The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (23 page)

‘Look at the back of your shirt, you’re soaking.’ Tali laughed. An easy laugh, bright in the thick warm air.

Galindez looked at her in subtle appraisal. ‘So why are we here, Tali?’

‘I’ll show you. Come on.’

Galindez followed her along a pathway lined with rose bushes and ornamental trees.

‘Ever heard of
Las Trece Rosas Rojas
?’ Tali asked.

‘Yes, it’s a charity, isn’t it?’ Galindez said. ‘Something to do with social exclusion?’

‘It’s named after the
Trece Rosas
,’ Tali said. ‘They were thirteen young women, members of an illegal radical workers’ organisation. At the end of the Civil War they were held in the women’s prison at Ventas. It seemed likely they’d be pardoned or have their sentences commuted, but then a
guardia capitán
called Isaac Gabaldón was killed. The women were shot in reprisal. Guzmán was present, although we don’t know what his role was.’

As they continued along the path, the air grew heavy with the scent of blossom. The path opened out and facing them was a wall. A plain stone wall. And roses. The wall was covered in red roses. Roses in bunches, pairs of roses, here and there single flowers, attached with string or wire, pushed into cracks in the mortar. At the centre of the wall, amongst the roses, a plaque. Tali stood motionless. At first, Galindez thought she was praying. Then she realised she was crying, soft tears slowly falling onto her T-shirt, her body shaking gently with inarticulate sorrow. Galindez’s arm moved around Tali’s waist as she read the plaque:

The young women known as

THE THIRTEEN ROSES

gave their lives for freedom
and democracy here on 5 August 1939
The people of Madrid remember their sacrifice

5 August 1988

‘My great-aunt,’ Tali stammered. ‘She was seventeen when they…’ She leaned against Galindez, her shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of sorrow. Galindez tried to say something of comfort, her arm tightening around Tali’s waist, her cheek pressed against her hair, trying and failing to find the right words. And then it hit her: an unexpected wave of agony, the condensation of her tragic childhood experience. Taken by surprise, Galindez surrendered to the pain she had kept at bay for so long. And the wall, with its tributes of roses, the jars of flowers at its base, the simple plaque set into the dusty red brickwork, melted under a mist of shared tears.

They sat in silence on the stone bench. Galindez felt adrift, bewildered by her reaction to this inundating grief for a woman killed seventy years ago. And, she wondered, if Tali felt such pain for someone she never knew, how should others who lost someone feel? Those whose suffering was more recent, to whom the death was so much closer and more visible?
What about me
? For a moment, the sun-washed pathways of the cemetery were replaced by images of that spring morning: the pale lines of newly built houses across the road, horrified neighbours standing rigid and helpless, thick black smoke from the burning petrol enveloping the shattered car, oily flames spiking upwards from the wreckage.
Mamá
’s screams, the articulation of a pain beyond words as she tried to get inside the car, thinking
Papá
could still be alive. But
Mamá
couldn’t even find the car door. Only later did she realise the car was resting on its roof.

Galindez leaned against Tali, and her tears began again, tears she never shed for her father, not even at his funeral, the coffin wrapped in the vibrant colours of the flag, carried by six solemn
guardia
in tricorne hats, wearing sunglasses to mask their pain. Nor had she wept after her mother’s suicide, when
Mamá
was too contaminated by her toxic grief to continue with the half-life she’d been trying to lead. Maybe the destruction of Galindez’s young world had been so fast and unexpected it never hurt in any conventionally recognisable way. Suddenly assigned to being that tragic little girl, defined by absent others.
Always Miguel’s daughter, never Ana María
.

So this was the pain of loss, she thought. How strange to feel it now, its visceral surges reducing the world to a small space delineated by undulating grief. Tali held her until the spasms passed. Galindez wanted to tell her, to share with her. But she couldn’t. Not right now. Not until she was certain she could trust her. Things were no longer under her control, Galindez realised. And that could take some getting used to, after having been in control for so long.

A moment came when her tears diminished. Galindez held Tali tightly, her body tense with rising need. A few hours ago, she’d idly fantasised about this across the seminar room table. Now, she wanted more. But Tali gently pulled away, looking at her watch. ‘
Para
, Ana. It’s getting late.’

