The Sisterhood Read online

  “Señora? ¿qué puedo hacer para usted?” What can I do for you? He stood up at once, buttoning his collar hastily as if embarrassed she had caught him relaxing. He was as tall as Menina, heavy but fit, with an air of authority that was reassuring under the circumstances.

  She struggled to explain in Spanish. “Excuse me; I have to report a crime. I fell asleep in the square and my bag with my money and my passport was stolen. My bus left. My suitcase was on it…the men in the square were…pretty unpleasant.” She was hyperventilating and suddenly dizzy. “Could I sit down, please?”

  The policeman eyed her narrowly. He introduced himself as Captain Fernández Galán and to Menina’s surprise his polite expression altered to one of disapproval. He pulled a chair to his desk for her and said in English, “Please. You must fill out an informe del crimen.”

  She shrugged off her backpack and sat. He pushed what he had been reading so intently to one side, and sighed. Looking distracted, he checked several drawers before finding and retrieving a form. He put it and a pen down in front of her. “Can you read it?”

  Menina nodded.

  “English?”

  “Americana.”

  “Mrs.?”

  “No, señorita.”

  “Please, I speak English,” he said abruptly. “Fill out your name here,” he said, pointing to a box on the form. He frowned as she wrote “Menina Walker.” At least he wasn’t leering at her like the bus driver and men outside. She looked back down at the form, her lips moving as she read and reread the questions in Spanish. Still shaken by the encounter in the plaza, she found her mind had gone suddenly, totally blank. After a minute he pulled the form back impatiently. “Mees Walker, explain to me what happened and I fill it in. Otherwise we are here all night.”

  He sat down, clicked his pen, and wrote while Menina told him her age and what was in her bag. Her passport—no, she didn’t have the passport number—about six thousand euros in travelers checks, a thousand or so in cash, her return plane ticket, and a Visa card. She didn’t have the Visa number either. She explained about the tug on the back of her chair in the square and the running boy and then realizing her bus had gone.

  He gave her a look that said just how stupid he thought she was, and asked where was she going.

  “I was going to Madrid from Malaga, and the lady who sold me the ticket said to take the bus I was on, then change at the stop after Ronda, for the one to Madrid. The bus driver promised to tell me when to get off.”

  Nervously, she trailed to a halt midsentence. She could hear the men outside hammering something and shouting to each other. What was she going to do when it was time to leave the police station?

  “Place of birth?”

  She told him and he looked surprised. “Why did you say that you were American?”

  “I am. I was adopted.”

  “Occupation? No, don’t tell me, is it ‘model’ or ‘actress’?” he asked. Menina thought he sounded sarcastic.

  “I’m in college.”

  His heavy brows gave him a stern expression. “Mees Walker, in a few days, we have some tourists who come for the Semana Santa procession, but not many rich ones. We are just an old village in the mountains. At this time of year some British retired people and the Catholic tourists who want to see our religious festival in a few days come but”—he spread his hands expressively—“nothing is here for muchachas de la llamada.”

  “The what?”

  “Expensive girls—what is the English expression? The polite one, I think it is ‘call girls’—in southern Spain, for the yachts, the rich men. The most expensive ones can pass for convent girls. Like you, for example.”

  “What?”

  He slammed his hand on the desk. “Oh please, Mees Walker! I am a policeman—you cannot fool me. You think you are not obvious? Following the rich Arabs, the drug smugglers, the people who deal in arms, with their parties on the yachts where a beautiful girl is always welcome. But here in the mountains is mostly poor foreign workmen who find work at Easter to build the Semana Santa floats, because most men in the villages are away working or getting too old. Or maybe you have problem with the drugs and any men with even a little money will do. Though I admit, you do not look like you have a problem with the drugs. Yet.”

  Menina’s mouth dropped open. He had called her a prostitute? And a drug addict? She had been in the police station less than twenty minutes—what had she done to make such a terrible impression? “I’m not a…a…call girl,” she stammered. “Or a drug addict. I’ve never even seen a drug that I know of. I just want to go to Madrid to…”

  “Madrid? Is this the road to Madrid?” he interrupted and swept his hand toward the window and a view of the mountains.

