The Poet's Wife (10 page)

It turns out though that I don’t need to, as it is around the same time as overhearing this conversation that I become friends with a girl called Sara Rodriguez. Tall, broad and outspoken, with a thick brown plait and chiselled cheekbones, I have seen her many times and we take several classes together. But it isn’t until we’ve been at the
colegio
for several months that we start really talking. Sara is the kind of girl who makes all the boys’ heads turn. She doesn’t flirt with words but she doesn’t need to; it’s her body – the way she moves, so supremely confident in her beauty and who she is. I don’t think Sara’s even particularly interested in boys when we first meet, but it’s impossible for me not to notice them staring at her when she walks past, and all it takes is for her to curl her lip up slightly or to raise one of her arched eyebrows to be adored and longed for. At first I find this power she holds intimidating. But Sara is so good-natured and not at all conceited or vain (unlike my sister María) that it doesn’t take long for me to be counted amongst her admirers. In fact, I enjoy walking alongside Sara, because I’ve never been a person to enjoy attention, and I certainly don’t get any when I’m with her. As for my interest in boys, the truth is I find them, on the whole, childish and silly.

Sara is an only child and she finds our large family and rambling Carmen in the Albaicín wonderfully exotic and loves coming home with me after school. After our friendship has been firmly established, both of her parents even start attending Mother’s meetings, which they have heard about through Sara. Her father is an eminent politician of the social democrat party and her mother is a doctor, an unusual profession for a woman. I’m unsure whether Sara is just influenced by her parents’ extreme left-wing ideals or if she has come to her own conclusions independently, but she is extremely opinionated and bright and I am fascinated by her. In time, Sara becomes my primary source of political and practical information, even more so than my teachers.

Sometimes at the end of lessons we wander back past a
patissería
and sit in the plaza near our school. On one particular occasion as we walk past a church, two solemn-looking men thrust pamphlets into our hands with large letters sprawled across the front: ‘Divorce signals a fall from the grace of God’. Sara scowls angrily at the men as she scrunches the paper up in her hands. I glance nervously at her; I am forever stunned by her boldness. Turning the pamphlet over, I read the words aloud.

‘If women divorce, remarry or wed in a civil ceremony, they will no longer be permitted the sacrament and in the eyes of the church their children are illegitimate.’

‘Nonsense,’ chides Sara, once the men are out of earshot. She tosses the pamphlet into a bin and we approach the wall, rolling our white socks down to our ankles. We dangle our legs over the side and unravel the layers of pastry from our
alfajors
, nibbling at the almond and cream filling. Sara begins to chatter animatedly, flicking her fingers about wildly as she talks.

‘It doesn’t matter how many Republican flags they wave about. The fact of the matter is that nothing’s changed. Well, not
really.
’

‘But how can you say that? This time last year I was sitting in a stuffy attic room being bored to tears by one tutor after another. And now I have all these opportunities.’

‘
Pues sí
, of course
that’s
changed.’ Sara rolls her eyes in her exaggerated manner as she sucks the remaining cream out of the pastry. ‘But what I’m talking about are the fundamentals. The pillars of Spanish society. They haven’t changed at all,
para nada
!’

One of the reasons I feel so comfortable with Sara is because if I don’t understand something she’s talking about, she clarifies without hesitation. And her arguments are so compelling that I can’t deny that sometimes I return home and replicate our discussions virtually word for word. In the early days of my ranting my family seem both shocked and impressed. But they realise soon enough that I’m spending a great deal of time with the spirited Sara Rodriguez. The fact is that she completely convinces me and very soon Sara’s ideals become my own.

‘What pillars,’ I ask her slowly, ‘do you mean exactly?’

‘Well, the upper classes for one. Then there’s the god-forsaken army.’

I look around warily. She unnerves me, the way she seems unaware of the volume of her voice. One can never be entirely sure who’s listening.

‘And not to mention the church!’ Dramatically, she flings her arms into the air.

‘But the church has so much less influence than it used to.’ I pause. ‘And surely you don’t excuse what’s going on at the moment?’

