The Poet's Wife (12 page)

I shudder. I had no idea my friends have had to deal with this over the years.

‘But,’ Aurelia says, her face an impenetrable stone mask, ‘as I say, they are just stupid, ignorant young men. Of course I felt angry, of course I did, but as long as my daughter and my grandchildren remained untouched, I could keep my fury locked up. But now…’ She falters and her mask slips a fraction, conveying an air of vulnerability I see so seldomly. I urge her with my eyes to continue. ‘Now this is happening not just every so often, it’s happening a lot.’

‘How often?’ Eduardo asks, scratching furiously beneath his chin.

‘Every second day? Every day? I don’t know…’ she replies, finally lowering herself into the seat and rubbing her temples.

I want more than anything to go to her and put my arms around her, but I know this is not something she would feel at ease with.

‘And the reason I am here,’ she continues, ‘is because of yesterday. We simply cannot carry on this way. Yesterday afternoon, Mar, Beatriz and I were outside in the yard. I was washing my hair whilst the others were hanging clothes up to dry. Beatriz was the first to notice them, two men standing by the gate watching us. They were dressed in uniform and they had a wild, reckless look about them. I didn’t like that look one little bit, and I certainly didn’t like the large dirty guns over their shoulders. As soon as I saw them I asked what they wanted. “
Nada
,” said one of them, “we’re only looking.’ The other man laughed in a nasty kind of way and added “And this is a sight that’s certainly worth looking at.”’

Holding my breath, I listen as Aurelia recounts how she could read the undisguised sweaty lust written all over their faces as they stared at Mar and Beatriz. ‘I started to walk towards them and told them “Well, you’ve had your look. Now be off with you.” The younger one, the more conceited of the two, he started snorting. “I don’t think I like the way this old
gitana
is talking to me,” says he. “What do you think, Javier? Do you think a common gypsy hag should be talking to me like that?”’

I gasp. I can feel my fingers digging into the side of the chair in fury and see that Eduardo has turned so red he looks as though he might explode.

‘Before I knew what was happening, the young one had unclasped the latch on the gate and kicked it open with his boot. I shouted at him to stay away from us, but he strode through the gate and rammed his gun into my stomach.’

At this point, Eduardo and I gasp in unison.

‘The bastards!’ Eduardo spits. ‘You describe them to me and I’ll…I’ll go and find them,’ he says very bravely, but I hear the tremor in his voice.

‘Aurelia! You must let me look at your stomach,’ I cry.

She shakes her head. ‘
Nada.
There’s nothing to see. Nothing that won’t heal. That is the least of my worries. Both Mar and Beatriz screamed and their screams brought Pablo and the girls running outside. I yelled at Pablo to get back in, and to take his mother and sisters with him. For one awful second I thought that Pablo was going to try and hit the
cabrón
, he looked so angry when he saw me lying on the ground. But clearly he thought better of it and started to usher everyone into the cave. But the younger soldier had walked over to Mar and was grasping her face with his hand. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” he says, and Beatriz must have whimpered from the corner of the yard at that point, because then he walked over to her and put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. Then he said “And you’re not bad either, for a
gitana
whore.”’

Rage and horror crush against my chest.

‘
Pues
, they left after that,
gracias a Dios
,
but just before they went, they said “
Adiós
. For now.”’ And the next morning, we woke up to find our cave painted in red with the words “
Gitano
slags
,
gitano whores. Death
to all gitanos.
”’

Aurelia sighs deeply. She looks exhausted to the point of collapse and I move over to her and take her hand.

‘Aurelia,
querida
Aurelia. We must waste no time. You must come and live here immediately. You shall all be safe here—’

‘I know what I am asking of you, child. I would not request this lightly.’

‘I know that, Aurelia. You must all come at once. Must they not, Edu?’

I turn to look at my husband imploringly. Of course I know he will sympathise with her story, but six people coming to live at Carmen de las Estrellas is another matter entirely. But in his face I see nothing but indignation and compassion and he nods vigorously. ‘
Claro
, you must come at once.’ I smile gratefully at him.

Later that evening after Aurelia and her grandchildren have left, something else occurs to me. How ought we to manage the fact that Joaquín’s mother shall be living under the same roof as our eldest adopted son? Mar may well feel compelled to reveal her identity to Joaquín. It is doubtful, but we have always operated on a policy of such honesty with our children that it would be unfair to keep the truth from him. And if we
do
decide to tell him, will he be furious with us?

Joaquín has met Mar on so many occasions over the years during our visits to the caves that it is hard to predict how he may react. He is a fiery twelve year old and with his erratic mood swings he can be both reclusive and delightful by turn. And then there is the matter of how the news that a family of
gitanos
are coming to live at Carmen de las Estrellas shall be received, not least by both our parents and siblings, but also by our neighbours and friends.

