The Return (43 page)
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: #British - Spain, #Psychological Fiction, #Family, #British, #Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, #General, #Granada (Spain), #Historical, #War & Military, #Families, #Fiction, #Spain
He had complete confidence in the strength of its pinewood body to withstand this treatment and now he used his instrument to express not just his own anguish but that of his audience. The music echoed it.
For the duration of the dance this stranger became someone else for Mercedes.When she had danced for that first time in the
cueva
two years earlier, she and Javier had been equally unknown to each other. Her eyes shut tight with concentration, the music had transported her back to that same evening and once again she gave every part of herself.
cueva
two years earlier, she and Javier had been equally unknown to each other. Her eyes shut tight with concentration, the music had transported her back to that same evening and once again she gave every part of herself.
After the
soleá
, with its strong, quiet control and an expression of feeling that ran unfathomably deep, the crowd was almost tense with its agony and pathos.They knew that this was a spontaneous performance. The mutterings of ‘
Olé
’ were hushed. It was as if they did not want to break the spell.
soleá
, with its strong, quiet control and an expression of feeling that ran unfathomably deep, the crowd was almost tense with its agony and pathos.They knew that this was a spontaneous performance. The mutterings of ‘
Olé
’ were hushed. It was as if they did not want to break the spell.
The
tocaor
knew to relieve the atmosphere with the lighter mood of the
alegrías
and found his dancer more relaxed as she picked up the new beat and felt her way into the movements. The stiffness Mercedes had felt from all the weeks without dancing had gone, and now she was able to bend and twist her body with the same suppleness she used to have, and to click her fingers with their usual sharp precision.
tocaor
knew to relieve the atmosphere with the lighter mood of the
alegrías
and found his dancer more relaxed as she picked up the new beat and felt her way into the movements. The stiffness Mercedes had felt from all the weeks without dancing had gone, and now she was able to bend and twist her body with the same suppleness she used to have, and to click her fingers with their usual sharp precision.
The joy of this dance took everyone’s mind away from shattered lives and burned-out homes, from the images of corpses and the cruel faces of the people who had driven them out of their own city. Many of them joined in, clapping the rhythm more enthusiastically as the minutes went by.
By the end, Mercedes was tired. Sweat ran down her neck and down her back; she could feel it trickle between her buttocks. She had given everything of herself, forgetting both where she was and almost who. Like the audience she had been transported away from the present. In her mind she had been at a fiesta, surrounded by family and friends. She eased her way through the applauding crowd to the edge of the room where she saw that Ana was standing. Her new friend’s face was beaming in admiration at the way Mercedes had danced.
‘
Fantástico
,’ she said simply. ‘
Fantástico.
’
Fantástico
,’ she said simply. ‘
Fantástico.
’
The guitarist had not missed a beat. There was not a breath between the final, closing stamp of Mercedes’
alegrías
and the quiet first chord of his next piece. His audience was entranced and he wanted to hold them in that state.
alegrías
and the quiet first chord of his next piece. His audience was entranced and he wanted to hold them in that state.
It was almost an impossibility that the music he was making came from only one guitar. The volume of sound and the depth and richness of the notes seemed to come from several instruments, and when the warm tone of the guitar’s hollow body being tapped was added, it magnified into layers of rich velvet. With the sound of the
palmas
and now one or two people tapping the rhythms on their chairs and on table tops, music emanated from every corner. Everyone in that room was enraptured now, swept along by a fast-flowing river of notes.
palmas
and now one or two people tapping the rhythms on their chairs and on table tops, music emanated from every corner. Everyone in that room was enraptured now, swept along by a fast-flowing river of notes.
Mercedes tapped her fingertips gently against her palm. She stood leaning against the wall with Ana, their shoulders touching.
A man emerged from the shadows. He was a bulky individual, a head above most of the men there. He had a mass of dense, dark curls that fell well below his collar and the texture of this hair was coarse. His pitted skin was only half concealed by the patchy stubble of an unshaven face.The audience cleared a path for him since his manner showed that he would not hesitate to push his way through. There was no warmth in his gruff face.