Sara looks at me darkly then turns to stare at the Alhambra in the distance, once the stronghold of the powerful Moors who ruled Spain for years but who were eventually overthrown by the Catholic kings.

‘I can’t stand the church,’ she whispers, suddenly more cautious. ‘But no. No,
claro
,
I don’t excuse it. And you know what I overheard my parents talking about last night? That in Valencia they’re lining up monks and forcing them to renounce their vows before shooting them in the head.’ She narrows her dark eyes. ‘With a single bullet.’

I shudder and feel a flake of the
alfajor
lodging in my throat. Stories. There are so many of them, and who’s to say they are true? But who’s to say they aren’t?

‘It wasn’t long ago that we were dancing and singing in the streets for
la niña bonita
,’ I say despondently. ‘And now people are burning down churches. What happened?’

‘What happened,’ Sara replies, ‘is that we’ve woken up. The problems of this country are far too deep-rooted to smooth over just because a new government comes in. It’s a mess, believe me. Listen to this: you know that convent in Madrid that was torched a couple of weeks ago by Republican mobs?’

I nod, not knowing.

‘Now, I’m the last person on earth to defend the church,’ Sara continues, ‘but instead of trying to stop the mobs, the police just stood by and
watched
them do it. Now do you understand why there’s all this violence against the church?’

I frown.

‘
Because
, Isabel, the police are being utterly passive. They’re allowing it to happen. Believe me, it’s chaos. A complete mess.’

I stare at my friend in disbelief. How does she know so much, and I know so little? And if she
is
right, why won’t it stop? And if she believes everything she is saying, how can she look so cheerful? Sara must see the look of worry on my face because she elbows me playfully in the ribs. ‘Don’t despair,
amiga
, we’re living in exciting times.’

Sara may consider them exciting but I, on the other hand, find many of the stories deeply disturbing. I wish I never heard that every last Jesuit was being expelled from Spain. Or that priests are being marched up church bell towers and pushed to their deaths below. Or that nuns are being locked in their cloisters and brutally gang-raped.

When I return home from school one day, not long after that conversation with Sara, I can tell immediately that my parents are troubled about something. Father is pacing up and down the conservatory. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets and Mother is perched nervously on the side of an armchair. The priest we have known for so long – a kindly, unassuming man who married my parents and christened each of us children has been ambushed after leaving a church in the sierras and murdered. We are all in a state of shock. Nothing seems to make sense any more. As far as I am concerned, nobody deserves this kind of treatment, particularly not Padre Alfonso. But on the other hand, surely the Republicans are the liberators and they know what they are doing?

Soon it isn’t just every so often I hear about these things, it is most days. A dark cavern of my mind opens, one that I’d far rather have kept behind lock and key. So these days are bittersweet: there is
libertad
in my learning and my circle of friends is growing rapidly, but black butterflies of fear beat more rapidly against my chest as reports of violence increase. To make matters even more complicated and confusing, new political parties are being created all the time. I suppose this is to try to cover all the different ideologies, but it seems to result in even less unity.

Politics is so chaotic and confused that a year after I am enrolled in the
collegio
, squabbles break out between even previously relaxed schoolmates of mine with their various leftist ideals. I decide I have to know where I stand – not Sara but
me
– and I resolve to finally talk to my parents as a starting point to help me form my own views. One evening, after all my siblings have gone to bed, I go into the conservatory where my parents are reading.

‘Which political party do we belong to?’

They look up from their books, eyebrows raised.

‘Hmm?’ Father takes off his half-moon spectacles.

‘I really need to know. Most of the girls in my class belong to one party or another.’ I pause. ‘Well, at least their
parents
do. I know that we’re Republicans. But I don’t think I understand what that means any more.’

Mother and Father glance at each other, then Mother beckons me to come and sit next to her.

‘Isabel, you know that there have been some troubles for a while now.’

I nod.

‘Well, what we need is strong leadership, but nobody seems up to it.’ She frowns. ‘The prime minister does not have an easy job, but the reforms he is trying to introduce are not effective. He is not being direct enough. And neither is he representing the voice of most Republicans.’