I have scarcely mentioned my association with our friends to my own family. They certainly know that some connection
has
been made, yet conclude with condescension that it is simply one of my many eccentric liaisons. Had they discerned the depth of friendship that has developed over the years, they would be horrified. Both Eduardo and my own family are extremely conservative and, whilst they would not condone racist attacks, neither would they acknowledge Aurelia’s family a worthy enough cause to become so directly involved in. And to bring them into our
house
…this is information that both Eduardo and I far prefer to keep from our parents.

As for our neighbours, they are a sundry group of people. Some of them are similar to ourselves: liberal, free-thinking Republicans. But there are many more who are nationalists, monarchists or generally right-wing. Though we naturally surround ourselves with like-minded people, ours is not a broad-minded city. It has long held the reputation for being home to traditionalists who uphold the values of church and creed, and I know it will be highly provocative if our already large Torres Ramirez family mysteriously expands by six people quite suddenly. People have eyes and people talk. The walls around Carmen de las Estrellas are high enough to keep out only a certain amount and it will be a matter of mere days before gossip spreads.

The question also arises that evening of how Eduardo and I should explain it to the children. Of course they have picked up on the tense atmosphere: the curfews, the rules that not so long ago were relaxed but have snapped back forcefully. I witness how that has wounded them all in different ways. Naturally, Eduardo and I hope that the troubles shall soon be over and we can resume our normal lives but, tensions running high as they are, how can we possibly predict the length of our houseguests’ stay?

T
he first time
my mischievous brother Fernando loses his tongue is on a Sunday afternoon when Abuela Aurelia and her two eldest grandchildren turn up at Carmen de las Estrellas. Fernando is almost twelve years old, his voice swinging high to low and his charms curbed by growing pains and the early onset of manhood. Mother is at the market and Father is watering the plants nestled beside the fragrant myrtle, shirtsleeves rolled up and his curly hair falling over his eyes. María is sitting on top of the garden wall playing marbles (which I had to help her climb – honestly, after all these years she still needs help) and I am seated under a fig tree reading one of Father’s books of García Lorca’s poetry.

‘Visitors!’ María pipes shrilly from the wall as she abandons her game and jumps down to the grass before running round to open the door.

Reluctantly, I pull myself away and look up to see Abuela Aurelia, a bright green scarf in her hair, walking through the patio doors with Pablo and Beatriz. It has been a long time since our last visit to the caves and I am overjoyed, jumping up to greet them. Father continues watering, his face creased in serious lines as he moves from one plant to the next. After greeting our guests, I glance back at Father who is lost in his task and clearly unaware of the fact that we have visitors. I walk over to him.

‘Father,’ I say. He doesn’t reply, so I say it again.

‘Hmm?’ He squints up and I gesture behind me. He immediately leaps up.

‘I do apologise,’ he mumbles, ‘welcome, welcome.’ He stands still, looking a little bewildered and then calls up to the open windows of the house to the boys. After a few minutes, the sleepy face of Fernando appears, rubbing his eyes.

‘Fernando,
por favor
, can you fetch three glasses of cold
chufa
and take them to the conservatory?’ Father calls up.

I show our guests into the house and guide them into the glass-walled conservatory filled with green curling plants and deliciously warmed by the gentle sun. This has always been my favourite room in the house. I love the magnificent, unobstructed view that stretches out across the valley of the brown-slated roofs of the city, proudly presided over by the Alhambra Palace.

Beatriz gasps loudly when she sees the vista in front of her before clamping her hand self-consciously over her mouth, whilst I watch as the eyes of Abuela Aurelia and Pablo grow larger and wider. It is clear that they are all feeling awkward; it is, after all, the first time that any of them have visited our home and most probably the first occasion that they have entered a house such as ours. I try to help them feel comfortable, plumping out cushions for them to sit on. Although Father is happy to see them, the social graces and ease of manner that comes so naturally to Mother certainly don’t to him. After several minutes of banal questioning he takes his leave and shuffles off, mumbling something about finishing planting the gladioli. As we sit and wait for Mother to return, Abuela Aurelia smiles her wide, white smile and asks me what I’ve been doing since she last saw me whilst Pablo and Beatriz perch on the edge of their seats. I tell her about a few of Fernando’s latest pranks and how María has just finished making her first dress.

‘But what about
you
though, little one?’

I look at her inquisitively.

‘How old are you now?’

‘Almost Fifteen.’

Abuela Aurelia pauses and fixes her forceful stare on me. ‘Well, hasn’t the time come for you to start thinking about your future?’

