Rose for Winter (12 page)

In the end I gave up. There was no point in making any further inquiries. Nobody lied deliberately, but nobody wished to seem certain of the truth. For the truth, in itself, was unendurable.

I was restless and haunted in Castillo, and slept badly. Often I would go out before dawn and sit on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the dark sea's motions in the night. The slender strip of beach, gauzy with its nets, drew a sharp dividing frontier between the pure classic spaces of water and Castillo's earthy wretchedness. Time after time I sat thus, hunched up in my chair, watching new days grow slowly from the east. The moving patterns of these Mediterranean mornings seemed as formal as a sacred play. Each dawn brought the same sensations, the same dry whiff of ancient shores, the same slow Eastern look into the worlds of Egypt and the Phoenicians …

At first there was nothing – a profound blue darkness running deep, laced by skeins of starlight and pale phosphorescent flashes. This four o'clock hour was a moment of utter silence, the indrawn breath of dark, the absolute, trance-like balance between night and day. Then, when it seemed that nothing would ever move or live or know the light again, a sudden hot wind would run over the invisible water. It was like a fore-blast of the turning world, an intimation that its rocks and seas and surfaces still stirred against the sun. One strained one's eyes, scarce breathing, searching for a sign. Presently it came. Far in the east at last the horizon hardened, an imperceptible line dividing sky and sea, sharp as a diamond cut on glass. A dark bubble of cloud revealed itself, warmed slowly, flushing from within like a seed growing, a kernel ripening, a clinker hot with a locked-in fire. Gradually the cloud throbbed red with light, then suddenly caught the still unrisen sun and burst like an expanding bomb. Flares and streamers began to fall into the sea, setting all things on fire. After the long unthinking darkness everything now began to happen at once. The stars snapped shut, the sky bled green, vermilion tides ran over the water, the hills around took on the colour of firebrick, and the great sun drew himself at last raw and dripping from the waves. Scarlet, purple and clinker-blue, the morning, smelling of thyme and goats, of charcoal, splintered rock and man's long sojourn around this lake, returned with a calling of dogs, the cough of asses and the hoarse speech of the fishermen going down to the working sea.

Some fishermen, of course, had been there all night, fishing far out with lamps; and now, in the overlapping light of dawn, they returned from the deep water to meet their poorer brothers setting out to fish the inshore shallows. In from the horizon, across the chill, flat, crimson silence, the little fleet came throbbing to the shore. As the vessels grounded, the fishermen of the night sprang red-legged into the water, wading ashore with cries and coughing, while a team of oxen, backing into the waves, hauled each boat up the sands.

Then the poor scratch fishermen of the morning took over, setting out in their long curved boats and rowing like madmen across the copper sea. The dark silhouettes of their craft, and of the bent men rowing, looked as old as Greece and revolved against the coloured water like ancient paintings on a pot. A man in the boat's high stern paid out a net, while the crew rowed lustily to his cries, kicking up little flames of spray. A net was laid in an arc off-shore, tethered to the land by its separate ends. Then two gangs of short, bandy-legged little men took these ends and began to haul it in again. It was a kind of slave labour, to be witnessed every morning. Panting, swearing, yelping and groaning, they toiled up the beach, while the heavy net, inch by inch, was laboriously hauled ashore.

After two hours of this mule-train labour the centre of the net, buoyed up by barrels, could be seen approaching the beach. Women and children began to appear in little groups on the sands, watching the net with intense black eyes. This was the peak moment of their day, moment of possible miracle though familiar disappointment, moment when the unknown catch of fish was drawn wallowing ashore. The women watched in silence, but excitement grew among the fishermen. The cries of the hauling men were louder, hoarser; their naked toes clawed deeper in the sand, they heaved, and threshed and tumbled, bending so low their beards almost scraped the ground. The boat crew ran up and down along the edge of the waves, barking like dogs and skipping in and out of the water. And all eyes were fixed on the patch of rippling foam where the long funnel of net rolled submerged with its catch.