‘But that’s what I don’t understand. Who
are
the Republicans? There are so many different groups and beliefs. Everybody is arguing and whenever I think I know where I stand someone in my class says something that goes against what I believe in. Or what I
thought
I believed in. And I’m not sure I know who I am any more.’ The strength of my emotion takes me by surprise. The tension at school has been simmering for weeks and I can feel tears stinging my eyes.

Father sighs deeply, massaging his temple. ‘You’re a human, Isabel. No matter what happens and whichever way these troubles go, just remember that. You are a human being and so is the peasant from the countryside and so is the monk from the monastery and so is the right-wing politician. We may not agree with certain people but nothing, nothing whatsoever, justifies harming them.’

Mother puts her arm around me. ‘Isabel, what is happening is so terribly complicated. The most important thing to remember though is that we are pacifists. Father is right, we do not believe in violence. Not for
any
reason.’

I sniff. ‘But we don’t belong to the pacifist party, do we? That doesn’t exist.’

Mother continues slowly. ‘No, it does not exist. You know that we do not like to define ourselves as anything in particular; there is so much confusion amongst all the parties that we prefer to stay separate from it all and simply call ourselves Republicans.’

‘But those meetings you have here…you must
call
yourselves something. I know that Sara’s parents are social democrats. Isn’t that what you are too?’

Now it is Mother’s turn to sigh heavily.

‘Isabel, the people that come to my meetings are from all kinds of groups. Yes, Sara’s parents are social democrats. But there are also those who consider themselves Catalans, or Marxists or Communists or Anarchists.’

‘I still don’t understand how you all agree.’

‘Well,
claro
, we cannot always agree on everything.’ Mother stares at me intently. ‘But this is the point we are trying to
make
to you, Isabel. That even if we do not agree with one another, that is what makes us human – the ability to discuss and debate and ultimately accept we are all different.’

‘In a few months’ time there’s going to be a general election,’ Father adds. ‘It’s because of the…’ he waves his handkerchief around, searching for words, ‘of the dissatisfaction people are feeling right now. These elections are very,
very
important.’

‘Who do you think is going to win?’

My parents glance at one another again, something – is it fear? – flitting across their faces Father coughs.

‘The left must win, but…’

‘But what?’ I ask, sitting on my hands and leaning forwards.

‘But I fear it will not.’

There is a deep silence in the room as I look from Father to Mother, and then back to Father who is frowning deeply. It’s clear that they have just opened up to me as an adult, not as a child, and I feel the heady rush of both gratitude and concern. Why should it be so terrible if the left-wing are not in power? Liberal people the world over exist comfortably under non-liberal governments. Don’t they? But this is different; I sense it. No, more than that, I
know
it. This will be more than a gentle shifting of power to the right – it will be a deep wound.

Mother takes Father’s hand in hers and holds it on her lap as she stares out of the window and strokes over his knuckles absently with her fingers. As I look at my parents and Father’s hand in Mother’s, I see for the very first time, quite possibly in my entire life, that she loves him. And of course she should – she married him. But so often I have seen the way he looks at her, his green eyes glowing as though he has fever and the way he cranes his neck forwards to listen to her speak. But Mother, returning his love as fiercely? It has never occurred to me.

Of course I love both my parents. But if someone were to draw me to one side and ask ‘So Isabel, what do you
really
think of your parents? Do they embarrass you?
Do
they?’ I know that I would blush. Mother is everything to me: confidante, counsellor and carer. To confess makes me feel deeply ashamed, but I don’t feel the same when it comes to Father. He is the kindest, most open-hearted person I’ve ever known. He treats us all equally, yet with an astonishing sense of pride that I’m sure surprises even Mother occasionally. And I love him deeply for planting an orange tree in honour of my birth. Yet for all this, he sometimes embarrasses me. I feel humiliated by him. There, I’ve said it. Perhaps it’s because he introduces himself to all the parents of my friends as a poet, when I know that he has only ever published one book of poetry years before and in actual fact he is a lawyer. Perhaps it’s because of his absent-mindedness – the times I’ve been talking to him only to realise at the end he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said – or perhaps it’s his obsessive attachment to García Lorca.