Becoming Justina

By Teresa Barja

Unable to fathom the circumstances surrounding her twin sister's mysterious death, Clea assumes her identity as "Justina" and leaves California to return to Spain, the place of their birth. As she hunts for clues regarding her sister in Madrid and then Sevilla, she is haunted by memories of her mother's search for their missing father, a flamenco singer. As she re-enters the flamenco world, the two quests become more intertwined. Like Don Quixote, Justina imposes her imagination on the people she meets—from a legendary thief and his bawd who use her for revenge to a Basque double agent who loves her—and entangles their desires and destinies in her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa Barja
• Release date: Apr 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393547051

Teresa Barja

Teresa Barja is a playwright, theatre director, and flamenco dancer. She has lived in Spain and currently works in Taipei, Taiwan with the Red Shoes Dance Theatre.

Book preview

Chapter One

Clea nestled deeper , burrowing in a field of blue roses as vast as the sea. The flowers caressed her cheek, warm in the morning sun, smelling oddly of cinnamon and seaweed drying on shoreline rocks. Hiding under the blue petals, she curled tighter into a ball like a hedgehog protecting its soft belly. A smug little hedgehog smile appeared on her lips as she thought she had made herself small enough to disappear. But even in what seemed like peaceful oblivion in that deep sleep, something reached into the dream and awakened her. Her eyes fluttered open and saw that the bouquet of blue roses she had brought now looked funereal, hardly alive or even real where she had placed them in front of her mother’s gravestone. She looked at the names on the plinth of pink granite a few inches from her face—Maria Padilla, beloved by daughters Clea and Justina—but oddly felt nothing. Each time she made her monthly pilgrimage to the cemetery, her feelings of sorrow and rage were suspended, as if this stone were a wall between them. Her mother was still alive in every room in their house, not here, the cemetery being no part of their life together. She wondered why she kept coming, but didn’t the ritual of attendance serve some purpose? Even if blindly observed, wasn’t it a gesture of respect? And then she realized she came to this grassy quiet spot because it momentarily numbed her, allowing her to forget the last year of dying. She leaned back on her elbows, tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes again.  

A field of blue roses. I rub my nose against them. But the comforting scent is not from flowers but the sweat-glazed skin on the inside of Mar’e’s arm, warm and petal soft. The huge roses are flat, printed on the flared skirt she bought at Sevilla’s secondhand market in La Alameda. She wears it all the time we’re on the road, she, who used to wear such slinky elegant dresses to the fiestas. When we’re exhausted from walking, we tug on it like two little goats. She sits down under a tree, and spreads it out all around her. We sit on either side, snuggle close, and sleep blissfully within its protective circle.

Clea got up, brushing off the freshly mown grass from her clothes. Falling asleep in the bright sun had not been a good idea. The rose buds were drooping in the heat, already withering before they bloomed. She would not bring them again; perhaps she would not come next month. Walking through the cemetery gate, she murmured with a sigh, Ah, the dog days of summer. Summer’s almost gone, where did it go? And when a stray dog trotted past her she asked it; Hey you, why are they called the ‘dog days?’

Hot and thirsty, she headed toward a bar café that had a small trumpet-vine festooned courtyard where she liked to sit and revive herself after each visit to the grave. Her dream of Mar’e’s skirt had been a pleasant distraction, but now her headache was returning as the weight of present demands descended. What was she going to do about the house? Why, when they had had nothing but the clothes on their backs, did they sleep so well out in the open? And now, when she had Mar’e’s precious house, why did sleep elude her every night? Mar’e had worked so hard for it, saving everything she earned for the first down payment, but Clea had not realized how heavily mortgaged it was until after her death. Not only did she not have the money to pay the bank, but the house was falling apart because she could not afford repairs. But she could not give it up, not yet. Without it, she would have nothing, no Mar’e, and no Justina.

The café was crowded; it seemed many people had come from the museum across the street. Observing the animated conversations, she surmised there must have been an opening. She bought a beer and took it outside. The tables were all full so she asked a young man if she could share his. He nodded without looking up from his notebook. She sat down in the shade and gazed up at the cloudless sky. Ah, the dog days... She looked at the young man who did not seem keen on striking up a conversation. His hair was fluffed into a white man’s Afro and his tie-dyed t-shirt had a hole in the side. His glasses were speckled with lint. He flipped a page of his notebook, and continued scribbling. You don’t know why they are called the ‘dog days,’ do you? she murmured casually.

Without ceasing his writing, he muttered, After Sirius, the dog star.

Ah, the dog star. She thought for a moment. As a Taurus, I’m partial to the bull constellation, and that glinting ruby red star that’s its eye. What’s its name?

He opened his mouth to reply, but she went on, With that eye, the bull seems to come charging down right out of the sky. We saw a lot of bull fights when I was little. Tauromachia, tauromachia—that word gives it a rather mythical dimension, don’t you think? Like fighting the Minotaur. More of a struggle between equals. It never was, though. The men kept changing the rules each time one of them was killed. We always wanted the bull to win, even though if it did, it would still be killed after the fight. That was most unfair. If the bull won, it deserved to live the rest of its life in peace, roaming the grassy meadows, sniffing the flowers.

The man grunted. She turned away to study the crowd and drink her beer. But she had set in motion memories that would not stop. It was a bizarre contest, she murmured, "the bull raw nature, and the man raw ego. He called it ‘arte,’ but all I ever saw was him asserting ‘me, man’ over and over again. She sighed. Still there was something glorious about it, the matador standing straight and proud, rising up on his toes as if on the precipice of mortality. It was like watching an intense play; even the bull knew he had to act his proper role."

She knew she was talking to herself, but she tilted her head toward him so that she would not appear crazy. But it was craziness, trying to talk away her worry. She needed money. All our lives we’ve needed money, she thought, but somehow we managed. Why only now is it so necessary and so impossible to get? "La Mierda, filthy lucre," she moaned quietly to herself.