As the guitarist brought his piece towards a conclusion, the new arrival was drawing up a chair. The two men looked easy together, side by side, as though they had met before. For a moment they spoke under their breath though the
guitarra
never for a second lifted his fingers away from his strings, continuing to pick out a tune while they whispered, not for a second losing the attention of the crowd.
guitarra
never for a second lifted his fingers away from his strings, continuing to pick out a tune while they whispered, not for a second losing the attention of the crowd.
The audience could not locate the source of the first sound they heard. It seemed unconnected with the singer. Everyone who had watched this man take his place to perform had a preconceived idea of how he would sound, but the reality of it defied their expectations. From his lungs came a low, sweet note, quite unlike the gypsy rasp that they had expected. It was the soft sound of someone’s soul. After an introductory passage to the song, a
taranta
, the voice began to climb and the gypsy
cantaor
’s fingers and hands started to express the emotions that poured from him. In the low light of the room his big pale hands stood out against his black jacket and performed like puppets in a mime show. The characters they played were pity, anger, injustice and grief. It was the story of the gypsy ghettos that he had been telling his whole life, and the tragic essence of his words seemed more appropriate than ever before to the exiled Malagueños.
taranta
, the voice began to climb and the gypsy
cantaor
’s fingers and hands started to express the emotions that poured from him. In the low light of the room his big pale hands stood out against his black jacket and performed like puppets in a mime show. The characters they played were pity, anger, injustice and grief. It was the story of the gypsy ghettos that he had been telling his whole life, and the tragic essence of his words seemed more appropriate than ever before to the exiled Malagueños.
This audience understood him now.When they looked at themselves, they realised that the roughness of his demeanour only mirrored their own.This was how they all appeared now - coarse, dirty, hunted, sad.
Ana turned to Mercedes at the end of the first
cante
.
cante
.
‘I wonder if he always sings like this,’ she said.
‘Who knows?’ responded Mercedes. ‘But it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.’
The appreciation for the
gitano
was immense. He described their story and their lives. In his expression their own feelings were miraculously told.
gitano
was immense. He described their story and their lives. In his expression their own feelings were miraculously told.
‘How does he
know
?’ muttered Ana under her breath.
know
?’ muttered Ana under her breath.
Before the evening ended, many others danced, some with such exuberance that the dark mood that hung over Almería seemed to lift. Another guitarist appeared, followed by an elderly woman with astonishing mastery over the castanets that she had kept in the pocket of her skirt since leaving home. Rather as a pair of shoes had been for Mercedes, these simple pieces of wood had brought great comfort to this old lady every time she felt the reassuring shape of their cool domes beneath her fingertips. For her they were the only continuity in this strange, awful nightmare of the new life suddenly thrust upon her.
It was a
feria
like no other. By four in the morning, almost every man, woman and child sheltering in the school had squeezed into the room. It was rarely hotter than this in August. People forgot their situation and smiled. It was only when the
tocaor
finally exhausted himself that the evening came to an end. Everyone had a few hours of the deepest sleep they had enjoyed for many days and even dawn’s grey light did not stir them.
feria
like no other. By four in the morning, almost every man, woman and child sheltering in the school had squeezed into the room. It was rarely hotter than this in August. People forgot their situation and smiled. It was only when the
tocaor
finally exhausted himself that the evening came to an end. Everyone had a few hours of the deepest sleep they had enjoyed for many days and even dawn’s grey light did not stir them.
Mercedes and Ana shared a blanket on the same patch of hard floor. Friendships were formed quickly under these circumstances and when the girls woke, they remained huddled under the blanket, exchanging their stories.
‘I am looking for someone,’ Mercedes explained. ‘That’s my reason for going north.’
She could hear her own voice, so resolute and determined, but the look she saw on Ana’s face made her realise how ridiculous this might sound.
‘And who is it you are looking for?’
‘Javier Montero. He has family near Bilbao. I think he might be trying to get there.’
‘Well, we’re all going in the same direction,’ Ana said. ‘And we’ll do our best to help you. We’ll be leaving later today. He’ll be ready by then.’ She nodded in the direction of her father, who still lay sleeping, a motionless shape under a blanket by the wall.
Mercedes already knew that she could not expect any warmth from Ana’s father. The night before, when she had returned to the classroom to fetch her dancing shoes she had overheard a conversation that shocked her. Just before going in, she had heard raised voices and her own name.