I feel tongue-tied and just sit there staring at her, eventually blurting out ‘I like your headscarf, Abuela Aurelia.’

She smiles at me knowingly. ‘Green is the colour of hope, little one.’

Before I have a chance to respond to her words, the door is kicked open and Fernando walks in carrying a tray laden with ice-cold
chufa
and a plate of Mother’s fortune cookies, his tongue lolling out to the side of his mouth in deep concentration as he fixes his eyes on the teetering glasses. Laying the tray carefully on the table in front of Beatriz, he takes a step back and looks up, about to come out with one of his witty jokes when his eyes fall upon the girl seated before him. They’ve met before of course; several times in fact. But it has been a while since we’ve last been to the caves and in this period he seems to be growing, rather painfully, into his rapidly changing body. And Beatriz, with all her natural beauty, has grown a dozen times lovelier. We all watch in amusement as Fernando tries desperately to dislodge the words jammed in his throat, his face contorting in his attempts to look composed. The situation soon turns from comical to painful as he begins spluttering, clearly both delighted and distressed by the effect Beatriz is having on him. I decide it’s best to intervene.

‘
Ven
, Fernando. I’ll do it.’ I nudge him aside and take up the task of pouring out glasses of
horchata
. Without taking his eyes from Beatriz, who is now blushing deeply, he edges backwards. He knocks into a table before finding a seat and firmly plants himself on it. This is the only time I’ve ever witnessed my brother fall completely silent. I’m so used to his constant chattering that I find his sudden speechlessness unnerving. Clearly, Fernando has fallen into a kind of lovesickness and in this new state, I decide it best to leave him there. I try to recover the thread of conversation with Abuela Aurelia, but just one look at Fernando’s forlorn, passion-struck face makes it almost impossible to talk normally. Thankfully, Mother soon appears to save us. The moment she enters the conservatory, she takes one look at Fernando, then at the object of his vision and rolls her eyes.

Mother is overjoyed to see our visitors, but it’s clear after a few words have passed between her and Abuela Aurelia that this isn’t a social call, and shortly the two of them leave the room together before asking me to call Father in. I don’t want to put up with Fernando’s tongue-tied awkwardness for a moment longer. Jumping to my feet, I grasp my brother roughly by the arm and the plate of fortune cookies by the other.

‘Shall we all go and sit in the garden?’

Fernando doesn’t say a word and continues to gaze at poor Beatriz till I shake him hard. ‘Fernando! Listen to me, shall we all go and sit in the garden?’

‘All of us?’ he says, with a stupid grin on his face. ‘Oh,
por qué no
?’

Abuela Aurelia and my parents are talking for a long time and I set about organising paper and a pencil for Pablo to sketch on. He smiles at me gratefully as I hand it to him and I notice that his eyes are full of a silent intelligence I’d give anything to understand. We all sit on a rug laid out under the fig tree and María immediately runs over and starts to plait Beatriz’s hair.

By the time Mother, Father and Abuela Aurelia have returned from inside the house, the sun has lost its warmth and goldfinches are darting in the lengthening shadows of the garden. Fernando is still staring at Beatriz with an idiotic mixture of wonder and boyish wickedness and Pablo is putting the final touches to his sketch. Shyly, he shows it to me and I gasp in delight when I look at the paper. He has drawn my sister María plaiting Beatriz’s hair, capturing them both perfectly.

Just before they leave, Fernando snatches up the final fortune cookie that lies on the plate and thrusts it into Beatriz’s hand. She gives him a coy smile and then bites into it and crunches on the shell, holding her hand underneath to catch the falling crumbs. Fernando clicks his heels together impatiently and hovers by her side. When she has finished eating, she opens her hand to reveal the tiny paper scroll.

‘Are you…are you going to…to…to read it now, Beatriz?’ Fernando demands. Beatriz blushes again, which makes her look even more beautiful, and then Fernando is blushing and his behaviour is so excruciating that all of us are blushing. Beatriz lowers her head. At first I think it’s the ridiculous anguish in Fernando’s voice that has just gone too far, but I realise quickly it’s because she can’t read. Mother must have realised at the same time because she rushes to Beatriz’s side and prises it from her hand, giving it to my brother.

‘Why don’t
you
read it, Fernando?’

He gulps and, taking it from Mother’s outstretched hand, unrolls it with a care I’ve never seen in him. After taking a deep, prolonged breath and coughing away any frogs that may have lodged themselves in his throat, he opens his mouth.

‘As the first rays of spring warm the air, so too does another sweet melody. Be thankful for the love that already exists in your life and, if there is none, perhaps your time has come.’

