The Return (34 page)
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
For Concha Ramírez, each step was an effort, as though she carried the burden of the coffin herself. At the approach to the cemetery gates she suddenly felt the full force of the irrefutable: that two of her sons were dead. Before this moment, she could cling to some small vestige of hope that none of this was real. It was not a destination she cared to reach. Friends walked silently behind them, heads bent, staring at dirty shoes on the damp road.
A sizeable crowd turned out for this funeral. Along with the family appeared every bullfighting
aficionado
within a hundred miles of Granada and the outlying areas. Ignacio’s may not have been a long career but it was a distinguished one, and in a short time he had established a large following. This included a good number of women; some of them were simply nameless admirers in his crowd, but just as many were girls who had been loved by him, whether for a few days or just for one night. His mistress, Elvira, was there too, along with her husband, Pedro Delgado, who had come to pay his respects to one of Andalucía’s finest young fighters. He tried to ignore the copious tears that rolled unchecked down his wife’s cheeks but then noticed that she would have been alone among the women if she had not been crying.
aficionado
within a hundred miles of Granada and the outlying areas. Ignacio’s may not have been a long career but it was a distinguished one, and in a short time he had established a large following. This included a good number of women; some of them were simply nameless admirers in his crowd, but just as many were girls who had been loved by him, whether for a few days or just for one night. His mistress, Elvira, was there too, along with her husband, Pedro Delgado, who had come to pay his respects to one of Andalucía’s finest young fighters. He tried to ignore the copious tears that rolled unchecked down his wife’s cheeks but then noticed that she would have been alone among the women if she had not been crying.
A stone marked the spot. ‘
Tu familia no te olvida
.’ There may only have been one corpse, but the grieving was more than enough for two. The Ramírez family shed bitter tears. Concha wept for the loss of not just one but two of her fine sons and mourned them fiercely and equally. Both Emilio and Ignacio had tested the limits of their parents’ tolerance but none of that seemed important now.
Tu familia no te olvida
.’ There may only have been one corpse, but the grieving was more than enough for two. The Ramírez family shed bitter tears. Concha wept for the loss of not just one but two of her fine sons and mourned them fiercely and equally. Both Emilio and Ignacio had tested the limits of their parents’ tolerance but none of that seemed important now.
The grief of losing Emilio was as raw on this cold January day as it had been on the day he had been taken from their home, and it seemed as though Concha’s state of mourning might have no end without the presence of a body. This funeral served as a double ceremony for both second- and third-born.
Though both Antonio and Mercedes were devastated by the loss of their brothers, it was the scale of their mother’s grief that had overwhelmed them. For days she did not eat, speak or sleep, and it seemed that nothing would bring her out of this catatonic state. For a long while she was beyond their reach.
To lose loved ones on both sides of this conflict was a double misfortune for the Ramírez family, and they were bewildered that they had been dealt this blow.They survived the following weeks in a state of numb disbelief, oblivious to the fact that similar events were now taking place all over their country. For the present it was no consolation that theirs was not the only family enduring such unforeseen horror.
Chapter Twenty
THE CRISP DAYS of January had now given way to the damp days of February that wrapped a grey blanket around the city.The sun scarcely penetrated the clouds and the Sierra Nevada had disappeared into the mist. It was as though Granada had no connection with the world outside.
Eventually, the acute grief in the Ramírez family lessened and the day-to-day business of surviving in a country at war with itself began to distract them.The café had begun to look neglected. Concha’s attempts to keep the place clean and swept were woefully inadequate. Even if she could have managed all alone, anxiety for her husband exhausted her, and a lingering sense of loss over Ignacio and Emilio continued to sap her energy.
Food shortages were becoming increasingly common and it was a daily struggle to get supplies for her family as well as provisions for the café. El Barril was her children’s inheritance and its survival was now her sole preoccupation. Concha tried not to resent the portly-girthed owners of the grand homes in the Paseo del Salón who always seemed to have plenty to eat when for many it was a period of queues and malnourishment.
