The Tale of Guilty Eréndira

The muscles in Inspector Søren Farrugia’s body and that of Sergeant Laus were sore after long hours spent in the surveillance car.

Several residents of 22 “Acacia Mansions” repeatedly reported suspicious activity on the sixth floor of their block of apartments. Most probably a brothel, run by the Colombian girls who lived at number 66.

So Inspector Farrugia and his men began keeping “Acacia Mansions” under surveillance. The traffic into the block was not insignificant. Men (and a few women) of all ages knocked on the girls’ door at all hours of day and night. Some were Maltese; many were foreigners. Malta’s foreign population had ballooned and biology is biology, irrespective of skin colour, cultural background, or religious ostentation.

Farrugia had brought along a copy of García Márquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Most of the time, surveillance is boring.

As he was engrossed reading, Sergeant Laus nudged him, imperceptibly moving his head to indicate a man walking briskly but furtively toward “Acacia Mansions”.

The inspector immediately recognised him as one Minister’s person of trust, despite the cunning combination of mackintosh and dark sunglasses the man had put on certain he would pass unnoticed. Sergeant Laus took a couple of photos, and that was that.

As the days rolled by and the case file grew thicker, Inspector Farrugia decided there was enough evidence to proceed upon. With the search and arrest warrant in hand, he gave the goahead to raid the Colombians’ apartment.

They found two half-clad girls in the sitting room and another one, completely naked, in the main bedroom, and loads of stuff lying about that could be used in prostitution. And then – surprise surprise! – the person of trust came out of the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” yelled the man as Sergeant Laus handcuffed him. “Do you know who I am? Let me go, or you’ll pay for this!”

“Yeah, yeah,” quipped the sergeant. “The only one who’s been paying here seems to be you!”

As the squad was escorting the four manacled suspects out, the inspector spotted the girls’ passports. One of them was called Eréndira.

The thought crossed his mind of a heartless grandmother pushing this Eréndira into the business to repay her debts.

It then occurred to the inspector that since the Spanish for “grandmother” is abuela, his boss might get excited at the prospect of subterranean links with the high and mighty of the land. But he shrugged the naughty thought off with a smile and followed his men out of the makeshift brothel.

Next step: suspect statements.

That night Farrugia dreamt of Fragonard’s L’Escarpolette.

Farrugia was in Fragonard’s fenced garden, lying on the ground looking upward toward his boss’ secretary. She was swinging on a swing tied to a tree and behind her, in the semi-darkness, their boss propelled the swing with a pair of ropes. As the secretary swung, she stretched out her left foot and flung her shoe into the air, showing off her shapely ankle and allowing the inspector a glimpse of something else too.

Farrugia woke wide-eyed and panting.

Next morning at work he felt uneasy even though from the statements the four suspects had signed the evening before, there was enough evidence to ensure they got convicted.

He received a call from HR at HQ.

“It’s the grandmother, right?” Farrugia asked, sardonically.

“Beg your pardon?” said the voice on the other end. “Whose grandmother?”

“Never mind. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

His boss, Mr Zahra, wanted a word. Nothing urgent, no rush, but within the hour would be appreciated.

The inspector complied.

* * * * *

“Søren, Søren…” Thus spake1 Zahra.

“Sir?”

“You’ve arrested a person of trust.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“A Minister’s person of trust.” “Yes, Sir.”

“So you recognised him?”

“Yes, Sir.” “And you still arrested him?” “Yes, Sir.”

“What’s this country coming to?”

“Sir?”

“Anyway. What’s this grandmother business?”

“Sir…?”

“You said something about a grandmother. Whose grandmother is it?”

“Nobody’s, Sir. Just a literary citation.”

“We’re the Police, Inspector, not a book club.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Anyway, we have two problems on our hands.”

“Sir?”

“One, the guy you’ve arrested. Two, you getting married. My secretary is still waiting for you to take her out to dinner… Come on, Søren. That’s how things start. Dinner, a walk in a moonlit garden, and then… I’ll be your witness at the wedding!”

“Thank you, Sir!” and he darted out of the office.

Inspector Farrugia didn’t understand either of these problems.

The Court found Eréndira and the other two guilty and handed them suspended sentences. They had moved to Malta looking for legitimate work and ended up as prostitutes. That was their story.

The story of the Minister’s person of trust: Eréndira was his girlfriend and he had had absolutely no idea she plied the profession. They’re always innocent, mused Farrugia.

As he strolled along ZammitDimech Promenade, trying to dodge the crazy escooters, Farrugia ruminated on his dream and on Zahra’s insistence that his civil status was a problem. Why should it matter to his superiors if he was married or not? It was none of their business.

Or was it?

Farrugia stopped to reflect by the upside-down LOVE monument and its upright reflection in the sea below. Love is such a multiform phenomenon. You can rent it in a cheap makeshift whorehouse or conquer it on the battlefield of an expensive restaurant. It can also drown in a flood of suspicions of manipulation.

He looked around and admired the female specimens of the species, none of whom was uneasy on the eye. Plenty of fish in the sea, he thought to himself.

Once home, given the coincidence, he grabbed Gabo’s Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and her Heartless Grandmother and sank into his tufted armchair to re-read it.

Note to subeditor: Spake is correct.