The Poet's Wife (23 page)

A hard-faced man serves a line of customers from behind the counter. He stretches out his clammy palm and scrutinises the coins placed into it. He is so suspicious and I suddenly can’t remember a time before everybody was so guarded. Before reaching the front of the queue, I suddenly hear the high-pitched whine of a siren. Back at the hospital, this means that wounded soldiers are being brought in, whereas in the city it signals an air raid. It all happens so quickly – one second I am rushing out of the bakery and my eyes are drawn skywards like a magnet as distant black aircrafts dart through the misty drizzle. The next thing I remember is somebody grabbing me roughly by the arm and pulling me down into a doorway whilst the siren continues ringing in my ears. As I cover my face with my hands I hear a distant thud and tremble. Separating two fingers that cover my face, I peer through them to see thick lines of grey smoke rising from above the tops of buildings. As I take a deep breath, I look around to see who the owner of the hand is that had dragged me down to ground level. It is a middle-aged man and, without glancing at me further, he brushes the dirt from his coat, tilts his hat back on his head and vanishes round the corner.

An elderly lady who was in the bread queue ahead of me has dropped a few coins in the street and I watch as two filthy children wearing little more than rags descend on the money like hungry beasts before sprinting off, leaving the old lady screaming after them. I notice that nobody is paying any attention to her. She just stands in the street, her face contorted with fury and pain as she cries after them to come back. Others have resumed their places in the queue whilst still more continue on their way as though they’ve witnessed nothing more than a passing rain shower.

Sitting there on the side of the street, taking all of this in, I become aware that, despite all this deprivation and food shortages and constant air raids, people are still going about their daily lives. They have lived through two years of this and grown accustomed to it, as I realise that I have too. I don’t feel fear, only a dull sensation in my chest that murmurs weakly ‘
Not again, please not again.
’ But even that is drowned out by the acknowledgement that I’ve lost my place in the line and I don’t have the desire or energy to wait again.

I remain sitting on the doorstep with my knees huddled into my chest. I catch the stench of decaying fish and, turning, see that I’ve been crouching on discarded fish bones and vegetable peelings. Gagging slightly, I heave myself up and lean heavily against the wall. It amazes me – just a few minutes previously the inhabitants of Barcelona suffered yet another air raid, yet, watching the plaza filling up before me, it is virtually impossible to believe. A group of small schoolchildren begin to snake their way through a side street, their teacher constantly turning and calling to them to stay together. They walk in pairs, their small hands grasping one another and I feel profoundly moved as I stare at them. Several of them look unhealthy and underfed, yet they are clean and tidy, and as they walk under a giant propaganda poster, my eyes flit upwards. Fascism is represented by Walt Disney’s big bad wolf and I watch as the two last little boys in the line hang back from the group and stare up at the poster. Their eyes are wide and it’s impossible to mistake the fear in them before they hurry to catch up with the others.

It strikes me clearly at that moment that I can’t go home, because this is why I’ve come in the first place – for these children and for future generations, so they don’t
have
to live in fear. And this is something I can do – no,
more
than just do. It is something I am good at, very good at. The idea comes to me, for the first time, that when this war is over, I can continue working with people in this way. Don’t places even exist where people go to die? Yes, I find myself smiling. It’s an unusual gift, but it’s a gift all the same and it would be wrong to not use it. I take a deep breath and make the decision to continue with my work as a volunteer nurse.

T
here is
a bitter chill in the air this morning and I am kneading dough in the kitchen whilst Aurelia prepares our
almuerzo
. I am idly listening to the wireless, contemplating switching it off as it is unusual to encounter anything that is not pure nationalist propaganda, when I hear the name ‘García Lorca’. Rushing to turn it up, covering the dial with flour, I lean my entire body into the wireless and listen.

‘We are pleased to announce the publication of a new edition of Federico García Lorca’s gypsy ballad poetry,
Romancero Gitano
,
available in all good bookstores as from today.’

I gasp in delight. García Lorca’s works have been prohibited for two years now since his death but this means, surely, that the grip of censorship is loosening and that our lives are to improve? Hurriedly, I tug at my apron strings and Aurelia wordlessly comes toward me and brushes my hands away so she can untie them. She quickly prepares a bowl of soapy water for me to wash my hands in and nods at me briskly, for she has no need to ascertain my purpose.

The streets are alive with birdsong and chatter and as I run down the slopes I feel, for the first time in months, full of optimism and hope. Life is to improve. Life is to get better! Perhaps nothing is so dreadful as we all imagined and Isabel shall be home soon and darling Eduardo shall smile more and life shall continue as it did before. The bookseller in
Librería Los Molinos
smiles at me warmly as he hands the book over the counter in a crisp paper bag, and I smile back, even though I do not recognise him, and it is not the bookseller who worked there for so many years – what was his name? – yet at this moment it does not matter, for the sun is shining through the wintery frost and the book is warm in my hands. As I steal a look at it on the way back up, I see Federico’s dignified face smiling up at me and I think I may burst with joy, for all is suddenly well.