Money’s only a game. We take it for granted that it’ll always be there, at least what little we need. Everywhere there are fools ripe for the picking, like fruits in the Garden of Eden. To live, you cajole, trade, bargain, cheat, steal, and only when there’s nothing else, do you capitulate to work and buy.  

She had managed to keep the house this long by playing the stock market. Always more of a gambler than a worker, she had finally found a way to put her abilities to good use. No more being kicked out of casinos for card counting or out of offices for faulty filing and creative typing; she could now exploit her sibyl-like skills in the privacy of her own home. She would hole up inside the room they called the library for hours every day, first calling to get the stock prices, and then analyzing the numbers that she wrote in columns on a yellow legal pad, propped up on her bent knees as she lay on the sofa. She worked with total concentration, without interruption, devoting every minute to making what money she could, so that when she did step out of the house she knew that it would still be hers when she returned. The house was Mar’e’s pride and joy; they never realized what a triumph it was for her to own her home. We might not be rich, she told her two daughters, but we’ll never be out on the streets again.

And that’s why I keep it, Clea thought; I don’t want to be out on the street again, especially without Justina and Mar’e. Though she was beginning to realize that she was not keeping the house, that it was keeping her, it was still her one hold on reality for without the necessity of meeting the mortgage payments, she would have lost herself in grief when Mar’e succumbed to her disease.

Clea was so wrapped up in her dilemma at first she did not notice that people passing her table cast inquiring glances at her. Gradually she became aware of more people staring and whispering to each other. As a beautiful woman, she was not unaccustomed to the hard stares of men, but this was different, this was the bemusement and curiosity she incurred only when they had been together, she and Justina. The sour beer rose up in her throat. She gazed down into her half-full glass as if wanting to plunge into it. No, there was some kind of mistake, she insisted. It was not possible. She waited, and then cast a sidelong glance to see if she was still the subject of their conversations. No longer comfortable remaining where she was, she decided to go. As she rose, three teenagers with pale goth faces and dyed black hair passed by her, and suddenly one exclaimed to his friends, "Wow! It’s her!" Everyone in the courtyard turned and she could not escape.

But how? the girl beside him asked, the metal pin that pierced her right eyebrow lifted.

Go on, ask her, the boy told her. Seeing her approach, Clea bent her head and searched for something in her handbag. 

Can I have your autograph? asked the girl, her eyes glinting behind green tinted contacts.

My...? Clea blinked at the pale face. "My autograph? She feigned delight and laughed. I think you’ve made a mistake..." 

"But you look exactly like her. Unable to contain her surprise, Clea grabbed her glass, but slippery with condensation, it fell from her fingers and burst on the pavement.   I am not her," she said flatly, and immediately resumed pawing through her handbag. She put on a pair of sunglasses.

Look, the girl insisted, her heavy Dr. Martens boots crunching the broken glass as she thrust the exhibition program toward her.

Glancing at the cover, Clea let out a muffled scream and struck it, sending it flying out of the girl’s hand.  Take it away! Go away! she cried, wishing she had never seen the photo that would now be branded on her mind forever. 

What a nut case, the girl muttered as she retrieved the program and walked away with her friends.

Wait! Clea suddenly called out. My autograph. What name did you want? 

I don’t know. There are no names of the subjects...to protect their privacy.

Oh, that’s a grand excuse.

Yeah, well, that’s what the photographer said.

Clea stared straight ahead, seeing nothing but that horrible image hovering in front of her. She stood up unsteadily, holding on to the back of her chair. Everyone was still watching her. She took a hesitant step, not sure the second would follow. Breathing, too, suddenly needed all of her concentration. Walk, she commanded; just keep walking. She only felt some relief once she was not surrounded by the people who had witnessed her outburst. Yet she seemed to move in slow motion through thick air, unable to escape the moment that continued to expand to engulf her. When she saw a discarded program on the sidewalk she picked it up and put it in her purse. 

When she finally reached her doorstep, the house seemed more than ever her last refuge in a world turned upside down.  It had not been cleaned, nor anything removed, since Mar’e’s death. Every object had its guardian spirit that would have to be exorcised before any purging could begin. The chair with a broken leg, the mute key on the piano, every chipped cup and plate, every stain on the tablecloth, the drawer with a missing knob, the crack in the window—all had a story that would not let her go. Every creak in the floorboards spoke of the bodies that had trod on them; the walls whispered their secrets; the doors echoed their slams. Surrounded by things she loved because they were the remnants of the people she loved, she lived in a tomb where memories sparkled like broken glass, drawing blood with every move.

Upon entering the dining room, she went directly to the large white sideboard where she had erected a shrine. Enclosed by a foot-high triptych of Bosch’s Garden of Heavenly Delights and surrounded by votive candles were the offerings of their favored objects—a green rabbit’s foot from a vending machine that had set them off on a search for a three-legged green rabbit; a hashish pipe of Andy Warhol’s, and toy castanets with Tijuana branded on them. She lit the candles and propped up the program with its full length portrait on the cover. She sat down in front of it, looking, but not seeing and then covered her eyes.

When the first flood of emotion passed, she steeled herself and studied it as if it were nothing more than an artistic composition, a contrivance of abstract forms. A female was perched on a crucifix, naked except for a cloth draped around her body in a large S. Her head was thrown back to one side, exposing a length of throat; her eyes rolled upward and her mouth open in the soft ‘O’ of masochistic ecstasy. Her long hair tumbled down over her shoulders and breast, while her legs, crossed and tied at the ankles, were elongated by the angle of the shot. The face, though beautiful, had a grayish tint, hollowed cheeks and dark shadows behind the eyelids, like one of El Greco’s saints.