‘What do you want to do now?’ Galindez asked, hopefully.

‘I’ll have to drive you back to the university to get your car. I’m seeing my younger sister tonight. It’s her last night in Madrid before she goes back to college in Barcelona. Sorry,
querida
.’

‘But another time. Soon?’

‘
Claro que sí
. Anyway, you’ve some reading to do, no? Guzmán’s diary.’

‘That will have to do for now.’

The drive across Madrid was slow and hot. The university was quiet, with only a few torpid students still sprawling on the grass. Tali parked alongside Galindez’s car. ‘I wanted you to see,’ Tali said, ‘how what Guzmán and his men did still affects so many people. Including me.’

‘I’m glad you shared it with me,’ Galindez said, wondering if she would be able to share her own extensive history of pain some day.

She leaned forward and their foreheads collided. They pulled back in surprise, amused at their mutual awkwardness. Shared laughter. And then Galindez felt the warmth of Tali pressed against her, lost in a moment with no space or time outside their confined passion. Finally, Galindez climbed from the car, smoothing her tousled hair, waving as Tali drove away into the warm dusk. Galindez slid into her own car, flicking on the light to check her appearance. She struggled unsuccessfully to calm her wayward fringe. She abandoned her hair and started the engine. What the hell, it was night. No one would see it.

She was wrong. Luisa turned away from the small grassy slope overlooking the parking lot from where she had been watching them and slowly made her way back to the Contemporary History building.

MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

Gentle patterns of sunlight danced across the room. Galindez struggled to sit up. Her right arm still ached from Sancho’s punch and the memory of the fight sparked an adrenalin rush that put an end to her soporific reverie. Awake now, she replayed the fight against Sancho in her head. He was really good, she realised grudgingly. Better than her. She needed more time in the dojo to prepare for the next time they met.
There is no problem that can’t be solved through application
. She’d let her application slip of late.

She was too preoccupied to sleep. Guzmán, of course. It was such a fascinating case. The more so since Luisa seemed hell-bent on arguing that he wasn’t responsible for what had happened. Galindez found that strange, though she relished the challenge of proving Luisa wrong. Preparing her coffee, she smiled. Things were going well. The Guzmán investigation was what she’d trained for: amassing evidence, interrogating complexities of background and context before drawing the threads together – a stark contrast to Luisa’s literary inventions and projections. Passing the mirror, she paused, seeing the smiling woman looking back at her. It had been a long time since she had been this happy.

MADRID 2009, PLAZA MAYOR

A golden day with soft clouds shielding the sun. Crowds bustled along the sides of the square, browsing menus outside restaurants, filtering in and out of bars and cafés, taking a beer here, tapas or a fino there and then more tapas. Galindez sat with Natalia in the square, a glass of cold white wine glistening in front of her. Tali nursed a brandy with a shot of anise.

‘You really like that? I don’t see you as a
sol y sombra
type,’ Galindez said.

‘After all that emotion in the cemetery last week I felt like something strong.’

The square bustled with teams of Japanese tourists taking turns to photograph one another in front of the statue of Felipe Tres. Voices echoed along the shaded walkway lined with bars and restaurants around the edge of the square No need to talk. Just sitting back, listening, watching people go by, hearing the murmur of traffic in the distance. The liquid sound of a saxophone spilled from an open window, a sudden rush of silvery notes shimmering in the bright air before falling in an intoxicated cadence into silence.

The air grew rich with the drifting scent of cooking: smoke rising from heating oil, iron-hard notes of garlic, the seductive aromas of fried meat and grilled fish punctuated by herbs, blurred by the blue smoke of cigarettes. Cool almond milk splashing into glasses, waiters carrying cold pitchers of golden beer frosted with condensation. Restaurant windows bright with sleek rainbows of salad, crisp greens, bright peppers mixed with pungent chunks of onion, glossy with oil.

Tali leaned forward. ‘Ana, when we were in the cemetery, you said something. Can I ask you about it?’

‘Of course. What did I say?’