Over the past few months, Mercedes had become progressively less self-centred and now helped her mother without needing to be asked. In her own mind, however, she felt overwhelmed by the futility of it all. Serving people with coffee and small glasses of fiery cognac sometimes seemed so utterly pointless, and occasionally she could not help expressing this to her mother.
‘I agree with you, Merche,’ said Concha. ‘But it reminds people of normal life. Maybe that’s enough for the present.’
Brief moments of social intercourse in a busy café were the only link with earlier days of peace and what they would soon describe as ‘the old days’. For Mercedes everything seemed bleak. Naked trees stood like skeletons in the streets and squares. The city was gradually being stripped bare of everyone she cared about. She had still not received any news from Javier.
One morning, Concha was watching her daughter sweep the café floor, slowly and meticulously moving crumbs, ash and scraps of paper napkin into the centre of the room. She observed how her daughter drew perfect invisible arcs on the floor and how her hips rolled in a circular motion as she worked. The sleeves of her knitted cardigan were rolled up and the muscles of her sinewy arms were taut as she gripped the broom. Concha had no doubt that, in her imagination, Mercedes was in some other place. Dancing no doubt. Listening to Javier.
Mercedes had lived in a dream world since she was a small child and now it was only her fantasies that made life bearable. Sometimes she wondered if it would be like that until she died. It was certainly the only way to survive these cursed times. She looked up, feeling her mother’s gaze.
‘Why are you staring at me?’ she demanded sulkily. ‘Isn’t my cleaning good enough?’
‘Of course it is,’ replied her mother, feeling the strength of her resentment. ‘You’re doing a very good job. I do appreciate it, you know.’
‘But I hate it. I hate every second, of every minute, of every hour of every day,’ she retorted petulantly, sending the broom clattering across the room.
She pulled out one of the wooden chairs from a nearby table and for a moment her mother shrank back, thinking that she was about to throw that too.
Instead Mercedes sank down onto it, exhausted. She rested her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. Even if Mercedes had dealt bravely with her losses during the last few months, her ability to hide her feelings suddenly left her.
The young woman had more than enough to weep about.Two of her beloved brothers had died, her father was in prison and Javier, the man who had ignited greater feelings of love than she had ever imagined possible, had vanished. Even Concha could not expect her daughter to dwell on what remained. This was the moment to lament what had been taken away. Gratitude and the counting of blessings could wait.
One of their regular customers appeared at the door and then retreated; he could see that it was not a good moment for his daily
café con leche
.
café con leche
.
Concha drew up a chair close to her daughter and put her arm around her. ‘My poor Merche,’ she whispered. ‘My poor, poor Merche.’
Mercedes scarcely heard her, so loud was her keening.
Though their circumstances were not of Concha’s making, she felt profoundly guilty about the way her daughter’s life was turning out. It was as though the essence of it had been ripped out and she sympathised with her frustration and sadness. Though they went about their lives as normally as possible, strain was etched on the faces of everyone who lived in Granada. Fear of the Civil Guard, of the Nationalist soldiers and even of the wagging tongues of their neighbours haunted them. The tension in this city was affecting them all.
Concha’s instincts were to lock her daughter away and to protect her from everything outside this dark, wood-panelled room. Now that her husband and her son had been seized from these four walls, home no longer seemed to offer the same security they had once taken for granted. Both women knew that the warmth and safety it appeared to offer were merely an illusion. For this reason she found herself speaking words that were contrary to every ounce of maternal instinct.
‘You must find him.’
Mercedes looked up at her with surprise and gratitude.
‘Javier,’ Concha said emphatically, as though there could be any doubt about who she meant. ‘You must see if you can find him. I suspect he is waiting for you.’
It took Mercedes no time to prepare and, within minutes, she was ready to go. Her eagerness to see Javier again overcame any hesitation about setting off alone. Up in her room, she grabbed her coat and a scarf. She tucked the photograph of her
tocaor
into her purse and then, at the last moment, noticed her dancing shoes just poking out from under her bed. I can’t go without those, she thought as she bent down to pick them up. When she found Javier, she was quite likely to need them.
tocaor
into her purse and then, at the last moment, noticed her dancing shoes just poking out from under her bed. I can’t go without those, she thought as she bent down to pick them up. When she found Javier, she was quite likely to need them.
