Autumn in Catalonia (17 page)

Toni nodded vehemently. ‘Good news, if he can bring us the same luck as he brought Saragossa! And at least we won’t have him playing against us anymore! But tell me more about what the bastards did to you. Did they have you locked up in Barcelona?’

They were away again, and within minutes Luc was talking more freely about his time in prison than since he had been released. Toni kept asking questions man to man, without pussyfooting around, and Maria came out of the kitchen and stood listening, their lunch completely forgotten behind her. When Luc talked about the prison chaplain she crossed herself and muttered, ‘Forgive them.’ Carla went to her and put her arm around her shoulder.

‘He’s still with us,
Avia
, and he escaped torture.’

‘You don’t call that torture, that terrible isolation? God help us, how long might Sergi have left him there? My poor boy, you’re a miracle to my eyes!’

Carla winked at Toni. ‘So there’s another one she’s adopted! Don’t get above yourself, Luc – my grandmother adopted Toni long before you, and she takes on all kinds of waifs and strays at the drop of a hat.’

‘Too right,
Senyora
Garriga! You go ahead and adopt me!’ Luc told Maria. ‘Don’t you let Carla tell you otherwise! I’m a hero, all right – she just doesn’t appreciate me.’

Maria clucked in disapproval. ‘You’re all very frivolous, but you don’t fool me. I know what we’ve been through with poor Carla, and if you’ve had half of what she has suffered, then there’s more on Sergi’s plate than I would want to have to account for when I meet my maker.’

She turned back to the kitchen, and flung over her shoulder, ‘Above all, your young man needs feeding, Carla, so you come and bring through the rice. And as for you, Toni, you’ll eat your lunch with us. We don’t have Paula’s larder, but it was me who taught your own mother to cook
arroz negro
, so you’ll not dare tell me you won’t eat mine!’

They ate their meal to the accompaniment of a fund of reminiscences by Maria and Toni about life in Sant Galdric. Carla learnt that the Figarolas, her real grandparents, were still alive, although there was no one else – their other son had never come home from the war either. There was an uncle, though, living in a village not too far away, and he had family, Toni was sure.
Senyora
Figarola had come to Sant Galdric from somewhere nearer to the coast, and she had family she’d left behind there – there was at least one sister who had visited the village, Maria remembered. One day maybe Carla would meet them all!

Carla listened, and took it in, but said little. Being a
Figarola didn’t feel very real to her as yet, and her thoughts were on more immediate concerns.

‘Never mind me meeting my long-lost relatives,’ she said to Luc. ‘First you have to meet my mother! She’s waiting for us, remember?’

Toni grinned, and Luc cocked an eye at him. ‘Should I be scared?’ he asked.

But it was Maria who answered, before Toni could speak. Her voice was very serious, and cut through their banter.

‘Being scared is what Carla has experienced for the last few months, facing a life without you and her baby. And it’s what my daughter faced twenty-four years ago, for the same reasons – a fear she couldn’t share and which changed her life. And yet she’s been overcoming that fear for the last week to embrace us all again, and to become herself again. So enough joking about my daughter, all of you – we’ve all had enough of being scared, and the time is now for a little courage and some big hearts. There should be no more them and us, because you know what that actually means? It means that while we sit round this table together we leave Joana in her corner on her own, and it won’t do. Do you hear me, Carla? It’s what Martin understood, and what you need to understand.’

Carla was silenced. Luc’s hand came over hers across the table, and his other arm went round Maria’s shoulder next to his.

‘I can see why Carla loves you so much,
Senyora
. Big things are happening to us, and if we can all have hearts even half as big as yours, then we’re sure to come out right.’

Maria went to shush him, but this time it was Carla who spoke first.

‘Uncle Josep said something similar to me,
Avia
, don’t worry. He told me I have to give Mama a chance. I won’t forget, and as you can see, you can count on the generosity of my big giant here.’

Luc tightened his arm around Maria and smiled his sweetest smile.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘I told you I was a hero!’

Martin had made her go to beautiful Besalú on Monday, just like a tourist, for lunch. They’d stood on the remains of the majestic Viejo bridge, which had defended the town for eight hundred years before twentieth-century man had blown away its heart during the Civil War. It was in the final stages of rebuilding now, and almost restored to its former glory.

