Autumn in Catalonia (18 page)

Give me that glass, she wanted to scream at Paula, who was taking so much time serving them. Luc appeared now as well, standing in the shadows of the veranda as though he felt he mustn’t approach. There was a bubble around Joana and none of them could join her in it. Outside it the world seemed to be turning quite normally, but inside it she was on her own, completely on her own.

‘I had to tell you Mama,’ Carla was pleading, her gaze fixed in disquiet on Joana’s face. ‘You can’t go through the rest of your life making your plans as though you have to be grateful to him.’

Why no, thought Joana, I’ll do my best not to be grateful. What the hell emotion she was supposed to feel she didn’t know, but she knew it wasn’t gratitude. Could this be true? Could it really be true? The question turned over and over in her mind as everything she’d believed in evaporated, and the last twenty-four years of her life turned to ashes before her eyes. It hurt physically, in her guts and, sharp as hell in her head, a bulldozer of pain that made it hard to think through what she’d just heard, but which left the image of Alex imprinted crystal clear in front of her, stretched helpless and dying on the ground, with Sergi hovering over him, knife in hand, and that almost lascivious expression on his face.

And the worst thing of all was that now the words had been spoken, the idea implanted, she didn’t even find the image difficult to believe.

Sergi sat on the wall by the church, at exactly the same spot where Joana and Alex used to meet, and reached his hand out to Joana. Behind them the square was empty – Sergi’s arrival had sent the children scuttling away fearfully from their Easter games. He had been cold-shouldered by the entire village since his arrival that morning, with people drawing back inside doorways to shield themselves from him, and even his grandmother had received him only reluctantly. The word in the village was that she hadn’t even wanted to make up a bed for him, and everyone knew how she had done penance in the church every day since his visit with his army troop six weeks ago.

Four doors away from her house the Companys family still waited for any news of poor Joaquim, and while his wife might hope daily for his return, the rest of the village were beginning to believe that he would never be seen
again. His very name would condemn him to the
Fascista,
and his friends might know that he was no relation of their Catalan President, Lluís Companys, but it was unlikely that any Nationalist would believe it. So the loathing felt for Sergi Olivera was heavy in the air today, and only their respect for his grandmother prevented the men from doing him serious injury.

But it didn’t seem to bother Sergi. He had sauntered through the village flashing his army stripes, and walked through Joana’s door as though sure of his welcome, brushing past an aghast Maria with a dismissive greeting, and now he sat completely at ease in the spring sunshine, examining Joana’s overthin frame with a slight frown.

‘You’ve lost weight, little sweetheart.’ His voice purred at her, and Joana was more nervous of him than ever. His hand beckoned, and she moved towards him in spite of herself. He seized hold of her very gently and pulled her into him, so she stood between his legs, her face just a fingerbreadth from his.

‘What has happened to you,
meva estimada
? You look unhappy. No, you look more than unhappy, you look as though the world has fallen in on you. Tell me! You know you can tell me anything.’

His voice was no longer disturbing, and he spoke with infinite gentleness as he took one of her curls between his fingers. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Could she trust him? He seemed to see deep inside her. No one else, not even Mama, seemed to see how distraught she was, how desperate. God, how she needed a friend, but did Sergi want to be her friend? The village didn’t fully comprehend
what he had done to save her from his officer six weeks ago, but she did. It didn’t stop her being afraid of him, but it jumbled up her thoughts so she no longer knew what to think.

‘Tell me, little Joana,’ he repeated, his whisper a caress.

She just looked at him, tears blurring her eyes.

‘My grandmother tells me young Figarola was found dead in Girona. Were you in love with him, Joana?’

She lowered her eyes, and he stroked the back of her head. ‘Don’t worry, little one. Is that why you’re so unhappy? But what is it that haunts you? Is it just that you’re grieving for him?’

She raised her eyes again and he looked deep into them. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s something more there. You’re frightened of something, aren’t you? What is it, Joana?’

She shook her head, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. Her arms were trapped between them, and she wrapped them protectively around her still flat stomach. Sergi looked down and a strange light came into his eyes. He reached his arms around her and held her close against his chest, so she could no longer see the expression on his face. He kissed the top of her head and spoke in his most caressing tones, but the triumph in his voice was clear.

