Song of the Sea Maid (24 page)

The winds change and delay us somewhat on our journey up the Mediterranean, yet on the morning of the third day we dock safely at the western port of Ciutadella at Minorca. The capital of Port Mahon – changed from this place to that by the English to suit themselves – lies to the east and would be more convenient for travelling from, yet here is where our Portuguese merchant captain decides to allow us to alight. It is such a pretty port of turquoise water, surrounded by a crowd of white houses and a clutter of boats everywhere one’s glance falls. An imposing fort of golden hue built upon tall foundations peppered with dark green weed sprouting among the stones dominates the harbour wall. Around and nearby it loiter a rash of red-coated English soldiers. Somehow the sight of my countrymen does not stir me, and I make my decision to ignore them. It gladdens me that I will not be based in Port Mahon, as it is the headquarters of the British army, and I wish to be invisible, without nationality, without allegiances. I only wish to be myself in this lovely place. The stone of this town, of a light caramel hue, verily glows in the sunlight, and behind it one can see a tumble of church spires and municipal buildings in this same golden material, dotted with the white brick and hexagonal sails of windmills, composing a beguiling vista through which I would love to pace its narrow cobbled streets and see what I can see. If only Pilar could have stepped off this ship with me and indeed been my guide, as we once held hands and daydreamed.

But I will not spare the time to enjoy its pleasures, as I am keen to journey presently to Fornells, where Pilar’s family home is situated. I find some of the inhabitants of the wharf speak English. I attempt to use Spanish to impress them, only to recall that – as my friend once mentioned – the inhabitants of this island speak a curious dialect of Catalan called Menorquí. It has some similarities to Spanish and Portuguese, and we get by with familiar-sounding phrases such as
Bon dia
which perhaps any western European might understand.

I find a genial driver who seems particularly pleased with me for speaking Spanish rather than English at least, and despite the fact that he would not as a rule drive as far as Fornells, he agrees to convey me all the way there. It will take the whole day, he warns me, so I had better purchase some victuals to take with me. I do so – fruit, bread and fried fish from quayside sellers – and I fill my bottle from an ancient water carrier who is wordless and toothless. My driver loads my luggage on the back of a sturdy cart joined to four feisty-looking mules. ‘
Sedon
,’
he says to me, as he pats the seat beside him, sounding for all the world like a creole version of
Sit down
, and I conjecture how much the recent invasion of the British has already influenced culture and language here. They say there are Friesland cows hereabouts imported by a British governor from a few years back, from whose rich milk the Minorcans now make a tasty cheese. Less salubrious is the gin production I have heard of in the east of the island, the worst of English habits imported to satisfy the thirst of British soldiers stationed here. I hope sincerely it does not ruin these dusty paths as it has the gin-soaked streets of our cities back home. I pull my shawl around my head and shield my eyes from the glare of the sun, my hand bumping against my forehead as we lump along the sandy, rutted roads.

After a time, I spot a curious object on the horizon. Across the landscape, to the south of the road we use to traverse the island, is what can only be described as the tidiest pile of stones I have yet seen. It is only as we approach nearer that I see it is a building of some sort, not an accidental pile at all. It is a broad, rough circle of boulders, some of which are built up one atop the other, to create an almost oval wall of sorts. I can see there are olive trees – somewhat stunted by the fierce wind blowing through them – and other vegetation growing all around and between the stones, so that perhaps this was once a walled structure with even a roof, yet neglect and nature have overtaken its grandeur and created this rubbly ruin. Of course, this must be one of the ancient sites Pilar told me about.

I ask my driver in Spanish and we converse simply, in our half-Spanish, half-English with a smattering of Menorquí.

Say I, ‘You see that old building over there? Can we stop and see it?’

‘We never go in them. We stay away.’

‘Why?’

‘Ghosts.’

My cheery driver frowns, gees up the mules and will not stop. Further along the road I see another such structure. This is more extensive, with longer walls, what look like caves in the rock and a peculiar construction of boulders, which for all the world seem to have been balanced one atop the other almost like an archway or pair of stone columns. I simply must see that cave, but I know my driver will not turn for it, and I must be patient. Yet my loss at the Berlengas
has made me fearful and obsessive. I half expect this site to be gone if I come back tomorrow, though it has sat here for generations. I keep my eyes on it and seek out answers in its eccentric forms until the land rises, falls and hides it from me. I will go back.