Beatriz’s hand flies to her mouth in an attempt to smother a fit of giggles, similarly to all the rest of us who are trying not to explode with laughter. Fernando is mortified that we all find it so funny but Mother has heard enough.

‘I am sure we ought to be letting our visitors get back now,’ she announces firmly, grabbing Fernando’s shoulders. As soon as they have left, Fernando scampers over to the wall and springs up like a cat as he watches them walk away down the alley. Whether or not Beatriz looks back at him, we’ll never know. But what is certain is that Fernando is never quite the same again from that day on.

Long after they have left, I sit under my orange tree in the courtyard listening to Aurelia’s words echoing through my head: ‘
Hasn’t the time come for you to start thinking about your future?
’ With a jolt, I realise that Aurelia is talking about more than simple plans of becoming a teacher or a seamstress. Her eyes told me that something will happen in our country and, strange as it is, somehow I understand that it will be my fate to help fight against it.

Those joyful early months of the Republic with its
libertad
and learning feel like a lifetime ago. The corridors at school are filled with whispers and shadows and the teachers can’t hide their concern any more. The cultural activities that have worked themselves into our school curriculum and been heralded as such a great success lose their momentum and slow down like the fading warmth of day. Plays and concerts are cancelled, Republican banners are taken down and that invincible sense of optimism that once echoed so freely around our schoolyard falls silent. And then the school closes, just like that, with a sign banged onto the gates reading ‘Temporary closure until further notice’. Those of us students who turn up that day stand there for a long time reading the notice, and then reading it again, wondering if we can take another meaning from it before we finally trickle back down the hill towards our homes. Joaquín storms off to his music school, but he finds the same situation there. For my brother, it is more than he can bear and he begins to spend hours upon end in his room, practising his exercises even more diligently than before as we hear the furious echo of scales and melodies down the corridors of Carmen de las Estrellas.

But it isn’t just all this that makes me feel jumpy. I realise that the streets aren’t safe, not in the way they used to be when I walked to school and down to the city. Buildings of all kinds, not just religious buildings, continue to be damaged and the military lurk on shadowy corners. They appear from nowhere and glare threateningly at anyone who passes them.

And then, one day, I am out at market with Mother and on the way home I see blood flung against the wall, as though somebody had sprayed a paintbrush. I experience the strangest sensation; not fear that the person may have felt pain, but a wash of nausea at the sight of the blood itself, fresh and bright and delicate. Mother notices my reaction and grasps tighter onto my arm. ‘Isabel,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s probably just from an injured animal.’ But it wouldn’t have mattered what she said, because I’m stuck in a memory of when I was a small child and I cut my thumb. The blood was flowing fast and I screamed and screamed, not because it hurt, but because the sight of what looked to me like red ink, so fast-flowing and so vital, was more than I could bear. As I stand there with Mother, trapped in the memory of my screams and the sight of fresh blood before me, I realise that I feel faint and quite sick. Mother guides me to a nearby wall to sit on and some time passes before I feel strong enough to move again.

With the closure of our school, we have to stay at home more. And home isn’t exactly a fun place to be. Father’s voluntary work has been suspended, which has driven him into a black mood, and what with Joaquín’s fury, Mother’s tiredness (as Conchi is around less to help her) and María pouting and moaning like she’s the only person to be affected by all this, I feel horribly stifled.

It’s inevitable really when Mother insists that none of us should spend time out of the house.

‘But what about—’

‘There’ll be no more said about it, Fernando.’

‘But—’

‘The subject is closed.’

Mother turns a bright but strained smile towards us all. ‘It hopefully shan’t be for long.’

‘That’s what you said about the college,’ says Joaquín as he kicks at the door, ‘and that doesn’t look like it’s re-opening.’

Mother shrugs weakly. ‘Everything will be alright, we shall see.’

N
ot long after
Abuela Aurelia’s visit to Carmen de las Estrellas, Mother and Father gather all of us into the conservatory and announce that they have some very important news. I take a sharp breath. I know intuitively that this is the news I’ve been waiting for, the news that will somehow change all of our lives. Mother begins by explaining that with all the problems that have been going on, matters have been made more difficult for some than others.

‘…and as you all know, Abuela Aurelia came to visit us recently.’

Fernando blushes deeply and starts fiddling with a tassel on the edge of the armchair. Mother sighs, and I can see she is trying desperately to think how she can best break the news to us. Silence fills the room as we all look round at one another with concern, then back at Mother.

‘Children, Abuela Aurelia’s family are going to come and live here with us for a while.’

A few of us gasp while Father lifts his head up, searching our faces for reactions. Nobody says a word; we simply continue to look at Mother.