‘This is what they say they’re going to do in Girona, to restore the old monuments and buildings,’ Joana said. ‘But for now what they’re doing is more about pulling down everything that’s old and building completely new.’

‘They’ll protect the real old town, though?’

‘Oh yes, and maybe one day they’ll clean its poor old face and make it look like this,’ Joana said, wistfully, looking around at the beautiful yellow stone of Besalú’s town walls.

She stood for a long time watching the river Fluvià as
it flowed away below them, its waters low and sluggish now, at the end of this dry summer. Then she took Martin’s arm, and they strolled together through the stone gates into the untouched stone streets. They had lunch in a little inn behind the main square, a simple dish of lamb and beans, which they washed down with a rich Tempranillo.

‘None of your silly sparkly wine with a dish like this,’ Martin had joked, and Joana had rapped his knuckles with her fork, and insisted on ordering some Cava with their
mel i mató
dessert of soft goat’s cheese and honey.

It felt like being on holiday. ‘I’d love to have gone to the coast,’ she said to Martin. ‘To Cadaquès. It’s so beautiful, and I haven’t seen the sea for such a long time. How strange, when we live so near, but once we’d built the hill house, Sergi always wanted to be there in summer, and we would have house guests all the time, especially for the hunting in August. I suppose the last time I was on the coast was near Escala, when we were invited by friends who had their summer home there. That would be three years ago!’

‘Bah!’ Martin dismissed, ‘Cadaquès is full of French tourists nowadays. Give me a place like this any time! I live by the sea, and love it, but your backdrop of hills is so majestic – it takes a lot of beating.’

‘Not all year round!’

‘No,’ Martin conceded. ‘Maybe not all the time, or at least, not to live in them on your own. You need to work on that one, Joana. What will you do when Carla and Luc are safe and living their lives somewhere else in Spain? You won’t just accept your fate anymore, will you, and imprison yourself quietly on demand? You need better than that.’

His voice of concern wrapped her like a fur coat, and she thought how extraordinary it was that this young man should care about them all so much.

‘We’re not there yet, Martin,’ was all she replied. ‘When Carla and Luc are safe, as you say, then you can ask me again, and I’ll maybe figure out an answer. For now I just want to see them arrive.’

And so on the Wednesday afternoon she was on the watch, fidgeting around the veranda, listening for the sound of the Mercedes on the track. Martin was outside chopping wood, burying his own fidgets under the cover of exercise.

It was Martin, sharp on the lookout, who gave the call. ‘There’s the car!’

Surely they must be with Toni! Otherwise he wouldn’t be back yet – they’d agreed he would wait in Girona until evening if necessary, in case they arrived. Joana went down the steps from the veranda to stand beside Martin, and together they watched as the Mercedes snaked up the hill towards them. It would pass to the left of the house to stop in the back yard, so they ran round to be there when it arrived.

There were three people inside the car. Carla was beaming from the front seat, and tucked in behind her sat a young man – Luc, this must be Luc! Carla burst from the car as soon as it stopped, and a flash of memory went through Joana of her daughter’s unwilling, unbending arrival at the hill house eight days before. This couldn’t be more different.

‘He’s here!’ Carla called, unnecessarily, and she pulled open the rear door of the car before Luc could even reach the handle.

Martin moved forward towards the car, but Joana hung back, suddenly very nervous. Before her, Carla was waiting for Luc, who unfolded himself from the back seat and emerged slowly from the car, his eyes taking in all around him. Heavens, what a size! The boy was huge! But he looked strangely abashed for one so big, and on impulse Joana took a step towards him, and Martin stepped back, so that it was Joana whose hand Luc took first.

He was no beauty, she thought, but he had a face that hinted at an interesting personality. Then he smiled, and it lit his eyes, and involuntarily she gave him a smile back. Here was a man who would be kind to her daughter, she thought, with a surge of elation. There would be no hard-edged relationships with Luc.

She turned towards Carla, who was watching her intently. ‘What a mountain,
vida meva
!’ she said, ‘Can we feed him, do you think?’