On our welcome approach north to Fornells, I look up to see the castle of Sant Antoni surrounded by scrubby ground, patches of brave green shouldering dusty yellow soil; I have since read of its history, built against the Barbary pirates about a century ago. From there the small outpost of British soldiers must possess the ideal panoramic view over the bay of Fornells
and the village nestling beneath them, with the Fornellers going about their fishy business and the goats clambering in herds across the landscape. Some houses are brightly whitewashed, neat and well-kept. I spot a cormorant preening its oily feathers, then diving into the clear blue sea – the clearest I have ever seen – with patches of marine life here and there beckoning me to examine them later with my glass viewer. There is an attractive mixture of white and golden rocks, green plants clinging resolutely beneath the strong sea winds that have bent some trees to the ground. We pass a pretty church amber in the sunshine.

My driver deposits me at a reputable guest-house owned by a lady from a place he cannot remember, which he attempts to explain is English but not English. I suspect she is from Scotland, yet on entering the Hotel Cardiff I find the lady is Welsh. Her name is Mrs Meredith and she greets me with kindness. She has a room spare and by late afternoon I am fed, watered and situated in a small yet comfortable room overlooking the harbour of this sleepy fishing village. I sit at a table beside the window and write a brief letter to Mr Woods, informing him of my new address and location. I tell him I intend to stay here for six months, until early summer. This is vague enough to give me some time to decide for myself what my plans are. Truth be told, I have not a clue what I shall be doing by the spring. My experience in Lisbon has taught me that plans too long in advance are pointless, as the future may crack open in a moment and devour you, most literally, plans and all.

I leave my room, letter in hand, and Mrs Meredith offers to arrange postage of it tomorrow. I thank her then ask if she knows of a local fishing family called Cardona, specifically Pilar’s brother whose name I was told is Mateu. She says rather imperiously that she has little to do with the local fishermen, but directs me to her fishmonger who she says deals with such people. This man does know Mateu Cardona. He sends his boy to accompany me, a dark-eyed scallywag with a cheeky gait who runs too far ahead of me around corners, then pokes his head out to see if I am yet lost. But I can run too, when I need to. We arrive at a row of houses two streets back from the sea, the accoutrements of their trade to be seen all along the street, with old nets being mended by women seated on stools and gossiping in the dying sun. The boy points to them, turns on his heel and runs away, the little scoundrel.

They raise their heads and stare curiously as I approach. Once I begin to speak in Spanish, their faces light up and nod, though one young woman giggles at me, as perhaps my Castilian pronunciation sounds odd to Minorcan ears. We converse in a mixture of Spanish and the strange nuances of their Menorquí. I ask if they know of this man, that I knew his sister in Portugal and wish to pay my respects to him and his family. ‘Pilar?’
they say, ‘Pilar, Pilar!’
And they laugh in recognition and I know I am in the right place. One woman stands and approaches me, smiling. It is at this moment I realise something I had not thought of: perhaps Minorca felt the distant effects of the earthquake and yet it is very likely that none of these people will have heard of Peniche’s disaster. And almost certainly they will have no knowledge of Pilar’s death. And the fact occurs to me that I will be the harbinger of this hateful news and I must give it without delay to her bereaved brother. How stupid of me not to have foreseen this, to have been so caught up in my own affairs and desires that I have forgotten how sluggishly intelligence travels. I have arrived here far quicker than the news trundles through continents, and I wish I did not carry it to this lovely place. I now regret my hasty choice to come here. Would it not have been better for him never to know? To imagine his sister, if he thinks of her at all, happy in Peniche with her fisherman husband? I must choose now, to tell the horrible truth or keep it my secret.

The woman tells me her name is Francina and she is Mateu’s wife. He is about to return from fishing with their two sons. She asks me, ‘How is Pilar?’ She tells me they were friends, as girls, that she has not seen her for thirty years or more.

