LITMIR.BIZ

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hiatus. The light was bright in the room. At last his grandfather said:

      ‘David. You need to know something.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I lied.’

      The silence in the room was stifling. Somewhere in the hospice a gurney rattled.

      ‘You lied? What does that mean?’

      He scrutinized his grandfather’s face. Was this the dementia, reasserting itself? He couldn’t be sure, but the old man’s face looked alert as he elaborated.

      ‘Fact, I’m lying now, son…I just…just can’t…get past it, David. Too late to change. A las cinco de la tarde. I’m sorry. Desolada.’

      This was perplexing. David watched the old man talk.

      ‘OK I’m tired, David. I…I…I…Now I need to do this. Please look in there…Least I can do this. Please.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘In the bag at the end…of my bed. Kmart. Look see. Please!’

      David got up smartly, and went to the assorted bags and luggage stored in the corner of the room, beyond the bed. Conspicuous in the rather forlorn pile was a scarlet Kmart bag. He picked it up, and scoped inside: there was something papery and folded at the bottom. Maybe a map?

      Maps had been one of David’s passions as a child, maps and atlases. As he unfolded this one, in the desert light from the window, he realized he was holding a rather beautiful example.

      It was a distinctly old-fashioned road map, with dignified shading and elegant colouration. Soft grey undulations showed mountains and foothills, lakes and rivers were a poetic blue, green polygons indicated marshland beside the Atlantic. It was map of southern France and northern Spain.

      He sat down and scrutinized the map more closely. The sheet had been marked very neatly with a blue pen: little blue asterisks dotted those grey ripples of mountains, between France and Spain. Another single blue star marked the top right corner of the map. Near Lyon.

      He looked at his grandfather, questioningly.

      ‘Bilbao,’ said the old man, visibly tiring now. ‘It’s Bilbao…You need to go there.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Fly to Bilbao, David. Go to Lesaka. And find José Garovillo.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      The old man made a final effort; his eyes were blurring over.

      ‘Show him…the map. Then ask him about churches. Marked on the map. Churches.’

      ‘Who’s this guy? Why can’t you just tell me?’

      ‘It’s been too long…too much guilt, I cannot, can’t admit…’ The old man’s words were frail, and fading. ‘And anyway…Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. No one would believe. Just the mad old man. You’d say I was mad, the crazy old man. So you need to find out for yourself, David. But be careful…Be careful…’

      ‘Granddad?’

      His grandfather turned away, staring at the ceiling. And then, with a horrible sense of inevitability, the old man’s eyelids fluttered shut. Granddad had fallen back into his fitful and opiated sleep.

      The morphine pump ticked over.

      For a long while, David sat there, watching his grandfather breathe in and breathe out, quite unconscious. Then David got up and closed the blinds; the desert sun was almost gone anyway.

      He looked down at the map sitting on the hospice chair; he had no idea what it signified, what connection his granddad had with Bilbao or with churches. Probably it was all some ragged dream, some youthful memory returning, between the lucidity and the dementia. Maybe it was nothing at all.

      Yes. That was surely it. These were just the ramblings of a dying old man, the brain yielding to the flood of illogic as the final dissolution approached. Sadly, but truly, he was crazy.

      David picked up the map and slid it into his pocket, then he leaned and touched his grandfather’s hand, but the old man did not respond.

      With a sigh, he walked out into the hot Phoenix summer night, and climbed into his rented Toyota. He drove the urban freeway to his motel, where he watched soccer on a grainy Mexican satellite station with a lonely sixpack and a pizza.

      His grandfather died early the following morning. A nurse rang David at the motel. He immediately called London and told his friends – he needed to hear some friendly voices. Then he called his office and extended his ‘holiday’ by a few days, on the grounds of bereavement.

      Even then his boss in London sounded a little sniffy, as it was ‘only’ David’s grandfather. ‘We are very busy, David, so this is exceptionally tiresome. Do be quick.’

      The service was in a soulless crematorium, in another exurb of Phoenix. Tempe. And David was the only real mourner in the building. Two nurses from the hospice showed up, and that was it. No one else was invited. David already knew he had no other family in America – or anywhere for that matter – but having his relative loneliness underscored like this, felt notably harsh – indeed cruel. But he had no choice in the matter. So David and the two nurses sat there, together and alone, and exposed.

      The ceremony was equally austere: at his grandfather’s request there were no readings, there was nothing – except for a CD of discordant and exotic guitar music, presumably chosen by his grandfather.

      When the song was done, the coffin trundled abruptly into the flames. David felt the briskness like a punch. It was as if the old man had been quick to get off stage, eager to flee this life – or keen to be relieved of some burden.

      That afternoon David drove deep into the desert, seeking the most remote location, as if he could lose his sadness in the wasteland. Under an ominously stormy sky, he scattered the ashes between the prickly pears and the crucifixion thorns. He stood for a minute and watched the ashes disperse, then walked to his car. As he returned to the city, the first fat raindrops smacked the windscreen; by the time he reached his motel a real desert storm had kicked up – jagged arcs of lightning volting between the black and evil clouds.

      His flight was looming. He began to pack. And then the motel phone trilled. His ex girlfriend maybe? She’d been calling on and off the last couple of days: trying to elevate David’s mood. Being a good friend.

      David reached for the phone and answered.

      ‘Uh-huh?’

      It wasn’t his ex. It was a breezy American accent.

      ‘David Martinez? Frank Antonescu…’

      ‘Uh…hello.’

      ‘I’m your grandfather’s lawyer! First of all, can I say – I’m so sorry to hear of your bereavement.’

      ‘Thank you. Uhm. Sorry. Uh…Granddad had a lawyer?’

      The voice confirmed: Granddad had a lawyer. David shook his head in mild surprise. Through the motel room window he could see the desert rain pummelling the surface of the motel swimming pool.

      ‘OK…Go on. Please.’

      ‘Thank you. There’s something you oughta know. I’m handling your grandfather’s estate.’

      David laughed – out loud. His granddad had lived in a heavily mortgaged old bungalow; he drove a twenty-year-old Chevy, and he had no serious possessions. Estate? Yeah, right.

      But then David’s laughter congealed, and he felt a pang of apprehension. Was this the reason for his grandfather’s weird shame: was the old man bequeathing some insuperable debt?

      ‘Mister Martinez. The estate comprises two million dollars, or thereabouts. In cash. In a Phoenix Bank savings account.’

      David

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