The Poet's Wife (24 page)

Henry. I’ve been so preoccupied that I’ve barely thought of him since returning home. He’ll be back in London and will have been reunited with his parents and shared the news of his brother’s death. Perhaps he’ll have told them about me too.

It suddenly feels as though Henry is a figment of my imagination. Everything that has happened since he left Barcelona weighs far too heavily on my mind to leave room for Henry. When he returned to England, the pain I experienced was overwhelming. But this has been replaced by a pain that I can’t express because it’s so inconclusive. I still love him with all my heart. But to share him with any of my family right now feels completely wrong. I decide that all I can do is wait until we are reunited with Father and Pablo before breaking the news of my engagement.

C
hristmas Eve is unbearable
. It has always been a tradition to prepare an enormous feast and then spend hours around the dining room table. By then, five days have passed since my return and there is still no news. Mother hasn’t risen from her gloom either. She sits at the head of the table, silently handing round plates of fried potatoes and beans whilst I rack my brains to think of something to say that might cheer everyone up. Looking down into my plate of food, it occurs to me how extravagant we normally are at this time of year. Our dinner usually consists of turkey and goose and all kinds of seafood and shellfish, caught only that morning. For dessert we eat marzipan or
turrón
made from honey and almonds and it is washed down liberally with
chufa
or strong wine from the coast. Just thinking about it makes me feel quite weak with hunger as I prod at a shrivelled-looking bean.

‘So, Isabel…’

Looking up from my plate, I see that Mother is addressing me with a strained smile. The fact that she is talking at all fills me with something I can’t exactly describe as relief, but gratitude perhaps. ‘What is Barcelona like?’

Barcelona? I swallow and feel the single bean ramming its way down my throat. Which part about Barcelona should I tell them: that I’ve never seen such poor or desolate people after months of having their city pounded? Or should I tell them about the beautiful architecture that is almost impossible to appreciate through all the smoking rubble? Or the sight of so many desperately ill children with scabies and rickets?

‘Barcelona…’ Every pair of eyes around the table is fixed on me. I suppose everyone is relieved that some form of conversation, no matter how strained, is finally filling the tense air. ‘Well, I didn’t spend very long there, just a few days before I started my training and a few days at the end. It’s very grand – much bigger than Granada and there are some amazing buildings there. And the workers, as you know, are running the city now. Everything has been collectivised and I think, on the whole,’ I play with my food, ‘it’s working quite well.’

I try to keep the flow up. I want to say something,
anything.
‘And there’s a part of the city called Las Ramblas – have you heard of it? It’s a boulevard that runs down a large area but there are all kinds of smaller streets and plazas that come off it, filled with shops and restaurants and that kind of thing. There are lots of artists and musicians there too, except now there aren’t because of all the problems, but I did see one man there playing an accordion. I think he was French, but then I only say that because he was playing a French tune. He could just as well have been a Spaniard playing a French tune, but…’ I frown, breaking off. I know that I am rambling and stare down at the purple thread around my finger and start to pick at it. ‘But…I don’t know.’

Nobody offers any more questions on the subject of Barcelona and the room falls silent again. I listen to knives scraping against plates and the movement of chair legs scratching across the floor.

‘What’s an accordion?’ Juan eventually asks.

‘You know what an accordion is!’ Fernando retorts.

This is the type of conversation I am used to, Fernando riling somebody.

‘I
don’t
know what an accordion is. That’s why I’m asking Isabel.’

‘There was a man who used to play one all the time in Plaza Nueva. Don’t you remember?’ Fernando’s voice is scornful.

‘Of course not. Otherwise I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’

‘It’s…’ I try unsuccessfully to offer an explanation to Juan before Fernando, now on a tirade, cuts in.

‘You know
exactly
what an accordion looks like, Juan. You’re just playing dumb.’

Beatriz, who has spent the entire meal picking at her food and staring out of the window, flashes a quick look at my brother.

‘Fernando,
párate.
You’re
being cruel.’

And that’s it, he stops. Just like that. Nobody else seems to take any notice, but I stare at Beatriz in astonishment. Of course, I haven’t forgotten the crush Fernando had on Abuela Aurelia’s beautiful granddaughter. In the past Fernando would be reduced to a stuttering fool in her presence but in my absence it seems that a significant rapport has developed between them.

The damage for Juan, however, is already done. I watch as first his bottom lip begins to quiver and then he sniffs as large tears fall down his cheeks and splash into his food.

