The Return (17 page)

Read The Return Online

Authors: Victoria Hislop

Tags: #British - Spain, #Psychological Fiction, #Family, #British, #Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, #General, #Granada (Spain), #Historical, #War & Military, #Families, #Fiction, #Spain

BOOK: The Return
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‘I’m fascinated by them,’ she said. ‘They’re real period pieces.’
 
‘They are certainly that,’ agreed Miguel.
 
‘Perhaps it’s because they’re in black and white,’ she said hastily. ‘It makes them seem from a distant era. They couldn’t have been taken last week, could they?’
 
‘No, that’s right. They capture a particular time,’ responded Miguel. ‘A very specific moment in history.’
 
His statement seemed heavily loaded and Sonia sensed that the pictures meant as much to Miguel as they might to her. She could not help pursuing the conversation.
 
‘So,’ she said casually, concerned not to betray the depth of her interest, ‘tell me how Granada has changed.’
 
She was sitting at the bar. She picked up a slender sachet of sugar from a glass dish and poured it into her coffee. Miguel was polishing glasses and lining them up neatly.
 
‘I took the bar over in the nineteen fifties,’ he began. ‘It was quite run down then, but in the late twenties and early thirties it had been a great focal point. Everyone from workmen to university professors came here. People didn’t invite each other into their homes; they met in bars and cafés instead. There weren’t many tourists to speak of in those days, just the occasional intrepid Englishman, perhaps, who had heard stories of the Alhambra.’
 
‘You make it sound like a golden age,’ commented Sonia.
 
‘It was,’ he said, ‘throughout the whole country.’
 
Sonia then noticed a picture at the end of the wall. ‘They look like the Ku Klux Klan,’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re really sinister!’
 
The image showed a group of several dozen figures clad in white robes, with small round eyeholes cut out of their pointed, witch-like headdresses. They were processing down a street, some of them engaged in the labour of carrying a cross.
 
‘That’s a typical Holy Week procession,’ said Miguel, folding his arms.
 
‘It’s very dramatic,’ said Sonia.
 
‘That’s right. It’s just like theatre.Today you’re spoiled for entertainment, but we didn’t have very much in those days and we loved it. I still do. Every day in the week before Easter these huge icons of the Virgin or Christ are carried around the town. Have you ever been in Spain for that week?’
 
‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Sonia.
 
‘It’s in a few weeks’ time. It’s an unforgettable experience, if you haven’t seen the
pasos
before.You should stay.’
 
‘That’s a lovely thought,’ said Sonia, ‘but I’ll have to come back for Easter another year.’
 
‘The icons are huge and it takes over a dozen men hidden underneath to carry each one through the streets.They’re accompanied by the brotherhood from their church and a band.’
 
Sonia peered at the photograph. ‘
Semana Santa 1931
,’ she read aloud. ‘Was that a special year?’
 
The old man paused.
 
‘Yes. The King abdicated just after Easter of that year and the country got rid of its dictatorship. The Second Republic was declared.’
 
‘That sounds like a major event,’ said Sonia, now more ashamed than ever of her ignorance of Spain’s history. ‘Was it violent?’
 
‘No,’ said Miguel. ‘It was bloodless. There had been plenty of unrest beforehand, but for most people this marked a new beginning. There had been eight years of dictatorship under Miguel Primo de Rivera, and throughout that time we had retained the monarchy. It was the worst of all worlds. As far as most people were concerned, the dictatorship had done nothing to benefit ordinary people. All I can really remember is my parents moaning about some of the laws they passed, like banning crowds and making cafés close early.’
 
‘I can imagine that was unpopular!’ interjected Sonia. It was hard to imagine Spain without its bars and cafés being open all hours.
 
‘And anyway,’ continued Miguel, ‘the dictatorship had done nothing to help the poor, so when King Alfonso XIII abdicated and the Republic began, millions of people knew life would improve. There were big celebrations that day and the bars and cafés were overflowing with people.’
 
The excitement in Miguel’s voice could not have been greater if these events had happened only the day before. The memory of them was vivid.
 
It was almost poetic, Sonia thought, the way he talked about it.
 
‘It was a magical moment,’ Miguel said. ‘Everything seemed full of promise. Even at the age of sixteen I sensed that. We were breathing the fresh air of democracy and from then on there would be many more people who would have a say in how the country should be governed. The power of the landlords who had subjected millions of peasants to a life of poverty was reduced at long last.’
 
‘I can’t believe those things were still going on in the nineteen thirties!’ exclaimed Sonia. ‘It sounds so primitive - peasants . . . landlords!’
 
‘That’s a good word for it,’ said Miguel. ‘Primitive.’
 
He had poured two generous brandies, explaining he always had one at the end of each day and was happy to have company.
 
‘There’s one thing I remember very vividly. Everyone seemed to be smiling. They were so happy.’
 
‘Why would that have stuck in your mind?’
 
‘I think some people had gone through a time of great hardship and anxiety. As children we probably just accepted the way things were, but I think our parents’ lives had been tough.’
 
Miguel glanced at the clock and registered some surprise. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hadn’t realised the time. I really should be closing up.’
 
Sonia felt panic rising inside her. Perhaps she had missed the moment to ask him more questions about the pictures on the wall and might never be given another opportunity to solve her nagging doubt about the photograph tucked away in her bag. She said the first thing that came into her head, anything to detain the old man for a little longer.
 
‘But you still haven’t really explained what happened,’ she said quickly. ‘Why did you end up taking over the café?’
 
‘The shortest answer I can give you is this: the Civil War.’ He held his glass to his lips but, before taking another sip, lowered it again and his eyes met her expectant gaze. ‘But if you like, I’ll give you a longer version.’
 
