The Songs of Manolo Escobar by Carlos Alba

War and all of that stuff,’ I said, unintentionally belittling my argument.
    â€˜Yeah, but that was years ago, and I’ve always told him he can’t live in the past. These times are dead and long gone.’
    Pablito offered to buy us both another drink, and as I watched his hunched frame draped over the front of the bar, I felt a sudden, sad pain. He’d inherited more of Papa’s magnetism than I had, but he’d been a reckless guardian of his looks and now he was stooped and beaten. His youthful gameness was gone, and his face looked shrunken and deep-lined.
    It was after eleven o’clock when we returned to the hotel, by which time an orgy of merriment was in full swing in the adjoining bars and nightclubs. Flashing strobe lights and the spine-jolting boom of dance music followed us through the complex. Several touts tried to coax us into their establishments with the promise of deals on lethal-sounding drinks.
    I pressed ahead, flushed and harassed, but Pablito allowed himself to be detained by a couple of tall, blonde girls no older than Ben, dressed in teetering high heels and skimpy lingerie. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but the forced laughter of the girls was clearly enough to manipulate Pablito’s gossamer-thin ego, and he decided to go off with them.
    When he finally arrived back in our hotel room, it was almost four a.m. I’d long since abandoned any hope of sleeping. The metronomic beat of the music was loud and constant, interrupted sporadically by soprano howls of giddiness and aggressive alpha-male exchanges. When the music finally stopped it was light outside, and I felt like a punch-drunk boxer.
    I came to with a start mid-morning. Pablito was still asleep, so I made my way through to Mama and Papa’s room. Mama was sitting outside on the verandah. Papa had gone out to look for a British newspaper, she said, so I made myself a cup of coffee.
    â€˜He never reads newspapers,’ I pointed out.
    â€˜I think he’s missing home already,’ she said smiling. ‘He wants to know what’s going on.’
    I sat down with my coffee and closed my eyes. For a few moments I basked silently in the rejuvenating morning sun. It was the first time Mama and I had been alone since we had arrived, so I decided it was a good time to quiz her again about Papa’s letters to the Ajuntamente in Lerida. But her anxieties appeared to have dissipated, because she no longer felt willing to discuss or explain it.
    â€˜It’s not important,’ she said dismissively.
    I felt angry. It was clearly something that had troubled her to the extent that she’d taken me into her confidence, forcing me to drop everything and leave my work at a critical time, because she’d felt so concerned about it. Now she’d decided it wasn’t even worth mentioning.
    â€˜You can’t do that to me, Mama. I have a right to know.’
    She shuffled irritably. ‘You don’t need to know.’
    â€˜I know I don’t need to but I want to know.’
    She looked pained. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.’
    By the time Pablito wandered through, looking hungover and dishevelled, it was almost one o’clock. Papa hadn’t yet returned from his mission to buy a newspaper. We’d made plans to drive into Girona and wander around the shops in the afternoon, so Pablito agreed to go to look for him while Mama and I cleared away the breakfast dishes. He returned half an hour later, having failed to find Papa.
    â€˜He’ll be fine, Mama, you know what he’s like. He’ll have gone for a walk and discovered something that has grabbed his interest,’ Pablito said, trying to calm her down.
    Judging by Mama’s reaction, I wasn’t so sure. Pablito and I agreed to search a bigger area together. As he’d gone out to buy a paper, we planned to take one side of the town each and visit all the tourist shops. We were