The Poet's Wife (13 page)

‘How does that make you all feel?’

Juan eventually breaks the silence with a violent sneeze. As the eldest, I feel I should respond.

‘I don’t mind.’

Saying these words gives the others strength to add something and all at once they begin to murmur their agreement. A look of relief passes over both Mother and Father’s faces and the tense atmosphere of minutes earlier explodes into a steady barrage of questions.
Where will they sleep? Where will
we
sleep? How long are they coming for? Are they all coming? What has happened to their home?

‘I know this isn’t a very normal situation,’ Mother says. ‘It’s something that none of us expected. But we know you’ll all help them feel welcome.’

‘It probably shan’t be for long,’ Father adds. ‘Just until things have settled down here and…’ he coughs, ‘everything gets back to normal.’ He stares at his hands in his lap. ‘We just need to cope as best we can whilst they’re here and make a few changes and sacrifices.’

‘What kind of sacrifices?’ Joaquín asks, one arm wrapped around his guitar.

‘Sacrifices with our…’ Mother waves a hand around, ‘our privacy, that sort of thing. We mayn’t have a great deal of that whilst they are all here. And we shall have to be inventive with our cooking and make the ingredients we do have stretch further. Everyone must help with laundry and cleaning, Conchi will need lots of extra hands. Oh Conchi,
Dios
! She probably shan’t be back from her village until after they have all arrived, what a shock for her.’ Mother’s face creases and she shakes her head.
‘It shall all be fine, nobody need worry. As Father said, it most probably will not last terribly long.’

‘How long?’ Fernando asks. Unsurprisingly, he looks overjoyed at the news.

‘Fernando,’ Father snaps, ‘you know very well we don’t know the answer to that.’ Fernando just grins at him, a big, stupid, lovesick grin and María groans and pushes him. As the others continue asking questions and Mother and Father answer them as best they can, I seem to be the only one amongst us who notices how they’re skirting round the subject of
why
they are coming. My siblings are too preoccupied with who is going to sleep where and counting up on their fingers how many people will now be living at Carmen de las Estrellas. But I decide not to ask them there and then. No doubt I’ll find out sooner or later. Instead, I put another un-asked question to them: when they will be arriving.

Mother takes a deep breath and stares at me, unblinking, with her olive eyes
.
‘
Mañana.
’

Tomorrow! The murmur starts up once again and as I raise an eyebrow at Mother, she smiles. It’s a warm smile, but it’s clear to me that it’s troubled.

‘Mother, what shall we say to the neighbours?’ I ask. It sounds pathetic, but everyone seems to be watching everyone else these days and even some close neighbours we’ve known for years hurry past, no greeting or eye contact.

Mother sighs. ‘If anybody pries, you must tell them that they are just relatives who have come to stay.’

‘
Pues
,
everybody around here knows all our relatives,’ Juan points out.

‘
Distant
relatives, Juan,’ Mother retorts and she fixes him with a stare so fierce that he gulps and nods. ‘We shall dispose of all their attire and they shall wear our clothes,’ she continues.

Fernando sniggers. ‘Whose clothes will Abuela Aurelia possibly fit into?’

Father suddenly bangs his hand on his chair. ‘
Dios
, Fernando, do you think this is a joking matter? For once, will you please cease with your ridiculous quips.’ Fernando reddens and we all stare at Father, both shocked and impressed at his outburst. The room falls silent and I am about to round up my siblings to go to bed when María asks ‘But, Mamá, Papá, we can tell the neighbours they are distant relatives, but we can’t tell our own relatives that. What about our abuelos for example? What shall we tell them?’ She has a good point and I wish I’d thought of it. We rarely see family members from either Mother or Father’s side, but it’s inconceivable they won’t hear eventually about our visitors. Gossip spreads faster than the Río Darro in Granada.

‘
Sí
.’ Mother crosses one foot over the other and runs her hands over the wrinkles of her skirt. ‘
Claro
, we have given that some thought too, and your father and I have decided the best thing to say is that they are an impoverished family from the city we have taken in for a short while.’

My eyes widen. ‘I know it is an unlikely tale,’ she continues, ‘but really, when one is in such a situation, what other choice is there?’ Mother suddenly looks exhausted and slumps back into her seat. Father puts his arm around her shoulders.

‘I know you shan’t tell a soul,’ he says to us. ‘You’re such marvellous secret-keepers.’ We all know he is talking about Joaquín and I can’t help but glance over at my brother, but his face barely twitches.

‘It’s late,’ Father says, squeezing Mother’s shoulders. ‘We need some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.’