So, she had managed it after all, thought Clea with grim admiration. That tortured face was her own, and the agonized cry that the photographer had so brilliantly captured was directed to her alone.

Clea scanned the program inside. It said nothing about the woman; no name, no story behind who she was or how the photographer had come to take the pose. Anonymous Female Crucified, read the caption. The exhibition was a retrospective for Peter Markham, who had made his name and living from portraits of the dying, capturing the moment the soul departed. In his introduction, he claimed that although every individual dies alone, we can share that moment, and if we learn to look death in the face, we can become less afraid, and more moved by its mystery. But the more she stared at the photo, the more she felt something was wrong. She knew her sister had staged it, and the photographer was nothing more than an unwitting accomplice. But was the figure really dead?

I suspect, I suspect, she murmured, examining the eyes and mouth, and then screaming at the photograph, You didn’t have to do this! You could have come home. You could have come back to me! Clea broke down sobbing. Any time she would have forgiven her sister, taken her in, cast away all the hateful things that had passed between them. Instead, her sister had mounted this spectacular rejection. Clea was only glad her mother had not lived to see it.

A plaintive mewing roused her and she turned away from the photograph. Oh, Pirate Jenny, she said, gathering up the one-eyed cat in her arms. You miserable flea-bitten cutie pie. What a pair we are, just you and me left. Holding the animal to her chest, she felt its warm contented vibrations radiate through her, relaxing every muscle until its extracting claws pricked her. She shook the offending paw. Every rose has its thorns, doesn’t it, Jenny. She patted the cat a few times on the head and kissed it. But pee-yew, you’re no rose. You’re an awfully old cat when you can’t keep yourself clean. Old cat. What an understatement! Almost seventeen years. What would she do when the cat passed on? She went to the kitchen and poured out the last of the milk, knowing she would want it later for coffee, but was gratified to see the cat lapping it up.

The next day she called the museum that gave her the photographer’s agent whom she called, leaving her number, but no name, only the designation sister of the crucified girl. Two days later Peter Markham’s widow called back.

I have to be careful, so many threats from religious fanatics, the woman whispered into the phone.

I can believe it.

"No one can look at that photograph without being moved....

I am surprised anyone can look at it, period.

"As her sister, it must be devastating...

As her identical twin.

Oh my god! the woman gasped, and then seemed to choke back tears.

Clea waited, and then asked, Why did he take it?

It took the woman some time to recover. He never did anything like this before. He never revealed the names of his subjects to protect them and himself. He got their permission before they died, and then sat patiently with them. This retrospective is the first time your sister’s portrait is being shown.

But it’s so obviously staged...why did he agree to do it?

Yes, it is strange. He did do other commissions. Perhaps she had called him in for another kind of portrait and then killed herself.

Not so easy without some compliance on his part.

Suicide was not his métier, the widow said coldly.

Clea paused again. Sorry. Why was the woman not revealing anything? Was she afraid of a lawsuit? But, he must have made some documentation—names, places, times, she pleaded.

The anguish in her voice prompted the woman to confess, When I saw it, I protested. Believe me, I told him it shouldn’t be shown, but his agent overruled me. Peter was already sick and could not concentrate. The portrait was the most unforgettable. She paused. It’s no excuse, I know. It makes it seem that Peter only courted controversy. That wasn’t his intent. He was a spiritual man—he said his work gave him great peace and he hoped it would do the same for others.

He could not have had me in mind, retorted Clea, wondering what financial benefits the widow might be reaping from the exhibition.

No. I am sorry. The conversation faltered; then she took a breath. I’m going through his papers now. He kept a diary of sorts. If I find anything related to your sister, I’ll contact you.

Listen, don’t tell the police you’ve talked to me.

I’ll have to if I find anything incriminating in Peter’s notes.

Promise to tell me first.

I promise to call you first whether I do or don’t find anything.   

Thank you, Clea said, hanging up. She sat with the dead phone in her lap. Irritation wrangled with sorrow. She still could not believe it. They had always assumed that if one died, the other, wherever she was, would know. An angel would pass; a cold dark breeze would brush the skin. Nothing like that had happened. Had she been too occupied with Mar’e’s illness and death, with the house, to notice? She did not believe it. Somewhere her sister was laughing.

Clea did not have to wait long before Markham’s widow called again. Breathless with eagerness to share her find, she read from his diary, She called, saying her father, a famous flamenco singer, had had a stroke during the night. He was alert, and knowing he was dying, started to sing; was going to continue singing until the end. I’d have to drive several hours to get there, but the situation intrigued. Got the address. A note on the front door told me to go in. I passed into a bare white room, and there she was—already up on the cross. Shock. She must have been up there for some time, her body drooped, looked like she was dying, perhaps holding out just long enough for a photo. I had no idea she was going to stage her own death. Not the first time have been asked to record stunts. Have always refused.

The woman paused. He underlined that last sentence. She cleared her throat and continued. "Began to look for a way to get her down. Don’t know how she got up there by herself. Someone must have helped her, but no one was there. One glance passed between us, told me that even if I cut her down she would collapse and die.

‘Take it,’ she gasped. Her only words. My choice. Try to save her when she had warned she was beyond saving, or fulfill her dying wish. I hesitated, then took out my camera and shot—only to please her. Then I found a table to stand on. Managed to pull one hand out of the ropes that bound it to the cross beam, but by the way her arm flopped over my shoulder, I knew she had already died. I went to pull out the other hand..., oh, bloody horror, it had a nail pounded through it. Could she have done that herself? Her other arm still around me, I was held in that half embrace of death. Could not let go, could not leave her hanging by that one pinned hand, could not pull it out. I screamed for help. I finally came to my senses, put her hand back in ropes and called police. She was taken to the hospital, I gave my report. The police called again. Wanted to know how she got in that position. No idea. Police said she was unknown in the neighborhood, had several aliases. The woman paused in her reading. Quite a mystery.