‘Oh, come on, Juan. There’s no need to be so sensitive about it. I didn’t mean—’

‘Fernando,
just shut up! Yes, you’re right, I
do
know what an accordion is. I’m just sick to death of silence. And I…I…’

Whatever Juan is trying to say is clearly costing him a great deal as his head hangs miserably down and his entire body is shaking.

‘I…just want to know when they’re coming back, that’s all.’

With that, he pushes back his chair and walks out of the dining room. We hear the patter of feet running up the stairs two at a time and the distant slam of a door as we stare wretchedly at each other. Mother sighs deeply.

‘Juan is right,’ she says quietly. ‘We cannot continue in this way. We need to know what has happened to them.’ She looks up and glances around the table. ‘Now, I know that I have always said to all of you it is not safe to go too far from the house, but this situation is unlike any other. So after we have finished this meal I shall go and make some enquiries and get to the bottom of this.’

Abuela Aurelia looks sharply at her whilst I grasp the sides of my chair with both hands.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, Isabel. You must stay here.’

‘But Mother—’

‘
No
.’ She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘It will be safer if I go alone. Now,
por el amor de Dios
, let us finish this meal.’

I
scarcely recall
when or how Isabel returns. She looks and seems so different, and I long to talk to her about all that she has experienced, but I find I am unable to converse at all. Not until Eduardo has returned. And Pablo, of course, dear Pablo. Having Isabel in the house once more appears to cheer the others a little; I have no idea what she is doing but I gather that she is somehow organising everyone.

On Christmas Eve, a day normally filled with food and laughter and music and merriment, we all sit at the table trying to eat and make the slightest scratchings of conversation. It is, though, a paltry attempt. We are all struggling, and we know it. Nothing, save Eduardo and Pablo joining us for that meal, could possibly lift our spirits. Aurelia, as always, has barely touched her food and she is waiting for her little scavenger granddaughters, Inés and Graciana, at her elbows to hungrily tear into her plate.
Dios
, I think, as I squeeze my eyes shut, at what stage does a person begin to starve to death?

Alejandro is sitting beside me and he must be concerned that my eyes are closed for he squeezes my arm gently. I open my eyes and look at the face of my son, my baby, just eleven years old, at his earnest little face and the spattering of freckles over his nose, and my heart breaks a little to think how no child should be living through this.

It is not a pre-meditated decision, but perhaps it is enough to look into the eyes of my husband’s son to know that I must find Eduardo, no matter what it takes. Nobody wants me to go; doubtless they fear that I too shall be swallowed by some vast black hole of the disappeared. But I leave as quickly as I am able, pulling on my shawl and hurrying through the dark streets. My footsteps sound louder than I have ever heard them as they slap against the cobbles and as I go, I see candles flickering in windows with muted festive celebrations taking place inside.

I have not brought adequate clothing with me and by the time I reach the house of Eduardo’s parents some half an hour later, I am shivering with cold and nerves.

‘
Dios
, Luisa!’ Señora Torres exclaims as she bundles me inside. ‘You’re frozen through. Hurry, let’s get you into the
salón
where there’s a nice warm fire. What is it, child? Whatever is the matter?’ I have started to cry again. I think all I am capable of doing proficiently right now is crying.

‘Is Señor Torres here?’ I choke.

‘Yes, yes he’s in the
salón.
Come.’

I allow myself to be led through like a small child and when Señor Torres sees me, seated in his armchair and smoking a pipe, he frowns. He knows instantly that I am not paying them a social visit.

Señora Torres pulls a chair up close to the fire and pushes me down in it. I stare at the flames for a moment, marvelling at the strength of the fire and how they must have a great deal of firewood to produce such a hearty blaze. Looking back, I see my parents-in-law staring at me expectantly, both of them frowning now.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to steady my voice. ‘Eduardo went out two days ago. He has not come back. I need to find him. I need to know he is safe. But I do not know where to look.’

Señora Torres gasps and clutches the sides of her chair. ‘He is safe, he must be. He must have met some friends and…and gone to share a
tapa
with them.’

‘Two days ago,’ I repeat slowly. I turn to face Señor Torres who looks ashen. ‘Help me,
por favor
. We must find him.’

He places down his pipe and unsteadily heaves himself to his feet, leaning against his walking stick. ‘I am going to telephone Miguel. You ladies remain here, please.’

