The Return (42 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
The words were spoken without a trace of warmth, let alone a genuine welcome.Though it was stuffy here Mercedes felt herself shudder. She understood how people could be stripped of their ability to care about others. Many had seen terrible atrocities and she could see that in this woman’s eyes. Here was someone beyond the stage where she could take an interest in strangers and perhaps even her own family.
Moments later, a young woman of about Mercedes’ age appeared.
‘Did you get any?’ asked her mother, once again speaking without looking up.
‘As much as they would give me,’ replied her daughter. ‘But it wasn’t much. Hardly enough for one really.’
‘But there are three of us, including your father - and four now if this girl is going to attach herself to us,’ she said, indicating Mercedes with an upward movement of her head.
Mercedes stepped forward. The woman who had introduced them had gone now.
‘Some acquaintances of yours said I might be able to come on the road with you, as we’re all planning on going in the same direction. Would that be all right?’
Mercedes spoke with some hesitation, unsure of whether she might get the same cool reception from the daughter.
The girl eyed her up and down, not with suspicion but with interest. ‘Yes, I’m sure it would.’ She spoke with unmistakable warmth.
‘Come and find somewhere to cook these with me,’ she said, waving the pathetic package of lentils. ‘I’m sure we can make them stretch - and I see you’ve got some bread.’
The two women then found themselves in a queue for a small kitchen. They were all used to standing in lines now. This was where acquaintances might become friends.
‘I’m sorry my mother doesn’t seem very friendly.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a total stranger. Why should she be?’
‘She didn’t used to be like that.’
Mercedes looked into the girl’s face and saw someone like herself. She had a girl’s complexion with an old woman’s eyes. They were full of grief as though she had already experienced enough suffering for a lifetime.
‘It was my brother. Eduardo. He was walking with three friends.
They were ahead of us in a group and we got separated. Mother’s shoes had worn down to nothing and her heels were cracked and bleeding. She couldn’t go very fast and Eduardo had grown impatient. In the air attack we had a lucky escape, but when the planes had gone and we carried on walking, we saw them. All four of them. Dead. Lying in a row. They’d been moved from the middle of the road so that people didn’t have to walk round them. The other parents hadn’t caught up with them yet, so we were the first to realise who they were.’
Mercedes felt she had been there and indeed it was perfectly possible that she might have passed the very spot a few moments earlier.
‘We had missed them, by a moment. You know when you’re late to meet someone and when you get there, someone says, “Oh, they’ve just gone,” and you have that sense of loss and waste. Well, it was like that, but for good. Eduardo had gone. We had missed him by a moment. He was still warm. It was impossible to take in that he was no longer alive. His body was there, but he just wasn’t in it any more.’
Tears coursed down her cheeks. Mercedes could feel the enormity of her loss. She was reminded of when she saw her own brother’s lifeless body. Ignacio had been dead for many hours and she had been shocked by her own reaction. It was not her brother, and she remembered realising that there was a difference between a body and a corpse. The latter was like an empty shell on the beach.
Mercedes found herself bereft of useful words. There had been hundreds of mortalities on that road from Málaga, but an individual death, even in the overall scale of suffering, would never lose its impact.
‘I’m so sorry. How terrible . . . how terrible.’
‘They’ll never recover, I know they won’t. My father didn’t speak for two days. My mother never stops crying. And I’m meant to be the strong one . . .’
For a few minutes they stood in silence.The girl herself looked as though she had been weeping for days. Eventually she spoke.
‘My name’s Ana, anyway,’ she said wiping her eyes.
‘And I’m Mercedes.’
No one else in the queue even listened to their conversation. The story Ana had told was nothing out of the ordinary in times like these.
While Ana stirred the mean mixture of lentils and water, the girls continued to talk. Mercedes told her that she needed to get to Bilbao, and Ana explained that her parents were aiming for her uncle’s village in the north. Her father’s brother, Ernesto, had never supported the Republic and her father did not have firm political views, so he had persuaded her mother that they should set up a new home, closer to his family, where they might be safe. He was convinced that it was only a matter of time before Franco took Madrid, and following that it would only be a few days before the whole country was in Nationalist hands. It was a long distance to travel, but their apartment in Málaga had been destroyed and it was doubtful they would ever return now. Her father had never held membership of a trade union or any other workers’ association so he reckoned he was free to shift his allegiance at will.
