Please Stay Away from Mr. Ribas
The Guardia Civil officer, a man of indeterminate age, sat behind his desk in his immaculately ironed short-sleeved military-green shirt, staring at Christina’s letter to me. He chewed gum as he read it. There was a soft glitter of sweat on his frowning scalp. He exuded suppressed emotion. He was a clenched fist of a man.
“I know that you are still conducting an investigation into Christina’s disappearance, and I thought this might help. Even though there is not much there.”
He gave the smallest of nods, growled a little to himself, then spoke to me in a gruff Spanglish. “Es verdad. There is not so much there.”
“But it tells us that she knew. She knew she was going to die… That has to be significant. I should also tell you that there was a necklace in the water. I saw it in a photograph online. I had given it to her. It was a St. Christopher.”
The policeman looked up at me. A man of few words and gestures. He had a spherical, shaven head and no beard. There was no expression in his tired eyes. “¿Cuándo?”
“Sorry?”
“When?”
“I don’t understand.”
I sensed his frustration. He muttered something to himself in Spanish, then asked, “When did you give the necklace?” He gave the question reluctantly, like coins to someone begging.
“Nineteen seventy-nine.”
He looked at me like he didn’t understand.
“Forty-five years ago,” I clarified. “I gave it to her forty-five years ago. And according to photographs, she wore it ever since.”
I don’t like police stations. They always make me feel guilty.
He sighed and gave the impression that I was wasting his time. Maybe he was embarrassed that they hadn’t worked out precisely what had happened to Christina. I really wished I knew some Spanish so I didn’t seem like such a naïve old tourist.
“Where was the picture?”
“It was on a website. Atlantis Scuba.”
Something flashed in his eyes when I said that.
“Atlantis Scuba?”
“Sí. Yes. Sí. The one owned by Alberto Ribas. I believe she knew him quite well.”
“Mmm. Alberto Ribas.” He sighed a long sigh. “Pues. Have there been… other things you see…?”
I wasn’t going to tell him about olive jars refilling with seawater or flowers appearing from nowhere. “No.”
“Okay.”
There was a long pause. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else. His mouth hinted at it, like an egg before it hatches, but nothing came.
“Is that it?” I wondered aloud.
The man gave me a stern look. I tried a softer approach, the way you might a grizzly bear in the woods whose lunch you interrupted. “It’s just that I am very concerned about my friend. I understand that there are still some questions about how she died, and I know you are trying to get to the bottom of it…”
“You are a guest on this island. It is important to remember… This island is not easy to…” He searched for the English word and decided upon “… see… I mean, you can see it. You can see… beaches… and palm trees… and you can pass the discos and the restaurants in your car. But you will never see it like an Ibicenco. Now. Thank you for your assistance, señora. Now, please, leave us to the investigating. You go and enjoy your holidays.”
He placed the letter to one side and went onto his computer.
“Do you still need the letter?” I asked.
“Sí.”
“Right. I see.”
I was going to ask for a copy, but I felt I had reached the end of my question quota. My time was clearly up. But as I was walking out of that humid room, hand on the door, he cleared his throat. “Oh, and señora, please stay away from Mr. Ribas.”
I turned and nodded. And, at that point, I really was going to do precisely as he said.