Carla grinned. ‘He eats for two, but he’s cheap to run – he’ll eat anything you give him, and he just mops up other people’s plates when he’s hungry! He’s so thin, though, after being in gaol. Grandma was trying to feed him up, down there in Girona.’

‘Paula will undoubtedly want to do the same – she’s already been on a mission to build you up in the last week or so, and now she’ll have two to feed. She sourced some chanterelle mushrooms yesterday, so I think you may be in for a feast this evening.’ She smiled again at Luc, and found he was watching her with grave, discerning eyes. But there was no disapproval, no prejudged ideas. He just looked as though he wanted to know her, and she squeezed his hand
a little before she let it go. She wanted to know him too.

No one wanted to sit still on the veranda, so they all went out for a walk in the last of the afternoon sunshine, tailoring their pace to Carla’s as they meandered along the forest tracks, aiming for a clearing on a rise that gave panoramic views of the valley, and of the house behind them. Luc was absurdly solicitous about Carla – he hadn’t been present for much of her pregnancy, Joana mused, and must have been caught up in powerless, pent-up worry as he sat in his prison cell.

‘Watch Joaquima!’ he yelped at one point, as Carla caught her foot on a root. She didn’t even falter, and turned on him with her tongue stuck out.

‘Joaquim is just fine, thank you!’ she answered, and then when she saw her mother’s perplexed face she laughed.

‘He wants a girl,’ she explained. ‘But how could a bump this size be anything other than another great manly lump like Luc?’

‘It can be anything it likes, as far as I’m concerned, provided you don’t call it Joaquim!’ Joana retorted, amused.

‘Absurd name, isn’t it?’ Luc agreed. ‘A good name for a bump!’

‘Have you any names in mind for what may come out of the bump?’

‘We’ve not had much time to talk about it yet,
Senyora
Olivera. I guess we’ll wait and see what pops out first, before we commit! Do you fancy Joana for a girl?’

‘No way! Do you fancy Luc for a boy?’

It was Carla who answered. ‘Not Luc, but a family name, yes. We could name him after grandfather, your
father, perhaps – I don’t even know his name! I’ve only ever heard him called by his surname.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Joana answered. ‘Everyone called him Vigo, for some reason. His real name was Juan, which is where my own name came from, but it’s not a name he would have needed to see passed on to the next generation. Should you think maybe of Luc’s father, instead?’

‘Or we could call him Alex.’ Luc’s words fell into a sudden silence, and Joana drew in a sharp breath. It was astonishing how jagged the knife was every time she thought of Alex. Carla too had frozen, and exchanged a quick look with Martin.

He shook his head at her. ‘No,’ he mouthed. ‘It’s all right.’

What on earth was that all about, Joana wondered? Carla was looking at him as though the words had special significance, but only nodded in response. She was such a private, complicated person. Joana looked at Martin, who was still watching Carla’s face. He too was so self-contained, even secretive at times. Of all of them, Luc was the only open, straightforward one. She’d only just met this future son-in-law, and already she found him easier than her daughter had ever been. She shrugged in unwonted acceptance. What she couldn’t control she wouldn’t chafe over, and let’s face it, she was just grateful to be included right now in this fragment of their lives.

Later she sat with Carla on the veranda, just the two of them on their own. She wanted to talk to Carla, just to talk normally, like mothers and daughters were supposed to do. With Martin she could talk about anything – about
the weather, or food, or more seriously about politics, but simply, with no other agenda. But with Carla the past hung between them, and it blocked all normal conversation. When Martin and Luc were around, Carla would entertain, and amuse, and be amused, but alone with her mother she became, not mute, but guarded. If we can talk the past into history, thought Joana, then maybe things will become easier – our relationship has become stiff from lack of use. So talk, then, you fool, she chided herself. Let’s open up the past, if we must.

‘Martin tells me you were amazing in the meeting with Sergi,’ she said eventually.

Carla gave a little shiver. ‘It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done! And it stayed just as frightening afterwards, because I just couldn’t believe we’d actually won, and that he would really get Luc released. He was so menacing – but I was careful to say we would go away and leave him in peace if he let Luc go. I wanted him to feel there would really be an end to all our threats if he just did this one thing.’

