The Frozen Heart (37 page)

María Muñoz buried her face in her son’s chest and Ignacio hugged her to him, experiencing a helplessness he had felt before, the same thick, black confusion he had felt as his little sister had pleaded with him, shaking him, ordering him to do something. ‘Kill them, Ignacio, kill them, kill them all.’ María was screaming, hitting him, her eyes wide. ‘Kill them, Ignacio, kill them all.’ The day after Esteban Durán’s funeral, his mother had clung to her, she had soothed her, held her in her arms until finally María broke down and wept. The day his mother fell to pieces, Ignacio needed help to react. It was enough for his cousin Mariana to appear in the kitchen.

‘It’s not over, Mamá, the war isn’t over yet.’ He looked into his cousin’s eyes and she held his gaze. ‘We still have half of Spain behind us, half a million men. It will be a long time before they kill us all.’

Mariana Fernández Viu was the daughter of Lucas, his father’s older brother, who at the age of twenty had had beautiful cards printed with the ducal crown above his name and set himself up in what he called ‘business’. He had never worked in his life other than to manage his inheritance with sufficient skill to marry a rich woman. The most fitting wife seemed to be a young lady from Pontevedra, who liked to show off as much as he did and as a result was less suitable than she had seemed. By the time his daughter, Mariana, was of marrying age, her parents were shut up in a country house in Galicia, the only house they had managed to hang on to. It was there that she met Rafael Otero, a delicate, ambitious young man with little education but many political contacts. He brought Mariana to Madrid in 1933 when his mentor, a right-wing member of parliament, offered him a ministerial job. The weather in Madrid did not agree with him and what he planned on being his rise to power resulted in a series of asthma attacks that finished him off before the birth of his only daughter. Angélica was barely a year old when her father’s enemies triumphed at the elections. From then on, Mariana lived with her daughter on limited means in a building on the Calle Blasco de Garay, which survived the bombings only to crumble suddenly when the wooden buttresses that held it up collapsed. At that point, her Uncle Mateo told her she could live with them. She would have given anything not to accept, but she had no choice. On that afternoon when her eyes met her cousin’s in the kitchen, she had already been living with the enemy for a year.

Ignacio stared long and hard at Mariana as his mother sobbed silently, and he saw something in her eyes he had not seen before, a cold, metallic glitter. He saw patience, not resignation, and an easy calm. It was the calm of the farmer who pays no heed to the gentle rain slowly drenching his fields, the calm of the cook wringing the neck of a turkey, the calm of the gravedigger at his work, dreaming of the bean stew his wife has promised him for dinner.

Ignacio stared long and hard and Mariana held his gaze. He would never forget it, and there were many other things that night - words, gestures, silences - that he would always remember, his father’s quavering voice as he said how ashamed he felt to be leaving, his mother’s trembling fingers as she squeezed his sister-in-law’s hand, pressing Casilda to take the bracelet, pleading, ‘Take it, please, I kept it for you, if things get worse, you can sell it. You might need the money when the baby’s born . . .’ He would never forget those words, nor would he forget his sister María’s strength, her smile as she said, ‘Don’t be silly, Mamá, come on. You don’t think we’re leaving for good, do you? We’ll all be together again soon, in France or in Mexico. And I bet you’ll live to see a grandson born here in Madrid . . .’

Many things happened that night, words, gestures, silences. As they were going into the dining room, his brother grabbed his arm and looked into his eyes. ‘I apologise, Ignacio, I’m sorry. If anyone deserves to be promoted . . .’ ‘No, Mateo, I’m the one who’s sorry, I shouldn’t have said that . . .’ The brothers hugged each other and nothing more was said, and the brother who survived would remember that hug, would treasure it among his most precious memories, would relive it on the worst of days and the best, between the dizzy delight of love and the cold shock of death, between the rapid slide into poverty and the slow crawl towards prosperity, between the smell of fear, of carriages and trains, of nights spent in the open air, and the unconscious forgetting of that fear; later, he would relive it in his feelings and his desires, in the warmth of his wife’s body on winter nights and the laughter of his children as they grew up without the weight of his brother’s memory. Ignacio Fernández Muñoz would guard the memory of that hug like a priceless treasure, the safe conduct that gave him leave to go on living, to be happy in a world in which his brother Mateo was dead. And yet, that night, as he walked outside, he could not forget the look in Mariana’s eyes.

‘Is she going with you?’ he asked Paloma as they walked down Calle Fuencarral.

‘Who? The Toad?’

‘Paloma!’ Carlos Rodríguez Arce stopped and looked at his wife but his outrage quickly dissolved into a smile.

‘Is that what you call her ?’ Ignacio, for his part, made no attempt to hide his laughter. ‘It’s a good nickname.’

