The Songs of Manolo Escobar (20 page)

Mama stood up and ushered us into the room.

‘Come in and sit down. You must be Cheryl,' she said, forcing a smile. ‘I'm sorry, we're not organised, you must forgive us. Something has happened in Spain that we are worried about.'

‘Maybe I should go – I don't want to intrude,' Cheryl whispered in my ear.

‘What's happened, Mama?'

‘We don't know yet for sure. We're waiting to hear the news, it's something political.'

We sat in silence for a few minutes, then Mama asked Cheryl if she would like a cup of tea. Cheryl said she would make it and asked me to show her where all the things were kept. I followed her into the kitchen and watched her fill the teapot and put some biscuits on a plate, warmed by the sense of intimacy such a prosaic function created between us.

We returned to the living-room just as the six o'clock news was starting. The programme opened with some unannounced footage, the way they do when there's a big, important item, pictures telling the story because they have more impact than words.

The film was grainy and unfocused. A speaker was addressing a meeting inside a grand, formal building that looked like a conference hall or a political chamber. Then suddenly he was interrupted by a group of soldiers carrying machine-guns who entered from a side door. One of the soldiers strutted purposefully into the centre of the hall and began to shout excitedly in Spanish.

It was a moment of compelling theatre. The man was short and absurd, a touch effeminate and grossly self-important. He had a large moustache, and he wore a stiff black hat that resembled the shape of an upturned boat. He was like a parody of a baddie from a children's film. Suddenly and without warning he raised a pistol above his head and fired several shots. Papa twitched violently and Mama threw her hands in front of her mouth.

‘iDíos mío!,'
she gasped.

Inside the chamber there was a series of loud thuds as bodies hit the floor and chunks of masonary fell from the ceiling on to the wooden pews below, and there were screams of anguish and panicked instructions. The camera jerked violently and its focus was trained suddenly away from the action towards the ceiling, then down to the floor, before it fizzed and went blank.

The sudden, contrasting image of a composed, smartly suited BBC newsreader sitting in a London studio was unnerving. He announced in measured, neutral tones that a group of
civil guards, led by a lieutenant-colonel in the Spanish army, had attempted a coup d'état earlier in the day. They had entered the Cortes, the Spanish parliament in Madrid, and fired several shots, before ordering King Juan Carlos, the head of state, to make a statement.

The coup appeared to have been originated by former supporters of Franco in Valencia, where tanks had been ordered on to the streets and a state of emergency had been declared. The joint chiefs of staff had issued a communiqué declaring that all measures had been taken to put down the rebellion and to restore order.

‘Supe que esto sucedería. No es seguro. Nunca será seguro en España, a pesar de que los políticos digan,'
Papa said angrily. ‘I knew this would happen. It's not safe. Spain will never be safe, despite what the politicians say.'

‘Be quiet, Pablo,' Mama ordered. ‘I want to hear what is happening.'

Before I'd met Cheryl, the symbolism of what was happening might have been lost on me, but I knew enough about Spain's past now to realise the events were shockingly similar to those that had foreshadowed the outbreak of the Civil War. At that time Franco, then an army general based in the Canary Islands, had flown to Spanish-occupied Morocco, from where he led a military uprising that was the prelude to three years of fighting and bloodshed, culminating in four decades of unbroken fascist rule. I began to appreciate why Papa should be agitated.

‘Llame a su hermana,'
he ordered Mama. ‘Phone your sister.'

This confirmed the gravity of the situation. Papa never encouraged Mama to make expensive international calls. Mama pointed at the television set, indicating that she was still watching.

‘Llame a su hermana,'
he repeated.

She dialled, and Teresa answered immediately, launching unsolicited into an account of the day's events. From the other side of the room we could hear her tinny, animated voice through the receiver. Mama remained calm, repeatedly saying
‘Claro.'
After a few minutes, Papa demanded to speak to Teresa.

He held the handset tight against his ear, constantly interrupting Teresa, who in turn shouted louder to be heard over him. Eventually he remembered the cost of the call, bade her goodbye and hung up.