Clea shuddered. Is there more? 

Markham’s widow turned a few pages and resumed. Investigation would continue. Police said they would be in touch. I never told them of the photo. I intended to destroy negative but wanted to see what was captured. I developed it, I had caught her dying moment. She willed herself to expire the moment the shutter clicked. I could almost see the wisp of her soul emerge from her mouth. Was this possible? I could not destroy it. I put the photo away, out of sight. Would never show to anyone, but it haunted me.

Clea felt the woman look up from the page and then heard the scraping of paper as another page was turned. There’s nothing more about your sister or the photo, but on the next page, there are some nonsense words.

Tell me, please.

Singo, singo, homte hi mulo.

Singo, singo, homte hi mulo, repeated Clea.

Yes, that’s it. Do they mean anything to you?

No, she lied.

Maybe they’re not related to your sister’s story. As I said, the diary is very random. He just jotted down ideas and thoughts.

Thank you, said Clea, and then she hesitantly asked, Have the police contacted you again since the photograph has become so...so public?

Yes, but I hadn’t found this passage yet. I’ll show them what I’ve just read to you. His record agrees with what he initially told them except for not showing the photo, but since my husband is dead, he’s no longer a suspect. I don’t know if they’ll still be looking to charge someone for assisting in suicide...

Or murder? 

Perhaps...you don’t have any idea of why your sister did it, do you?

It took all of Clea’s self-control not to slam down the phone. She whispered hastily, No, no, none at all...at all...at all. 

She replaced the receiver, and forgetting about the widow, thought only of the mysterious words. She knew exactly where they had come from, a battered paperback they had found in a five-cent box at a garage sale. She had read the book in one sitting, and when she had finished, she told her sister, This is about us...before. They both read it over and over again until they had memorized it so thoroughly that when one started any sentence, the other could complete it. The only thing they could not accept was heroine’s death because they believed she lived on inside them. 

Singo, singo, homte hi mulo.  Clea’s mind spun in a daze, confused with half understanding, she could not remember what the words meant. She had to find and consult the book! She entered the library and began to search. The four walls were solidly covered from floor to ceiling with shelves packed with secondhand paperbacks, all in varying states of decay, their binding broken or missing, pages torn or stuck together. The books had all been read, every word on every page. Their dilapidated state belied the affection with which they had once been perused.

They had hardly known how to read, except the road signs they hoped would point them to Popi, until they came to America. In the Gitano community where they grew up, most of the women were illiterate. Their lives were too full of talk—stories, songs, gossip, and rumors that went directly from someone’s mouth into another’s ears. No eyes were needed to recreate abstract voices from the page, only ears, absorbing real sounds from smoke-roughened throats hiccupping with laughter or quivering with rage.

She and her sister had remembered everything by mimicking the voices around them. But after being transported to this new land, separated from their mother tongue and communal street life, they retreated into the cocoon of the library and plunged into the surrogate fantasies of books. They stuck their heads between the book covers like snails building shells to avoid the hostile foreign world outside and the horror of school, where they were thought to be retarded because they could not read or speak English. Reading by themselves eased the pain of learning English, and in spite of Mar’e’s approval, it hid their covert desires and deepened their maladjustment. They read together, lying there on the small sofa, their eyes skimming the same page. Estranged from everyone else, they peopled their common imagination with fictional characters.  

As she looked for the book, she began to recite whole passages as if to conjure the spirited cigarrera who rolled tobacco leaves on her bare thigh, slashed the throats of her rivals, and rescued or disposed of her men as she pleased. A beautiful, ruthless temptress, at home equally in mansions and caves, a gypsy smuggler and pickpocket. The immortal Carmen cherished freedom above love and life. Clea scoured the shelves, and then remembered she had put the book with the shrine. She hurried into the dining room and then halted. No, wait! The last time her sister...

Justina had just been released from rehab and had come to the house only to announce that she was going away, this time, forever. Then she had pulled out a little blue book. What is it? Clea asked, thinking it was a bank book to prove she was finally earning some money.

My passport. I’m going back to...Never never land. Justina smiled proudly and let Clea open it to see that it was authentic. I’m going to find Popi and live with him.

Brilliant! Clea exclaimed; I’ll get one too. Let’s go together!

No, you have to look after Mar’e, and the house.

They’re not my sole responsibility. I can go too, if I want. Any time.  They began to argue until Clea said, All right, let’s let Carmen decide. Whenever they had had an unsolvable problem they consulted the gypsy fortune-teller. Holding the sacred volume, its fragile pages bound with tape, Justina opened it at random and Clea, with closed eyes, put her finger down on the page and then they read the words, Come with me.

No, her sister cried, snatching the book away. Your finger moved. You’re not coming with me. They began fighting in earnest, shoving each other and throwing objects about the room. They paused momentarily when Mar’e came home, tired from work, the disease already having its way with her although they did not know it at the time. Her joy at seeing Justina instantly vanished as they once again tore into each other. Then Pirate Jenny, who had been cowering under the sofa, suddenly howled and dashed out, scrambling through the half open window. Seeing the cat—the one creature she loved above all else—run from her, Justina burst into tears, and ran out the door. Mar’e slumped into a chair. We won’t see her again. That was our last chance. Looking at the bloody scratches on her arms, Clea had not been in the mood to either pity her mother or accept blame for Justina’s tantrums.     

The book was not at the shrine. Had Justina taken it with her? Clea wondered as she began to rummage through the piles of newspaper clippings, junk mail, and unopened bills on the dining table, the moldering sheets at the bottom had fused with the disintegrating lace table cloth. She paused and tried to recreate their rampage. They had tossed everything they could lay hands on. She looked under the sofa and behind the stacks of magazines on the floor beside the fireplace. She pulled back the carpet, and there, along with gum wrappers, an advertisement for a microwave oven, and two bus transfers, was the little blue book. She opened it and gasped. This time her sister’s face was staring straight at her, so direct and unblinking it almost shouted, I am alive. I can see you! Clea hastily threw it down.  