‘Look, we don’t know anything about this Mercedes girl,’ Señor Duarte was ranting to his wife. The classroom had been vacated by most of its occupants, who had gone to find the music that was drifting so irresistibly towards them. ‘Supposing she’s a communist?’
‘Of course she isn’t a communist! Why do you say things like that?’
Mercedes continued to listen at a crack in the door.
‘Because there are communists everywhere. Extremists. People who have caused all of this.’ With a sweeping arm movement, he indicated the chaos of miscellaneous possessions around them, all such potent symbols of deracination.
‘How can you say it’s their fault?’ Señora Duarte asked. Her voice was raised. ‘You’re beginning to sound like your brothers.’
Mercedes was transfixed by the argument. Ana had said that her father was very angry with the Republican government, but she realised herself how careful she would have to be now.
‘Without those
rojos
,’ he spat out the word as though it was phlegm, ‘none of this would be happening.’
rojos
,’ he spat out the word as though it was phlegm, ‘none of this would be happening.’
‘Without Franco it wouldn’t even have begun,’ she retorted.
Señor Duarte’s fury now overcame him and he lifted his hand to strike his wife. This answering back of hers was intolerable.
She raised her arm to parry the blow. ‘Pedro!’
He regretted his action immediately, but it could not be undone. He had never been roused to hit his wife before, perhaps because she had never stood up to him in this way.
‘I’m sorry, I am sorry,’ he whispered almost helplessly, full of remorse.
Mercedes was horrified to see a man striking his wife. She knew for certain that her father would never have laid a finger on her mother and wondered for a moment if she should intercede. Señor Duarte was obviously casting about wildly for somewhere to place the blame for his only son’s death. In his view, everyone was guilty, not just the bombers, who had mown down his son, and the Nationalist troops, who had seized half the country, but also the Republicans for failing to put up a united front.
Señora Duarte was stirred to continue the argument: ‘So you’re saying that you’ll live under the Fascists and just go along with them, rather than stand up for what you voted for?’
‘Yes, I’d rather do that than die . . . yes, I would. Because dying is pointless. Think of our boy,’ Señor Duarte retorted.
‘Yes, I do think of our boy,’ answered Señora Duarte. ‘He was killed by the side that you now want to support.’
Grief and anger clashed within them both.There was no possibility of their discussion taking any rational course.
Señora Duarte tearfully left the room and Mercedes hid in the shadows as she passed. She had needed her shoes and seized the moment to run in to fetch them. Señor Duarte looked up. He would always wonder if they had been overheard.
That afternoon the four of them would be ready to leave.There was a bus departing for Murcia.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE GRANADINOS WERE leaving Madrid for the second time. La Pasionaria’s rousing words would go with them to the front line.
For a while, the Italians had been withdrawing their troops from the Jarama area and now, in early March, they began a new offensive at Guadalajara, thirty miles north-east of Madrid. This was what the trio had been waiting for and their morale was high as they faced new action.The reality of the conditions they would be fighting in, however, was not what they had envisaged. With a huge armoury of tanks, machine guns, planes and trucks, Mussolini’s men were about to commence a massive assault on Republican territory.
By the time Antonio, Francisco and Salvador arrived at the front, the Italians had already broken through and were in a position of dominance. With the strength of their artillery, it was looking bleak for the Republican forces.Then the weather changed. Sleet began to fall and from then on the elements played a role almost as significant as the guns.
Shivering in a sparse copse under leafless trees that afforded no protection, everyone began to stiffen with cold. Dampness extinguished their cigarettes.
‘Jesus,’ said Francisco, examining his palm. ‘I can hardly see my own hand. How are we going to tell our own men from the Fascists?’
‘It won’t be easy,’ said Antonio, pulling up his collar and folding his arms tightly to keep warm. ‘Perhaps it will let up.’
He was wrong. During the day, the sleet turned to snow and then fog descended. As the Republicans began their counterattack on the ground, the Italians, in tropical gear, were suffering even more from the cold than they were. Arctic temperatures became the enemy of both sides and many died from hypothermia. To his satisfaction, Antonio learned that the Italians had been over-ambitious about the speed they could move at, and in the chaos of the fog and snow their units were losing communication with each other. Their fuel was beginning to run low, vehicles were getting stranded and aircraft were struggling to take off.
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