Blood Wedding by P J Brooke

Anti-Terrorist Unit.’
    ‘Anti-Terrorist Unit? My. You’re just a slip of a girl. Could be dangerous, no?’
    ‘Could be. But most of my work is gathering intelligence.’
    ‘Well, make sure you don’t slide from anti-terrorist to anti-Muslim. Fine group of people, the Muslims. We owe them a lot here. They’re a bit puritanical for my taste . . . like your dreadful Scottish man, Max, what’s he called? Yes. John Knox. Anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good glass of wine is missing out on one of God’s great gifts. Good. The tortilla. Sure you won’t have some, Max?’
    ‘Absolutely sure.’
    ‘If you ate this, instead of hamburgers, you English would be healthier.’
    ‘Scottish, Jorge. Scottish.’
    ‘How do you find it, my dear?’
    ‘Er, tasty. Unusual.’
    ‘Let me tell you a story about it. This is served every year on the day of San Cecilio. One year our cook here was ill, and we had to call in the chef from the Parador, and he served us ham, peas and kidneys in the tortilla. The abbot, not me at the time, sent it back. So the cook said, “What’s wrong, father? I’ve made thousands of Sacromonte tortillas.” “Ah,” replied the abbot. “You’ve missed the main ingredients of the true Sacromonte tortilla.” Know what they are?’
    ‘No,’ replied Linda.
    The abbot bellowed with laughter. ‘Lamb’s brains and testicles’.
    Linda turned pale. ‘It’s great. Can you give me the recipe?’
    ‘Recipe? Sure. Well done, girl. You cook the brains and testicles in salted water, drain and brown in olive oil. Then you mash them to a paste. Got that?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘Beat the eggs, fry one layer of the eggs, add the paste, another layer of eggs, and when set, turn the tortilla. Eat. Enjoy. Extra dry sherry is essential.’
    ‘We’d better go,’ said Max. ‘You can never be sure what Jorge will get up to next.’
    ‘Max, come and see me soon for a good drink. Just got in some wonderful Malaga wine.’
    ‘Will do.’
    Linda was still a little pale. But General Concha’s daughter would not admit defeat. It was she who gave the abbot a big hug, and two loud kisses on each cheek.
    Once in the car, Max laughed. ‘I did warn you. You handled it well though. Congratulations. We’ll go to a great bar where the food is much safer. I’ll park the car in the police car park, and we can walk from there.’
    ‘Not that pious, is he?’
    ‘Oh, don’t be taken in by that act. He just believes we should enjoy all the things God has given us. But underneath it all he’s a bit of a saint really. The gypsies adore him, made him an honorary gypsy. You should see him when their procession arrives back at the Abadía during Holy Week. He’s in his element during the Flamenco Mass . . . then dances and drinks until dawn.’
    Max swore as a group of motorcyclists sped past him.
    ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Jorge. He spends most of his time helping illegal immigrants and rough sleepers. Started a campaign against under-age prostitution, and rescues a lot of the poor kids. When he takes on something he just won’t give up.’ Max smiled admiringly. ‘He’s never afraid to take on the rich and powerful. I reckon there are quite a few would like to see him out of the way. Did you know that of all the men in Europe, we Spanish men are the ones who most visit prostitutes?’
    ‘Doesn’t surprise me, one bit.’
    Max parked the car. Linda had recovered her colour. They entered the Bodega La Castañeda. A waiter came up.
    ‘Max, I’ve kept a table in the window for you.’
    ‘Thanks, Ramón. The Castañeda special, and a bottle of your best white Rioja, very cold.’
    ‘Okay, Max.’
    Max turned to Linda. ‘Ramón plays flamenco guitar when he’s not a waiter. Maybe not the best, but very good. We could go sometime when he plays in La Platería.’
    ‘Love to.’
    Ramón brought a wooden platter of smoked
bacalao
and tuna, fresh white anchovies, cheeses, olives, tomatoes, asparagus and artichokes. He returned a