Page 600 - A Little Life: A Novel

He nodded, barely. “Of course,” he said, just as quietly. This was always
how their own trip on the Camino was supposed to end: with a train ride
south to visit the Alhambra. And over the years, even as he knew their walk

would never happen, he had never gone to the Alhambra, had never taken a
day at the end of one shoot or another and come, because he was waiting
for Jude to do it with him.
“One of my clients,” Jude said, before he could ask. “You defend
someone, and their godfather turns out to be the Spanish minister of culture,
who lets you make a generous donation to the Alhambra’s maintenance
fund for the privilege of seeing it alone.” He grinned at Willem. “I told you

I’d do something for your fiftieth—albeit a year and a half later.” He placed
his hand on Willem’s arm. “Willem, don’t cry.”
“I’m not going to,” he said. “I can do other things in life besides cry, you
know,” although he was no longer sure that was even true.
He opened the envelope that Jude handed him, and inside there was a
package, and he undid the ribbon and tore the paper away and found a

handmade book, organized by chapters—“The Alcazaba”; “The Lion
Palace”; “The Gardens”; “Generalife”—each with pages of handwritten
notes by Malcolm, who had written his thesis on the Alhambra and who had
visited it every year since he was nine. Between each chapter was a drawing
of one of the complex’s details—a jasmine bush blooming with small white
flowers, a stone façade stippled with cobalt tilework—tipped into the pages,
each dedicated to him and signed by someone they knew: Richard; JB;

India; Asian Henry Young; Ali. Now he really did begin to cry, smiling and
crying, until Jude told him that they had better get moving, that they
couldn’t spend their entire time at the entryway, crying, and he grabbed him
and kissed him, not caring about the silent, black-clad guards behind them.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Off they moved through the silent night, Jude’s flashlight bouncing a line

of light before them. Into palaces they walked, where the marble was so old
that the structure appeared to be carved from soft white butter, and into
reception halls with vaulted ceilings so high that birds arced soundlessly
through the space, and with windows so symmetrical and perfectly placed
that the room was bright with moonlight. As they walked, they stopped to
consult Malcolm’s notes, to examine details they would have missed had
they not been alerted to them, to realize that they were standing in the room

where, a thousand years ago, more, a sultan would have dictated his