‘Well you succeeded. He did let Luc go. You did better than I could ever have done – I’ve never stood up to him, not in twenty-four years. And nor have I ever succeeded in getting the better of him – not even the mildest manipulation.’

‘You got him to accept your child, though, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t think I had even the hint of a say in it, looking back! He must have had a fair idea that I wouldn’t marry him under normal circumstances, Alex or no Alex, because I was nervous of him, and he was the pariah of our village, so he used my pregnancy to coerce me. And he liked the
idea of me having to be grateful to him. All he had to do was give his name to my child and forever afterwards he’d won himself a complaisant wife. But over time that wasn’t enough. I’ve begun to wonder whether his growing anger against me came precisely for that reason. He got me to marry him, but he knew he wasn’t my first choice, and that I married him only because there was no other option available. It can’t have made him feel too great, underneath.’

‘Why did he want you so much, do you think?’ Carla asked. ‘I mean, I know you were beautiful, but there were other beautiful girls, surely?’

Joana shook her head in shared perplexity, and answered slowly. ‘He called me luscious, once. He used to call me his temptress, and yet God knows I was no siren – I may have been pregnant, but he knew I was fundamentally innocent. He seemed to want to devour me, but, do you know, I think what he wanted most was to pluck me out of the village in front of the eyes of his detractors. He wanted to prove that he could walk all over the village that hated him.’

She sighed. ‘But for me, he was a saviour nevertheless. Do you know what it would have meant back then, to have a baby without a man to marry you? Well, of course you do know, because you’ve been frightened yourself. Back in 1939 if a girl got pregnant she and the boy got married. If she had no man who would own her she was damned. And Alex was dead and no one knew how close we had been – I could have been pregnant by a visiting tramp for all I could prove. So Sergi was my saviour. And yours too, Carla, believe me! He saved you from being labelled a bastard, or from being given away!’

A silence ensued, and Joana stretched in her chair. It was six o’clock, and well-trained Paula would shortly appear with aperitifs, and the men would soon be joining them. There was a chill in the evening air, but the sky had remained clear this October, and the sun was setting behind them, casting a reflected glow over towards the east. It occurred to Joana that Carla hadn’t made any further comment, and she looked across to find herself being examined. She cocked an eye at her, and Carla pulled herself a little straighter in her chair.

‘Mama,’ she said, ‘Did Martin tell you how Sergi exploded at us at the end of our visit?’

‘And called you a whore? Yes, I’m sorry,
carinyo
, you didn’t deserve that, but you had already won, otherwise you wouldn’t have raised such a reaction. He lost his cool, didn’t he? Just like he always does when he doesn’t get his own way.’

Carla seemed to be having difficulty continuing, and as she hesitated Martin came through the door from the house. She made a gesture to him and he stopped.

‘Mama, I need to tell you what Sergi said when he lost his temper. He called me a whore, yes, but he also told me I was just like you – that you were a whore as well, and that I wasn’t his child.’

Joana was surprised. She hadn’t thought Sergi would admit this ever to Carla or to anyone – it was information that would hardly help his image.

‘And then,’ Carla continued, ‘he told us that he had got rid of my real father.’

The words hung in the air, strange and oddly formed –
as though Carla had suddenly spoken Spanish to her on this still Catalan evening. Joana turned the words over but they didn’t seem to mean anything.

‘He said what?’ she asked, thinking that if the words were repeated they might acquire some meaning.

Martin stepped quietly towards them and sat on the edge of the sofa, close by Joana’s elbow.

‘I’m sorry, Mama, but he told us he had Alex Figarola killed, or perhaps even killed him himself. “Got rid of him” were the words he used. I thought at the time he might be trying simply to shock me, but there was something very convincing about what he said.’

Joana looked into the distance. On cue Paula shuffled out, like an extra appearing onstage, Joana thought, bringing a bottle and glasses. Martin stayed close, not touching her, but his arm was so close to hers that she could feel its warmth. Was this what he and Carla had been so secretive about this afternoon? But this wasn’t real. Sergi hadn’t killed Alex. If he had, then everything that she’d ever believed of him was a lie – all the good things she’d tried to focus on over the years, all her guilt for not giving him sons, all her ‘managing’ of Carla, and life, and his endless ego, so as to give Sergi his place as king amongst them.