They had both always resented having their pictures taken, either together or separately, as if it were a violation of privacy by someone trying to capture their souls. And yet her sister had chosen to be photographed dying, Clea marveled. Perhaps it was her final attempt to manipulate that obtrusive gaze and hold it forever in the image of her choosing. But Clea still thought that it was directed toward her alone. They had been so closely identified and now this sister-self was a demon riding on her back, demanding to be appeased. Clea resisted and resented the call. After cruelly negating their relationship, what right did her sister have to come back now, or taunt from the far shore? Clea shuddered and struggled to shake off the creature that was growing heavier. It was impossible to carry two selves in one body.

She picked up the passport again, and rubbed the gold embossed emblem on the cover before slowly opening it to peruse the information inside. It was still valid and there was even a small wad of pesetas tucked at the back. The photo was not so startling the second time; she had seen that defiant expression, the sarcastic twist of the lips and accusing eyes aimed at her before.  They had played this game many times, staring at each other asking, Am I me or you? And now her sister was playing it from the other side of the great divide. Clea looked about at the disheveled living room. The house ceased to feel like the protective shell, and instead had turned into a constricting carapace she had to break away from. Perhaps it had been just another one of their temporary shelters all along, and she too, should return home. Then she suddenly remembered what the words of Carmen’s Caló meant: "Soon, soon he must die. Who? Clea wondered. You? Me? Popi? She sighed, accepting the signs that were calling her out. She could no longer live here.  All right, she whispered to the person still living in the photo; I will be Justina Padilla, and return to Spain.

Chapter Two

Jose Navarro held himself stiffly, keeping the ironed creases in his guardia civil uniform straight as he waited for the plane’s passengers to disembark. He did not know why he had been given this assignment, and any alteration in his normal routine made him wary. He was to detain a thief suspected of being part of a credit card fraud ring, but why had the coronel been so ambiguous about how to deal with her? He was coming up for promotion. Was this supposed to be a test of his judgment? Or were his superiors, ever suspicious of his Basque background, giving him rope to hang himself? Although he tried to be an exemplary subordinate, he felt he was always being watched by a disbelieving eye.

As the passengers came out, he scrutinized each one, but he had to wait until the very end when a woman, clumsily handling her luggage in the cabin doorway, suddenly looked up and stunned him with her beauty. Not bedraggled and exhausted from the long trip, she was radiant with excitement, as if an entourage was awaiting her with red carpet and marching band. He hurried forward to nab her. 

When Justina saw the man in the pale green uniform approach, she had to repress an urge to bolt, but when he inquired with grave courtesy, Señora De Soto? she smiled winsomely and reverted to other instincts. 

Who me? No, I’m not, she said easily in Castellano; But if that’s who you’re looking for, I’m sorry I’m not. Being his height, she looked directly into his eyes, and expressed her frank appreciation for his smooth marble-like features. His white close-shaven cheeks colored. Seeing such a handsome man blush, she wondered why she had waited so long to come back. Then who are you? he persisted, not allowing himself even a twitch of a smile.

"Señorita Justina Padilla, she replied, mustering her dignity, and fishing for the passport. He glanced at it and asked, Then why are you carrying Señor De Soto’s credit card?"

She sighed. She had managed to pinch a few cards from the wallet of a passenger rushing to catch his flight in the domestic terminal before hurrying on to the international terminal to catch her own. She had not expected the theft to be reported so quickly. It had been her first test of resuming her pickpocketing skills and she had congratulated herself on finessing the job. Her circumstances informed her now that she had some catching up to do to deceive the advances in surveillance technology. She scanned her mind for a lie that would not come back to bite her, and explained, We’re divorcing, and I’m using my maiden name.

Ah divorcing. Is that why you stole it?

No, he gave it to me. To get rid of me, I suppose.

And why would he want to ‘get rid’ of such a charming person?

Perhaps because she was too charming to others... Her eyebrows arched and her lips curved again.

Now making an effort to remain severe and not burst out laughing, Jose tilted his gaze above her head. And how long were you planning to stay in Spain, Señora De Soto?

"Justina, por favor. For the allowed three-month period. I have such an affinity for your country, Señor."

I don’t think you’ll have an affinity for our jail, which is where you’ll be staying before you’re deported. Come with me.

"With pleasure, guapo," she said, taking his arm before he could seize hers. 

As they walked through the crowds, she seemed absurdly pleased as if she had caught him and was displaying her prize. He was distracted by her warm pressure of her body on his as they were jostled. Opening the heavy security door, he managed to release his arm from her grasp. They entered a long empty hallway where the clacking of her heels echoed loudly as they alternated with his steady measured steps in a syncopated waltz. Where are we going? she asked.

Airport police.

They must be moles that fear the light of day. Are they all chosen for their looks? Or just their lack of humor?

Both, I presume.

"Ah, then you must be their capitán. I’m so lucky. She could not help admiring him. So neatly groomed, yet so lacking in vanity that any attention to his appearance caused him embarrassment. His intense blue gray eyes were accented by eyebrows, thick and dark, two straight dashes that drew together when he frowned in the effort not to smile at her. Broad shouldered and well-muscled, yet he had refined features, a thin nose, small mouth, and long white fingers that were tightly gripping her upper arm. He held himself like walking statue. Marble, she knew, did not bend, but cracked. As she unabashedly appraised him, he kept struggling to prevent her feet from veering into his.   Please listen to me, Señor capitán..." she began.

Lieutenant.

"Señor casi capitán," she amended, I’m a thief, it’s true. But what I’ve stolen is, in fact, not stolen yet.

