The Songs of Manolo Escobar by Carlos Alba Page A

about to set off when I noticed the car was missing from its parking space. I told Mama and she sat down slowly.
    â€˜We should call the police,’ she said.
    â€˜The police? What are you talking about?’ Pablito demanded.
    â€˜We need to call the police. We need to stop him. He’s going to Lerida.’
    â€˜What’s he going to do in Lerida?’ I asked calmly.
    She didn’t answer.
    â€˜Talk to me. Why is he going to Lerida?’
    She dropped her head and gazed at the floor.
    â€˜We can’t call the police if you’re not willing to be open, Mama. What are we going to tell them – that we’re concerned for the safety of an 83-year-old man driving an uninsured car, hell-bent on a mission to settle a score that you’d rather not talk about?’
    She blushed. I suggested we had two options – we could sit and wait for him to return, or we could follow him to Lerida and hope we arrived in time to stop him doing whatever it was he’d gone there for.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ she said with a sudden burst of determination.
    By the time we were on the road it was late afternoon. I’d had to track down a different car-hire firm from the one we’d used previously, to avoid questions about why I needed a second vehicle, and then I had to persuade the clerk to serve me before the office closed for the siesta.
    Navigating an unknown route and driving on the right in an attempt to find my lost father would have been stressful enough without the presence of Mama, sitting in the back and continually asking if I was sure we were going the right way. We took the motorway to the north of Barcelona and from there we drove through the mountains, where the temperature dropped and the terrain changed from brown to a lush green. The hills were cloaked in mature fir trees, and for a while my mind was lost in their stillness.
    By late afternoon we were approaching Lerida on the main trunk road, and Mama said we should look for an area called Alguaire. I reprogrammed the satnav and followed the instructions to a hamlet about fifteen kilometres north of the centre of Lerida.
    The roads leading into it were flanked by peach and fig groves, vineyards and olive fields, and the centre was a bustle of activity, with narrow cobbled streets, lofty stucco apartments and sloping terracotta roofs. Small Juliet balconies were framed with bushes of purple bougainvillea and potted orange carnations. This was where Papa was born, Mama told us – this was our home village.
    The main square was lined by rows of horse-chestnut trees whose thick foliage provided a canopy against the late-afternoon sun. There were a few small shops and a bar with a couple of pavement tables. A small group of black men, I guessed migrant workers servicing the local farms, gathered around the door of a telegraph office that offered cheap international calls.
    I parked the car and we found the Ajuntamente, a small modern building at the corner of the square. Inside its reception area was low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished with a pair ofdesks and some filing cabinets. We arrived just as it was about to close and an elderly cleaner, wearing a sky-blue housecoat and carrying a damp cloth, looked at us, wide-eyed and edgy, as we entered. Mama took a photograph of Papa out of her handbag and mentioned him by name. The woman immediately became animated, speaking loudly and pointing at the picture repeatedly before throwing her head back and her hands in the air. I couldn’t make out most of what she said, but two words I did understand were ‘Guardia Civil’.
    We left and walked quickly along the narrow streets towards the other side of town, where the cleaner had told Mama the village police station was located. It was a single-storey building with nothing to distinguish it as a hub of law enforcement other than a small silver plaque on the door, and we would have walked past it had Pablito not spotted our