The Sisterhood (11 page)

“Picasso? Of course not!” Mention a Spanish artist and people always said Picasso, but there were no Picassos at the Prado. Though it might be better not to say so.

“Ah, so you think Picasso is not at the Prado?” The captain raised his eyebrows.

“No the Picassos are at the Reina Sofia Museum!” Menina snapped. This man was not just rude, he was irritating. He probably knew perfectly well where the Picassos were! “The artist I’m studying is older, Tristan Mendoza, you won’t have heard of him, most people these days haven’t. He was a portrait painter—his only work is in the Prado. I have a medal with the same…”

Menina knew she had gone on long enough. “Look, never mind, you don’t want to hear about all this. May I
please
use your phone to call my parents? I’ll reverse the charges of course, but they’ll be worried and my father can wire me some money and—”

Captain Fernández Galán had gone quiet and was looking at the ceiling. “An old artist?” he asked, as if this was the strangest thing he’d ever heard.

“Y-Y-Yes!” she stammered.

“Hmmm.” Clearly he was trying to think of another sarcastic response. What a horrible, horrible man! It had been a long, hard day and Menina suddenly felt very tired and teary. She searched in her pockets for tissues but they were in her handbag. And that was gone. Gone! Everything was gone! She was an idiot, had messed up and she was frightened and, oh God, what was she going to do? She was unable to stop tears rolling down her cheeks, and swiped her sleeve across her eyes like a child.

There was a light touch on her arm. “Please.” She raised her head to see the captain offering her a white cotton handkerchief. It even looked clean. She took it warily and muttered, “Thanks.” She wiped her eyes and nose, and thought the captain looked less irritated. More resigned. “Tristan Mendoza, eh? Was when? What did he paint?”

“Oh—” Sniff. “Probably mid- to late sixteenth century.” Sniff. Did the man want an art history lesson? “Portraits. Women mostly. But he might have also—”

“And you have really studied old paintings?”

“Well, not
every one
ever painted,” Menina couldn’t resist retorting. “But yes, in college.”

“OK. That is different. Is only one thing to do now.”

“I know; let me make some phone calls
please
!”

The captain shook his head, spread his hands and shrugged expressively. “Unfortunately I regret it is not possible to call anyone. I have a cell phone but it is no use up here, no connection. And we have a few telephones in the village but the line is out of order—this often happens in Spain, especially in the mountains. Now is
Semana Santa
, and no one can fix until after Easter. No Internet, no e-mail, no phone. Believe me, that is a big problem for me too at the moment.”

“OK, can you please give me a ride to somewhere with a working phone, someplace with a hotel? Then I’d be out of your way.”
In her pocket she still had Professor Lennox’s card. Thank heavens. She would call Professor Lennox and beg her to get her out of this mess.

He shook his head. “No, I am sorry, but I cannot leave the village for the time being. Not until after Easter. So, unfortunately, you must stay here till then.”

This was a whole new problem.
Semana Santa
had only just begun. And it would be another week before she could let her parents know she was OK. They would be frantic. And where was she supposed to stay?

He seemed to read her mind. “Is somewhere you can stay but I must take you up there myself.”

“I can pay for a hotel when my father wires money,” she said, trying to regain some kind of control.

Captain Fernández Galán shook his head and stood up. Now he looked faintly amused. “No wires here. No hotel either. But money is not necessary where I take you.”

This was more worrying than anything he had said so far. But it was the policeman or the men in the square. She bent to struggle into her heavy backpack to find the captain had already reached down and picked it up and was holding the door open for her. Outside he strode away from the square, leading her up narrow winding streets between whitewashed houses. Aromas of onions and garlic frying in hot oil filled the chilly evening air. She heard women talking and the clatter of dishes. Normality. But hopes of a spare bed in one of these homes faded as they left the houses behind. The captain was leading her up a steep rise that had once been terraced. They followed a narrow path between some olive trees. In the distance, the last pink and orange glow of a spectacular sunset was fading behind the mountains. He stopped and pointed to the dark bulk of the ruined castle above them. “We are going there.”

