Golden Earrings (35 page)

‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘But we won’t be able to go on like this — not after Francesc returns.’

In his voice I heard a mingling of joy and sadness. It matched my feelings perfectly.

For the next week, Gaspar and I did not think about Francesc returning or being separated again. I went in disguise to his apartment, telling my household’s servants I was staying with my parents. There we made love until our skin was raw from
kisses and our flesh bruised from our ardent embraces. It was the most heavenly and heady seven days I have ever known.

The day Francesc and his parents were due back and Gaspar and I had to part, I did not feel as devastated as I had expected. From Gaspar’s tranquil manner, it seemed that he felt the same way. To have had a week of each other was more than we’d ever expected life to grant us; and although I would always wish for more, I felt gratitude for what I had been given.

Only, as it turned out, Gaspar had left me with something more than sentimental memories.

‘You are sure you are going to have a child?’ Francesc asked me.

I nodded.

He fell silent, spreading his fingers on the desk in front of him and contemplating them for a while. If Francesc had been a typical man, there would have been a terrible scene over my ‘unfaithfulness’; there would have been shouts, tears and recriminations. But I could only guess at what he was thinking.

Although Francesc had never been able to perform his duty to me as a husband in a physical way, and we had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for a few years now, we had never spoken of our unconsummated marriage to each other. We had both been conspirators in the secret. Now, even indirectly, we had to admit the truth to each other. I realised that la Rusa had been correct when she had said that my falling pregnant to Gaspar would relieve Francesc from the suspicion that something wasn’t right in our marriage. So now Francesc and I were to be schemers in another secret: pretending that the child was his.

‘You were discreet?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I told him, unable to meet his gaze.

‘Someone of good breeding, I hope? Someone who won’t talk?’

I nodded. For some reason, I could not bring myself to tell Francesc that the father of my child was his cousin. But, to my surprise, he guessed.

‘Was it Gaspar?’

I nodded, feeling my face redden.

‘Very well,’ he said, standing up. ‘When you feel ready, we will announce it to my parents.’

I was relieved. So Francesc would recognise the child as his own.

He gave me a peck on the cheek. It was the second-last intimate conversation he and I were ever to have together.

After we announced my pregnancy, Francesc treated me with courtesy but kept me at an even greater distance than he had before. At first, I wondered if he was hurt that I had been unfaithful to him with Gaspar. But then I realised from the way he looked whenever he saw my growing stomach that my body revolted him even more than it had when I was a virgin. While it hurt me to be found so repugnant, I bore it with grace. My greatest wish had been granted. I was aware of it every time the child kicked inside me.

I was in the seventh month of my pregnancy when the Civil War broke out. I was visiting Mama and Conchita when the news came to us.

While Mama and Conchita were embroidering clothes for the new baby, Feliu and I were reading a book. At eight years of age, Feliu was a miniature version of Xavier. Whenever Xavier was with him, Feliu knew that he had his father’s undivided attention. They both had a special glow in their faces when they spent time together.

When we had finished reading, Feliu turned to me with a serious expression. ‘After the baby is born, will you still love me?’ he asked, looking at me with his big eyes.

‘I’ll always love you!’ I assured him. ‘You are my special Feliu.’

His question moved me — and saddened me too. I glanced at Conchita. She wasn’t a bad person. I enjoyed her company
and she could be generous, but why was she so cold to her son? Couldn’t she see how much he needed her love? Conchita’s whole life was spent pampering herself, fixing her hair in front of her dressing table, choosing beautiful gowns. But who got to enjoy the spectacular results? She had distanced her husband with her vanity and selfishness and she couldn’t even give any affection to her own child.

The telephone rang and I heard the maid summon Margarida, who was up from Madrid for a while. After a few minutes of silence, I heard Margarida shout, ‘But this is serious! The workers have to be armed! The first thing the army will do is seize the telephone and radio buildings — they must be stopped!’

Mama and I exchanged glances. I was tempted to run to the study to see what had happened but then Xavier came home.

‘Pare!’ he called, rushing into the room. ‘Is Pare at home?’ he asked us. From the pallor of his face, I could see something was wrong.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘There’s something going on,’ he said. ‘There has been an uprising of the army in Morocco and it seems to be spreading to garrisons all over Spain. Members of the government and other prominent people have been arrested here in Barcelona this morning.’

‘So it’s a rebellion by the army against the Republic?’ I asked.

Mama looked up from her sewing and sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this before,’ she said. ‘I suppose we are going to be banned from using Catalan in public again?’