Mercedes’ sole aim was to find Javier, whether he was in Nationalist or Republican territory. She knew that he was most likely to be in the latter, but decided to keep this to herself. Even now she could see that keeping politics a private matter with this family might stand her in good stead. It was enough for her that they shared the same broad destination.
‘I’ll be really glad if you come with us. My parents hardly speak and we’ve got a long way to go. I could really do with some company.’
By the time they had returned to Ana’s mother, her father was also there. He had been queuing all afternoon and had an onion and half a cabbage to show for it. Introductions were made and Mercedes was welcomed politely by Señor Duarte.
Though he had no bandages or visible signs of injury, Duarte was like a wounded man; it was as if he might snap beneath the burden of his grief. He certainly did not want to make conversation. Mercedes realised that these people were much younger than she had at first thought. Señora Duarte could easily have been mistaken for Ana’s grandmother, and Mercedes wondered if it was the death of their only son that had aged them so many decades beyond their years.
Señora Duarte was a little friendlier now, perhaps because of the additional loaf that Mercedes offered her, and they formed a tight circle before sharing the soup between four enamel bowls and dividing up the bread. There were other people in the room and it was considered bad manners to display what you were eating, however little it was.
‘So, Mercedes, you want to come up to the north with us?’ said Señor Duarte, breaking the silence when they had all finished their meal.
‘Yes, I do,’ she answered. ‘As long as I’m not going to be in the way.’
‘You won’t be. But you will have to understand something.’
Ana looked nervously at her father. She did not want him to scare away her new friend.
‘Let me do the talking when we get stopped,’ he said brusquely to Mercedes, his cold eyes fixed on hers. ‘As far as anyone is concerned you two are sisters. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ she said.
She felt uncomfortable with his manner but she would have to put this aside; the mother seemed kind enough and it would make sense to be part of a family. To get to Bilbao they needed to cross territory occupied by Nationalist troops. That did not seem to concern Ana, so Mercedes told herself she must not worry either.
After their meagre supper, the girls intended to go for a stroll in the street to get away from the overcrowded building but, as they were about to leave, they heard the unexpected sound of music coming from a classroom down the corridor. It drew them towards it. For the first time in weeks the sound of something other than conflict reached their ears. Even when the bombs were not falling, or when they were not being strafed or machine-gunned, the noise of it all had left a continual ringing in their ears. The delightful fluid sound of an arpeggio quickened their heartbeats and hastened their steps.
They soon found where the music was coming from. Already encircled by people, the top of his shiny bald pate reflecting the light from a single bulb illuminating the room, they saw the
tocaor
. His whole body was curved as though to protect his guitar.
tocaor
. His whole body was curved as though to protect his guitar.
People streamed from every door in the corridor and gathered in the room and a crowd of children sat on the floor looking up at him. During the journey from Málaga they had lost the naïvety of childhood and now seemed to understand the tragic potency of this sound.
No one knew the
flamenco
’s name. He seemed not to have any family with him. By the time Mercedes and Ana arrived, several people were accompanying him with quiet
palmas
. His long, stained fingernails skimmed lightly and airily across the strings. He was playing for himself but he occasionally looked up and his eyes registered the growing crowd. Mercedes slipped back to her own classroom. There was something she might need.
flamenco
’s name. He seemed not to have any family with him. By the time Mercedes and Ana arrived, several people were accompanying him with quiet
palmas
. His long, stained fingernails skimmed lightly and airily across the strings. He was playing for himself but he occasionally looked up and his eyes registered the growing crowd. Mercedes slipped back to her own classroom. There was something she might need.
As she returned, she heard a familiar sequence of notes that sent a shockwave through her. Just four notes played in a unique sequence and she could tell this
toque
apart from a million others. It was a melody that meant more to her than any other. A
soleá
. It was the first piece she had ever danced with Javier.The melancholy of the tune might have lowered her spirits, but instead she took it as a sign that she would see him again.The thought lifted her heart.
toque
apart from a million others. It was a melody that meant more to her than any other. A
soleá
. It was the first piece she had ever danced with Javier.The melancholy of the tune might have lowered her spirits, but instead she took it as a sign that she would see him again.The thought lifted her heart.