‘You think so? María came up with it. It’s just that she looks like a toad - you can’t say she doesn’t. She goes around all day grousing and grumbling, puffing her cheeks out and sucking them in, watching everything and never saying a word . . . She’s disgusting!’ She turned to her brother. ‘Of course she’s not coming, though Papá did offer, more for the girl’s sake than anything, the poor thing . . . But no . . . What could I say to her ? “Now that your lot are winning do you want to come with us?”’

‘That I’d like to see.’ Ignacio raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m sure it’s true, I’m sure she spends all day down in that apartment listening to Radio de Burgos, and then she comes up all smiles . . . and of course she’s great friends with Dorita. She can’t open her mouth without saying how charming she is and how it’s such a pity that you two broke up . . .’

Ignacio glanced at Paloma, then at her husband. ‘If there’s one thing I don’t miss, it’s Dorita . . .’

Even if she had not been wearing that blouse, he would have noticed her, would have noticed the shock of red hair, the curvaceous hips, that look on her face that seemed to say she had seen everything but still wanted to see more, but the first thing he had noticed were her bare shoulders, pale and perfect, sprinkled with just enough freckles. He liked what he saw so much that he leaned against a tree, lit a cigarette and stood watching her, watching the fabric as it swelled and fell with every breath. When he looked up he saw that she was smiling at him, a smile so shameless it would have terrified Dorita’s fiancé and sent him scurrying away. But, luckily, he thought, I am not Dorita’s fiancé any more. So he went up to the woman, took the basket she was carrying and said, ‘Give me your ration book and wait for me by the bank. I’ll be right back ...’

The women waiting in the queue for milk looked at him askance, and one or two grumbled - ‘every day it’s the same thing ... you should be ashamed . . .’ - because he would be served next, simply for being a lieutenant. ‘Here.’ He gave her back the basket with the milk in it. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Don’t mention it. In this heat, the kid would get sunstroke . . .’ She lived near by, in the Calle Viriato, and the basket was as empty as every other basket in Madrid, but he offered to walk her back. ‘So you don’t have to carry all that,’ he said. She nodded, and when she stood up, she adjusted the shawl in which she carried the sleeping boy, revealing the top of her pale breasts speckled with freckles.

She was a powerful woman, she had probably been fat before the war, now she simply had a rounded, fleshy figure. Hunger had been good to her, stripping away the unnecessary and leaving everything else in place. She said her name was Eduvigis and laughed as though it were a joke, she was thirty-one and had two children who were living in a village with her in-laws. ‘My husband took them with him last January, they’re happy there, my brother-in-law told me, he comes up from Guadalajara sometimes. I’ll just drop them off and come back, my husband said, but I’m still waiting for him.’ She looked after her neighbour’s son, now that the woman had a job as a conductor on the trams. ‘That way we both get enough to eat,’ she said. ‘Well, when I say enough . . .’ They were walking more slowly now. ‘I live here. On the top floor.’ ‘I’ll come up with you,’ he suggested, ‘I can carry the basket.’ When they got upstairs she whispered, ‘I’ll put him down,’ and slipped inside. Ignacio waited for less than two minutes. ‘Do you want to come in?’ ‘Yes . . .’ After that he spent more than a month away from Madrid. When she saw him again she burst out laughing and, without a word, she let him in.

‘The day Edu showed up,’ Paloma smiled, ‘The Toad was in the kitchen, and you can imagine . . . “Terribly common, isn’t she?” she said when Edu left. “Really, I don’t know how Ignacio could have sunk so low after Dorita.” ’

‘So low?’ Carlos interrupted his wife with a laugh. ‘Edu is miles better than Dorita. And much prettier, too.’

‘Maybe,’ she gave him a gentle, jealous punch on the arm, ‘but I don’t think The Toad is as degenerate as you, Carlitos . . . Anyway, Mamá said something that left her speechless. You know how Mamá can be when she wants . . . “Two points, Mariana,” she said. “Number one: in this house no one speaks ill of my sons’ partners. Two: I’d be curious to know if you find the food that Ignacio’s wife brought as common as her. Because that girl has a mother, she has brothers, she has a family who are going hungry just like everyone else and she could have made a tidy sum selling this food on the black market. But she came here, common as she is, and brought us everything we need. If that seems vulgar to you, I am perfectly happy for you to give up your share.” ’

‘Good one!’ Ignacio felt proud of his mother for a moment.

‘Good?’ Paloma raised her eyebrows. ‘It was better than good, The Toad didn’t know where to put herself . . . You should have seen her, she turned seven shades of purple . . .’

‘Poor Mamá!’ Ignacio shook his head sadly. ‘Knowing the pair of them, it must have been terrible.’