And I am torn, whether to tell this good woman first, or save it for the brother. But I am saved from my indecision as the tramping of boots resounds at the end of the street and a group of men come down greeted by the women with indifference. I ask Francina if her husband is among them. And she nods, taking my arm and leading me towards a man with white hair and an ample moustache covering his mouth. He looks older than Pilar yet has young eyes, green like hers and glinting.

Francina explains who I am. All the men have stopped now to stare at me and listen. But then Mateu brings his own surprise. There has been news, he tells the rapt audience about him, from the Portuguese ship that brought me. Word has taken a day to travel across the island and now all talk is of the disaster that afflicted Lisbon. Mateu questions me politely: was I there, in the centre of the earthquake? They did indeed feel it here, yet it sounds as if it were quite weakened by distance. How did his sister fare? Did her husband lose his boat? The women sewing have ceased their work, and wait to hear what the curious Englishwoman has to say. I stand in this cobbled street, Pilar’s family home behind me, her brother, his wife and their sons leaning forward to hear my news. I wish to say that Pilar is well and sends her best regards and love. But I cannot.

‘I am very sorry to tell you that Pilar and her husband Horacio died in the earthquake,’
say I in Spanish, and a gasp ripples through the assembly.

Mateu frowns and glances at Francina, who shakes her head, her hand covering her mouth.

Mateu asks me, ‘How did she die?’

‘Mateu,’ says his wife, as if to warn him from seeking too much.

I mean to say in peace, she died peacefully. But I cannot lie, and yet I cannot speak the words. I open my mouth to say it and stop.

‘Please, young lady,’
says Mateu.

‘After the earthquake, there was a great and terrible wave that came across the sea. Pilar was on the beach with her husband.’

I need say no more. It is understood. People begin to mutter and comfort each other. I stand alone and do not know where to look or what to do with my hands.

Then Francina takes my hand. ‘We are very glad you came.’

‘But I bring such awful news,’
I reply softly, as if it were my doing, as if I were the cause of the earthquake and I come carrying my shame.

Mateu adds, ‘Then we are glad it was brought to us not by a stranger, but instead Pilar’s friend. We are glad it was you.’

He bows deeply and retires into his house. He is clearly moved and I feel I must remove myself. Francina kindly offers that I should stay for some refreshment, yet I thank her and make my excuses to go. She asks me where I am staying and says I must come to visit them again soon, under brighter circumstances. With that, I leave Pilar’s family to grieve. I came to this lovely place with knowledge of their countrywoman, so long gone away and now, out of nothing, there is news. But it is fearful news, of the worst kind. I feel I have infected this street with bad tidings.

The next day, I wander mournfully on the local beach. I pace across white sand strewn with curious balls of fibrous material I believe must be washed up by the sea. I bring my usual bag of specimen collectors and my viewer. I remove my stockings – to the surprise of some nearby fishermen who grumble and point at me. But I am used to being the odd foreigner – indeed, the English mermaid – and I paddle to the edge of a reef. Beyond it, I can glimpse the edge of a captivating underwater meadow of swaying seaweed, bright green clumps aligned along a channel with ribbon-like leaves almost as long as I am tall, swaying elegantly in the water. I believe the balls I see on the beach may be the desiccated foliage of this seagrass. Its genus may be the
zostera
described by Linnaeus, yet I am not sure, so I make a quick sketch and write a brief description. My viewer also affords me a clear view of red coral, crustaceans and molluscs, and even a blue spiny lobster scuttling to hide from me. It is true I have brought sadness to this place, as I have carried my own within me. But there is such vivacity here, I feel somewhat renewed and sleep that night with visions of ocean gardens replacing my customary recent nightmares of destruction and death. Instead, I dream of life.

I spend the next two days similarly surveying the coast, notebook and pencil to hand, recording my first impressions of the local flora and fauna. Over breakfast on my fourth day, Mrs Meredith hands me a note delivered very early this morning while I still slumbered. It is from the Cardona family and they are inviting me to lunch at midday. I walk over there slowly in apprehension. When I arrive, I believe there remains a subdued tone to the street’s inhabitants, yet at the sight of me, all I see are respectful and nod, smile and greet me most decorously.