been my version of hiding out in a crowd and, to be honest, it never made me feel entirely comfortable. Although I tried not to, I always found myself looking over my shoulder, or trying to be aware of every face, just in case there was one who might remember me from the old days. Once or twice I convinced myself that I recognised someone, and found myself taking evasive action.
Having decided on the quiet approach, I sneaked out of the hotel just after nine. My toe hadn’t got any better, but I could walk, after a fashion. I headed down towards Plaza Nueva, then along the Avenue of the Constitution towards the Cathedral of Sevilla.
Maybe I had the romantic thought that I might find sanctuary there; I can’t remember now. What I do recall is seeing the queues at the admissions desk (yes, in Sevilla you have to pay to get into a church), and realising that I was back at option one. So I turned my back on what they say is the biggest cathedral in Spain and looked around for a better idea.
Across the square, I saw a sign pointing to the entrance to the Real Alcázar, the royal palace. Surprisingly there was nobody waiting. I strolled across, paid my money and, after one last glance over my shoulder, stepped inside. There was hardly anyone there, just me and a few security people. The downside to that was that I had all their attention focused upon me, and in what I now recognise as my increasing paranoia, it dawned on me that they’d be bound to remember me if the police, or anyone else, decided to trawl the tourist spots in search of the suspicious woman who had been trying to gain entrance to Calle Alvarez Quintero forty-seven the day before.
Eventually I limped into an empty gallery, empty, that is, but for a display of wall tiles. (People go to Sevilla to look at wall tiles?) On the far side, there was an open door. I stepped through it and into a vast, spectacular garden. Trees towered on both sides of long pathways that seemed to be set out in a grid. Walls that seemed to be boundaries in fact divided sections with different themes. As I stepped into it, a jet of water arced from a pipe on my left into a pond below; Mercury’s Pool, I learned, when I was close enough to read the sign.
As I made my steady way towards its heart, I passed several gardeners, none of whom, I was delighted to see, displayed the slightest interest in me, or even looked my way. I began to relax, strolling around, exploring and enjoying my surroundings, in spite of everything that had happened, and was, perhaps, still to happen.
After half an hour, during which I had seen only a handful of visitors, I came upon a small arch, set against a wall, with a single seat beneath, placed before a water feature upon which a few ducks swam. I sat; the stone was cold beneath my bum, as the morning sun had still to reach the spot, but the weight was off my feet so I didn’t mind that. I had found the solitude I had been after in the middle of one of the busiest tourist cities in Europe.
I had brought my book with me. I dug it out of my bag and started to read, finding my way back into a story that made my situation seem nothing at all.
I had gone through four chapters and was starting the next when my mobile sounded in the pocket of my shorts. I took it out and looked at the number displayed: my own, in St Martí.
‘Adrienne?’ I began.
‘No, Mum, it’s me.’
My heart seemed to swell at the sound of his voice; at the same time I felt very lonely, and very far away. ‘Hello, Tom,’ I said. ‘Are you checking up on me?’
‘No, Mum.’ Even in those two words, I sensed from his tone that something was wrong. ‘I can’t find Auntie Ade,’ he continued.
‘What do you mean, love?’
‘She’s not here. I took Charlie for a walk, down along the beach path before it got busy with people. Auntie Ade said she’d make the breakfast, but when I got back there was nothing, and she’s not here. The cereal box is on the table, and the
Having decided on the quiet approach, I sneaked out of the hotel just after nine. My toe hadn’t got any better, but I could walk, after a fashion. I headed down towards Plaza Nueva, then along the Avenue of the Constitution towards the Cathedral of Sevilla.
Maybe I had the romantic thought that I might find sanctuary there; I can’t remember now. What I do recall is seeing the queues at the admissions desk (yes, in Sevilla you have to pay to get into a church), and realising that I was back at option one. So I turned my back on what they say is the biggest cathedral in Spain and looked around for a better idea.
Across the square, I saw a sign pointing to the entrance to the Real Alcázar, the royal palace. Surprisingly there was nobody waiting. I strolled across, paid my money and, after one last glance over my shoulder, stepped inside. There was hardly anyone there, just me and a few security people. The downside to that was that I had all their attention focused upon me, and in what I now recognise as my increasing paranoia, it dawned on me that they’d be bound to remember me if the police, or anyone else, decided to trawl the tourist spots in search of the suspicious woman who had been trying to gain entrance to Calle Alvarez Quintero forty-seven the day before.
Eventually I limped into an empty gallery, empty, that is, but for a display of wall tiles. (People go to Sevilla to look at wall tiles?) On the far side, there was an open door. I stepped through it and into a vast, spectacular garden. Trees towered on both sides of long pathways that seemed to be set out in a grid. Walls that seemed to be boundaries in fact divided sections with different themes. As I stepped into it, a jet of water arced from a pipe on my left into a pond below; Mercury’s Pool, I learned, when I was close enough to read the sign.
As I made my steady way towards its heart, I passed several gardeners, none of whom, I was delighted to see, displayed the slightest interest in me, or even looked my way. I began to relax, strolling around, exploring and enjoying my surroundings, in spite of everything that had happened, and was, perhaps, still to happen.
After half an hour, during which I had seen only a handful of visitors, I came upon a small arch, set against a wall, with a single seat beneath, placed before a water feature upon which a few ducks swam. I sat; the stone was cold beneath my bum, as the morning sun had still to reach the spot, but the weight was off my feet so I didn’t mind that. I had found the solitude I had been after in the middle of one of the busiest tourist cities in Europe.
I had brought my book with me. I dug it out of my bag and started to read, finding my way back into a story that made my situation seem nothing at all.
I had gone through four chapters and was starting the next when my mobile sounded in the pocket of my shorts. I took it out and looked at the number displayed: my own, in St Martí.
‘Adrienne?’ I began.
‘No, Mum, it’s me.’
My heart seemed to swell at the sound of his voice; at the same time I felt very lonely, and very far away. ‘Hello, Tom,’ I said. ‘Are you checking up on me?’
‘No, Mum.’ Even in those two words, I sensed from his tone that something was wrong. ‘I can’t find Auntie Ade,’ he continued.
‘What do you mean, love?’
‘She’s not here. I took Charlie for a walk, down along the beach path before it got busy with people. Auntie Ade said she’d make the breakfast, but when I got back there was nothing, and she’s not here. The cereal box is on the table, and the
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