At last, with a final burst, it was drawn ashore, a slack, black, serpentine shape twinkling with tiny scales. Seized and emptied upon the sand, before the watching eyes of the wives, the harvest was little enough – a pink mass of glutinous jellyfish and a few kilos of quivering sardines. The watchers and the exhausted fishermen drew in their breath, gazing silently at the wretched heap, and in it saw their poverty confirmed. For a while they stood in a ring, unspeaking, gazing down, while a Civil Guard, with cloak and rifle, drew near and shadowed all.

The disposal of the fish was a simple matter. Brown, scaly fingers sorted them into little heaps about the sand. Then the leader of the crew, in a croaking fatal voice, began to auction them on the spot. He mentioned a figure almost with shame. Two damp-faced dealers, bleary from their beds, approached and stood listlessly watching. ‘Seventy-five,' said the fisherman, ‘seventy-four … seventy-three …' As the price fell, so did his voice, as though he could not bear the women to hear such obscenities on his lips. At last, when his husky offer could sink no lower, one of the dealers nodded briefly, spat, and shovelled some loose change into the leader's hand. It was all over; the pathetic price was shared, and the stunted men, still blown from their long labours, took their few pence in silence.

We watched four such auctions on four successive days and not once did the catch fetch more than thirty shillings. Half of this went to the owner of the boat and the rest was divided among some twenty men. By then there was scarcely enough left to buy bread with. On the worst mornings, when the price went down and down and there were no takers, the auctioneer would break off at last, click his teeth and stare at the mountains. This was the signal for the fishermen to share the catch among themselves. Then the sardines were counted out on the sands, scooped up into the aprons of the wives and borne away home. The children and the workless were left to scratch in the sand for the small fry which had passed unnoticed, and these they ate raw on the spot.

The morning's fishing, beginning at dawn, was usually over by ten o'clock. From then on the men had nothing to do. So they spent their time lying face down on the sand, a row of jetsam above the shining sea, sleeping the ebb of their lives. The night fishermen caught bigger fish – rose-coloured salmonetti, species of mackerel, octopus and sometimes even tunny – but there was little profit in these either. A single dealer bought them for the Granada market and, lacking competition, he made his own prices.

It must be said that the men of Castillo were poor fishermen and even worse sailors. Their methods were antique, arduous and ineffective. They would only fish in the calmest waters. They often set out in a flurry of hysteria, swamped their boats, fouled their nets, fell overboard and were the most uncertain judges of weather. But the sterile waters were their worst enemy.

When the clamour of the morning's fishing was over, the town went quiet, and we sat on the balcony waiting for breakfast. No matter how long we waited we knew it wouldn't come till the hotel taps started whistling. Then Rosario, the chambermaid, would appear jubilantly before us.

‘They've turned the water on!' she'd cry. ‘But a little patience now and I will bring you your coffee.'

Half an hour later, a drumming of cloven hooves could be heard passing down the dusty street, and Rosario would appear again.

‘The goats have come !' she'd announce rapturously. ‘Now we have milk.'

And half an hour after that, proudly, as though each were a personal triumph of organization in the face of a long siege, the two sweet glasses of yellow coffee would be set before us. So it was every morning.

The days we spent here were spacious, slow and quiet. Still weak from my fever, I spent much of the daylight hours drinking white wine and watching the sea. Already, though it was only January, the sun had marched northwards and strengthened, throwing each day upon the waves a trail of jagged stars so dazzling they bruised the eyes. The warmth of the sun fell on us like a treasure, and the daylight moved over the sea in great, slow transpositions of colour, dying each night in purple dusks. The cliffs and mountains soaked up the sunsets like red sponges and the distant ragged edge of the Sierras shone blue as a blunted saw.

After dark a boy would come and sing to us. The hotel-keeper and his wife brought sardines and olives, the porter fetched wine, Rosario pushed back the beds and she and Kati danced. Later, the shutters were opened to admit the moon and we ended the night with story-telling. So passed the long casual days of my convalescence; the sea with its patterns of boats and men, the girls dancing in the dusk, the boy singing his tragic songs along the path of the moon, and the haunted presence of the town around us, smouldering in the dark.