‘Now then,
la meva estimada,
you haven’t been too sure about me,
no és
? You’re still in love with that young fool who didn’t know better than to get himself killed for a foolish Communist regime. And now look how he has left you, facing ruin, if I read things right. But now you will realise who your real friend is.’ His hand slid down her back, and just skimmed her thigh through her thin cotton dress.

‘There’s passion in those eyes of yours, Joana. I’ve always known you’re a girl with amorous potential, and I’ve watched you ripen into a fruit I have to taste.’

She still wasn’t looking at him, keeping her head buried as his words spelt out her fate. ‘It would seem you’ve already given yourself to him, and now, my seductive little creature, you will give yourself to me, and I will protect you, and take care of his child, and we’ll make more children, and you’ll know what a real man is like.’

His hand pushed below her skirt to stroke her buttocks, and his other hand pulled her head up to face him. What she saw in his eyes was hot desire, and she realised that without saying a single word she had revealed everything to him, and he wanted her, he still wanted her, and her decision had been made for her.

‘Oh, Alex,’ she bled inside as Sergi leant down to kiss her, and fastened greedy, hungry lips on hers
…

‘Joana, Joana! Wake up, Joana!’ A hand was shaking her, and she pulled herself out of the dream and woke up, bathed in cold sweat. A dark face swam before hers, and she gazed at it blindly.

‘Alex!’ she whispered.

‘No, Joana.’ Martin’s voice cut through her lingering dream, and she came fully awake with a long shudder. Martin was sitting on the side of her bed, one hand on her shoulder, a dressing gown covering his pyjamas.

‘Martin?’

‘It’s all right, Joana. You were having a bad dream – I heard you calling out from down the corridor, and came in
to find you calling out, something I couldn’t understand, and you sounded so distressed I had to wake you. Are you all right?’

She reached her hand up to grip his. She was still trembling, and she was cold, so terribly cold. She focused on Martin’s face.

‘Are you all right?’ he repeated, troubled.

‘I was only a girl, Martin,’ she pleaded. ‘Only a girl!’

‘I know, Joana, I know. Don’t worry.’

‘Yes, but I was so scared of him!’ she whispered. ‘He was so overpowering, so domineering, and I could tell he knew he had me beaten. But I told myself all my instincts were wrong, because he was being kind. And I gave myself to him completely, God help me I let him take me right there in the village, like some powerless doll, and he made me his possession.’ Her voice broke and she began to cry, and Martin took her in his arms and said nothing, just held her cold body against his warm one while she wept. He wrapped her blankets around her bare arms and over the thin straps of her nightdress, and drew her close to cloak her with his body.

He made no move to touch her beyond this deep enfolding. He was all comfort, all kindness, and she lay inert in the crook of his body, feeling her grief slowly receding as her body warmed. As she drifted eventually back to sleep she felt safe, very safe, and the last thing she remembered was a tiny touch of his lips on the nape of her neck.

She slept without dreams this time, or none that she remembered as she woke, still in semi-darkness, to find Martin asleep beside her. His hair was swept back off his
face, his arm outflung, and with his eyes closed his long lashes nestled against the smooth skin of his cheeks. He looked young, untouched, and at peace, more than he had since they’d burdened him with their troubles. She raised herself to rest on her elbow and studied him, remembering that little kiss he’d given her just as she drifted off to sleep.

For some reason she couldn’t explain to herself she had never asked Martin anything about himself. Carla and Maria seemed to be on more familiar terms with him, in many ways, but between her and Martin there was a strange kind of empathy, which was more to do with currents of understanding than with the details of their lives. Martin understood her vulnerability, and had cut right through her hard edges from the moment he’d first walked up to the hill house, less than two weeks ago.

And what about her? What did she know about this young creature sleeping before her? To her he was in so many ways the living embodiment of Luis, or was it even of Alex? Intelligent, intuitive, protective but challenging, he was the successful young man who could carry people along with him, and as she looked at him now she felt a biting sense of loss for all she’d exchanged Luis and Alex for. But Luis, you weren’t there, my uncle! Where were you to protect us from Franco and all those you’d set us up against? Where were you when they invaded our lives and my Alex was taken?

But Martin was not his father – he wasn’t responsible for the past, and something told her that the past must have touched him too. He had a wistful look sometimes, which tugged at her, and when he stood by her in solidarity she
felt his need as well as his support. Was he in love with her? She thought perhaps he was. And did she love him? Yes, as she had loved Luis, the miraculous uncle with the winning smile, who had made her believe in herself.

