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Authors: Lucy Wadham

Castro's Dream (18 page)

BOOK: Castro's Dream
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She climbed the stairs, walked along the corridor and stopped at Lola’s bedroom. She leant against the door and listened. She could hear only the sound of the pages. Lola would be reading the letters one by one; every letter sent over five years. She would see his obsession, how it was born, how it had grown into the monster it had become. Did she have her letters to him too? She had not seen her own handwriting in the mess of paper on the floor.

Lola?

She rested her forehead on the door.

Please, Lola. Let me in.

The door opened. Lola’s face was distorted from crying.

I dream of a simple life with you, Lola quoted. I want to build you a house.

Suddenly her expression softened and she put out her hand and laid it on Astrid’s cheek. It’s so sad. Our lives have been wasted, she said, taking Astrid into her arms. All our lives.

As Lola held her, Astrid felt as though all the shame and fear that had accumulated over the years was draining from her. They clung to each other for a long time. But when Lola pulled back and Astrid saw her face, it was as if they had been set down on opposite sides of a rapid stream. She knew she had lost her.

She found as she watched Lola move away that she no longer
felt any pain, only a fascination for everything that her sister did. She watched Lola carefully; watched the movement of her skirt as she bent to gather up the letters from the floor; watched her put them neatly into the folder; straighten up and walk to her bed, turn and face her.

He wants to have children with you.

I can’t have children, Astrid answered.

You tell yourself that. You don’t know.

I know.

Lola set the folder down on her bedside table. She seemed to be looking at her as though she might find something in her face that she had missed, some detail that could have warned her. Astrid felt that Lola had a new authority. She wanted to know but she was afraid to ask. She looked down.

Who gave them to you? she asked.

That’s not important, Lola said.

Was it Txema?

No it wasn’t. Why didn’t you tell me, Astrid? Her voice was light. It sounded like curiosity.

Astrid shook her head.

Why didn’t you?

I tried.

No you didn’t.

Astrid was now simply a child trying to reclaim something she had lost.

I was afraid of losing you, she said.

You’ve lost me by not telling me.

I know.

Will you leave me alone now?

Astrid went to the door and stood on the threshold. She was suddenly convinced that if Lola closed the door behind her, she would never see her again.

Did you visit him?

Astrid stared at her sister.

Lola shrieked,

Answer me!

Yes.

When?

Once. I went once.

When?

In the summer. Four years ago.

Lola slammed the door in her face.

Astrid stood staring at a knot in the wood. Something prevented her from moving, an old sense that she would be punished if she did. She held still as the door opened again. Lola’s face was distorted with an emotion that Astrid had never seen there before. She tried to look beyond it to a face she knew.

I remember, Lola was saying. You lied to me! You told me you were going to Morocco, didn’t you? For a conference with Chastel. Was it then? Astrid looked at the vein sticking up on Lola’s forehead. Was it? Lola shouted again.

Astrid nodded.

He was in an open prison. You made love.

Astrid could not find her voice. She swallowed and looked down. Lola’s voice was flat now.

I hate you. You’ve stolen my life. Get out of this house.

But Astrid could not move.

We didn’t make love, she said. I didn’t go back.

You should have. You’re a monster. You should have made love to the poor man.

Astrid looked at her sister and for a moment believed that there might be a way back to her. But then it became clear that Lola had made a decision.

Leave this house, she said gently. Go to Mikel, or don’t go to him.

I won’t, Astrid said.

I don’t care what you do. I just don’t want to see you again.

This time she closed the door carefully, letting the latch slip home.

Astrid had walked out through the gate and down the hill to the pelota court before becoming aware of her surroundings. The day unfolding around her was grandiose. She walked shabbily through it all like a stagehand – the joy cries of children, the mountain sunlight, the cool breeze. She was ridiculous; for once truly punished. Her parched throat waited for tears.

None came; she was calm. After all the torment, after the rebellion of her mind and body in anticipation of this moment, she was calm. Pain, she knew, would come, when the longing to be re-attached set in. Now she floated, in between two states of anguish.

Then she saw Txema. He was crossing the road ahead of her. She halted. Fear filled her upper body. He had seen her. He came towards her, striding, looking about him like certain prison guards she had known who needed to make a great show of their strength. His mouth hung open; he was smiling at her. Close up she saw the alcohol in his eyes and had the presence of mind to think that she would not take his liver if his next of kin begged her.

She greeted him in Basque.

Astrid. What a pleasure to see you.

Next of kin, she thought:

How is your mother?

Thank you. She’s eighty-seven, he said, blinking slowly, as though this were information enough.

Is she well?

She is. She sleeps a lot. But she’s in good health.

And you?

He smiled.

I’m fine so long as I stay away from doctors.

It works for some people. But you should look after yourself. You look tired. It’s nice to see you, Txema.

She stepped back, trying to get away.

I don’t sleep much, I never have. He looked about him. I saw your lovely sister, he said. We had a drink together. She was worried about Mikel. He hadn’t called her. I told her she must try and be patient, Txema said, closing his eyes. Astrid remembered his sanctimonious manner from his days on the Executive Committee.

Has he called you? she asked.