Sitting one morning outside a sea-front café, eating cooked liver and drinking the golden wine, we caught sight of a striking figure advancing up the street towards us. He was a tall man, wide hipped and narrow shouldered, shaped like a sherry cask, and on the top of his large smooth head he wore a black beret hardly bigger than a button. But what particularly drew one's attention was not so much his size as his booming voice and the extravagant, almost royal gestures with which he saluted everyone in his path. To each of these, man, woman, child and dog, he bellowed greetings as he came, and his face was lit by a vast and insane smile. Loose-lipped and flabby-handed, rolling and posturing on his tiny feet, he looked a terror.

‘Watch him,' we said, as he approached. He caught our eye, stopped dead, spun his great bulk on the points of his shoes, swept off his hat, and bowed.

‘Distinguished visitors!' he boomed. ‘Welcome to Castillo. Do you wish to pass a pleasant hour? Honour me then with your company, and I will show you my beautiful farm.'

Like ships becalmed, our slack sails stirred to his gusty voice; we rose, and to the winds of his pleasantries rode helplessly down the street before him.

‘I am Don Paco,' he said. ‘All the world knows me. They will tell you I have the best farm on the southern coast. I am loved by everyone and respected much. I am their father.'

We approached a group of washerwomen by the fountain. ‘Ha! ladies,' he cried. They recoiled, broke up and ran scurrying into their houses. A dim old man came shuffling round the corner. Don Paco caught him by the shirt and pinned him against the wall.

‘Well, uncle!' he bawled. ‘Not dead yet? I never thought you'd get through the winter. It's a miracle.'

The old man wheezed and spluttered, wriggling in the other's grip.

‘And how's that shameless daughter of yours?' Don Paco went on. ‘Still breeding? Terrible she is. Thighs like serpents. Tell her from me she ought to be in the zoo.'

He hit the old man pleasantly in the stomach while the latter raised a thin defensive arm and cowered away.

‘What a man you are with your dogs and daughters. Don't forget you owe me money – five duros it is now. Never mind, you can work it off. Come to the farm six o'clock tomorrow morning. Good idea. Good-bye.'

Don Paco released his grip and the old man crawled away, coughing and groaning as though he had been kicked by a horse. We left the town and Don Paco led us down a narrow lane shuttered on each side by tall green sugar-canes. The lane was waterlogged from a night of storm and we picked our way wetly along it.

‘What a paradise!' cried Don Paco, skipping across a gigantic pothole. ‘The most beautiful place in Europe and the best climate in the world.' He slipped on a pebble and went in up to his ankles in creamy mud. ‘Have you not found it so?'

‘Superb,' I said. ‘Apart from the rain.'

‘Nonsense,' he snapped. ‘It never rains here. Mist and dew sometimes – but never rain.' He surveyed the flooded lane at his feet. ‘This water comes from the Sierras – taste it' – he dipped a finger gingerly in the mud, licked it, gave a little shudder – ‘pure snow, delicious, gift of heaven.' We went on. ‘I tell you, Castillo wants for nothing. Sun, fruit, flowers all the year round. And so healthy. Have you ever felt better than you do at this moment?'

‘Wonderful.' I said. ‘Apart from a cold.'

‘A
cold
!' snorted the man. ‘Impossible. What you have is a slight nasal irritation due to the abundance of flowers in the place. No one has colds in Castillo. No one is ill.' He laughed. ‘People live so long we have to shoot them. Out of kindness.'

We had come now to a walled garden, high, spiked and feudal. We paused before a wooden doorway. Don Paco kicked it open and it collapsed in a cloud of dust. Stepping over the ruin, Don Paco threw out his arms.

‘Behold,' he said, ‘my farm – el Rancho Grande.'

We saw an acre of land, square and well-watered, and set out with fruit trees and flowering broad beans. In a shed by the gateway a fat black pig lay perched on a pile of dung. Don Paco approached him with a loving cry. The pig grunted to his feet and ran squealing into a corner. Don Paco entered the sty, calling smooth endearments and making kissing noises with his lips.

‘Look at him,' he crooned. ‘Isn't he an angel?' He broke a loose piece off the feeding-trough and scratched the pig's back with it. The cornered pig made a scampering half-turn, snorting in terror. Don Paco glanced back at us over his shoulder, beaming with fatuous delight. ‘Look how contented he is to see me,' he said. ‘All day he cries for me. All day he waits for me to come. Ay, the lovely darling. Tomorrow I will kill him.'