She wondered again about Martin’s age. If he was Luis’s oldest child then he was twenty-seven years old, but right now he looked younger. How old had Alex been when he died? Just nineteen, if she remembered right. Martin looked a bit like Alex just now, his face elongated in the shadowy, predawn light. The thought of Alex wrenched her gut again, and she slipped out of the bed to go and stand by the window.

There wasn’t much to see outside yet, in the gloom, but she gazed down in the direction of Sant Galdric, and for some long minutes she was back there, laughing with Alex over that long summer before it all fell apart, working the fields with Uncle Victor in hitched-up skirts, helping little brother Josep with his homework. A crowd of memories invaded her, and for a time she was unconscious of where she was, in the hill house with her sleeping cousin behind her.

Then Sergi came into her vision, and the marching soldiers, and she was back in that moment in the square, when she’d given up the past and made a pact with the future. She shivered, and came to, suddenly aware of her bare feet on the cold tiles, and the flimsy nightdress with its thin straps. She stroked her hands over the goosebumps on her arms, but made no attempt to move. The cold suited her, and she thought dimly that maybe it would help her think.

Behind her Martin moved in his sleep, and she turned to watch him as he gave a little sigh, and buried his head beneath the covers. He could be Luc, seen like this – just another of the young people for whom she felt responsible. What had she done for them? She’d given them documents that had forced Sergi to set Luc free, but were they really free? Would they ever really be free with Sergi still so powerful?

Sergi was a murderer – she’d known that when she found the documents, much as she might have tried to convince herself that they might not be conclusive. He might not have pulled any triggers himself – he had a group of young thugs around him who formed a kind of posse, eager for advancement and favour, and without a scruple between them. Would it not have been easier, and safer, for Sergi to detail one of them to do his dirty work? He didn’t need to say why the driver had to be killed – he could talk some rubbish about him being an enemy of the state, and his chosen vigilante would ask no questions. But it didn’t change the fact that he was a killer.

Had he also killed Alex, all those years ago? He didn’t have a gang at his command back then, so he would have to have killed him with his own hands. Or would he? Sergi was a manipulator, and back then was primarily concerned with building his own advantage from the chaos of the end of the civil war. Other men were hotheads and dupes and fanatics, and Sergi’s entire success had come from knowing how to exploit them. As she thought about it a scenario came to mind of Sergi watching Alex as he left work, speaking a quiet word in the ear of an angry group of Franco’s men, on
the loose and looking for game in a lawless Girona.

And that’s what he could still do to Carla and Luc. He had found the easiest, most painless way to have Luc removed from Carla’s life back in the summer, and he had left Carla with her grandmother while he watched her growing pregnancy and made his plans. He would let Carla go now, for fear of the documents she held, but would he really let her disappear completely? He was an angry man, and his anger could burn very cold. Would he be watching when Luc went for his first job, or for his first promotion? Would he track them so that they never quite got the housing they wanted? None of these things could be pinned on him, or would make Carla use the document against him.

She had never before viewed Sergi as malevolent. He had been aggressive, controlling, and so often angry with her and with Carla, but all of this she could understand, and indeed had taken a lot of the guilt for it on herself. She knew he was calculating and power-loving, but so were all his senior colleagues – Franco’s regime had encouraged them, pitting official against official, politician against politician, in a policy of divide and rule that shared out the rewards and made sure that no one grew too big for his boots.

Even what he had done to Carla and Luc could be seen, not as malicious, but as him overcontrolling a situation he disapproved of. So what made her think he would act henceforth with cold malice? Only his anger, she thought, that anger that had been growing and that must now be burning even more fiercely after Carla’s visit.

Joana moved away from the window and sat at her dressing table, looking steadily at her own reflection in the
mirror, grimacing at her face, pinched and pallid in the cold light now filtering in through the window. No more excuses now, she thought. No more protection. I have to take my stand and know whose side I’m on.

She stood up and pulled on a dressing gown, wrapping it tight around her for warmth. Behind her Martin stirred, and she went over to him, shaking him gently by the shoulder until his eyes opened, bleared and bewildered.

‘You need to go now, Martin, before the house awakens. You should go back to your room and get a bit more sleep there.’ She smiled at him, feeling a kind of tenderness which had been long dead in her. ‘I think you need more sleep,
carinyo
, after I woke you up last night. Was I crying out so loud, to wake you down the corridor?’