  “How would I know? It’s my first time in Spain!”

  “I wish, Mees Walker, whatever you are, that you had not come here. Because now someone must take care of you, and I cannot because I am too busy.”

  I hate Spain, Menina thought bitterly. It had begun to dawn on her that she might be in more trouble than she thought. No one knew where she was. She didn’t know where she was. And if this horrible policeman thought she was a prostitute, then the men in the square must have come to the same conclusion. That would explain the hissing and the comments. She was so worried now that she hardly heard the captain asking her another question.

  “I said, why do you go to Madrid?”

  “I need to go to the Prado. I have to write about an artist for college…”

  “Picasso, I expect?”

  “Picasso? Of course not!” Mention a Spanish artist and people always said Picasso, but there were no Picassos at the Prado. Though it might be better not to say so.

  “Ah, so you think Picasso is not at the Prado?” The captain raised his eyebrows.

  “No the Picassos are at the Reina Sofia Museum!” Menina snapped. This man was not just rude, he was irritating. He probably knew perfectly well where the Picassos were! “The artist I’m studying is older, Tristan Mendoza, you won’t have heard of him, most people these days haven’t. He was a portrait painter—his only work is in the Prado. I have a medal with the same…”

  Menina knew she had gone on long enough. “Look, never mind, you don’t want to hear about all this. May I please use your phone to call my parents? I’ll reverse the charges of course, but they’ll be worried and my father can wire me some money and—”

  Captain Fernández Galán had gone quiet and was looking at the ceiling. “An old artist?” he asked, as if this was the strangest thing he’d ever heard.

  “Y-Y-Yes!” she stammered.

  “Hmmm.” Clearly he was trying to think of another sarcastic response. What a horrible, horrible man! It had been a long, hard day and Menina suddenly felt very tired and teary. She searched in her pockets for tissues but they were in her handbag. And that was gone. Gone! Everything was gone! She was an idiot, had messed up and she was frightened and, oh God, what was she going to do? She was unable to stop tears rolling down her cheeks, and swiped her sleeve across her eyes like a child.

  There was a light touch on her arm. “Please.” She raised her head to see the captain offering her a white cotton handkerchief. It even looked clean. She took it warily and muttered, “Thanks.” She wiped her eyes and nose, and thought the captain looked less irritated. More resigned. “Tristan Mendoza, eh? Was when? What did he paint?”

  “Oh—” Sniff. “Probably mid- to late sixteenth century.” Sniff. Did the man want an art history lesson? “Portraits. Women mostly. But he might have also—”

  “And you have really studied old paintings?”

  “Well, not every one ever painted,” Menina couldn’t resist retorting. “But yes, in college.”

  “OK. That is different. Is only one thing to do now.”

  “I know; let me make some phone calls please!”

  The captain shook his head, spread his hands and shrugged expressively. “Unfortunately I regret it is not possible to call anyone. I hav
e a cell phone but it is no use up here, no connection. And we have a few telephones in the village but the line is out of order—this often happens in Spain, especially in the mountains. Now is Semana Santa, and no one can fix until after Easter. No Internet, no e-mail, no phone. Believe me, that is a big problem for me too at the moment.”

  “OK, can you please give me a ride to somewhere with a working phone, someplace with a hotel? Then I’d be out of your way.” In her pocket she still had Professor Lennox’s card. Thank heavens. She would call Professor Lennox and beg her to get her out of this mess.

  He shook his head. “No, I am sorry, but I cannot leave the village for the time being. Not until after Easter. So, unfortunately, you must stay here till then.”

  This was a whole new problem. Semana Santa had only just begun. And it would be another week before she could let her parents know she was OK. They would be frantic. And where was she supposed to stay?

  He seemed to read her mind. “Is somewhere you can stay but I must take you up there myself.”

  “I can pay for a hotel when my father wires money,” she said, trying to regain some kind of control.