And so we do. We remain there for what feels like hours, days, with the roaring fire burning down to nothing; although there is a pile of logs there, neither of us have the heart to attend to it. We exchange not a single word, both locked in our own nightmares of possible scenarios, and I must eventually fall asleep, because I wake with a start to the sounds of a door banging and two pairs of footsteps and a walking stick making their way to the
salón.
I jump up, pulling my shawl around me as my heart starts beating furiously. It is Eduardo, it must be – Señor Torres has found him and this hell shall be over.

But when the door opens, Señor Torres stands beside Miguel, not Eduardo. You look, I think weakly as I stare at my husband’s brother in bitter disappointment, as though you are dressed to go to a
corrida
or the opera. How can you be so well groomed in the middle of this god-forsaken war? Before Miguel has even opened his mouth to speak, his mother has collapsed on him sobbing, clawing at his lapels.

‘Oh Migé! Tell me he’s alright! Tell me he’s alive!’

My eyes flit from Señor Torres who is staring at the ground, back to Miguel, who stands awkwardly with one arm trying to restrain his mother. But he never takes his eyes from me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly.

I hear a scream, and think for one moment it is my own, but then I realise it is Señora Torres who has collapsed sobbing onto the floor and is now being attended to by her husband. Miguel is shaking his head and remains rooted to the same spot.

‘I tried,’ he says, his voice dark and tight. ‘I did everything I could, but I warned him, did I not? This was beyond my control. I warned him that the only way to stay safe was to remain quiet.’

Miguel continues to talk but I can hear nothing and all I can see are his lips moving rapidly beneath his black pencil moustache. The room caves in on me; bricks, wood, fire, books, paintings, ceiling and floor, light and dark, everything comes down around me as I feel myself falling and then the whole world turns black.

W
hen I first
enter Mother’s room, I can’t see her and think that maybe I am mistaken and she isn’t there at all. But then I realise that the shapeless form huddled in the corner of the room is not a shadow at all.

I creep up in the darkness and, crouching down, sit beside her. Slowly I feel her arm creeping round me and I lay my head on her shoulder as her fingers start to gently untangle the knots in my hair. She doesn’t look at me, but continues to gaze out of the window down to the garden, painted in a silver glow.

‘Do you know the moon is full tonight?’ she whispers, continuing to stare out of the window. I shake my head. ‘It is. It is full moon.’

Something about the way she enunciates her words sounds to me as though she is smiling as she speaks. I lift my head slightly off her shoulder and sure enough her lips are curling upwards. I’ve never seen such a look on Mother’s face before: she is smiling but it is not the full, generous smile I am used to. Her eyes are full of pain and I bury my head back into her shoulder and pull my knees tightly up against my chest. We sit there like that for a long time without saying a word and I gaze at the mysterious shadows that the moonlight is throwing onto various objects in the room. I remember, as a child, the way the moon shone in through my bedroom window and how, at certain points of the night, its light would fall onto my pillow. I used to imagine that by sleeping with my head directly in the light of the moon I would be filled with secret powers as I slept.

I am about to drop off to sleep when I hear Mother start to murmur beside me. ‘Did I ever tell you how we met?’

‘Hmm?’ Sleepily, I turn my head slightly towards her so that I am looking up at her face, profiled against the moonlight.

‘How we met, your father and I?’

She tugs absently at a knot in my hair.

‘I heard about one of García Lorca’s poetry readings over at Sacromonte. I had recently become more familiar with his work and thought it marvellous so made sure I got myself there early. But they were only accepting the first fifty people because it was a terribly small place and I was the very first person they turned away. I pleaded and pleaded with the man on the door, trying to charm him and tell him that, after all, I was ever so thin and I should take up no room at all!’

She laughs lightly.

‘The man sighed and kept looking back over his shoulder and I am sure he was just about to relent when one of his superiors turned up and told him that was it and he must shut the door. Well, I pouted and begged but that was the end of it and before I knew it, the door had closed. I was frustrated but it was the most beautiful evening, clear and bright, and I could see all the stars stretching out across the valley. It was so warm, I remember, and I had no desire to rush home even though I knew it was a risk to stay out. I had succeeded in convincing Conchi to not chaperone me that evening…
Dios
, Conchi, where is she? How I need her.’

Mother pauses for a second and takes a deep breath as I watch the shadow of the clouds glide across her eyes. I am enraptured. Although I’ve heard very briefly how my parents met, it has never been brought to life in such detail.