The room descended into a melee of claim and counter-claim, point and rebuttal, all conducted in high-decibel Spanish. Not since the day Franco had died had I felt such an outsider in my home. Even Cheryl, though by no means fluent, had more of a command of the language than I had, and I was forced to suffer the ignominy of relying on her to keep me abreast of what was being said.

According to Teresa, the streets of the capital had been mobbed with people panic-buying food, and already the shelves of several shops had been emptied. The rebels had taken over local radio and television stations, and while there was no sign of any military presence on the streets where she lived, that wasn't necessarily the case in the rest of the country.

The BBC newsreader said the next twenty-four hours would be crucial in determining whether the coup had genuine support or if it was a stunt by a handful of extremists. The king was due to speak on Spanish television soon, and all we could do was to wait for the next main news bulletin at nine o'clock to hear what he had to say.

I apologised to Cheryl and asked her if she'd rather postpone her visit until another night, but she said she would like to stay. She was clearly intrigued by what was going on, and seemed to appreciate that she was witnessing such an event in the presence of authentic emotion.

Mama prepared a tortilla, which she laid out on the table with some lettuce leaves, sardines and bread spread with tomato paste and olive oil. We all tucked in – I'd eaten nothing all day in nervous anticipation of this evening, and I was ravenous – but Papa remained in his seat, chain-smoking, staring intently ahead. The room descended into silence, broken only by the sound of chewing and forks clinking on plates.

Tha's it, we nae go back tae Spain now,' Papa said.

Mama sighed. ‘Let's wait to see what happens, Pablo, we don't need to make any immediate judgements.'

‘I nae wait, I know wha happen.'

‘That general looked like a nutcase to me, Papa,' Pablito said. ‘I don't think anyone's going to take him seriously.'

‘This is wha they say about Franco.'

Hush descended again, but it was broken by Cheryl. ‘If there was a civil war, I'd volunteer to go and fight,' she said confidently.

I cringed. Despite what I guessed were her best intentions, the statement sounded naïve and inappropriate. Papa turned and stared at me, but I avoided his gaze and continued to eat, hoping that her comment would go unacknowledged.

‘Lots of people from this country joined the International Brigades that fought in the last civil war,' she continued. ‘It was the last conflict where it was a straight fight between idealism and tyranny. My generation hasn't had that opportunity. If this develops into a conflict, I would have no hesitation in fighting against fascism.'

Papa eyed her incredulously. He had a familiar glint in his eye that signalled he was ready for a fight. ‘Wha you talk about?' he demanded aggressively.

She tried to respond but he cut her dead.

‘You nae know wha you talk, woman.'

Cheryl bristled. ‘I don't see what me being a woman has got to do with anything,' she said defensively.

Papa's eyes widened, and his body seemed to contract as though he were a cat sizing up its prey. I tried to intervene. ‘The point she's making, Papa, is . . .'

‘You know nothing about war. You nae talk about wha you nae understand.'

I felt events slipping out of control. I couldn't trust Papa to bring the exchange to an end without causing further offence. ‘All she's saying, Papa, is that . . .'

‘I know wha she say, and she talk rubbish. What she know about fight?'

‘I just think it's important to fight for what you believe in and not run away from it,' Cheryl said, probably more pompously than she'd intended.

There was silence, like the moment of absolute serenity before a bomb explodes.

‘Who run away?' Papa asked menacingly.

Cheryl's face turned scarlet and her voice faltered. ‘I'm not saying anyone's . . .'

‘You say I run away? Who tell you I run away?'

‘I'm not saying anyone has run away, Mr Noguera, I was just making the point . . .'

‘You nae make point. You nae come in my house and talk about what you know nothing. You grow up in country with money in nice house with food and plenty of clothes. You nae know wha I do.'

‘Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . .'

‘You know wha age I leave school?'

Cheryl breathed deeply as though to compose herself, but her hands were shaking. She shook her head.

‘Twelve. I leave school when I twelve and by thirteen I fight in war. So you nae tell me I run away. You shut your stupid mouth.'

