Page 111 of The Moon Sister
‘I’m actually Swiss, so I speak French as well.’
‘We stick to English, yes? I am Marcella, owner of this hotel.’ She smiled at me, the wrinkles on her face deepening further. As she led me into the reception I realised the hotel was built out of a series of whitewashed caves. She drew out a set of keys, and led me through to a room with a number of sofas covered in colourful patterned throws. At the back, Marcella opened the door to another cave, with a sweet little wooden bed set in the centre of it.
‘The bathroom.’ My hostess pointed to a narrow doorway, protected by a curtain that led to a toilet and a tiny shower.
‘This is perfect,’ I smiled at her. ‘Gracias.’
I followed her back to the small reception and gave her my passport details in return for the key.
‘You are hungry?’ she asked me.
‘No, thank you. I ate on the plane. If you have a glass of water, that would be wonderful.’
She disappeared off to a small kitchen area and brought me back a glass and a plastic bottle. ‘Sleep well,’ she said as I walked towards my room.
‘Gracias.’
Having taken what Ma used to call a ‘cat-lick’ instead of actually washing, as I didn’t want to chance a shower with my wound, I climbed into what proved to be a very comfortable bed. Lying down, I looked up at the ceiling. It was identical to the one I’d seen so often in my mind’s eye.
‘I’m actually here,’ I whispered in awe, before sleep overtook me.
*
I was amazed to see that it was past ten o’clock in the morning when I checked the time on the fluorescent hands of the alarm clock, which sat on a chest by my bed. Not a wink of daylight penetrated the cave.
I coughed, my throat catching some dust, and the sound echoed around the room. I could only imagine the terrible sound Felipe must have made when he was dying in a cave just like this . . .
Before I did anything else, I took the first aid kit I’d bought at the airport out of my bag. Wincing, I pulled off the plaster covering my wound. It was weeping a little, but not too badly, considering what I’d put it through yesterday. Using some sterile wipes, I cleaned it, patted on antiseptic gel, then covered it in a new plaster. Comforted that it was on its way to healing and I wasn’t about to die of septicaemia where I’d been born, I washed the rest of me, then put on the cotton dress I’d bought at duty-free. I threw my hoodie over it and added the pair of pumps I’d also bought on my shopping spree to replace the heavy ski boots I’d been wearing the night that Pegasus died.
‘Well, Tiggy,’ I chuckled as I looked down at the flowery shift, ‘you certainly blend in with your surroundings in this.’
I left my room and walked through to the reception area. The smell of strong, freshly ground coffee was emanating from the little kitchen to the side of reception.
‘Buenos días, señorita. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, wondering if Marcella – with her long mane of jet-black hair and olive skin – was a gypsy herself.
‘I think it is warm enough to take breakfast outside,’ she said.
‘Sí.’ I followed her out into bright sunshine and blinked like a mole whilst my eyes adjusted.
‘Sit there,’ Marcella said. ‘I will bring your breakfast out.’
I hardly heard her, because my attention had been caught by what lay beyond the wrought-iron gates that enclosed the front terrace. Walking to them and pushing them open, I crossed the narrow path in front of the hotel and leant over the wall to take in the splendour of both the verdant valley beneath me and the majestic Alhambra above me. In the light of day, I saw how the dusky orange walls rose out of the dark green foliage surrounding it.
‘Now I understand what María meant about having the best view in the world,’ I breathed. ‘I really think it is.’
Over a breakfast of bread and delicious jams, plus a glass of fresh orange juice, I reread the letter Pa Salt had written me.
‘You’re looking for a blue door,’ I murmured to remind myself.
‘You tourist? Going to the Alhambra?’ Marcella said, topping up my coffee.
‘Actually, I’ve come here to find my family.’
‘Here to Sacromonte? Or Granada?’
‘Sacromonte. I even know the exact door I must knock on.’