He suddenly gave her words full attention. He knew she was not what she seemed; her silliness was too contrived and was obviously a cover for something, or someone. Why would anyone employ a girl whose resources were so slim? Well? he asked. 

I want to steal...time, these three months; they’re my only chance. She suddenly halted, holding him back. Haven’t you ever done something that, if you weren’t desperate, you’d never dream of doing?

Startled, he squeezed her arm, staring hard at her. What did she know? Why had he been given this assignment just an hour ago? Was this artless fool the instrument of his undoing? He said nothing more, and pulled her along, eager only to turn her over to his superiors. His sudden preoccupation was so striking she immediately took heart. You have an accent; I hear a hint of Euskadi, she said, from Navarre, perhaps?

He stopped again. How had she, a foreigner, caught on to him so quickly? But was she a foreigner? She spoke Spanish like a native, but only now did he detect sounds of a Basque accent.  

So am I, she exclaimed delightedly. That’s why I am here. You see, my great uncle was from Etchalar. He left during the Civil War and went to the States—Nevada, where he started a sheep farm, she rattled off quickly. My grandfather had already joined the Republican guerillas, leaving his pregnant wife behind. He was never seen again, but after the war my grandmother managed to contact his brother, telling him of the birth of my father. We never heard from my great uncle again, until last month. He had died and his lawyer, called me to say he left his considerable wealth to his nephew, my father. I haven’t seen or heard from my father in fifteen years, but I think he never left Spain. If alive, he’s the only family I have. I had no money; I had to steal to get here. I’ll pay it all back once I find him.

Jose tried to make sense of her story at first but then gave up. Unable to follow it, he grew more anxious. Why was she pretending to be Basque? "There appears to be a mysterious lack of men in your life, señorita."

"He is all I have, laguna, ene bihotsarena, comrade of my heart, do you understand? All I have in the world. That’s why I had to come. Let me go, and regardless of whether I’ve found him, on my word of honor, three months from now, I’ll stand here before you." He shook her angrily, and tried to make her move forward but she held her ground.

"Señor Tenente," she pleaded; I know you must take family loyalties seriously. Don’t lock me up and keep me from my duty. Let me look for my father. That’s all I ask. I’ve given up my house, my job, my cat, everything to come here.

What, your cat, too?

You’re unkind.

I’m sorry. I am wondering why this beloved father never contacted you.

She sighed deeply. Shame, I believe. Shame for the terrible way he treated my mother. And now, she too, has passed away. Her eyelashes fluttered, catching back the tears that threatened to overflow. Her act was so over the top, he momentarily relaxed and his chin trembled with repressed laughter. He was certain her story was false, and yet recently the papers had been carrying even more convoluted stories of families rent by the Civil War. Her tears were manufactured, and yet he sensed she did carry a deep sorrow not so easily dismissed. She had been sent to test him, he was certain, but by which side? Sweat prickled his upper lip. Should he let her go and have her trailed? Out the left door up ahead, she could enter the crowd of passengers and still be easily followed.

Tears flooded her face. Señor, I seemed to have misplaced my handkerchief, please lend me yours. Jose unwillingly produced his bleached, starched and ironed handkerchief, and just as he was handing it to her, she grabbed his hand and sprayed him in the face, burning his eyes and nose with overpowering scent. She dropped her bag, and pushed him so that he stumbled over it. When he fell backwards, she grabbed it again and dashed toward the end of the corridor. Blinded, he scrambled up, wiping his stinging eyes on his sleeve, but the perfume had penetrated the cloth and his skin. He reached for his radio. It was gone! No, it was not possible that she had stolen it, too. Rubbing up against him like a hungry cat and all the while pinching his radio. He felt doubly the fool. He ran after her, to the left, and up the stairs to the front of the departure lobby. Once in the public area, he stopped running. A guard at the end of the concourse caught sight of him and hurried over. No, he had not seen any woman running with a blue canvas bag. The tenente paused, and then told him to call for a search, not high alert, no need to cause alarm. They would find her eventually. The other man did as he was bidden, though wondering why the tenente reeked of a distinctly feminine scent.

Meanwhile, Justina had taken off her shoes and run silently to the right where a uniformed woman was inserting a plastic key to open a metal gate. Justina scurried forward, managing to catch the gate just before it closed. She waited a moment, and then crept through, finding herself in an underground parking lot with several diesel-belching buses. She put on her shoes and ran to a bus that was just pulling out. Once safe in her seat, she caught her breath. "Pobre tenente," she murmured, smiling as she promised herself that they would meet again under more favorable circumstances. She got off at the Atocha train station, expecting re-enter the past exactly as she had left it fifteen years ago.

The hustle bustle inside the terminal was the same, but the old station had been hot and dusty, full of smoke and grit, and the new one was a greenhouse harboring a tropical garden beneath a sparkling glass roof. She wanted to enjoy the cool sprinkling system, but her bag was growing heavier by the minute so she went in search of storage lockers. Not finding any, she was told they had been removed ever since Basque terrorists had discovered they were convenient for placing explosives. Cursing the Basques for their lack of consideration toward single female travelers, she went out of the station. Silvery waves of hot air radiated up from the wide thoroughfare that separated the station from the barrio that had been her home. In the sizzling air, the houses of her old neighborhood seemed to hover above the ground like a mirage.

From the station, we trudge up Calle de Atocha, stopping at each pensión until Mar’e is able to bargain down the price of one. After siesta, we sit on our fourth floor street-side balcony, watching the people below. Mar’e chats with other women on their balconies, waving their colored fans that flutter like butterflies. We have no fans, so we make some by folding the stiff gray paper that market vendors use to wrap fruit. We wave our accordion fans with equal pride, but the ladies disdain us, suspecting mockery.