As Mercedes came downstairs, Concha was in the bar finishing the cleaning.
‘Look, I know your father would disapprove of me letting you go . . . and I’m not sure it’s the right thing . . .’
‘Please don’t change your mind,’ Mercedes appealed to her mother. ‘I’ll be back soon. So . . . wish me good luck.’
Concha swallowed hard. She could not show Mercedes her anxiety. She hugged her briefly and handed her some money, a lump of bread and some cheese wrapped in waxed paper, knowing that her daughter had not eaten yet today. Neither could bring herself to say the word ‘goodbye’.
Just as the bells of the nearby church of Santa Ana were clanging twelve, Mercedes hastened out of the café.
Concha carried on. Anyone would have thought it was business as usual.
Concha had been so preoccupied with the mechanics of keeping the café running that she had ceased to monitor Antonio’s comings and goings.With all her other anxieties, her first-born son seemed one of the few people about whom she did not need to worry. School was functioning again and Concha assumed that his late nights were being spent at school preparing lessons. In fact, all his free time was being spent with Salvador and Francisco, his close childhood friends.
Silence had never meant solitude for El Mudo. Expressive eyes and perfect features drew people to this boy. Young women drawn into his embrace were never disappointed by his love-making, and his gentle instincts for a woman’s needs were all the more sensitive for his lack of speech and hearing. They adored him all the more for the fact that they never left his bedroom with declarations of love echoing in their ears, their hopes vainly raised in the heat of the night. His two friends were in awe of his success.
Often the trio felt itself the object of curiosity. Strangers were fascinated by the spectacle of their sometimes wild gesticulations. Outsiders, who mostly assumed that all three of them were unable to hear or speak, found the boys as entertaining as mime artists and were intrigued by the silent world they inhabited. To local people, the sight of Antonio, Francisco and Salvador all rocking with silent mirth in the corner of the café was part of an everyday scene. When only two of them were together, they always played a game of chess.
They met most days in the same café where they had licked ice creams as children, and had grown up to believe in similar ideals. Their socialist beliefs now bonded them more closely than ever. The blood loyalty they had sworn to each other when they were eight years old had never wavered and for all three of them, socialism was the only possible route to a fair society. They knew some of the radicals in the city, left-wing lawyers and a smattering of politicians, and they tended to go to the bars they frequented, hovering on the edge of any group where politics were being discussed.
That evening, they had already gone over the same old ground, discussing for the hundredth time what was happening in Granada, where supporters of the Republic were still being randomly arrested. Salvador suddenly gestured to his companions that they needed to be watchful of two men in the corner of the bar. Being deaf, he could read more than most into a minor change of facial expression, which had led some to suspect him of supernatural mind-reading powers. In truth, he did what anyone could do: he observed the finest nuances of facial expression and learned to detect the merest hint of discomfort. His judgement was unerringly accurate.
‘Be careful,’ he signed. ‘Not everyone in here shares our views.’
Generally they could communicate with each other in complete privacy but occasionally Salvador would sense an unfriendly scrutinising stare. Now was one of those moments. He was not, after all, the only
sordomudo
in Granada and there were others who might know the language.
sordomudo
in Granada and there were others who might know the language.
‘Let’s go,’ said Antonio.
They would have to continue their planning elsewhere, and all three rose to leave, tucking a few pesetas under the ashtray for their beers.
Within minutes they were back in Salvador’s apartment. With an ear pressed close to its heavy door, even a determined eavesdropper would have struggled to hear more than the occasional rustle. Salvador was currently living alone. His mother and grandmother had been at an aunt’s
cortijo
outside the city when the coup had taken place and had not returned. His father had died when he was eleven.
cortijo
outside the city when the coup had taken place and had not returned. His father had died when he was eleven.
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