  Captain Fernández Galán shook his head and stood up. Now he looked faintly amused. “No wires here. No hotel either. But money is not necessary where I take you.”

  This was more worrying than anything he had said so far. But it was the policeman or the men in the square. She bent to struggle into her heavy backpack to find the captain had already reached down and picked it up and was holding the door open for her. Outside he strode away from the square, leading her up narrow winding streets between whitewashed houses. Aromas of onions and garlic frying in hot oil filled the chilly evening air. She heard women talking and the clatter of dishes. Normality. But hopes of a spare bed in one of these homes faded as they left the houses behind. The captain was leading her up a steep rise that had once been terraced. They followed a narrow path between some olive trees. In the distance, the last pink and orange glow of a spectacular sunset was fading behind the mountains. He stopped and pointed to the dark bulk of the ruined castle above them. “We are going there.”

  “Oh?” Menina looked for lights, some sign of habitation, but it looked deserted. And ominously dark at the end of the path. They reached an arched gate in the wall and stopped. It had two heavy, iron-bound wooden doors with a latticed hatch. Was it a prison? There was no sound but birds. How could she have been stupid enough to come to a totally deserted spot with a man convinced she was a prostitute? An armed man at that.

  “Where are we?” Menina asked warily, starting to back away. She was fit—she could outrun him, get back to the village. But what then? Would someone in one of those houses they had passed take her in?

  The captain seemed to sense her mood. “Do not be frightened. This is a convent, very old convent, maybe oldest in Spain. No one knows the real name; people call it Las Golondrinas because, listen, the golondrinas.”

  The captain pulled a rope and Menina jumped as a bell clanged loudly over their heads and disturbed the swallows who rose in a noisy, scolding crowd. “No one knows when the first nuns are here. But was before the Reconquista. It was a Moorish village, but when the Moors are in Spain, there are many Christians, many Jews. They must pay a special tax and not make trouble against the Moors, but is OK to be Christians and Jews. And nuns make no trouble. Once they go in, the nuns they never leave the convent. Tax is no problem either—convent was rich, and girls bring money when they come to be nuns. The girls, they come here as babies and they become nuns.

  “Oh that sounds…as babies? Why? How did they know they wanted to be nuns if they were babies?”

  “Was orphanage. They have no parents, maybe they have no choice. I don’t know.”

  He gave the bell another tug. “The nuns make medicines and cakes and sweets.” He pointed to the window covered by dark iron latticework. “They sell there, to pay the religious tax. And because it is very old, very holy convent, there were many pilgrims coming here, people sorry for their sins. There was a kind of hospital—sick people come, too, Muslim and Jewish sick people, nuns treat them as well as Christians, and an orphanage.”

  “Sounds busy.” Menina’s feet hurt and she was so tired by now she was ready to lie down and sleep under the olive trees. But what if the men in the plaza found her?

  “Yes, great ladies, queens even, they make the pilgrimage here because it is so old, so holy. In the chapel is a tomb of a princess from the north, from Leon, was Christian, who came here to be a nun in the time of the Moors, and behind the convent are caves in the mountain where nuns were buried, like the catacombs in Rome. But now”—he shrugged—“is not so important, no one comes. Is only a few old nuns. They still make sweets to sell to the tourists at Semana Santa. This does not make a lot of money. Nuns are very poor now, poor and old. Is hard for them. They get sick. People in the village still help, bring them food so they don’t starve, and wood for the fires but in winter is very cold.”

  He pointed up and Menina squinted in the dusk. She couldn’t see much. “Windows broken. Everything broken. They say it will close when the last nun dies. Terrible to think there will be one old woman all alone here, all the rest dead. Is many years ago, when I was a boy, a few pilgrims were still coming, but no more for a long time. But there are rooms where pilgrims and travelers could stay. Is why I bring you.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. No one’s answering the bell,” Menina said anxiously. She couldn’t decide whether it was better to take refuge inside such a creepy place away from the men in the square or whether there was no way she was setting foot in it. “Let’s not bother them.”

