The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (61 page)

At seven o’clock in the morning, María moved back to the rear medical station, ate a piece of bread and cheese, and drank a strong hot cup of coffee. Medical aid trucks lined the road. She looked at the foreign registration numbers and was surprised to see that many came from other European countries, including Britain.

“Excuse me,” she said to a young Englishman who was changing a wheel on the truck parked next to hers. “Are you with the Spanish Medical Aid Committee out of London?”

“I am, indeed. Why, who wants to know?” he asked her, eying her up and down at the same time.

“Oh, I just wondered,” María told him. “My parents are involved in that organisation. I wonder if you’d be able to get a letter to them from me. I don’t think they know where I am. I’ve written several times, but I’ve not received a reply lately.”

“That’s war for you,” the Englishman told her matter-of-factly.

“Will you take the letter?” María asked again.

Again the Englishman cast his eyes over her body and licked his lips, whilst María’s indignation grew:

“Will you?” she asked again.

“Yes, why not? I’ll do that for one as lovely as you,” he said eventually. “My co-driver is going back to London tomorrow. I’ll ask him to take it with him. I don’t suppose you fancy meeting up later for a drink, do you?”

“Actually, I have a boyfriend, but thanks all the same,” she told him.

24
November,1936

Dear
Mother
and
Father,

I
have
sent
letters
but
have
received
none
lately.
Either
they
are
lost
in
transit
or
you
don’t
know
where
to
find
me.
Anyway,
I’m
well
and
truly
in
the
war
now,
doing
a
worthwhile
job
in
the
nursing
corps.
I
have
so
much
to
tell
you,
but
I
don’t
know
where
to
begin
and
don’t
have
much
time.

The
good
news
is
that
you
can
find
me
now
through
the
committee
that
you
told
me
about
in
September
(in
the
last
letter
I
received
from
you).
I
am
with
the
Second
Auxiliary
Nursing
Corps
Española,
and
I
will
be
with
them
for
some
time
to
come.

I
hope
that
you
are
both
well
and
that
the
aunts
are
also
fine.
I
hope
you
got
the
news
about
Pedro.
Is
there
any
news
of
Miguel
yet?
I
will
send
you
a
longer
letter
next
time,
now
that
I
am
confident
that
they
will
reach
you.

I
love
you
all
and
miss
each
and
every
one
of
you.

Love,

María

PS:
Don’t
worry
about
me.

Chapter 65

E
arly on 2
December, Ernesto arrived in London to a bitterly cold fog.
The doctor in Madrid had been very thorough in his examination. Tuberculosis was diagnosed, and he was told clearly that he would be no longer welcome at the hospital or anywhere else in the vicinity.
He’d had no option but to go home, take to his bed, and hope for the best, as the last thing they needed in Madrid was an outbreak of TB, the doctor had added.

Ernesto slept fitfully on the home stretch and woke to his co-driver’s soft whistling tunes. Ernesto reached into his pocket and took out an envelope given to him by another ambulance driver just before he left Madrid.

“A lovely little Spanish thing gave me this for the London mail. Spoke good English, she did. See that it gets there. I might be in with a chance if I see her again,” he had told Ernesto with a cheeky grin.

Ernesto had absently slipped the letter into his pocket without even looking at the address, but now, out of curiosity, he took it out and looked at it.
Mr
Ernesto
Martinéz
and
Mrs
Celia
Merrill,
c/o
Spanish
Medical
Aid,
London
was written in the centre of the envelope in bold black letters. He looked closer, reading the names aloud, to confirm what he saw. He felt the heat of excitement rise in his face, and without waiting a second longer, he ripped open the envelope and read the letter.

Chapter 66

A
lthough thin and exhausted, Ernest remained in a stable condition. The doctor who had visited him at the Mayfair house had told him that he must sleep alone. He must also have his own crockery, cups, sheets, blankets, washbasin, and towels, for if he shared such items, he could contaminate the rest of the family. Celia arranged this, but against Ernesto’s and the doctor’s objections, she refused to be parted from her husband in bed for even a single night. Since Christmas, she’d spent less time at the committee offices. Her priorities had changed, and Ernesto was now her main concern. She surmised that he wasn’t entirely happy with his enforced redundancy, so it was decided that he would work from home, translating news bulletins.

Once again, Aunt Marie had become invaluable and had taken over the new situation just as she took over everything. Ernesto’s condition meant that he could not have the same contact with the circle of politicians and journalists that he’d met before he’d gone to Spain, but nonetheless, Marie made sure that he had plenty to talk about and plenty to listen to. She had become his eyes and ears in London, and Celia suspected that without her aunt, Ernesto would have slumped into an irreversible depression in the same way his father had.

María had written to the London household often since December, and almost every week they received some form of communication from her. Pedro had also written late in December, telling them that he was well and that he was involved in a big battle that could decide the outcome of the war. Ernesto told the rest of the family that he was in no doubt that Madrid was the battle he spoke of. After receiving Pedro’s letter, Celia walked around with a wide grin. She could write to Pedro now through Spanish Medical Aid and the British branch of the International Brigades for Spain, knowing that there was an excellent chance of the letters reaching him. Miguel was the only member of the family who still eluded them, and as the weeks passed into months, Celia braced herself for bad news.