Margarida finished her telephone conversation and joined us, along with Pare. ‘No, Mama!’ she said. ‘This is not a rebellion like the one led by Primo de Rivera. He at least was a reasonable man. The general at the heart of this is Francisco Franco.’

I recalled the name and it sent shivers down my spine. In 1934 there had been a revolt by miners in Asturias. It was put
down by Franco, whose methods were so brutal and so ruthless that when the Left returned to power in 1936, Franco lost his position with the War Ministry and was sent to the Canary Islands where it was hoped he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

‘If the army isn’t loyal to the Republic how will the rebels be stopped?’ asked Pare.

Margarida sat down next to Mama. ‘The Republic needs to arm the unions and the workers. They are the ones who will fight for it,’ she said.

Mama raised her eyebrows. ‘But the Anarchists will use the opportunity to turn this chaos into a revolution if you give them guns.’

‘That’s right,’ said Margarida. ‘But perhaps a revolution in Spain is preferable to a country crushed by a brutal army. The rebels claim that they are saving Spain from the “Reds” and from anti-Christian forces, but what they really want is power. I can’t see their aim as being a better standard of living for the Spanish people.’

We fell silent. Margarida’s words had a strangely prophetic ring to them. I looked at my family and the menacing shadow of doom I had sensed over the years washed over me. Only this time, it was much stronger.

Mamie looked at me with sorrow in her eyes. She kept touching her shoulder as if it pained her, a gesture I had never seen her make before. I sensed her exhaustion and, although it meant that I would be left in suspense again, suggested we recommence the storytelling tomorrow.

In truth, she had left me with plenty of new information to digest, not least that my mother had initially been brought up as the daughter of Francesc Cerdà, not Avi. I couldn’t wait to hear how that issue was resolved.

D
earest Margarida,

I have almost told Paloma all she needs to know about the fate of our dear brother and the Montella family. But as I relate the story, I realise that I must be careful. Sometimes Paloma misses the obvious, but at other times she is very sharp. I do not want to reveal to her the one thing she doesn’t need to know. If she found out, it would destroy her peace of mind for good …

W
hen I arrived at the cinema where I was meeting Jaime to see
Le Sauvage
, I got more than I’d expected. Jaime was standing in the foyer, looking handsome in his butterfly-collar shirt and platform shoes, but he wasn’t alone. Carmen was there too, with Isabel, Vicenta, Ernesto and Mercedes. The only adult missing was Félix, who was at home minding Ricardo and Víctor.

Jaime kissed me chastely on the cheeks. ‘I’m sure you know the saying:
Fall in love with a Spaniard, fall in love with his family
,’ he said. ‘Now that they know we are seeing each other, I don’t think we are going to have much chance of being left alone if we want to go out at night.’

I grinned at the irony of it. I thought about what Mamie had told me so far about her family in the 1930s: Xavier having a mistress; Mamie herself being unfaithful to her homosexual husband. And here were Jaime and I in 1975 — the days of sexual liberation and women going braless — being chaperoned by his family.

I greeted Carmen and the others with kisses before we walked into the cinema. Although I laughed along with everyone else at the antics of Catherine Deneuve as Nelly, a woman desperate to avoid going through with a marriage, I couldn’t help thinking of Mamie and what she must have felt being forced to marry someone she didn’t love.

After the film, when we gathered in a café for a glass of wine and I looked at the happy faces of Jaime’s family, I thought of Mamie again, at home alone. She had forbidden me from riding the Métro late at night, preferring that I took her car instead, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about me going out alone with Jaime. She had seemed happy for me when I told her about Jaime, but she hadn’t asked me anything about him. It could have been because she had faith in my sensible nature, or perhaps it was because her parents had interfered so tragically in her love life that she didn’t want to do the same with me.

When it was time to go home, Jaime was allowed to walk me to my car while everyone waited for him back at the cinema.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said, grimacing. ‘They do it because they care about us, not because they are prudes. They don’t want us to move too quickly and then regret it. I think they really like you.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m happy they care about us. Besides, it makes me think of what it must have been like for la Rusa. Didn’t you say she went everywhere with her gypsy clan?’

Jaime nodded. ‘I’m not sure if they were as crazy as my family — but maybe.’ He grinned before kissing me briefly on the lips. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?’

On my way home, I thought about Jaime’s family again. They were so involved and ‘together’ in everything they did. My mind drifted from Xavier, to Mamie and Avi, to Mama and Papa, and then to Feliu. Why was my family so shattered?

I arrived home and found Mamie was still up, sipping a cup of tea. She was ready to tell me more of her story. Perhaps she would be able to explain the mystery of my fractured family.