‘I suppose it was, really.’ Paloma burst into giggles, setting off her husband, who knew the rest of the story. ‘ “What’s her name - Eduarda?” Mamá asked me in a whisper. “No, it’s Eduvigis, Mamá,” I said, “a good Gothic name.” “Your son raided a warehouse yesterday and ran into one of those thugs who’ve been hoarding food. He asked me to bring this over, he couldn’t come himself,” she told us. And Mamá, I swear, she had tears in her eyes. That way we got to eat for a whole week without having to touch our ration books.’

‘Really?’ Ignacio was astonished. ‘There wasn’t that much food ...’

‘You think so?’ his sister contradicted him. ‘Mamá collects recipes from “The Patriotic Cook” - mayonnaise with no eggs in it, béchamel with no flour in it, meat with no meat in it, she works miracles, honestly . . . That’s why, when she opened that bag, you should have seen her. “Potatoes!” she shouted. “Onions!” Of course, the best thing was the
salchichón
. When María saw the sausage she said, “Why don’t you hang it up in the pantry and we can worship it for a few days before we eat it?” You wouldn’t believe how much we laughed. I think it’s the first time I had seen María laugh since Esteban died . . . “What about you,
hija
,” Mamá said to Edu, “aren’t you going to take anything for yourself?” Edu told her not to worry, there were only two of them and lots of us, but she asked Mamá how to cook “Absent Partridge”, because you missed it. “Oh, that’s easy,” you know Mamá, she was thrilled to be able to help, “it’s just like making partridge stew, but without the partridge, wait a minute, I’ll write down the recipe . . . ” “No, señora, don’t trouble yourself,” Edu said, “I wouldn’t be able to follow it ... ” “Don’t you know how to read?” Mamá asked and Edu said, “No, I tried to learn from Ina, but I’m no good ... ” ’ Paloma suppressed a giggle and Ignacio, who had guessed what was coming, laughed with her. ‘ “‘Ina?” Mamá thought about this for a minute. “What’s Ina?” She was convinced it was some kind of government literacy scheme. Edu suddenly drew herself up, pushed out her chest, and said, “Are you making fun of me, señora! What else would Ina be? He’s your son!” ’

‘Ina?’ Carlos laughed with them. ‘She calls you Ina?’

‘Of course. Short for
Inacio
. . . What can you do? I’m very fond of her, but she is quite slow.’

They had arrived at the corner of Hartzenbusch, and Ignacio was already running late. He put a hand on his sister’s shoulder and smiled.

‘Well, Paloma, at least you won’t have to go hungry any more.’

She looked at her husband and shook her head.

‘I don’t want to leave.’

‘Look, Paloma,’ Carlos turned to her, tired and impatient, ‘we’ve talked about this already.’

‘Casilda is staying,’ she protested, ‘and she’s pregnant.’

‘Casilda has just found out she’s pregnant, and you know perfectly well that her mother and her brothers live in Cartagena, and she’s leaving with them next week. Mateo has already arranged transport. You’re leaving with your parents tomorrow because it’s for the best, and that’s all there is to it. We’ll see how things go here, and when whatever happens, happens, you can come back, or I’ll go wherever I have to go.’

For Carlos Rodríguez Arce it was difficult to say goodbye; he had been a teacher, role model and mentor to Ignacio before marrying his sister, but Ignacio was brief, and not simply for Carlos’s sake, but for his own. He hugged Paloma, and told her to eat well, then hugged his brother-in-law. ‘I’ll see you soon, all right?’ Carlos placed his one good hand on Ignacio’s arm.

‘Be careful. Be very careful, and don’t trust anybody . . .’ He turned his head, looking around as though someone might be listening. ‘I’ve heard things . . . I don’t know, there’s something going on I don’t like the sound of.’

Ignacio smiled at his brother-in-law and thought how lucky he was not to have to fight this war from behind a desk, being constantly bombarded by news, alerts, rumours, predictions. Ignacio did not have time to pay attention to such things. Not that he did not listen to rumours, especially after the collapse of the eastern front and the fall of Cataluña. ‘We’ve lost the war,’ some said. ‘Bullshit,’ he’d say, the war would not be lost until the fascists marched into Madrid, something they would never do; and if they did march into Madrid he would not know about it, because they would have to kill him first. This was all that Ignacio Fernández Muñoz needed to know, the only thing more important to him than staying alive. Although he did still listen to news, rumours, alerts, especially now that President Azaña had fled to France, now that the political parties had disbanded, now that it was every man for himself, now that everyone blamed everyone else for the defeat they had not yet suffered or grumbled that only communists got promoted in the Republican Popular Army. For months, the anarchists had been whining like spoiled children over who got the most sweets; before they had hated the socialists, now they hated the Popular Army - it seemed as though they always needed someone to hate.