ All at once, the world became very small and dark, curving at the edges, until her dream landscape turned into a tunnel down which she was forced to walk; the short distance between her and the bakery door was transformed into a long, winding passageway at the end of which shone a small, bright light. Afterwards, there was nothing, the benign darkness blinded her, the blood drained from her head. ‘Bleeding doesn’t hurt, bleeding is peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away,’ Dupree had told her. ‘And the more you bleed the less you care.’ It’s true, I don’t care, the little girl thought. Amaia felt sad, because little girls shouldn’t accept death, but she also understood, and so, although it pained her, she left her alone. First she heard the panting, the quick gasps of eager anticipation. Then, without opening her eyes, she could sense her mother approaching, slowly, inexorably, hungry for her blood, her breath. Her little girl’s chest that scarcely contained enough oxygen to sustain the thread of consciousness that bound her to life. The presence, like a weight on her abdomen, crushed her lungs, which emptied like a pair of wheezing bellows, letting the air escape through her mouth, as the cruel, ravenous lips, covered her mouth, sucking out her last breath.

James entered the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down beside her on the bed, contemplating her for a moment, experiencing the pleasure of seeing someone who is truly exhausted sleep. He reached for the blanket lying at the foot of the bed, and drew it up to her waist. As he leaned over to kiss her, she opened startled unseeing eyes; when she saw it was him, she instantly relaxed, resting her head back on the pillow.

‘It’s okay, I was dreaming,’ she whispered, repeating the words, which, like an incantation, she had recited practically every night since she was a child. James sat down again. He watched Amaia in silence, until she gave a faint smile, then embraced her.