“Oh?” Menina looked for lights, some sign of habitation, but it looked deserted. And ominously dark at the end of the path. They reached an arched gate in the wall and stopped. It had two heavy, iron-bound wooden doors with a latticed hatch. Was it a prison? There was no sound but birds. How could she have been stupid enough to come to a totally deserted spot with a man convinced she was a prostitute? An armed man at that.

“Where are we?” Menina asked warily, starting to back away. She was fit—she could outrun him, get back to the village. But what then? Would someone in one of those houses they had passed take her in?

The captain seemed to sense her mood. “Do not be frightened. This is a convent, very old convent, maybe oldest in Spain. No one knows the real name; people call it
Las Golondrinas
because, listen, the
golondrinas
.”

The captain pulled a rope and Menina jumped as a bell clanged loudly over their heads and disturbed the swallows who rose in a noisy, scolding crowd. “No one knows when the first nuns are here. But was before the
Reconquista
. It was a Moorish village, but when the Moors are in Spain, there are many Christians, many Jews. They must pay a special tax and not make trouble against the Moors, but is OK to be Christians and Jews. And nuns make no trouble. Once they go in, the nuns they never leave the convent. Tax is no problem either—convent was rich, and girls bring money when they come to be nuns. The girls, they come here as babies and they become nuns.

“Oh that sounds…as babies? Why? How did they know they wanted to be nuns if they were babies?”

“Was orphanage. They have no parents, maybe they have no choice. I don’t know.”

He gave the bell another tug. “The nuns make medicines and cakes and sweets.” He pointed to the window covered by dark iron
latticework. “They sell there, to pay the religious tax. And because it is very old, very holy convent, there were many pilgrims coming here, people sorry for their sins. There was a kind of hospital—sick people come, too, Muslim and Jewish sick people, nuns treat them as well as Christians, and an orphanage.”

“Sounds busy.” Menina’s feet hurt and she was so tired by now she was ready to lie down and sleep under the olive trees. But what if the men in the plaza found her?

“Yes, great ladies, queens even, they make the pilgrimage here because it is so old, so holy. In the chapel is a tomb of a princess from the north, from Leon, was Christian, who came here to be a nun in the time of the Moors, and behind the convent are caves in the mountain where nuns were buried, like the catacombs in Rome. But now”—he shrugged—“is not so important, no one comes. Is only a few old nuns. They still make sweets to sell to the tourists at
Semana Santa
. This does not make a lot of money. Nuns are very poor now, poor and old. Is hard for them. They get sick. People in the village still help, bring them food so they don’t starve, and wood for the fires but in winter is very cold.”

He pointed up and Menina squinted in the dusk. She couldn’t see much. “Windows broken. Everything broken. They say it will close when the last nun dies. Terrible to think there will be one old woman all alone here, all the rest dead. Is many years ago, when I was a boy, a few pilgrims were still coming, but no more for a long time. But there are rooms where pilgrims and travelers could stay. Is why I bring you.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. No one’s answering the bell,” Menina said anxiously. She couldn’t decide whether it was better to take refuge inside such a creepy place away from the men in the square or whether there was no way she was setting foot in it. “Let’s not bother them.”

“Don’t worry, nuns are there, only a little deaf. Always it is necessary to wait and ring for some time before they hear.” He rang the bell again. “Besides, it is good for them if a visitor knows about paintings.”

“Why?”

“Because the old convents, the old monasteries, like this one, they have paintings. If you stay here you can help, see if you think any paintings are worth money, so the nuns can sell. They could have heat, the sick ones have nurses and medicine, they can fix some broken things.”

“That sounds like a good plan, but really, I’m no specialist. Look, I’m only in junior college! You need an expert.” She felt for the card in her pocket. “But there is an expert, a famous one, on our tour, Professor Lennox. She’s half Spanish. I think. And I could call her if I could just get to a phone,” Menina wheedled. How could there be absolutely no phones? “I have her cell phone number.”

“But I told you, is no phones. No electricity even, here. But please, try. Is good if you find something, but if not, then you cannot. Don’t worry. Sor Teresa speaks a little English. She learned as a girl, so you can ask her.”

No phone, now no electricity. Great! But he’d said please…

Just then the latticed window opened from inside. A high-pitched old voice exclaimed, “Aha!” and demanded crossly to know who was ringing the bell, saying something about having no
polvorónes
at this hour.