T
he following morning
Fernando spends perched on top of the wall, eagerly awaiting our houseguests’ arrival. He is so excited that no amount of scolding will remove him from his lookout station. I can see him from the kitchen, lying on his belly in the corner closest to the road for the best vantage point, picking at tufts of moss poking through the gaps. He is completely oblivious to the whirlwind of activity taking place in our house. Mother, María and I prepare as impressive a meal as we can from the ingredients we gather together to welcome the family to Carmen de las Estrellas. My other brothers are helping Father change the bedrooms around. Sleeping arrangements have shifted about so much that nobody’s room, with the exception of my parents’, remains unchanged.

Fernando must be as numb as ice lying up there on the wall for close to two hours, but finally we see him hurl himself down in such a manner that I’m sure he must have injured himself, but he then sprints towards the house. We hear him skidding down the freshly waxed corridor towards us where he flings open the door and stands before us wheezing, trying to speak. Mother is in brisk, efficient mood, her nerves frayed.

‘What,
por Dios
, are you trying to tell me? Can you not see I am busy?’

He continues to gasp for breath, one arm flailing around and the other pointing towards the road. It is María who hears Abuela Aurelia’s voice first and her eyes light up as she wipes her hands hurriedly on a cloth. ‘Mother, they’re here!’

Mother raises an eyebrow in the direction of Fernando who is nodding vigorously. ‘
Sí
,’ he pants. ‘That’s what I was trying to say. They’re here!’

Mother rolls her eyes and pushes him through the kitchen door as together we walk out to greet our guests. And there they are, all six of them, making their way slowly into our house: Abuela Aurelia, Mar, Pablo, Beatriz and the two younger girls, Inés and Graciana. As they walk towards us I feel a rush of affection for them. Finally,
finally
we have something else to think about.

‘
S
eñora
,’ Conchi repeats. ‘I shall not stay here any longer with these people under the same roof. I simply cannot.’

‘
Pero
, Conchi,’ I reply firmly, piqued that she should display the same prejudice I expect of my parents or sisters, ‘they are my
friends
.’

‘Friends or not, Señora, I am employed to assist with you, your husband and children, not with a family of
gitanos
.’ The shudder of her shoulders as she utters this last word is unmistakable and my stomach lurches in irritation but also panic. True, Conchi has taken more leave than usual of late, but I cannot recall a time when she has not been present in my life and now I am faced with the very real prospect that I may lose her. I can scarcely imagine running the house without her, particularly with all these extra people.

‘Conchi,’ I say again. ‘
Por favor.
I shall give you as much time back at home as you wish, but I beg you to reconsider.’

‘Luisa,’ she says, hands on her hips as she squares up to me in such a confrontational manner, it looks as though she should like to fight me. I stare, taken aback that she is addressing me by my Christian name. Never, in all the years I have known her, has Conchi called me Luisa.

‘I appreciate it’s going to be considerable work for you with all your new houseguests.’ She scowls and wipes her hands together. ‘But it’s not just because of them…even though I don’t understand at all why a lady brought up proper like you’ve been should take in that class of people. I have a few of my own troubles at home, you see. I’m needed.’ Her dark brown eyes hold my gaze and I notice for the first time the small beige flecks across her cheekbones. It occurs to me that I know pitifully little about Conchi and I feel quite ashamed. True, she has never been a person to willingly share information with me. But neither have I enquired about her family or home life to the extent that I should.

‘Oh,’ I reply, feeling very young and very ignorant. ‘Is there anything that I…I can assist you with?’

‘
Gracias
,
Señora. But no. I shall work to the end of the week.’ Her huge hands drop from her hips and she marches towards the door as I am left to stare helplessly after her.

Life as we know it changes beyond recognition after Aurelia’s family arrive at Carmen de las Estrellas. To my great sorrow, I decide that the gatherings I and my companions once derived so much pleasure from must cease. Not only do I find that my time is greatly stretched now, but I also fear that the atmosphere has become too tense; so fraught with distrust is the atmosphere that I concede a group of liberals arriving at our front door should do nothing for our reputation. And though I have so much else on my mind, how I miss and yearn for those meetings; for the camaraderie and debate amongst lively, enquiring minds. On rare occasions, I take the long route back from the market, heaving my basket brimming with potatoes and tomatoes as I go to the house of one of these old companions or another, knock on the door and enter before exchanging a few words of comfort with them in the privacy of their front vestibule or courtyard. Seeing them before me, these intelligent, free-thinking people from my past who still have the bravery to issue forth these laudable, free-thinking opinions, helps me to remember that we are still here. That, in small pockets the length and breadth of this city, we are still living, breathing, believing.