‘Pablo, that's enough!' Mama shouted.

‘I'm sorry. Again,' I said as we stood at the bus stop.

‘It's all right, honestly. I shouldn't have said what I did,' she mouthed, almost in a whisper, tears running down her cheek.

‘But he had no right to speak to you like that.'

‘I didn't mean to offend him. It just came out wrong. I wasn't passing judgement on him. He took it the wrong way.'

I wondered if she was right. She was eighteen years old, and even then I recognised it was her prerogative to be direct and guileless. Papa had suffered in his youth, but I didn't see why those closest to him had to suffer too as a result. He'd misrepresented
what Cheryl had said – wilfully, I strongly suspected – and I was too mortified to admit that such episodes were common.

‘He still had no right. He may have endured terrible times, but it was seventy years ago. I don't see why he still acts like his life's in danger.'

‘Francoist killings and revenge attacks went on long after the war ended. It was Franco's intention to eliminate all opposition. So I understand your father's fear and anger, I really do.'

I braced myself against the driving wind and rain, and Cheryl stood close to me with her chin tucked into her chest, squeezing my hand tightly. The lights of the bus appeared on the crest of the hill in the distance.

‘Why don't you come back to my flat? I don't want to be alone tonight.'

She raised her head slightly, and despite the darkness I could see her blushing.

‘What about Max Miller?' I asked.

‘Don't worry about Bobby.' she said, smiling.

I was woken the following morning by shards of winter sunlight streaming through the curtains. Cheryl's golden hair was fanned across my chest. I felt rested and more confident, clever and attractive than I could remember. I leaned over her and switched on the radio on the bedside table. The morning news was all about Spain, where the rebellion appeared to be petering out. The king had made a television address, offering his reassurance that all necessary measures would be taken to defeat the rebels.

It was half-past eight and my first lecture was due to start in thirty minutes. ‘Cheryl,' I whispered, gently shaking her awake.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

‘There's something I've been wondering,' I said.

She nodded her permission for me to ask.

‘Why do they call you Dolores? Max and all those guys in the SWS.'

‘It's a nickname, after Dolores Ibárruri, La Pasionaria.'

‘Who?'

‘She was the leader of the Spanish Communist party. She coined the phrase “
iNo pasarán!
”, they shall not pass – meaning the Fascist rebels.'

‘And is that what you believe?'

‘Well, I didn't let you pass by, did I?' she said, and kissed me on the lips.

‘H
ow are you, Kevin?' I asked, breaking the silence of the early-morning newsroom.

I beamed what I thought was an authentic, endearing smile. Several of those dotted around the office raised their heads slightly above their computer screens and lowered them just as quickly. Kevin, who was speedily going through the daily newspapers, looked up and frowned.

‘Sorry?' he asked as though it was an accusation.

‘How are you?'

He thought for a moment. ‘I'm fine,' he replied before returning to the papers.

There was a photo on his desk that I hadn't seen before. The picture featured three people – a woman and two children – sitting astride expensive mountain bikes in a sunny Alpine location. I looked closer. The figures were surprisingly attractive, beautiful even – all flashing, white teeth, healthy golden complexions and freshly-laundered primary colours.

‘That's never your wife?' I blurted out. ‘I mean, is that your wife?'

‘Yes, that is my wife. And my two daughters, aged ten and twelve.'

‘She's gorgeous,' I said. ‘I mean, she's very nice.'

The others in the room shuffled uncomfortably and returned to their screens.

‘Thank you very much,' Kevin said uncertainly.

I looked at the picture again. His wife really was very attractive, sexy in fact – ludicrously so, considering whom she was married to. She had blonde hair that kinked over her forehead, framing
a face dominated by pouting lips and demure film-star eyes. She was wearing a yellow cotton dress with a bodice that only just managed to cup a pair of stunningly fulsome breasts. She looked like a model, a trophy wife, if that was possible with Kevin. I consoled myself with the thought that she must be lacking in personality and intellect. He'd been lucky enough to bag a beautiful wife. A beautiful, intelligent wife was beyond him. The odds against it were too high.