about you?’
‘I had some interesting conversations with a couple of estate agents and I had a session with Alicia.’
‘How's that going?’
‘I'm nearly sane,’ she said, smiling, blue eyes widening hysterically. ‘Only another year to go.’
They laughed.
‘I saw Esteban Calderón today.’
‘I'm not as nuts as he is,’ said Consuelo.
‘The prison governor called me on the way up to Madrid to say he'd put in a request to see Alicia.’
‘I don't know if even she could sort out his madness,’ said Consuelo.
‘That was the first time I'd seen him since it happened,’ said Falcón. ‘He didn't look good.’
‘If what he's got in his mind has started to come out in his face, he should be looking terrible,’ she said.
‘Are you moving?’ he asked.
‘Moving?’
‘The estate agents,’ said Falcón. ‘You're not bored of Santa Clara already?’
‘My business expansion plans.’
‘Seville not big enough for all your ideas?’
‘Maybe not, but how about Madrid or Valencia? What do you think?’
‘Will you still talk to me when you've been photographed by Hola?’ he said. ‘Consuelo Jiménez in her glorious home, surrounded by her beautiful children.’
‘And my lover … the cop?’ she said, looking at him sadly. ‘I might have to let you go unless you learn how to sail a yacht.’
That was the first time she'd called him her lover and she knew it. He finished his beer, took her empty glass and put them on a ledge. She took his arm and they walked across the square to the restaurant.
They knew her in the restaurant, which despite its Arabic name had a neo-classical feel to it – all pillars and marble and strong white nappery, with no such thing as a round plate. The chef came out to greet her and two glasses of cava, on the house, arrived at their table. There was a lull in the restaurant hubbub as the other diners looked at them, recognized their faces from distant scandalous news stories; moments later they were forgotten and the cacophony resumed. Consuelo ordered for both of them. He liked it when she took over. They drank the cava. He wished they were at home and he could lean over and kiss her throat. They talked about the future, which was a good sign.
The starter arrived. Three tapas on an oblong plate: a tiny filo pastry money bag containing soft goat's cheese, a crisp toast of duck liver set in sticky sweet quince jam, and a shot-glass of white garlic and almond soup with an orb of melon ice cream floating at the top and flakes of wind-dried tuna nestling in the bottom. Each one went off in his mouth like a firecracker.
‘This is oral sex,’ said Consuelo.
Plates were removed with their empty flutes. A bottle of 2004 Pesquera from the Ribeiro del Duero was opened, decanted and glasses filled with the dark red wine. They talked about the impossibility of going back to live in Madrid after the lotus life of Seville.
She'd ordered him duck breast, which was presented in a fan with a mound of couscous. Consuelo had the sea bass with crisp silver skin in a delicate white sauce. He felt her calf rub against his and they decided to forgo the dessert and get a taxi instead.
They practically lay down in the back and he kissed her neck as the street lights flashed overhead and the young people outside made their moves from the bars to the clubs. The lights were still on at her neighbour's house and the daughter let them in. Falcón lifted Darío from the bed. He was fast asleep.
As they walked across to Consuelo's house the boy came awake.
‘Hola , Javi,’ he said sleepily and thumped his blond head into Falcón's chest and left it there, as if he was listening to his heart. The trust nearly broke Falcón apart. They went upstairs where he poured the boy into his bed. Darío's eyelids fluttered against the weight of sleep.
‘Football tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘You promised.’
‘Penalty shoot-out,’ said Falcón, pulling up the bedclothes, kissing him on the forehead.
‘Goodnight,
‘I had some interesting conversations with a couple of estate agents and I had a session with Alicia.’
‘How's that going?’
‘I'm nearly sane,’ she said, smiling, blue eyes widening hysterically. ‘Only another year to go.’
They laughed.
‘I saw Esteban Calderón today.’
‘I'm not as nuts as he is,’ said Consuelo.
‘The prison governor called me on the way up to Madrid to say he'd put in a request to see Alicia.’
‘I don't know if even she could sort out his madness,’ said Consuelo.
‘That was the first time I'd seen him since it happened,’ said Falcón. ‘He didn't look good.’
‘If what he's got in his mind has started to come out in his face, he should be looking terrible,’ she said.
‘Are you moving?’ he asked.
‘Moving?’
‘The estate agents,’ said Falcón. ‘You're not bored of Santa Clara already?’
‘My business expansion plans.’
‘Seville not big enough for all your ideas?’
‘Maybe not, but how about Madrid or Valencia? What do you think?’
‘Will you still talk to me when you've been photographed by Hola?’ he said. ‘Consuelo Jiménez in her glorious home, surrounded by her beautiful children.’
‘And my lover … the cop?’ she said, looking at him sadly. ‘I might have to let you go unless you learn how to sail a yacht.’
That was the first time she'd called him her lover and she knew it. He finished his beer, took her empty glass and put them on a ledge. She took his arm and they walked across the square to the restaurant.
They knew her in the restaurant, which despite its Arabic name had a neo-classical feel to it – all pillars and marble and strong white nappery, with no such thing as a round plate. The chef came out to greet her and two glasses of cava, on the house, arrived at their table. There was a lull in the restaurant hubbub as the other diners looked at them, recognized their faces from distant scandalous news stories; moments later they were forgotten and the cacophony resumed. Consuelo ordered for both of them. He liked it when she took over. They drank the cava. He wished they were at home and he could lean over and kiss her throat. They talked about the future, which was a good sign.
The starter arrived. Three tapas on an oblong plate: a tiny filo pastry money bag containing soft goat's cheese, a crisp toast of duck liver set in sticky sweet quince jam, and a shot-glass of white garlic and almond soup with an orb of melon ice cream floating at the top and flakes of wind-dried tuna nestling in the bottom. Each one went off in his mouth like a firecracker.
‘This is oral sex,’ said Consuelo.
Plates were removed with their empty flutes. A bottle of 2004 Pesquera from the Ribeiro del Duero was opened, decanted and glasses filled with the dark red wine. They talked about the impossibility of going back to live in Madrid after the lotus life of Seville.
She'd ordered him duck breast, which was presented in a fan with a mound of couscous. Consuelo had the sea bass with crisp silver skin in a delicate white sauce. He felt her calf rub against his and they decided to forgo the dessert and get a taxi instead.
They practically lay down in the back and he kissed her neck as the street lights flashed overhead and the young people outside made their moves from the bars to the clubs. The lights were still on at her neighbour's house and the daughter let them in. Falcón lifted Darío from the bed. He was fast asleep.
As they walked across to Consuelo's house the boy came awake.
‘Hola , Javi,’ he said sleepily and thumped his blond head into Falcón's chest and left it there, as if he was listening to his heart. The trust nearly broke Falcón apart. They went upstairs where he poured the boy into his bed. Darío's eyelids fluttered against the weight of sleep.
‘Football tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘You promised.’
‘Penalty shoot-out,’ said Falcón, pulling up the bedclothes, kissing him on the forehead.
‘Goodnight,
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