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
“
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
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