Eduardo and I also have yet to resolve the matter of whether to tell Joaquín about his relationship to Mar. Though he has known from a young age that he is adopted, Eduardo fears that if the truth is revealed, Joaquín may feel deceived for not having been told earlier. I, on the other hand, instinctively believe that in order for us all to live under the same roof harmoniously, we have no other option but to be honest with our son.

As our discussion chases endless circles and we realise we are no closer to nearing a solution, Edu and I concede that the only answer is to ask Mar what
she
should like. And thus, after the family arrives and we share our first meal together, we bring Mar into the conservatory. Eduardo and I agree that under no circumstances may we impose our personal preferences upon her. After I have raised the matter, the question hangs heavily in the air between the three of us, silence bearing down upon our shoulders, our hands turning hot and clammy. Mar eventually speaks.

‘I have been thinking about it a great deal.’

She turns her head from Eduardo to me, then back again, her dark curls gently bouncing around her ears and the golden rings in her ears catching the light.

‘I know he’s my son, but I’m not the one who’s brought him up. I owe that to the two of you.’

Eduardo expels an audible breath of air he has kept sucked up inside his mouth, his face a picture of pained relief.

‘Yet the more I think about it,’ Mar continues, ‘the more I feel that we cannot keep from him something as important as this.’

Eduardo winces, trying desperately to maintain a neutral expression.

‘
Por favor
,
believe me when I tell you I don’t want to be a mother to him now. I have my own four to worry about.’ Her dark hands twist in her lap. ‘I would just like to be his friend.’

Once again, there is silence and I glance at Eduardo, urging him with my eyes to say something. I am sure that it is clear to Mar which position the two of us take and thus feel it is of greater necessity that Eduardo put her at ease. Gulping, he reads my signals and, reaching over, pats Mar’s hand awkwardly.

‘That is quite alright, my dear. If that is what you should like to do, then we shall support you whole-heartedly.’

Since we are all feeling so emotionally charged anyway, I decide we ought to bring Joaquín directly into the conservatory. He saunters in with his guitar, a pencil stuck haphazardly behind one ear and an amused expression upon his face.

‘Sit down, Joaquín,’ Eduardo mumbles as he jumps to his feet and makes his way over to the bay windows, furiously scratching beneath his chin. He stares out, his forehead knotted. After a few moments, he turns around to face Joaquín, staring at him fixedly.

‘
Hijo
, we have something to tell you.’

Joaquín places his guitar in position and begins to distractedly pluck at a string.

‘Let me guess. You want to tell me that Mar is my mother?’

My bottom jaw feels leaden and we all stare at Joaquín who, nonplussed, has started to strum away as he works out a particularly difficult sequence with his fingers. A long time passes before any of us find the wherewithal to speak again.

‘H…h…how the devil did you know?’ Eduardo asks.

Continuing to play, Joaquín glances up.

‘How did I know? Well, how could I not have known? I mean,
look
at us.’

Eduardo and I look from Mar to our son several times, realising in bewilderment that the truth that has stared us in the face all these years has passed far above our heads whilst being astutely picked up by Joaquín. For they are as alike as any mother and son possibly can be, from the arch of their eyebrows to their high cheekbones to the dark curl of their hair.

I have always prided myself on being the kind of person it should be difficult to shock, yet on this occasion I cannot quite believe what I have just heard. ‘How long have you known, Joaquín?’

He stops playing and cocks his head on one side, gazing into the distance.

‘Hmm…I can’t remember
exactly
when I realised. But it was on one of the visits to the cave, maybe when I was about six or seven.’

I shake my head in disbelief as he continues. ‘We were all eating lunch one day in the yard and there was that large cracked mirror hanging in one corner. We were sitting next to one another and I caught sight of our reflections in the mirror and I remember thinking to myself “She’s my mother.”’

I turn to Mar who is staring at our son, her features numb and expressionless. Joaquín picks up his guitar once again and begins picking out a lively tune.

‘So you’re not angry with me, Joaquín?’ Mar murmurs.

‘
¡Cómo!
’ He looks up, laughing. ‘Don’t be silly. Anyway, do you lot want to hear this piece I’ve been working on?’

I shake my head again as Joaquín, as imperturbably as though he has just been told we shall be eating
jamón
for lunch, strikes up an energetic fandango.

The fact that Joaquín has known the identity of his real mother for years leads to the natural question: what of his father? Yet his apparent lack of concern that he and Mar are now living under the same roof suggests that either he has already surmised that part of the equation or that he simply is not interested. And as we listen to him play, the relief we all feel is palpable.

