‘Give it a try,’ he said.
And so I did.
A Fig
There is nothing like tasting a fig straight from the tree, sun-warmed and tender. You can eat the whole of it. The whole thing. The skin, the purple flesh, the seeds. Divine. Eat the whole fig, that’s my advice. And take it from the tree, right in that moment, when you get the chance.
Elvis Presley and the Broken Glass
After savouring the fig, I remembered something I’d heard about on the radio.
‘The Goldilocks zone,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Marta nodded quickly, placing her paintbrush down and picking up her wine.
I had an ominous feeling.
I didn’t have any understanding of the feeling except that it was bad.
It was an alertness. That something was suddenly wrong. Alberto’s eyes widened. I wasn’t quite sure if he was feeling it, or if he was feeling me feel it.
‘Not too hot, not too cold…’ Marta continued, oblivious. ‘Just like how Goldilocks liked her porridge. And two billion planets in the Goldilocks zone is a lot. It would, rationally, be far harder to believe we are the only one in two billion and it…’
It was then that something strange happened. To the glass in her hand. Cracks emerged, like an evolving spider web. At first I thought Marta might be squeezing the glass too tight.
‘Careful. The glass.’
But that wasn’t it.
If she was holding the glass too tight, it would have instantaneously broken. This was something different. This was a display of cracked glass. This was theatre. It was like it wanted to be noticed as something unnatural, and Marta was so mesmerised and confused by the sight she didn’t place the glass down but just stared at it. And then, just at the point that Marta came to her senses, it smashed completely and the red wine dropped like blood onto the placard, seeping into the cardboard.
She was startled. ‘¿Qué mierda?’
The placard was ruined. The Earth was now as red as Mars.
‘Are you okay?’ Alberto and I asked, simultaneously, in separate languages.
‘What just happened?’ Marta asked.
Alberto looked around. To see if someone was there, amid the bushes or fig trees.
And then something else.
The radio.
The radio stopped playing Bob Dylan and became a loud hiss of static.
And then the static slowly shaped itself into music. Another song. ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ by Elvis Presley. But straight into the middle of it. His curled lip of a voice floating over the warm air with a sinister menace.
Marta went to switch off the radio. She came back with a cloth and a dustpan and brush as I started to pick up pieces of glass.
Alberto stared at the wine-soaked cardboard.
‘It’s a warning. It’s whoever wanted to kill Christina.’ He stared at his daughter with frowning concern. ‘It wants you to stop. You can’t do the protest, Marta.’
‘Papá, don’t be stupid,’ his daughter told him. Not for the first time, I sensed.
Others are in danger…
That is what Christina had said.
I wasn’t scared. In fact, I was pleased I hadn’t got on the plane right then. I felt like I was needed here.
I stroked Sancho as a thought circled my mind. ‘Christina wanted to take part in the protest, didn’t she?’
Marta swept up the glass. ‘She did. She helped come up with the idea.’
‘And you protested together before, right?’
‘Many times.’
‘And you don’t know exactly who you are protesting against this time? You don’t know who the hotel company is?’
‘No. It’s all been very secret. We just know the plan has been approved by the local government.’
‘Eighth Wonder,’ I said.
‘What about it?’