Sonia beamed at him.‘Would you?’ she said.‘Do you have time?’
 
‘I’ll make time,’ he said, nodding in affirmation.
 
‘Thanks. I’d love you to tell me more. And will you tell me more about the Ramírez family?’ she asked.
 
‘If you like. Most people just aren’t interested in the old days. But I’ll tell you what I can. My memory is better than most.’
 
‘And will you tell me about the dancer and the bullfighter?’ she asked, trying to conceal her enthusiasm.
 
‘I could even take you round the city if you’d like. I do sometimes close on Wednesdays at this time of year. I need the occasional day off at my age,’ he chuckled.
 
‘It’s really kind of you,’ said Sonia, now slightly hesitant. ‘But are you sure?’
 
‘Of course. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. Why don’t you meet me,
mañana
. . . ? Tomorrow at ten. Outside here.’
 
It was an enchanting prospect, to be shown the city by someone who knew it so well. She knew that Maggie had no interest in Granada’s history or culture, even if she now had encyclopaedic knowledge of its tapas bars.
 
Sonia said good night to Miguel and went back to Maggie’s flat. She needed a good night’s sleep.
 
 
Sonia was there to meet Miguel at precisely ten o’clock the next morning. It was strange to see him out of context and without his apron. Today he was dressed in a smart olive-green jacket and highly polished leather shoes. She looked at him slightly differently and realised for the first time that he must once have been extremely handsome.
 
‘
Buenos días
,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks.‘Let’s go somewhere for a coffee before I take you on a tour. I have a favourite place.’
 
A few minutes’ walk away was a small square, dominated by the statue of a woman.
 
‘It’s Mariana Piñeda,’ explained Miguel. ‘I’ll tell you about her later, if you are interested. She was a feminist heroine.’
 
Sonia nodded.
 
The café where Miguel took her was much bigger than his own and more crowded but he was warmly welcomed by the rival patron and teased for being with a ‘
señora guapa
’. Most of the other tables were occupied by dapper elderly men chatting with each other while several businessmen stood at the bar, all of them perusing copies of
El País
. Strong cigarettes smouldered in a row of ashtrays.The bar staff worked earnestly and swiftly, preparing
tostadas
with olive oil, tomatoes or jam, or noisily drying cutlery. Fresh
churros
gleamed beneath a glass dome.
 
Two well-dressed women, mid-fifties, chestnut hair stiffly coiffed, were getting up to leave as Miguel and Sonia arrived and they slipped quickly into their seats. It was a busy café and space was at a premium. While clearing away two brandy glasses, their rims red with lipstick, the waiter took Miguel’s order and within moments they were served; his speed and efficiency were as pleasing as a dance.
 
‘Where shall I begin?’ asked Miguel rhetorically.
 
Sonia leaned forward expectantly. She knew he was not waiting for an answer.
 
‘I think I’ll tell you a little more about the time just before the Civil War,’ he said. ‘There was the half-decade I mentioned between the end of the Dictatorship in 1931 and the beginning of the Civil War in 1936. It was known as the Second Republic and there was relative content for the Ramírez family during those years. Yes, I think that would be a good place to start.’
 
Part 2
 
Chapter Twelve
 
Granada, 1931
 
 
 
MONUMENTAL FOUNTAINS PLAYED in Granada’s squares and elegant nineteenth-century buildings dominated the centre of the city.Their tall windows and graceful wrought-iron balconies contrasted with the ramshackle irregularity of the older Arab quarter, whose red-roofed buildings, with their confusion of triangular and trapezoid tiles, nestled into a tight space at the foot of the hill. The entire city was dominated by the Alhambra, its majestic towers watching over the city from the top of the hill.
 
Many of the roads were rough and stony, and, in spring, rain turned them into rivers of mud. Beasts of burden were used to carry goods around the city and live animals were herded through the streets. In winter, there was always a whiff of dung in the air and on a hot day in summer, the whole city reeked. The River Genil would sometimes burst its banks when the snows on the mountains high above Granada began to melt, but by August might almost have dried up. Its bridges were meeting places for friends and lovers throughout the year.
 
The Ramírez family lived above El Barril. It had been in the family for three generations and Pablo Ramírez had been born in the same bedroom where his wife had given birth to their children. Pablo had married his wife, Concha, when she was eighteen and their first child, Antonio, was born a year later. By the time she was twenty-six, they had four children, and the once curvaceous Concha was lean with hard work and worry. Her beautiful face was still rounded but she looked more than her age. Pablo, who was several years older than his wife, was small and dark, a typical Granadino.
 
Though they rarely had a moment of relaxation, it was a secure existence and a comforting sense of continuity more than made up for their limited income. Always there was someone coming or going through the bar and into the apartment above it, and though Pablo and Concha were usually busy, the family still managed to eat together every day at three. It was a ritual that they both insisted on, and all the children made sure they were there. When they were younger, they had all felt their father’s slipper for being late. Love and respect for their parents was the one thing they all had in common.
 
El Barril sat at a meeting point between Granada’s various different cultures. Living on the edge of the Albaicín, the children were equally at ease in the atmosphere of the Arab quarter, where the air rang with the rhythms of blacksmiths beating on metal, as in the Sacromonte, where the gypsies lived in their homes hollowed out of the hillside. And the plaintive wail of
gitano
song was as much a part of everyday life as the deep tones of the cathedral bells and the calls of stallholders in the flower market. From the rooms on the top floor they could see the green meadows outside the boundary of the city, and the Sierra Nevada beyond.

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