We have other matters to concern ourselves with after all, as the new additions to our household pose several problems. As Eduardo and I have previously agreed, we notify both sets of parents as well as close neighbours that we have taken in a group of insolvent unfortunates, family members of an old colleague of Eduardo’s. Both the Torrezes and the Ramirezes are stupefied, asking how on earth we can possibly let our children come into contact with such indigents. However, they thankfully lose interest in the matter fairly promptly, concerning themselves to a far greater degree with the growing sense of unease that is spreading across Granada.

But before any of this, steaming hot baths are run for the six houseguests behind the closed and bolted shutters of Carmen de las Estrellas. After they have all soaked, scrubbed and scoured themselves until their skin is squeaky clean and every last speck of dirt has been expelled from beneath their fingernails, I try as hard as I might to feign indifference as the murky, black water is drained from the tub at the end of the evening.

Finding clothes for them all to wear is not problematic as between all members of our family there are more than enough dresses, trousers and shirts to go around. Only the fuller figure of Aurelia proves more of a quandary, but having given birth to five children, I manage to pull out enough loose-fitting garments to suffice for at least several weeks. As Mar hands their colourful gypsy attire over to me to be washed and put away at the backs of cupboards, she looks pensive.

‘When all this nonsense is over, very soon I hope, we shall take your clothes out again. And you can be proud of your heritage.’

Mar stares at me sadly with her huge black eyes. ‘Do you really believe that, Luisa?’

‘I know that we must remain positive, and hope for the best.’

Mar lowers herself into a chair, her hands fluttering above one of my clean skirts as though she cannot quite bear to touch it. ‘You haven’t seen these people, what they’re like. What they’re capable of,’ she says quietly, staring down.

‘They are ignorant.’

‘But it is these ignorant people who are now ruling Granada.’

I sigh deeply. ‘We have to believe that life shall return to the way it was. We must. We have no alternative.’

Mar continues staring down and I watch as, with considerable discomfort, she lets her hands rest on the skirt.

I
t is
hard for everyone to adjust during the first few weeks. Inés and Graciana cry continually and Graciana even attempts to run away on one occasion. They miss their yard, their friends and the freedom they once enjoyed and even when their mother tries to explain to them that they are far safer at Carmen de las Estrellas, they sob even harder, begging to change back into their normal clothes and return home. Their elder brother and sister take to their new predicament with a far greater degree of calm acceptance. Beatriz marvels at the soft comfort of the eiderdown and the fine splendour of all the objects lying around the house. A number of times I find her in a trance as she stares in wonder at the chandelier throwing diamonds of light across the sunlit floor of the conservatory, or at the detail of the finely engraved handle of a carving knife. Wherever she is, my love-struck son Fernando is always to be found hovering nearby. He gazes at her with his huge saucer eyes from behind a crack in the door, through the posts of the banisters or, more frequently, from his favourite position perched upon the garden wall. For when she is in the garden, he can stare at her to his heart’s content.

Beatriz is also fascinated by the piano. Doubtless she has never before seen such an impressive, grand instrument. It belonged to the abuela
of Eduardo and though it is used on occasion, this is rarely by any member of our family, but rather by one visitor or another who sits down to play at the spotless ivories. Of all my children, it is María who derives the most pleasure from the forlorn, underused piano when the mood so takes her, and she is more than happy to sit with Beatriz, introduce the notes to her and play a few pieces.

During these musical interludes, Fernando expresses a sudden interest in music and sits on the opposite side of the room, peering over a book he has grabbed carelessly off the shelf and thrusting his head back down into its pages the moment Beatriz looks up, an expression of strained concentration upon his face. He makes such a nuisance of himself that I even hear María, who seldom picks up on such nuances, apologise to Beatriz for her idiotic brother. Beatriz merely blushes and giggles; it is true to say that she does not invite Fernando’s unsolicited attention, yet if she is made to feel uncomfortable by it, she never indicates so. For Fernando himself, the fact that tensions have arisen to such a catastrophic level outside the walls of our home brings him nothing but joy.

After the first few days, which Pablo spends nervously jumping and pressing himself up against shadowy walls when he walks, I am relieved when he begins to relax as he becomes aware of the abundance of new subject matter he can draw. He misses numerous meals in order to continue with his detailed studies of a flower, the mountains or one or another of the family as we go about our work. Whenever I raise the subject of Pablo’s continued absence at meal times, Mar merely shrugs and remarks that he only ever eats when he is hungry, which is seldom.