Other people recognised the
compás
too and clapped in time with the beat. For a while she held back and then, almost involuntarily, she found herself removing the shoes from her pocket and slipping them on to her feet, buckling them with shaking fingers. The soft leather felt so familiar, so warm. She did not hesitate to step round the children who were sitting just a few feet from the guitarist. Her steel heelcaps click-clacked on the parquet as she approached the
guitarrista
.The children gazed with rapt attention at this girl, who now blocked their view of the musician.
compás
too and clapped in time with the beat. For a while she held back and then, almost involuntarily, she found herself removing the shoes from her pocket and slipping them on to her feet, buckling them with shaking fingers. The soft leather felt so familiar, so warm. She did not hesitate to step round the children who were sitting just a few feet from the guitarist. Her steel heelcaps click-clacked on the parquet as she approached the
guitarrista
.The children gazed with rapt attention at this girl, who now blocked their view of the musician.
A year ago, it might have seemed audacious to present herself to a stranger, ready to dance, but such rules no longer mattered. What did she have to lose in front of an audience who knew neither her nor her family? They were all strangers to each other here, brought together by bitter circumstances.
The man looked up and gave her a broad, encouraging smile. He could tell from her attitude, her position and the way she held herself that she had danced many times and would know how to direct him.
She bent to whisper in his ear, ‘Can we have the same again?’
As he listened to her, his fingers chased a tune up and down the strings, his nails flicking the strings with a virtuoso’s dexterity.
The arrival of this girl by his side felt like a glimpse back to an old life where evenings might evolve with delightful spontaneity. He was often hired for
juergas
and the only guaranteed thing was the uncertainty of how the evening might unfold, who would play well, how the women would dance, whether the gathering would have any spirit, any
duende
.
juergas
and the only guaranteed thing was the uncertainty of how the evening might unfold, who would play well, how the women would dance, whether the gathering would have any spirit, any
duende
.
He smiled up at her. For Mercedes and everyone else who caught a glimpse of his face at that moment, it was as if the sun had burst out on an otherwise dull day. Such glimpses of warmth had become a rare thing of late. Now, from the introductory passage, emerged the
soleá
that she so much wanted him to repeat. Mercedes began to clap her hands, just lightly at first, until she could feel that the audience had the rhythm running right through them and could not tell it from the beating of their own hearts. Some women joined their hands together with her, eyes fixed on this girl who had come from nowhere to take centre stage. As their
palmas
strengthened, she began to tap her right heel until she established a stronger and more forceful beat. A moment later she banged her left foot down hard and the dance began, her wrists and arms moving in fluid motion above her head, her long slim fingers so much thinner than they had been a month before.
soleá
that she so much wanted him to repeat. Mercedes began to clap her hands, just lightly at first, until she could feel that the audience had the rhythm running right through them and could not tell it from the beating of their own hearts. Some women joined their hands together with her, eyes fixed on this girl who had come from nowhere to take centre stage. As their
palmas
strengthened, she began to tap her right heel until she established a stronger and more forceful beat. A moment later she banged her left foot down hard and the dance began, her wrists and arms moving in fluid motion above her head, her long slim fingers so much thinner than they had been a month before.
For the first time in days, the profound sense of defeat that many of these people had carried about with them was lifted.
The
tocaor
’s playing echoed her movements, increasing in passion as the dance went on. It was almost violent now, the way in which his nails ripped through the strings and tapped on the plates on the front of the guitar. Slung across his back, this instrument had been carried for miles, withstanding several falls on the way. Though these accidents had done miraculously little damage, the way he was playing it now made it seem as though he was hellbent on its destruction.
tocaor
’s playing echoed her movements, increasing in passion as the dance went on. It was almost violent now, the way in which his nails ripped through the strings and tapped on the plates on the front of the guitar. Slung across his back, this instrument had been carried for miles, withstanding several falls on the way. Though these accidents had done miraculously little damage, the way he was playing it now made it seem as though he was hellbent on its destruction.
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