‘I have always believed that the Republican government could have won the war against Franco,’ Mamie said. ‘Once the decision was finally made to arm the workers, they fought with spirit. After all, the Anarchists and Communists among them had years of street-fighting experience. They were helped
by those members of the army and police who had remained loyal to the Republic. Franco’s forces became known as “the Nationalists” but they didn’t have the whole nation’s support. At first, they were simply called “military rebels” because that’s all they really were. The Loyalists managed to defeat Franco’s coup in the major urban centres, including Madrid, in a matter of days. This meant the gold reserves and the communications networks remained in the hands of the Republican government. The military coup could have been stopped as quickly as it began — only we were betrayed.’

I knew my Spanish history well enough to understand the betrayal Mamie was referring to. Franco’s ‘Nationalist’ army requested help from its Fascist allies, Germany and Italy. The Germans and Italians seized the opportunity to test the weapons they had been developing in a real war and within days the rebels received military equipment and transport. But when the Republican government turned to Britain and France for help, it was faced with their policy of non-intervention.

‘As well as his military officers, Franco’s army was made up of Moroccan mercenaries and soldiers of the Foreign Legion,’ explained Mamie. ‘They swept through the country, torturing, butchering, raping and executing any who stood in their way.

‘Because of his language skills and the time he had spent abroad, Xavier was asked to join a diplomatic mission whose purpose was to convince the other European powers to help the Republic.

‘As things were precarious in Spain, I went with Mama to stay in Paris until the baby was born. We rented an apartment on avenue Hoche by parc Monceau. There, the war and the shadow that was falling over all Europe seemed far away. The French were living with a sense of
joie de vivre
, as if happiness and pleasure could somehow ward off evil. Feliu had come with us, and it was with great mirth that we listened to his stories when he returned each day from exploring Paris with
his governess. “Tia Evelina,” he would say, snuggling up to me on the sofa, “the sweet shops here are even more wonderful than on the passeig de Gràcia! The macarons are so sweet they make my lips tingle!”

‘Xavier came to visit us while we were staying in Paris. He was despondent after yet another of his diplomatic missions to the city had failed to achieve anything further for Spain.’ Mamie cleared her throat and took a sip of tea, preparing herself to finally tell me about the downfall of Spain — and her family.

‘The Germans and Italians are flagrantly ignoring the non-intervention pact while Britain and France are sticking so firmly to it that they are breaking international law,’ Xavier said, venting his frustration. ‘The legitimate government of Spain has a right to defend itself, but they’ve put in place an embargo preventing any country from supplying us with matériel. In the meantime, the Italians transport arms to Franco unchallenged by the Royal Navy! The Americans are as bad. Their government adheres to non-intervention while private companies like General Motors and Texaco are providing goods to Franco on credit!’

I was upset by that news, and also to see Xavier looking so defeated. At thirty-seven years of age, he was still handsome but there were dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep and he hardly smiled any more.

‘Your father says the allies are afraid that if they help the Republican government it will place them in direct conflict with Germany and Italy — and that could bring about another European war,’ Mama told him.

Xavier examined his knuckles. ‘I used to think that too, but now I see things differently.’

‘How?’ I asked, pouring him a cup of coffee.

‘The British and French hope that the Fascists will exhaust themselves in Spain and therefore will be incapable of starting a larger war. We are to be sacrificed to that end.’

‘Margarida proposed to the Cortes that Spain should grant Morocco independence,’ I told Xavier. ‘She said that it would stop the flow of Moroccan soldiers into Franco’s army.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mama, slicing some cake. ‘That would completely alienate the British and French.’

‘My opinion is that we should give up caring what the British and French think,’ said Xavier. ‘They are never going to lift a finger to help us anyway. In fact, I have come across some reports that suggest Franco was flown into Spain by British intelligence officers. It’s time we looked in other directions for support.’

‘The Soviet Union, you mean?’ I asked him.

‘There’s been a workers’ revolution of sorts in Spain, so that would make sense,’ he said. ‘The problem is supply. Russia can’t easily transport weapons to Spain by sea, and they don’t have the production capabilities of Germany. Right now I’m negotiating with the Mexicans and buying military supplies on the black market. But that means the Republic is paying ten times as much for equipment as the rebels are.’

Xavier went on to explain how the lack of military supplies was crippling the Spanish government. ‘The Republic’s General Rojo is a genius strategist and far superior to Franco, but he is constantly thwarted in his attempts to regain Republican territory. He never knows if the required arms will arrive for a planned offensive.’

Xavier told us a terrifying story about a shipment of arms from Poland that was so defective, most of the casualties on the Republican side were caused by the soldiers’ own weapons exploding or misfiring. Later, the backup shipment that he had bought from Mexico turned out to be a collection of rusty guns taken from museums.