  “Don’t worry, nuns are there, only a little deaf. Always it is necessary to wait and ring for some time before they hear.” He rang the bell again. “Besides, it is good for them if a visitor knows about paintings.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the old convents, the old monasteries, like this one, they have paintings. If you stay here you can help, see if you think any paintings are worth money, so the nuns can sell. They could have heat, the sick ones have nurses and medicine, they can fix some broken things.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, but really, I’m no specialist. Look, I’m only in junior college! You need an expert.” She felt for the card in her pocket. “But there is an expert, a famous one, on our tour, Professor Lennox. She’s half Spanish. I think. And I could call her if I could just get to a phone,” Menina wheedled. How could there be absolutely no phones? “I have her cell phone number.”

  “But I told you, is no phones. No electricity even, here. But please, try. Is good if you find something, but if not, then you cannot. Don’t worry. Sor Teresa speaks a little English. She learned as a girl, so you can ask her.”

  No phone, now no electricity. Great! But he’d said please…

  Just then the latticed window opened from inside. A high-pitched old voice exclaimed, “Aha!” and demanded crossly to know who was ringing the bell, saying something about having no polvorónes at this hour.

  “Ah, Sor Teresa,” said Captain Fernández Galán, removing his cap and sounding suddenly polite and respectful. He wished the speaker good evening, called her “Tia”—aunt—and launched into an explanation in rapid Spanish. Menina caught enough to understand he was saying there was a nice American girl with him who had unfortunately been robbed and missed her bus, a very nice girl who needed a place to stay until after Easter and couldn’t she use one of the pilgrim’s rooms.

  The lattice slid closed and there was a sound of a bolt being drawn back, then the heavy wooden door was opened by a bent old woman in a nun’s habit, carrying a lantern. She muttered grumpily, “Deo gratias, Alejandro,” by way of greeting. She didn’t seem happy to see them. Something about them interrupting the evening vigil.

  The captain explained. Menina tried to follow, catching a word here and there—her name and the words “Madrid” and “Malaga” and “student.” He was getting aro
und to the paintings in the convent when Sor Teresa interrupted, as if she were scolding a small boy. Her thin old voice replied in staccato Spanish, something that sounded to Menina like no, they weren’t having another of his women…the last one had…going and coming at all hours…a great disturbance…shocking…cigarettes…short skirts. Menina heard her spit a word that sounded like “hippies.”

  Sor Teresa paused for breath and Captain Fernández Galán resumed his plea, apologized if the last girl behaved badly…on his parents’ grave he had never seen Menina before this afternoon. A nice girl.

  Menina was surprised to hear the captain defend her as a “nice girl.” An hour earlier he had called her a prostitute. And it sounded like the captain parked his girlfriends at the convent? How odd. But she needed a place to stay. Menina leaned forward to assure the nun in the best Spanish she could muster that she wasn’t a girlfriend or a hippie, she didn’t smoke, didn’t want to go anywhere, she wouldn’t cause any problems, please, please, let her stay until the next bus to Madrid. Sor Teresa stared at Menina as if she were looking straight through her, then opened the gate wider and, none too gently, grabbed Menina’s arm, and pulled her in.

  The captain was adding something again about showing Menina the convent’s pinturas and please could Sor Teresa speak English—but Sor Teresa ignored him, and began to swing the gate closed. He just managed to shove Menina’s backpack in before it slammed shut, snatching his hand back just in time.

  Sor Teresa bolted the gate and turned to Menina. “You stay,” she snapped in English, “inside convent. Not going out of the convent with mens! No mens.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” said Menina, wearily picking up her backpack. Nothing suited her better than no men. “Of course…sí…comprendo.”

  Sor Teresa made a “humpff” sound as if she didn’t believe it and hobbled ahead surprisingly fast, holding her lamp high. The lantern threw a bobbing pool of light around them, as she led Menina down one corridor after another. Menina saw broken floor tiles and closed doors, but beyond the light everything was pitch black and nobody else was about. There was a powerful smell of mildew and dust, and a mouse or something scampered past.