The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (42 page)

It was almost two in the morning when the women went to bed, leaving Ernesto, Miguel, and Pedro to enjoy their brandy. Miguel and Pedro had decided to go back to Valencia together early the next morning; Pedro had a course to attend and Miguel had a busy schedule.

The three men remained at the table beside the brandy, and Ernesto forced himself to erase all thoughts of Marta from his mind. He had not said goodbye to her yet, as the two boys had. For him, that sorrow was still to come. He poured another brandy and put out the main light, leaving only a few candles glowing, and thought just then that the boys’ homecoming was a good opportunity to discuss the state of the country’s political map.

“So how is work, really?” he asked Miguel first.

“Oh, you know, busy as ever. Actually, father, I wanted to talk to you about my job. I know tonight is all about Marta, but I feel I should tell you that I am planning to leave Valencia too, and my job.”

“Leaving the city? Leaving your job? Are you coming home, then?” Ernesto asked, hoping this meant that he was going to change his wild lifestyle.

“No, I’m going to Valladolid, and I plan to stay there for a while, maybe for good.”

“Why on earth do you want to live there?” Pedro asked, clearly as surprised by this announcement as his father had been.

“Well, you see,” Miguel said slowly. “As you know I’ve joined the Phalanx movement and don’t say you haven’t heard. I’ve been interested in it since its conception, and I’ve always been a great admirer of José Antonio Primo de Rivera. Pedro, you knew that so don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m surprised you’re taking it this far,” Pedro told him.

“You can’t be serious?” Ernesto said sharply to Miguel.

“I’m deadly serious, Father.”

“But the Phalanx is hell-bent on violence. It’s filled with thugs, nothing more! I won’t allow it, do you hear me? I won’t allow it.”

“I’m a big boy now, Father. I don’t think you can stop me. And we’re not thugs; we’re trying to save the Spanish race from its own destruction.”

“Really? That’s what you think?” Ernesto said with a hint of sarcasm. “You obviously don’t read the papers, then, because if you did, you’d know that political parties are supposed to talk, not shoot at people who disagree with them. What will you do, shoot the millions you’re trying to save if they don’t agree with you?”

“You can’t stop me!” Miguel said with sullen determination. “The movement is growing in numbers every day, and I want to be part of it. I want to be there when we finally get rid of the pathetic, useless republican government who are under the misconception that they are ruling Spain.”

“And you think that violence is the answer to our present problems? Do you not think that you should be here in your own province, defending the rights of your neighbours, not to mention your family? Why in God’s name should you want to be in Valladolid with a bunch of strangers?”

What’s happening here? Ernesto asked himself. He had never been able to understand Miguel’s complex personality, but this was too much to take in. He had allowed Miguel to get away with things for too long, and this conversation was far outside his limits of tolerance.

“Answer the question!” he heard himself shout.

“I’m going, Father, because next month we are going to have one of the most important elections of our time, and I want to be there to fight for the Phalanx. Valladolid is one of its strongest footholds, where most of its most influential leaders are, and they’ve asked me to be part of their legal team. It’s a great opportunity!”

Ernesto’s hand shook. He gulped down the remainder of his brandy, cursing the night he’d just had. His daughter was leaving him, and now his son was planning to become a glorified bully! How much more did he have to endure?

“If the Popular Front wins, you realise that your involvement with the Phalanx could mean a jail sentence,” he said at length.

“Yes, but they’ll have to catch me first, and there’ll be plenty of places to hide.”

Ernesto stood up and poured each of his sons another brandy, all the time thinking that Miguel was a good person at heart—good but misguided, to say the least.

He said, “Son, I know you. You don’t possess the hard-line, vindictive stance of Don Jaime Serrano and his cronies. Is there no way I can talk you out of this?” he asked him.

“No, Father, I’ve made up my mind. I leave next week with Don Jaime Serrano’s son, Gregorio. I’ll leave it to you to tell Mother.”

“I might have known Don Jaime would be involved in this somewhere. As for your mother, tell her yourself. I won’t do your dirty work.”

For the second time tonight, Ernesto had experienced the bitter taste of defeat. He wanted nothing more now than to climb into bed with Celia and draw her to him. She was the only sure thing in his life, and he needed her desperately.

Up until now, Pedro had been a spectator. He felt sorry for his father, sorry about Marta, and sorry most of all about his brother’s bad sense of timing. His father said goodnight, and Pedro watched him leave the room. He looked tired and defeated, he thought, as if the worries of the world were on his shoulders.

“Miguel, couldn’t this have waited?” he said after Ernesto left. “Father has enough on his plate, what with Marta going tomorrow. God knows what Mother’s going to say about this.”

“She can say what she wants,” Miguel told him with a shrug of his shoulders. “It won’t make a bloody bit of difference.”

“Miguel, do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Have you seen how hurt Father is? Have you thought about how distraught mother is going to be?”

“Pedro, it’s my life. I love Mama and Papa, but I have to do this. Has anyone in this family ever cared about how I feel or listened to my opinions about anything? Maybe if you listened more, you wouldn’t be sitting over there patronising me.”

“I’m not patronising you. I’m only saying that maybe you should think about what this will mean to the family. We can’t afford to be split up like this, not now, not when things are so uncertain.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t go back to playing soldier. Maybe you should stay here and look after Mama and Papa!”