Txema hesitated.

He has. He watched the effect this might have on her. She stared back at him, her gaze level. Will you have coffee with me? he asked.

The will to know, to be in possession of the elements, her old demon, drove her up the steps behind him.

He gestured for her to precede him through the door of his café. Txema cultivated the gallantry of an old commando member.

She went to sit down while he went to greet the barman. She watched him slap the man’s hand, then grip warmly. He leaned right over the bar to talk to him. Astrid saw the admiration in the barman’s face, his quickness to laugh. Txema Egibar was a local hero. To most people he still had the freedom fighter’s aura. Knowing him made them feel virtuous. He was an historic member of the armed struggle, they thought. Although everyone knew that the armed struggle was no longer entirely glorious, no one would condemn it, not in this village.

Txema sat down opposite her. She could tell from the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat that he did not like to have his back to the entrance but she did not offer to change places.

Lola
is
patient, she told him. She’s the most patient person I know. Twenty years is a long time to wait for someone.

I suppose it depends on what you mean by wait, he said.

She looked into his lustreless, black eyes.

What do you mean by that? she said, keeping her tone light.

Oh come on, Astrid. Lola’s had boyfriends. Plenty of them, as far as I can gather.

That’s none of anyone’s business, Txema. Except for Lola and Mikel’s.

And yours.

Astrid flushed. She opened her mouth to speak but he interrupted her.

What will you have?

Coffee.

Shaken, she watched him raise his arm and summon the barman. She watched him order but realised that she had not heard a word that had been said. When the barman had gone, he faced her again with perfect composure.

Again she wanted to leave.

Txema rested his hands on the table. She saw that they were spattered with pigmentation.

I think he’s terrified, Txema was saying.

Of what?

Of the outside world. He leant back again. It happens.

Astrid leaned forward, speaking quietly. She felt trapped and knew that he wished her harm.

How do you know? she asked him. You were only inside for nine months.

Txema looked up at the barman who was now at their table. He watched intently as the man put down her coffee and his lager. Astrid could see he was grateful for the interruption. He waited for the barman to leave before taking a sip. When he looked up at her again, his lips were wet. It was disgust that made her go on.

You must have been distraught when they refused an amnesty for Mikel.

Have I missed something? he asked. Do you actually
know
Mikel?

He went out with my sister for four years before he went to jail.

Txema smiled. His teeth were grey.

Of course he did.

Once again she could feel the blush spreading from her neck up. She swallowed. He wished her harm and he knew about the letters. Unable to look at him, she took a sip of coffee. What could she fear now? She had lost what she cared about. She put down her cup and looked him straight in the eye.

I’ll be frank with you, Txema. I’ve never liked you, but more importantly, I don’t trust you. And I don’t think Mikel should, either.

The lids of Txema’s eyes seemed to sink a little, giving him a weary look.

You’ve always been clever, Astrid, but never politic.

He took another sip of lager.

Again, the sight of his wet mouth filled her with a repulsion that spurred her on.

Do you know so little about me that you don’t know how much I hate politics?

I know more about you than you think, he said, setting his glass down.

What are you talking about?

All knowledge has a price, Astrid.

Astrid huffed out a laugh. She knocked back her coffee and stood up. Thank you for the coffee, Txema.

She pushed back her chair. Txema did not raise his head. He was moving his glass in circular motions, widening the ring of moisture left on the table. She watched, alert, ready for a fight. Dandruff speckled his shoulders. The sight of him sitting there in the café he owned in the village he ran filled her with indignation. Why had
he
eluded punishment?

She sat down again.

I’ve often meant to ask you, she said. What happened on the night you were arrested?

Which night? I’ve been arrested more than once.

With Mikel, she said.

She watched him carefully, measuring his reaction. She saw a tightening around his mouth.

What about it?

She allowed a pause. Her heart was beating fast but she felt invigorated, not afraid.

You were arrested by the French, weren’t you? How come you weren’t together?

Txema’s eyes seemed to turn a deeper black. It occurred to her that this was the veil that had enabled him to carry out acts of violence.

I went one way, he said, parting his hands. And Mikel went the other.

Astrid nodded.

You must have felt terrible. Mikel must have been tortured in custody, she went on. Don’t you think?

Txema looked down at his glass.

I would be careful about discussing matters like these. You
haven’t been back for a long time, Astrid. You’re no longer familiar with the lie of the land.

She leant towards him, full of rage.

Even I was made to sit naked on a chair for a night in the basement of the Guardia Civil and I was only being charged with logistical support. Txema had a vacant look, even unashamedly bored, but she pressed on. That was the longest night of my life, she said. I was too afraid to sleep. Every time I heard footsteps come near the door, I thought it was my turn. I was shivering and I couldn’t stop. Every muscle in my body ached. Then I think I started to hallucinate. I saw this woman in khaki uniform spraying blood off the tiled walls with a hose and I thought the blood was mine. When they came for me the next morning, I passed out. They hadn’t laid a finger on me but the fear was enough, Txema. I can’t imagine what Mikel must have gone through. What about you?