We’ve never lived anywhere as grand as this pensión. It has no lift, but two great wooden staircases that wind around each other like serpents in love. Feeling privileged to each have her own exclusive staircase, we race down the intertwined spirals to the bottom, where, in a little turreted booth, sits the portera. She tells us it was once a box office as the building had been a theatre, but we never find the stage and now it smells of the boiled mutton served to the male lodgers on the lower floors.

Our two rooms face the neighboring building, and each has a small balcony facing the interior courtyard.  We’re delighted with this luxury of doubleness. Qué cosa rara! Sometimes when Mar’e and my sister are taking a siesta, I sit alone on my balcony and daydream. One such afternoon, I am sitting up on the ledge, leaning against the wall with my eyes closed, and I hear the faint strains of a guitar from the room just opposite. The player begins to sing softly as if the guitar and musician were whispering to each other. Such a sweet voice! The moon is a little well, the flowers are worth nothing at all, Only your arms are precious, when, in the night, they embrace me. Listening to this love letter from the shadows, I heave my first adult sigh.

I do not need to see him to know I am being yearned for. I keep my eyes closed to imagine him more fully. Then suddenly, I hear commotion and open my eyes just as figure emerges from the shadows like a dragon from its cave. The darkness coalesces into an old woman in black that descends upon the musician, who I now see is a boy scarcely older than me. He hunches over his guitar protectively. Then the black widow looks up and sees me. She rushes toward the window, hissing Sin vergüenza, and slams the wooden shutters down.  A moment later, I hear her scream again; Brujas! followed by another slam of the shutters. I run to the other room, and there perched on her ledge is my sister, her eyes still closed and her lips curved in a dreamy smile. 

He was singing to me! I cry, pulling her down.

Only your arms are precious, she sings, wrapping her arms around herself.

Me! I insist. Until that moment, our world has been one, but now we both discover that there are some things that cannot be shared. Mar’e always bestows her love equally, and the love she shows to one always includes the other, never dividing us. But men’s love is different. That’s probably why saints are made of men who possess a mother’s love.

Justina looked up the Calle de Atocha. The pensiónes all appeared shabbier. Their five and six-story façades were all more or less the same, but she could not identify the one where they had stayed. No one was sitting on the balconies; the street was too noisy and fume-filled to make such a pastime attractive. She tried to inquire about a room, but all the lodgings were either full or not answering the bell. She was not altogether perturbed, as she was accustomed to living simultaneously in the conflicting worlds of imagination and physical necessity.

On our way to Madrid, we pass through so many small towns. Exhausted after walking all day, we always have trouble finding a place to spend the night. Since no dueno willingly rents to three indigent gypsy women, Mar’e sends us off searching for food, while she goes to find a room for herself and then we steal in later. We leave before daybreak, taking anything that can be removed from the room. If we can’t sell it quickly, we palm it off on a beggar, passing on the risks as well as the benefits; the left hand gives what the right hand takes. Mar’e calls us ‘buddhista communistas’ as we take ‘each according to her ability, each according to her need,’ and rarely become attached to anything for long.  

A workman in blue overalls, swinging his lunch box, passed by her, whistling the very tune that her first beau had sung, and taking this as a good omen, Justina began humming the zorongo melody; La luna es un pozo chico, the moon is a little well as she turned down a side street. All the venta al mayor wholesale shops were bustling with Moroccan and Chinese traders carrying cardboard cartons in and out. The once chic Plaza Tirso de Molina was uninviting, littered with broken beer bottles and discarded syringes. Drunks with bruised faces slept on the benches. She continued down the steep slope to Lavapiés until a dizzying sense of déjà vu took hold, as if she pursued the right street to the very end, Mar’e would be standing there waiting for her. Lava piés—a place to wash one’s feet? The barrio had once been the Judería, but the Sephardic Jews had been so thoroughly erased in the sixteenth century, nothing of them remained, and the barrio was a working-class neighborhood of pure-blooded cristianos viejos. Nothing was quite as she remembered, yet all was vaguely familiar, her mind clicking back to the time when navigating these streets properly had been an absolute necessity if one wanted to escape with the contents of someone’s pockets. She moved forward with her nose, hunting down smells, but the cold sour aroma that emanated from the dark bodegas, the salt and ferment of cheese and bacalao were obscured by the heavy exhaust of delivery trucks blocking the narrow cobbled streets that had been laid for human feet and dray carts. At Calle de Meson de Paredes, the skins turned darker.

We watch from a distance as Gitanas and their children gather on cold evenings in the disemboweled basilica of Escuela Pias that was torched by leftists during the Civil War. The fragments of its wall provide some shelter from the wind. They sit around a huge bonfire, singing and clapping rhythmic palmas as the flames and shadows partner in a dance beneath the domeless tower that encircles the evening sky. As the rhythm and counter-rhythm weave a fabric of sound, the older women embellish it with their improvised lyrics. They sing half mournfully, half sardonically, even in sorrow, they mock fate, each other, and themselves.

The dusty desolate space was the same, but the ruined walls were now violated with graffiti and rubbish piled high in the corners like snow drifts. It was full of African and Moroccan children playing in the sandy dirt, while their shopkeeper fathers sat chatting idly on the benches. They looked up at Justina, shouldering her bag, with hostile stares, thinking her just one more newly arrived immigrant. She moved on, more unsure of which direction to take.

The siesta hour was beginning to descend like a deep coma. If she did not find a place to rest soon, she would simply drop into the next shady spot and fall asleep against her canvas bag. Then she remembered St. Joseph’s, and the invitation of its cool interior quickened her steps, but she found it locked. Churches had never been locked before. All the shops were closing now. The harsh sun beat down and the houses not only closed their shutters, but lowered hemp awnings over the balconies to keep out the oppressive heat. As her body drooped with fatigue, her memory still whirred like an old newsreel, its images flickering, then jamming, and finally melting. 