Pedro felt his anger rise. Miguel had always believed that the world and everyone in it owed him something. He was selfish, always had been, but now he was stupidly trying to compare his latest fad with a military career.

“You know I can’t desert the army…”

“Why can’t you? You’re asking me to desert my political ideals, and I feel just as strongly about them as you do about marching around all day, taking orders that you don’t even agree with.”

“You can be a selfish bastard,” Pedro snapped.

“Shut up, Pedro. I’m not the bastard here—you are! You’re the one without a father. You do remember your father, right? Joseph Dobbs, the rapist, the murderer, hung by the neck?”

Pedro stood up, gripping the edge of the table and willing himself not to lash out with fists itching for a fight. Miguel flung Joseph Dobbs in his face every time they argued. When Miguel knew he was in the wrong, Joseph Dobbs came up. When they were young and he rode faster than Miguel or jumped higher, or beat him at chess, Joseph Dobbs’s name was used to kill the victory. In the past, the only time they ever punched each other, kicked out at each other, was when his biological father’s name was raised.

Miguel poured himself another brandy, and there was a silent truce for once. Pedro sat down again and reluctantly thought about the man he had never met but hated all the same. He had been told the story about Joseph Dobbs at a young age. He’d seen the scars criss-crossing across his mother’s back and heard her tearful story about how Joseph Dobbs had never loved her but that he had wanted him. Pedro didn’t care about the dead man’s feelings, didn’t care about his short, miserable life either. His father always was and always would be Ernesto Martinéz, and if Joseph Dobbs had lived, he would have killed him himself.

“Ernesto Martinéz is my father, and I have the legal documents to prove it,” he told Miguel in a dangerous tone. “If I ever hear you mention Joseph Dobbs’s name again, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll think a train’s hit you. Enough of him, for Christ’s sake!”

Miguel stood up, moved to the door, and with a bored tone, said, “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

Pedro moved quickly towards the door and stood in front of it, barring Miguel’s exit. He still had a few things to say, words that could not be left unsaid when it might be months before they saw each other again.

“You are not going anywhere, Miguel, not until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.”

“Then speak. I’m tired.”

“Look, you’re my brother and I love you, but what you’re doing is wrong. There is going to be a civil war. You know it, and I know it. Spain has an army, Miguel, and the Spanish soldier is trained not only to fight in defence of Spain but also in defence of the Spanish government. You are speaking as though you have the right to dislodge any government you don’t agree with by use of force. That’s rebel talk! Is that really what you’re all about? Could you really justify a decision that could mean bearing arms against your own countrymen, against your own family?”

“Pedro, this has nothing to do with family. As I said, you’re just an ignorant soldier, blindly following orders no matter what the consequences of those orders mean to Spain. We receive donations from all over the country, including high-ranking generals in your army. So we can’t all be wrong.”

Pedro knew that what he was saying was true; he couldn’t disagree on that point. He was sure that even his father had given money to certain parties, but he guessed that it was given in the spirit of political donations rather than money that would cause any spillage of blood. He would have to be careful when he next spoke.

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong to support a democratic movement, but to join a party that will never heed democracy is ludicrous,” he said.

“So what would you do, soldier boy? Wait until your family is thrown out of their homes and butchered by revengeful peasants and communists?” Miguel paused to gulp down the brandy still in his hand. “Out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s going to make a difference. I’m the one who’s going to be on the front lines defending the rights of all Spaniards, not you. And for your information, nobody cares who controls parliament now anyway. We’re all past caring.”

Pedro should have said more; instead, he blew out the candles and followed Miguel out of the room. In a way, Miguel was right, he thought, climbing the stairs. The country and its people had reached a stage where civil war was a possibility that far outweighed a peaceful transference of power to any political party. At least Miguel had chosen a side, whereas he was stuck in the middle of an internal battle!

Ernesto found Celia asleep, curled into a tight ball. He wouldn’t wake her, he decided. She needed her sleep, and tomorrow was going to be a difficult day for all of them. He tiptoed into the dressing room and removed his clothes. On top of the writing bureau, her journal lay open and unguarded. Strange, he thought. She never left it out in the open; it was always locked away, hidden from him. He had never read an entry, not a single page. He’d promised not to as far back as the first day of their marriage. He’d always kept that promise, but tonight he had to know what was in her heart.

19
January
1936

I
do
not
know
how
I
managed
to
get
through
this
evening
without
breaking
down
and
making
a
complete
fool
of
myself.
I
wanted
to
take
Marta
in
my
arms
and
hold
her
prisoner
forever,
but
she
looked
so
happy
and
serene
that
I
can
only
admire
and
wonder
at
her
faith.
Tonight
was
even
harder
to
bear
than
I
had
imagined
it
to
be.
My
child,
my
Marta,
so
beautiful
and
kind,
has
broken
my
heart
into
so
many
pieces
that
I
don’t
know
if
it
will
ever
recover.
How
can
I
put
my
feelings
into
words?
I
will
probably
read
this
when
I
am
an
old
woman
and
will
probably
feel
the
same
pain
that
lies
heavy
on
me
now,
for
my
words
will
not
dispel
it.
No
words
can
do
justice
to
my
feelings
or
bring
comfort
to
my
unbearable
sorrow.