Txema did not answer. He was drawing patterns in the beer with his finger. The gesture was disconcerting. He looked up and smiled at her. Suddenly he had become dangerous. He sat with his finger poised in the spilled beer, as though some scruple was preventing him from speaking his mind.

I should go, she said.

He did not move.

You, of course, have nothing to hide, he said.

I suppose we all have something, she said.

She stood up and held out her hand. Txema looked at it.

We don’t shake hands with women here, he said, rising to his feet. He gripped her shoulders hard and kissed her on each cheek. She could smell his rancid scalp.

Outside in the fresh air Astrid felt unclean. She had been drawn back to her old ways and had been humiliated. Her only desire now was to escape from the beautiful day. She needed a bath and a dark room. She walked back up the hill towards her car.

*

The man at the reception of the Hotel Lagunekin thankfully did not recognise her. He was Gachucha’s nephew and he had been a child the last time he had seen her, a child playing marbles on the steps to their cellar. She asked him for a quiet room and he gave
her the key to room nineteen. She walked up the back stairs to the first floor, along a windowless corridor with a stained burgundy carpet, past a wall light with a flickering bulb, to a room squeezed behind a partition wall. The room had twin beds, a cot, a sink and mirror and a window that gave on to a concrete courtyard, just big enough for a municipal dustbin and a car covered with an electric-blue tarpaulin. On the wall above the beds was a poster of a bowl of fruit and a pitcher with a droplet of wine hanging from its lip, executed with obscene realism. Astrid opened the window and let in the smell of fried food but no children’s cries. She pulled the curtains, which had a motif of flying ducks and were lined with plastic for opacity, and went and lay down on the bed nearest the door.

She folded her hands on her stomach, crossed her ankles and closed her eyes. Txema knew about Mikel’s letters to her. But how did he know and why had he made it his business to know? She believed that Txema’s ascension to power would never have happened if Mikel had not been behind bars. Mikel had always overshadowed him. He was his moral superior and he had always showed Txema up, both inside the organisation and out of it. She was sure Txema had betrayed Mikel, she just didn’t know how.

She lay on her back, eyes wide open. She could hear her own pulse in her ears, like the sound of footsteps on gravel. It drowned out the sound of the extractor fan below her window. I must not seek to know, she told herself. She thought of Kader, of his innocence. This was where peace could be found, in a nature like his. She must keep out of other people’s lives. She could seek understanding only in her field.

As she waited for sleep, she tried to recall her first procurement. It had been more than fifteen years ago, a woman weighing over a hundred kilos. Astrid had been struck by the brightness of the colours on the inside of this body. She had seen the gaudiness of autumn: the orange of the fat, the rich brown of the intestines and the red of course, the cardinal red. This was a multi-organ harvest for heart, liver and kidneys but still she had not been prepared for the crowd: twelve of them, like the disciples, leaning over the woman’s beating carcass. In the complex staging of the operation she had been criticised for speaking her part too softly,
for speaking too quietly behind her surgical mask. And there was her accent too, making it hard for the surgical nurse to recognise the terms and respond quickly. The quantity of fat had made Astrid nervous and it had taken her nearly three hours to harvest the woman’s liver. The kidney surgeons, waiting for their turn, had hardly been able to conceal their impatience. But Astrid was Chastel’s protégé so they stitched and cut in tense silence.

That first time had seen the birth of her mistrust of cardiac surgeons. She remembered hearing the heart surgeon’s booming tenor next door in the antechamber. He was pacing in wait for the fresh organ and showing off to the nurses. She had never met a cardiac surgeon who did not have a great, booming voice and an operatic demeanour. Even at four a.m. in a hospital corridor when they were clearly exhausted, they still performed. And they seemed to follow their grand destinies, unhampered by scruples of any kind. What was it about the heart, she wondered, that drew these vainglorious people? Did they really believe the heart was the seat of the soul? It was just a pump. The liver was a far more intelligent organ. It had over seven thousand functions, most of which were only partially understood. If the brain was an electrical circuit, the liver was an infinitely complex factory. And she was more drawn to factories than to computers.

Still it was undeniable that the moment the heart was stopped, flushed through with cooling fluid; when it was lifted from its pearly cavity and put in the plastic jar with a screw-top lid and then into a plastic bag, tied in a bow with a green ribbon; as soon as the heart team left the room with their prize, there was a drop in intensity. She remembered being struck by the fact that they had called out:

Bye!

And the others had called back without looking up from their work:

Thanks!

Even now, there was always a sense, to the others left behind to harvest the remaining organs, that when the heart team left, the glamour went, as it does when the most interesting or desirable member of a dinner party goes home.

She had worked on for another hour beside the kidney team while her assistant, a young Vietnamese intern, held back the
intestines with swathes of muslin, dyed pink with blood. Never since had the strangeness of this world she had chosen to inhabit been so vivid to her: the sweet smell of cauterised flesh, the disinfectants that hung in the throat, the respirator, like the sound of someone doing breaststroke in the blue light of that underground room, and the shrill metronome of the electroencephalogram. Then the depth of the silence after the respirator had been switched off and the anaesthetists, like three sulking puppeteers behind their green curtain, had taken the probes off the cadaver and the screens had gone dark.

BOOK: Castro's Dream
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