Chapter 67

M
iguel’s loss of ambition within the Phalanx had now been replaced by a lethargic desire to survive the war and an even greater desire to see his wife. The fighting had been heavy in November, but since then, life had become little more than a boring routine, apart from the odd skirmish on the front lines.

In the first week of January, he travelled to Valladolid to see Mónica. The fighting in Madrid had slowed to the point that weekend leave was being granted, and he had been away from her for far too long. Of course, he had written to her almost every day since November, but he worried that maybe his letters hadn’t reached her, as he had not received a single reply.

On the journey home, he thought about their last conversation. Mónica had been angry at his suggestion that the Phalanx members were turning into nothing more than squads of executioners and that their fundamental ideals had been tarnished and twisted by ambitious aristocrats. She had demanded that he leave, such was her disgust.

As he neared the outskirts of his adopted town, he gave himself all the reasons why the Phalanx issue that had separated them no longer existed. The execution of the Phalanx leader José Antonio Primo de Rivera and the subsequent upheaval in the movement had been a sad day for all of them, but it had also liberated him from all the things he’d grown to hate about the Phalanx. He was now under the command of the regular army and wore a different uniform. He now fought the enemy in a fair contest, and he killed lest he be killed. He loved Mónica. She was what kept him alive in the trenches. It was her sweet voice, soft and soothing, that had kept him warm even on the coldest and darkest of nights. She would have mellowed by now. She had probably missed him just as much. She loved him. She always had.

On his arrival in Valladolid, he went first to the bar nearest his house. He ordered a glass of wine and drank it down in one. He used the toilet, cleaned himself up, and took a long look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to appear at her door looking and talking like a fumbling overexcited schoolboy. Mónica didn’t like weakness of any kind in a man. He practiced what he would say when he saw her and then took a deep breath. This would be a new beginning for both of them, and when the war was over, they would go to Valencia and she’d become part of his family.

When he finally reached his house, he let out a long deep sigh of relief. He’d made it home. It was late, and all the lights inside the house were off. He used his key and closed the door softly behind him. He tiptoed up the stairs, feeling his heart pound in sweet anticipation and picturing Mónica’s naked body and soft skin. He carried a small bunch of fresh flowers that he had picked in a field just outside the town’s boundary.

Entering the bedroom, he saw her in the moonlit room asleep with her dark curls tumbling over the pillows. He sat on the edge of the bed, smelling her sweet perfume, and then he saw the man lying beside her roll over to place his arm protectively around her waist.

Miguel jumped to his feet, stepped backwards, and pressed his back against the wall. Mónica stirred and sighed contentedly. He’d never seen her smile like that before, not at him, he thought. He stood looking at them: the woman he loved, his wife, in bed with another man. She lay in the man’s arms as though she had done it a thousand times, and he felt a pang of guilt for even watching the intimacy before him. But him, guilty? No, he thought, he was not the guilty one. She was! His expression abruptly changed. The momentary shock was over and instantaneously replaced with anger and a desire to kill. He took the pistol from his inside jacket pocket and pointed it at the sleeping occupants in the bed. His hand shook, and he wiped the sweat from his face. His first thought, that it would be so easy to kill them both as they slept, was somehow overtaken by the need to see them squirm with fear and hear them beg for mercy. He continued to stare at his wife. They should suffer before they died. He kept asking himself why he didn’t shoot. Do it, Miguel. Do it! he screamed now in his head.

The man stirred and opened his eyes. Some sixth sense had likely told him that he and Mónica were not alone in the room. “What the… !”

“Shut up,” Miguel said quietly, sounding perfectly calm. “Shut your mouth.”

Mónica woke with a start, sat bolt upright, and stared open-mouthed at Miguel’s shadowy outline in the corner of the room.

Miguel’s grip on the pistol tightened, and he pointed it unwaveringly in their direction. His tears shone brightly in the moonlight. His face wore an angry scowl of disgust, hurt, and fear—the latter because he worried that he wouldn’t be able to control his fingers that were lightly brushing the trigger of his gun. Fear that he was going to kill the only woman he had ever loved. His whole world crashed before his eyes. His mind raced with uncontrolled thoughts: memories of Mónica in his arms; memories of his family, neglected and shunned by his own unwillingness to contact them; memories of his rifle firing into the chests and heads of unarmed men at dawn; memories of beautiful dreams of the woman he loved suddenly turning into ugliness and shame.

“Miguel, please, no. Don’t do it!” he heard Mónica shout. “Please let me explain,” she begged him through tears, which at one time would have melted his heart.

“What is there to explain?” he asked her with a chilling calmness that surprised even him. “What could you possibly say to explain his being naked in our bed with you? Tell me! Explain!”

The gun was still pointed in her direction, but Mónica stared down its barrel with composed, cold eyes.