"Psst, niña, a voice called out. Not sure she had actually heard it, she walked on. But then it hailed her again more forcefully. A man seated alone outside a café was beckoning to her. She did not know him at first, but then suddenly recognized him as the silent passenger who had sat next to her on the plane. Having him appear so quickly after her escape was too much to bear; she summoned her last dram of energy and ran. He pursued her, shouting, Niña, don’t be frightened. I’m not the police."

Then who are you? she shouted back, still running.

Stop, come back and I’ll tell you, he said, catching up with her. She halted abruptly, and he stepped back, holding up his hands. Don’t worry. We’re on the same side...I think.

She was not aware of being on any side, but she was too tired to care, and followed him as he walked ahead, picked up her bag that she had dropped, and put it beside his table. To tell the truth, I’m surprised you’re out already, he said, a certain respect coloring his tone as he pulled out a chair for her, his gallantry at odds with his disheveled appearance. He was unshaven and a red scar ran beside his ear, outlined his jaw and pulled the skin taut across his right cheek.

.  "When I saw that guardia civil waiting at the airport, I was certain he was after me. I couldn’t believe my luck when he picked you up instead. He laughed and added, I owe you. He poured her a glass of wine. She hardly heard a word because it felt so good just to rest. The wine was rough but delicious. He poured a second glass. I understand your silence, but truly, I’m the last person in Iberia to turn you in."

Even to get them off your back? she finally asked, assuming that even honor among thieves had its limits.

Don’t worry, they’ll never be off my back, he said with a professional’s pride. Not because I’m not good, but because I am.

It wasn’t so smooth for me, she said, her own pride irked by his assumption.

It couldn’t have been so bad if you’re out already.

Unless I was released to be followed, she countered.

He leaned forward, and an unseen knife under the table pricked her. "Followed? Who is following who? Hija de puta, how did you know I was here?" She rolled her eyes, and chuckled at the absurdity of their mutual suspicion.

Tranquilo, hombre, she said, pushing him away. His body moved slightly, but his knife did not. I didn’t. The fates that seated us together on the plane have seated us together now. I knocked down the guard and ran off. I’ve seen no one following me. I’ve been invisible for hours, she added, slightly disappointed she had not been followed.

You invisible! That bright blue bag, curly hair down to your buttocks, and a skirt showing half a league of leg, are you joking?

"Madrid is asleep, hombre," she said, waving at the comatose street. 

He shrugged. I never sleep. That’s why I’m still alive. Why did they want you?

Borrowing a credit card. Small potatoes. He leaned back, and she heard the knife snap shut. Maybe they realized they were wasting their time with me when they discovered they had let you get away, she added as she casually tucked one slim leg under the other, crossing them at the knee and then again at the ankle, and leaned forward, exposing a bit more of her chest, but his eyes did not waver from hers. Then he laughed aloud, slapped his thigh, and chucked her under the chin. Now I pity that poor guard, he cried. "I couldn’t have had a better decoy than if I had planted you myself. Drink up, niña. He shouted to the dozing waiter, Jorge, get some food into this woman."

She welcomed the food more for its proof of normalcy than any real hunger and ate with gusto the stewed chicken, string beans, and potatoes. Bland, greasy, and overcooked, nothing had ever tasted so good. She drank more wine. Her companion kept filling her glass, taking evident pleasure in her appetite. "That’s it, eat, niña. One never knows from where the next meal will come."

She glanced at him, still disconcerted by the sense of obscured familiarity that had been plaguing her ever since she had left Atocha station. During the long flight, this fellow had not spoken a single word, and now made up for it. He began telling her his life’s story, how he had been expelled from school for returning in kind a padre’s smack on the head. It was the best thing that happened to me because it made me an autodidact, reading every book that fell into my hands, he said proudly. In fact, when my father died, I planned to become a bookseller.

Why didn’t you?

Things happened...and now I am a man of means, he said, ordering another bottle of wine.

Señor Man-of-Means, if not that, what should I call you? He again paused and sized her up before answering, Call me ‘Luis’, he said.

Luis is good...and safe. But his appearance still mystified her. You’ve changed since I saw you last.

He chuckled. She had sat on his left in the plane as she was doing now, and perhaps never even saw the right side of his face, yet she felt certain the scar had not been there. Doesn’t that scar make you too conspicuous?

Exactly. No one forgets a slice like this. People rarely notice anything else in the few seconds of an...event. Then when the police are feeling overconfident searching for such an obvious mark, it’s easily removed and all other features fade into insignificance.

Justina reached up and touched it gingerly. It looks...and feels, so real, she said with unfeigned admiration. He pushed her hand aside and stood up. I must go, but we’ll see each other again. Or at least, I will see you.

You mean I won’t know it’s you? But wait! I need a place to stay, she gestured toward her bag. Quiet, discrete, you must know of such a place.

He gave her another penetrating look and then rubbed his chin. "My Tia Celestina has rooms for rent." He wrote down the address with a stub of pencil. She glanced at it and then put the scrap of paper inside her blouse. Without another word, he cast quick glances left and right, turned the corner and was gone.

She walked a few blocks, and then overcome with wine and fatigue, dropped her bag, sat on it, and crossing her arms over her knees, she fell asleep, her masses of dark hair falling forward, puddling the ground in front of her. She awoke sometime later with a start. A coin had struck her on the arm. A duro, a five-peseta piece someone had tossed thinking she was a beggar. She clutched it as a good luck charm, rose, and approached two elderly housewives to show them the address Luis had given her. Completely bewildered, they shook their heads, and then one recalled, "Calle del Pozo, a little street near my sister’s house. Oh hija, tan lejos. It’s very far." They conferred with one another, and then gave her complicated directions. She struggled a few more blocks, her footsteps slowing till she could barely drag herself along. Then she had the distinct feeling that someone was watching her.