Almost Gone

Teach Me

teach me cAtAriNA · 2008 This could be the week that the money would run out. Catarina knew that she had to be conscious of that possibility. As she walked down Cuesta de Gomérez toward Placeta de la Miga, the air shimmered, a foggy curtain in the blazing heat. Her heels felt uneven, and it was hard not to trip on the cobblestones. The hills behind her that held la Alhambra, with its palaces and gardens and trickling water, whispered mockingly. In the tourism magazine she’d found in her hotel room, Catarina had read that this was the last Muslim city to fall to the Christians, at the hands of Queen Isabel of Castilla and her husband, Ferdinand II of Aragon. Their bodies were still buried there. Catarina loved the sound of the queen’s name, Isabel de Castilla. She wondered how many people had died up there, and if Isabel herself had done any of the killing. A taxi slowed next to her, and the driver gestured and honked. Catarina shook her head. The owner of the hotel, staring at her across the front desk this morning, had insisted that she take a cab. When she refused, he had squeezed his hands together tightly and peered at her curiously. “I’d rather walk,” she’d told him, staring directly at the thick, streaky lenses of his glasses. Finally, he wrote out directions for her, shaking his head. Take a bus at least, he’d muttered, repeatedly circling the bus station on the map until it looked as thought the point of his pencil would snap. Catarina understood only part of what he said. When she’d arrived three days before, he’d glared hungrily at her as she checked in, and then made sure he informed her that he was the owner of the hotel and did not merely work there. The last remnants of his thinning hair were carefully combed and plastered to his head, and Catarina immediately knew that AlmoSt goNe· 18 · she would be able to stay in the hotel for free, if it came to that. She hoped it wouldn’t, but it was good to know. This morning he’d hurriedly explained that to have a bullfight of this caliber in Granada was especial, muy especial, and that she was muy afortunado to be there for it. Tickets would be hard to come by—she’d better get there early. The bullfighter, whose name was José Blanco, was especial, fantástico, el mejor, and he might not come around here again. Maybe Madrid, or Barcelona. But not here. “Oh, maybe I’ll follow him,” Catarina said, smiling, and the man blinked and then laughed hesitantly, showing small yellow teeth. Another taxi slowed down next to her. For a moment she longed to fold herself into the backseat. Instead, she pushed on toward the stadium. She had to begin to be more economical, she scolded herself. She had to take a step down from the comfortable hotels she’d been staying in. El Hotel Puerta de las Granadas was far too luxurious for her. Catarina passed a small bar where workers were breaking for lunch at an outdoor table. They watched her pass, the thin cotton dress she’d bought a few days ago sticking to her where she was already sweating, her pocketbook strap pinned across her chest. She rolled her eyes and sighed, pouted so they could see. She didn’t want a man, necessarily. But she needed money. She’d been frugal with the cash she had stolen—she still had some American dollars, even—the rest she’d changed into Euros. Max had cancelled one of the credit cards; she hadn’t known until she tried to book a hotel room and was denied. Strangely, he’d left the other credit line open. A parting gift? A gesture he thought might bring her back? Catarina grimaced at the thought of him reading the statements online, pursing his lips as he imagined what she was up to. Keeping tabs on her. Well, for now, she needed his money. It was unavoidable. She’d even called the bank the other day from the hotel and tried to extend the credit limit of eight thousand dollars, but they’d told her she wasn’t authorized. She still had about six thousand to spare, but she’d been planning on going to a bank and trying for a cash advance. That way, if Max...