“Juan, leave,” she told the man beside her. “Leave now!”

Juan, who up until now, had been nothing more than a spectator in a frozen body, took the opportunity to get out of the bed, grab his clothes, and run from the room. Miguel slumped to the floor and watched him leave. A year ago, he would have shot him several times without thinking twice about it, but he had let him live because, strangely enough, he didn’t feel any anger towards him. He had only taken what had been offered to him. He probably didn’t even know Mónica was a married woman… The man shouldn’t have to die because of his sluttish wife’s behaviour. Miguel continued to stare unwaveringly at Mónica. He had seen enough blood. He would not kill her either. She disgusted him now, and she could fuck Valladolid’s entire male population for all he cared! She was already dead to him.

Mónica covered herself with the sheet and sat on the edge of the bed, continuing to stare at the pistol that now lay limp in Miguel’s hand.

“Well, are you going to shoot me?” she asked in a steady voice.

“Why, why did you do it?” Miguel asked her.

“Because you were not here and Juan was. Because he understands me better than you ever could. Because he is a good Phalanx, and you’re not. Because Juan knows what he wants, and I need a man who’s like that, a man who’s strong.” She stopped talking and watched him put the gun back into his jacket pocket.

Miguel stared into her eyes again; they were icy cold, glaring without remorse or guilt. She thought him ridiculous, he thought to himself. She wouldn’t say the words out loud, of course, but they were written all over her face. She was thinking that he was pathetic, a coward, and he was.

“Miguel, I’m sorry,” she said unconvincingly. “But you must have known something like this would happen. You and I, well, we’re just not meant to be together anymore. I don’t think we ever were. Oh, you were fun to be with in the beginning. You had ambitions, a vision, but you lost your edge, and I lost interest. You just don’t fulfil my needs now, and I don’t love you anymore. It’s as simple as that.”

He felt hatred now but at the same time felt his heart break, felt its pieces shatter in his chest like battlefield shrapnel. He wiped his wet eyes and stood up.

“Not committed enough? Lost my edge?” he said angrily. “I’ve just spent almost three months lying on my belly in a trench! I’ve just driven through the night dodging snipers along the road to get back to you. I crawled out of a grave and survived because I saw your face as I was dying, and your beautiful image made me want to live… for you!”

“Yes, when you crawled out of that grave, you were an important figure in the Phalanx, and I loved you, but look at you now, Miguel. You’re just a stupid soldier like hundreds of thousands of other stupid soldiers, and when we win this war, you’ll be nothing, not part of the government, not a hero, and no one will remember your name. You were so different in the beginning. I liked you because you were everything I would have been had I been born a man. You could have gone right to the top, and I would have been there with you!”

She stopped talking and crossed the room to the door, unashamed of her nakedness. She opened it and then faced Miguel with a haughtiness that made him want to strike her. They stared at each other. She pointed to the door and said, “I’m really sorry, Miguel. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but in a way, I’m glad this happened. It means that you can now get on with your life, and I can get on with mine.”

“You’re doing that anyway, Mónica, without any help from me,” Miguel told her, finding the statement as ridiculous as he felt.

“What I mean to say is that now you know we’re finished. You know that I don’t love you. So everything is clear, right?”

“Crystal clear.”

She nodded. “Then I think it would be better if you didn’t come back here. I want you to leave now.”

Miguel stood on legs that felt like giving way at any moment; he knew it was over too. The naked woman standing in front of him in the doorway was not the person he had fallen in love with. She was only a dream, an illusion, a fantasy that had gone hand in hand with his desire for power and respect in an organisation that had turned ugly for him, ugly just like her scowling face and well-used body.

“I gave up my family because of you,” he told her. “I gave up my self-respect, my conscience, my pride, and my dignity—and for what, a whore?”

She blinked at the word ‘whore’. “I’m a passionate woman, Miguel, not a whore; there’s a difference. I need to feel that passion all the time, but you have never understood that. Now leave, please. Leave me alone and don’t come back.”

“Oh, I won’t, but before I leave Valladolid, I’m going to make sure that the whole town knows what you’ve done. How will you feel, Mónica, when I tell the Phalanx council that you’re not a good Catholic, not a good wife, and that you’re no better than a republican whore? What will that do for your ambitions?”

Miguel walked down the stairs and left the house without a backward glance. He should have killed her, he thought as he stepped outside onto the pavement. He would probably live to regret his decision to spare her, for she didn’t deserve to live. Mónica was right. He was a coward, but she would pay for this, maybe not in blood but in a way that would hurt her to the core, and when he had finished destroying her life, she would wish that he
had
killed her this night.

After a few drinks in a nearby bar, Miguel decided to wait until he was sober before thinking about what he would eventually do to ruin Mónica’s life. He was sure that even in his intoxicated state, he wouldn’t make good on his threat to report her to the Phalanx and the Church she claimed to worship. He was better than that. At a later stage, he would think of doing something even worse. He’d make it his mission in life to destroy her, but not tonight; tonight he was going to get extremely drunk!