I went into labour on 7 November 1936, two weeks past my due date and the day the battle for Madrid commenced. As I
strained and panted to bring new life into the world, I thought of all the lives that were now being extinguished on the battlefield. In the early hours of the morning, Julieta was born. I cried when I saw her. I named her after my maternal grandmother.

Not long after Julieta’s birth, we began to receive a frequent visitor to the apartment: la Rusa. She was living in Paris, which meant she and Xavier could be more open about their relationship. Although Mama absented herself when la Rusa came to visit, she made no objection to me receiving her. That was the contradictory etiquette to which we adhered: Mama liked la Rusa because she made Xavier happy, but, out of loyalty to Conchita, she could not
appear
to approve of her.

La Rusa seemed lonely in Paris. She usually lived and travelled with a large group of gypsies, but a few months earlier Margarida had warned her that gypsies in Germany were being rounded up and sent to work camps where the conditions were horrific. With the rise of Fascism all over Europe, la Rusa wasn’t going to take any chances. She sent her clan to California, where she kept a property near Los Angeles. I expected her to follow them soon; many Spanish entertainers had already left for America. So I was astonished when, a few days before Christmas, during a visit with Xavier, she told us she was returning to Spain to drive ambulances for the Republican army.

‘The brave people of Madrid held on to their city despite the massive onslaught by the rebel army. I have to help them!’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Xavier protested. ‘Unless this international ban on selling arms to Spain is lifted, the Republican army and its supporters are going to be slaughtered!’

‘How can I desert Spain,’ la Rusa said, her eyes flashing, ‘while every day I see foreigners going to fight for our country? Ordinary men and women — British, Americans, Russians, Poles, Jews, anti-Fascists from Italy and Germany — all risking their lives to help us even though their governments will do nothing! They are fighting for a system of rule that gives equal
value to all citizens. The kind of society my father and brother believed in. The kind
you
have always believed in.’

‘We are wrong to let them fight for us,’ said Xavier, ‘when we can’t give them decent weapons.’

This decision of la Rusa’s was the one thing I ever saw her and Xavier argue over. Still, although Xavier tried to persuade her not to go, I think he was secretly proud of her. I was in awe of her. Her courage was inspiring.

The day la Rusa departed Paris, I accompanied her and Xavier to the station. I left Julieta back at the apartment with Mama; I did not want her out in the winter chill. As Xavier and la Rusa made their farewells, they could not have looked more like a couple in love. They held each other for a long time, before staring into each other’s face. La Rusa’s eyes were brimming with tears and my brother’s lips trembled when he said, ‘In all my life, there has only ever been you.’ It was hard for me to watch two of the strongest people I knew look so vulnerable.

La Rusa took my hand and squeezed it before she climbed into the train. When the whistle sounded and the train began to pull out of the station, she put her head out of the window so she could wave to us as it departed. Although she kept her gaze fixed on us, I had a feeling that she didn’t really see us. Her mind was somewhere else.

It would be nearly a year before I would meet her again.

La Rusa wasn’t the only one who wanted to return to Spain. When Julieta was three months old, Mama decided that we should go back too. The front was still far from Barcelona, and Catalonia was so close to France that many of the city’s inhabitants felt certain that if the Nationalist rebels truly threatened it, the French would intervene.

‘Pare and Margarida need us,’ Mama said. She was not a woman to be apart from her husband for too long. She was of the breed of wife who put duty above comfort.

When Mama and I, Julieta, Feliu and his governess returned we found a revolution of sorts had taken place. After the Anarchists and Communists had defeated the military coup in the city in 1936, they had taken control of everything and the weakened parliament had not tried to stop them. Now, Anarchist and Communist flags hung from the railway station and the buildings around it.

Because our family cars had been commandeered to drive militia men to the front, we had to wait in line at the taxi stand. All the taxis had been painted in the Anarchist colours of red and black. We engaged two vehicles: one to take us, and the other to carry our luggage. The drivers made no attempt to help us lift our bags into the taxi, and I had to open the door for myself although I was holding a baby in my arms. Mama was about to scold the drivers for their lack of manners when we saw the note pinned to the back of the front seat. It said that as all citizens were now equal in Barcelona, taxi drivers expected to be treated with respect. Mama glanced at me and raised her eyebrows.

Once we pulled out of the station, it didn’t take us long to realise that taxis were not the only form of transport that been painted red and black. The trams and trucks had been repainted too. Restaurants were now canteens for the workers, and shops and cafés had signs on them stating they had been collectivised.