‘
Pues
…I was sitting on the wall looking at the Alhambra – oh, how divine it was! Then I remember hearing a commotion behind me. And there was Eduardo, banging on the door like a man possessed. I turned round and watched the scene – it was terribly entertaining. At first nobody answered but he persisted and after a few minutes the same man that had turned me away appeared at the door and Eduardo tried the same as me, begging as though his life depended on it. Well, I knew immediately that he would have no hope of getting in and so whilst I sat on the wall I watched him ranting and raving, but of course, nothing worked. Truly, I do not think I had ever seen a person so furious before. His curls were flying and he was waving his hands around wildly but eventually they just closed the door in his face. When he turned round he looked devastated and my heart went out to him.

‘I think it must have been around that same moment that I realised where I had seen him before – it was at a poetry gathering of García Lorca’s a few months previously. García Lorca asked Eduardo a question, but the poor darling was so nervous that he completely clammed up and could scarcely get a word out. I thought it was ever so sweet and amusing, but of course he was crushed. I did not help matters either, because before I could stop myself I laughed a little and from the way he flinched, I am certain he must have heard me. It was ever so cruel, but really, I could not help myself.

‘Anyway, when his face came into the light I realised who it was and of course I was not at all surprised because he was clearly a devoted admirer of García Lorca’s, judging by the scene he had just made at the door. I decided to go and talk to him but he was a little flustered when I introduced myself. But when he asked how I knew who he was and I told him I had sat behind him at the reading, he clearly remembered that I had laughed and then he looked mortified. But for me it only brought back amusing memories and I found myself laughing again.’

Mother breaks her flow and begins to laugh a little and I find myself smiling too.

‘I do not know
what
he made of me! He had turned as red as a
pimiento
and could not make any eye contact with me whatsoever. First he stared at my nose, then at my feet and then he fixed his eyes quite firmly on my chest! Well, I told him who I was and tried to make a little conversation as the darling man was struggling – you know how Eduardo gets all tongue-tied sometimes. Eventually, after some encouragement from me, it must be said, he offered to escort me home.’

Mother laughs again, bringing her hand to her mouth. ‘I even remember the way he said it. He said “M…may I escort you safely home, Señorita Ramirez Castillo, since your ch…chaperone is otherwise engaged?”’ I laugh along with her as I hug my knees into me. I can clearly imagine Father saying those exact words.

‘I must say that after he walked me home I thought he was a terribly poor conversationalist. I kept trying to draw information out of him but he found it difficult to keep it up. He was such a bundle of nerves and I did find it a little frustrating. But when we parted company he managed to stammer out a question and it clearly cost him so much to ask me that I could not help but be impressed by his courage.’

‘What did he ask?’

Mother’s head jerks sharply round to look at me. She’s been so lost in her flow of memories, I think she’s forgotten I am even here.

‘What did he ask? He asked if he could call on me again. And I smiled at him and said “If you wish, Señor Torres” and that was that. At first I kept seeing him just to irritate my parents. But do you know when it was that I realised that I actually had feelings for him? When he could not come and meet me.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘All those times that he visited me at my house and I thought I might tire of him and those love sonnets he wrote for me. But then he couldn’t come, and my disappointment shocked me. So I knew, you see, I knew it was something more.’

I stay silent as I look expectantly up into her face.

‘And then we married and moved into Carmen de las Estrellas and then
you
came along, Isabel.’

For the first time in Mother’s long monologue, she says my name. Turning her head, she gazes at me and as I look back at her I am sure that I can see shadows of memories dancing across the dark irises of her eyes.

‘Eduardo fell in love with you the second he set eyes on you. He just could not stop sobbing when he saw you and I remember I was longing to hold you but it was almost impossible to get him to hand you over. In the end, the midwife had to gently prise you out of his arms. Besides, he was soaking you with his tears and I do not know who was howling louder, you or him. Of course he was proud as any father is when the others were born but not in the way when you were born, Isabel. You were the first and afterwards he told me he thought that his heart and soul might burst with pride. Two days later he took all his clothes off and ran around the garden naked, laughing with joy. He was like a small child. So excited and happy.’

Mother is softly laughing at the memory but as I look at her, I see tears begin to slowly stream down her face and suddenly the expression on her face becomes unrecognisable as it clenches up in agony. Through her closed eyes, the tears continue to pour down her cheeks as she crosses her arms and hugs herself, rocking slowly back and forth.