Tali finished off her
sol y sombra
and beckoned to the waiter. ‘Well, when you started crying, you said…’ She paused as the waiter arrived. Galindez asked for water, another
sol y sombra
for Tali. She turned back to Galindez. ‘You said “
papá
”. I just wondered what it was that upset you so much. I didn’t like to ask at the time.’

Galindez stiffened. She pursed her lips. There was no one apart from
Tia
Carmen she’d ever talked to about what happened. Not even the shrinks. Especially not the shrinks. ‘It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.’

‘You won’t.’ Tali smiled. Galindez was vaguely aware of the waiter swooping through the bustling tables, leaving the drinks without a word.

‘I’ve never talked about it to anyone I’ve been seeing,’ Galindez said.

Tali nodded. ‘Well, I’m glad that it’s with me. If you want to?’

Galindez wanted to. It took her a while to get through her story.
Papá
, the car bomb,
Mamá
’s suicide. Half a lifetime to cover. How she went to live with
Tia
Carmen, how Uncle Ramiro paid her way through university, how she’d joined the
benemérita
as a forensic investigator. And then the sad slow coda of
Tia
Carmen’s decline with cancer. And how when Carmen died the previous year, Galindez bought the flat in Calle de los Cuchilleros. All that tragic detail. Galindez found herself relaxing, enjoying the warm intimacy between them. The strangeness of sharing.

‘God, you didn’t have an easy time of things, did you?’ Tali said. ‘And you really can’t remember anything that happened before the explosion? Can’t the doctors do something?’

‘Seems not,’ Galindez said. ‘Retrograde amnesia, it’s called. I had some therapy after
Mamá
killed herself, but the first eight years of my life are just a blank. I remember little things sometimes, playing with a ball with
Papá
in the garden, stuff like that. But it’s always very hazy. My early memories went up in smoke along with
Papá
’s car.’

‘No wonder, Ana, it must have been terrible.’

‘I know what you’re thinking: tragic child, sad character – how can anyone have a normal life after that? It’s what people at work think. Particularly since
Papá
was the perfect
guardia civil
. Did everything right by the book, loved by his men – you get the picture? Most of my colleagues think I went into forensics as a cop-out, rather than trying to live up to
Papá
’s reputation working on the front line.’

‘I don’t see you copping out of anything, Ana María,’ Tali said. ‘You got through university despite everything that had happened and you’ve got a good job. Your dad would be proud.

‘Maybe.’ Galindez shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine, because he’s hard for me to imagine.’

‘I’m sure you’re like him in lots of ways,’ Tali said. ‘You’re quite tough, aren’t you? You know when Sancho flattened you? Luisa said all you were concerned about was that you hadn’t hit him hard enough.’

Galindez sighed. ‘With my history I learned to stand up for myself. Kids at school used to call me little orphan Ana and pick on me. For a while, anyway.
Tia
Carmen paid for me to have karate lessons. They stopped picking on me.’

Tali laughed. ‘Good for you. You went through a terrible time, losing your parents the way you did, but you’ve got past it. Mind you, with your luck I wouldn’t ask you to buy a lottery ticket.’ She smiled. ‘I wanted to know all about you, because you interest me. And now you interest me even more.’

A shadow across the table. A sharp voice shattering the moment of delicate intimacy. ‘Filthy perverts. Get indoors, you dirty bitches.’

Shocked, Galindez looked up, to be confronted by a bizarre couple. An elderly man and woman, both with mercilessly dyed black hair, the woman’s face an orange mask of crudely applied cosmetics and garish crimson lipstick. Their clothes dated back to the fifties, maybe earlier, lapels plastered with badges – Galindez saw the yolk and arrows of the Falangist badge, a gold swastika and the more recent fascist emblem of
Fuerza Nueva
. In the stunned moment before Galindez could react, the elderly woman snatched up Galindez’s wine and tossed the contents over Tali. She shouted in surprise as icy wine soaked her shirt.

‘It would take more than that to wash the dirt off you, you filthy bitch.’ The old woman’s voice was high-pitched and loud. Heads turned, people looking, staring, looking away again. The old woman began to reach for Tali’s glass, but the waiter stepped in.