“Ah, Sor Teresa,” said Captain Fernández Galán, removing his cap and sounding suddenly polite and respectful. He wished the speaker good evening, called her “
Tia
”—aunt—and launched into an explanation in rapid Spanish. Menina caught enough to understand he was saying there was a nice American girl with him who had unfortunately been robbed and missed her bus, a very nice girl
who needed a place to stay until after Easter and couldn’t she use one of the pilgrim’s rooms.

The lattice slid closed and there was a sound of a bolt being drawn back, then the heavy wooden door was opened by a bent old woman in a nun’s habit, carrying a lantern. She muttered grumpily, “
Deo gratias
, Alejandro,” by way of greeting. She didn’t seem happy to see them. Something about them interrupting the evening vigil.

The captain explained. Menina tried to follow, catching a word here and there—her name and the words “Madrid” and “Malaga” and “student.” He was getting around to the paintings in the convent when Sor Teresa interrupted, as if she were scolding a small boy. Her thin old voice replied in staccato Spanish, something that sounded to Menina like no, they weren’t having another of his women…the last one had…going and coming at all hours…a great disturbance…shocking…cigarettes…short skirts. Menina heard her spit a word that sounded like “hippies.”

Sor Teresa paused for breath and Captain Fernández Galán resumed his plea, apologized if the last girl behaved badly…on his parents’ grave he had never seen Menina before this afternoon. A nice girl.

Menina was surprised to hear the captain defend her as a “nice girl.” An hour earlier he had called her a prostitute. And it sounded like the captain parked his girlfriends at the convent? How odd. But she needed a place to stay. Menina leaned forward to assure the nun in the best Spanish she could muster that she wasn’t a girlfriend or a hippie, she didn’t smoke, didn’t want to go anywhere, she wouldn’t cause any problems, please, please, let her stay until the next bus to Madrid. Sor Teresa stared at Menina as if she were looking straight through her, then opened the gate wider and, none too gently, grabbed Menina’s arm, and pulled her in.

The captain was adding something again about showing Menina the convent’s
pinturas
and please could Sor Teresa speak
English—but Sor Teresa ignored him, and began to swing the gate closed. He just managed to shove Menina’s backpack in before it slammed shut, snatching his hand back just in time.

Sor Teresa bolted the gate and turned to Menina. “You stay,” she snapped in English, “inside convent. Not going out of the convent with mens! No mens.”

“Yes, ma’am!” said Menina, wearily picking up her backpack. Nothing suited her better than no men. “Of course…
sí
…
comprendo
.”

Sor Teresa made a “humpff” sound as if she didn’t believe it and hobbled ahead surprisingly fast, holding her lamp high. The lantern threw a bobbing pool of light around them, as she led Menina down one corridor after another. Menina saw broken floor tiles and closed doors, but beyond the light everything was pitch black and nobody else was about. There was a powerful smell of mildew and dust, and a mouse or something scampered past.

Finally Sor Teresa stopped in the corridor and creaked open one of the closed doors. She held up the lantern. “Here,” she said, in Spanish. The room was a small, musty whitewashed cell, with a crucifix askew on the wall and a wooden stand for kneeling beneath it, a shuttered window and a bed made up with yellowed linen sheets, a folded blanket, and patched embroidered cases on the pillows. There was a chair and small table under the window. On the table was a glass hurricane lamp. Sister Teresa dusted off the table with the hem of her habit and said, “
Por alimento
.” She felt in the pocket of her habit and retrieved two part-burned candles and a matchbox. She lit one of the candles and put it in the lamp, then handed the other candle and matchbox to Menina who said “
Gracias
,” trying not to sound as dismayed as she felt. Sor Teresa beckoned for Menina to follow her back into the dark corridor. Sor Teresa pushed another creaking door open. “
Servicios
,” the old nun said. “Toilet.”

“Oh…” Menina faltered. She held her candle up and could just make out a hole in the floor, a pile of old newspapers, and a rusty pump over an ancient stone sink on legs on the far wall. No electricity and now this! Sor Teresa had disappeared. Since by now she needed a pee in the worst way, she used the primitive toilet and tore off pieces of newspaper she guessed was meant to be toilet paper. The pump needed a lot of priming before it groaned loudly and regurgitated icy water over her hands.