‘Oh, Eduardo, Eduardo…’ she sobs. ‘
¿Por qué? ¿Por qué?
’

I have been as lost in the past as Mother and I would gladly have stayed there longer; heard stories about the early days of their relationship or life at Carmen de las Estrellas as we grew up. I would like to hear more about those love sonnets; how he asked her to marry him; when he first told her he loved her; the moment he planted my orange tree and the naming ceremony the three of us shared; the first trip to Abuela Aurelia’s cave together. I’d like to hear heard more about these things. But I know it is too late for that and though I fight against it with all my might, I can’t prevent the words from coming. I try to step out of myself, to employ that safeguarding technique which has helped me on all those other occasions, but this time it doesn’t work. It is as real as the pain of a sharp knife twisting in my side and as Mother grasps my hands between hers, I close my eyes.

‘He is dead, Isabel.
Muerto
. They shot him against the cemetery wall. He is gone.’

I
remember
little of the days and weeks following the death of my father. Mother never tells us how she learned of his fate, and we never ask. It is a painful fact that we all have to accept in our own ways.

Pablo returns three months after he disappeared. When he first pounds on the door of Carmen de las Estrellas and collapses in the street outside, we don’t recognise the painfully emaciated, gaunt figure with a layer of grey skin hanging loosely over his body. Beatriz is the one to open the door and, upon seeing the man slumped in the street with his face in the cobbles, she runs back into the house and screams to her mother to come quickly. Mar rushes through the courtyard out onto the street and between the two of them, they turn over the motionless figure and stare into the hollow eyes of Pablo. Not in a thousand years have any of us dared allow ourselves to hope he was still alive. As Mar cradles the limp body of her son in the street and Beatriz openly weeps, my mother and I watch the scene from an upstairs window with conflicting sensations of relief and pain.

Of course, he can never tell anyone what happened to him. But he doesn’t need to. For below his hairline on the left side of his head, where his ear once was, there now only sits a raw, jagged scar – angry and purple and twisted. Pablo can never tell us who cut his ear off or why they did it. He can never tell us why he was released. But mere days after he turns up on the doorstep of Carmen de las Estrellas, he is drawing again. Whilst we all hover around him, hoping that his pictures may provide some clue to his whereabouts over the past three months, or even something connected with Father, instead he draws the pulse of life as it is continues in the house: me reading a book; Mother sitting in the garden; Joaquín playing the guitar; the mountains.

Two months after Pablo returns, Mother and I are in the conservatory one night, the last two still awake. We are about to turn the lights off when we hear a noise coming from the partially opened door. I turn and see a pair of dark eyes observing us solemnly through the crack.

‘Pablo? Is that you?’ Mother calls.

The door is pushed open and he shuffles in, a hat pulled down over his head to hide the scar.

‘What do you have there?’

In his hand, Pablo holds a piece of paper and he walks towards Mother and hands it to her. No sooner has she glanced at it than her eyes cloud over and her hand flies to her mouth. I walk towards them and look over Mother’s shoulder. For the first time, I see Father, not through my own eyes, but through Mother’s. For there he is, her darling Eduardo, immortalised in the delicate strokes of Pablo’s hand. He is planting bulbs in the garden and there is something so accurate captured in this simple sketch that it has taken Mother’s breath away. The stubborn set of his jaw; the loose curls that haphazardly hang over one eye; the gentle respect he holds for the bulb as he tenderly pats down the soil around it.

‘Oh Pablo, Pablo,’ Mother murmurs, tears streaming down her face. She lays the picture gently on the sideboard and takes him in her arms, hugging him tightly as she runs her hands over the flatness on the side of his head, rocking him from side to side. Remembering me, she extends one arm outwards and pulls me in and the three of us stand there, locked in a silent embrace.

I
t is all ending
. All of it. It’s not long before Barcelona and indeed all of Catalonia, the Republic’s stronghold, falls to the nationalists. It is impossible for me to imagine that great city of Barcelona without the ringing sound of the ‘
Internationale
’ from the barrel organs or the anti-Fascism posters on every street corner. This is the city where I began my nursing journey, the greatest adventure of my life. Over the coming months, my mind turns time and again to the thought of working in a hospice back here in Granada. But, I concede, how could I, when this is considered the work of the priest, not of a young, inexperienced female nurse?

When Azaña resigns, his voice is broadcast across the airwaves declaring that the war is lost and he wants no more Spaniards making useless sacrifices. Eventually, the final piece of the nationalist puzzle slots into place as the fascists take Madrid. How many families are affected by our war? The question is obsolete, because, more to the point, how many families aren’t? We personally cannot pinpoint a single one. Alongside the countless loss of life on both sides of our conflict, something in Spain dies in April 1939 when the last Republican armies surrender and we know – finally, intolerably, gratefully – it is over.