Despite the chill, Eduardo is on the patio drinking coffee, shrunken into his winter coat. I stand for a little while at the door, hugging the book to my chest and watching as he takes small sips of the coffee, swills it around in his mouth, crinkles his nose in disgust and adds another couple of teaspoons of sugar. Good coffee is almost impossible to come by these days, but sugar is dear and Eduardo is certainly not acting as though he knows that each granule must be used wisely, particularly when he then repeats his tasting charade three times. I push my irritation aside, take a deep breath and walk down the steps towards him, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

‘
Hola, cariño
,’ I say. ‘Any coffee for me?’

Eduardo flips the lid of the coffee pot open and grimaces. ‘All gone, I’m afraid. Damned revolting stuff anyway.’ He jabs his finger into the remaining sugar crystals scattered around his glass and places them in his mouth before glancing up at me. ‘Are you alright, Luisa? You look a little flushed.’

I beam at him and hug the book to me once more before placing the package on the table and sliding it towards him. ‘I have something for you.’

Eduardo raises an eyebrow before tentatively lifting the paper bag and running his hand gently over the top of it before pulling the book out. He looks at the front of it, then at the back, and then at me.

‘
Romancero Gitano
,’ he murmurs, and I smile, feeling like a schoolchild eager to please their teacher.

‘You just bought this?’

I nod.

‘But this is…’

I nod again.

‘
Dios!
’ he exclaims, as his fingers hungrily tear open the book and he busies himself in the pages. I watch as the irises of his green-grey eyes flick up and down, up and down and I settle back into my chair, lean my head back and half close my eyes, scanning parts of the garden. The winter pansies are out and their deep purple blooms look striking against the whitewashed walls. Further out in the garden, the gnarled old walnut tree appears to need a little attention and I think to myself to ask Pablo to do some pruning.

A sharp slam gives me a fright and makes me sit upright. Eduardo has closed the book and is now pushing it roughly back across the table to me. Deep lines run across his forehead and the vein in his forehead is pulsating.

‘I need a cigarette. Do you have a cigarette?’

I frown deeply. I can hardly bring myself to reply to him, for he knows that I have never smoked. And I am aware that he has smoked a little in previous years, but had no idea he had taken it up again.

‘What is the matter, Edu?’

‘Have you read this, Luisa? Did you actually open the book?’

I bite my bottom lip, not wanting to hear what he shall say, but knowing that I must. ‘No,’ I reply quietly.

‘This is
not
García Lorca,’ he says, emphasising his words by bringing the palm of one hand firmly down upon the table.

‘What do you m—’

‘It’s not, I tell you. I barely recognise these poems!’ His eyes shine with fury and, as the reality of what I have just bought begins to sink in, I lower my head into my hands.

‘The censors have gone through,’ he continues, his voice becoming more agitated, ‘line by line, poem by poem and desecrated Federico’s art beyond all recognition.’

‘But they cannot do that,’ I interject weakly.

‘They cannot, but they have done.’ Eduardo pushes his chair back noisily from the table. ‘As if the
fascists,’
he spits the word out, ‘haven’t already pissed on his name enough.
Gracias
, Luisa, for thinking of me. But here’s what I think of this fucking book.’ Hands trembling, he opens it again and goes methodically through each page, ripping it down the middle as swords of pain and sorrow tear through me. When he has finished he walks into the house without even looking at me, the patio doors banging behind him as torn pages flutter across the garden like small white doves.

O
ne month following
my husband’s destruction of García Lorca’s violated book, Pablo disappears. He goes alone to the market down in the city, but by nightfall, he has not returned. Mar paces endlessly around the conservatory, not in the fast, agitated way that most people pace, but like a lioness, slowly and stealthily, ready to pounce on anyone that might bring her news. Eventually, I succeed in coaxing her into an armchair and bring her tea but she scarcely touches it, merely staring at it, open-eyed.

Pablo does not return that night, nor the next. By the following day, we have all joined Mar in her pacing. Eduardo smokes one cigarette after another and even Aurelia flits nervously around, her customary repose shaken. By the evening, after we have eaten a small meal in silence, nobody having the heart to speak, we all file miserably into the conservatory and begin to absently flick through books or stare into the distance. I notice that Eduardo has not joined us and walk back through to the kitchen where he remains seated. His fingers are drumming rapidly on the table and he is lost in thought but as I enter the room, my footsteps jarring on the cold stone floor, he looks up.

‘Luisa,’ he says. I realise, with a jolt, that this is the first word he has spoken to me in a day or two.

I sit down beside him and he grasps my hand. ‘Luisa. I’m going to go and look for Pablo.’

‘What? Eduardo,
por favor!
Pablo will come back, I know he shall.’

‘Luisa,’ he says again firmly. ‘I shan’t be long. I shall go and make some enquiries. Maybe even try and ask Miguel.’ He swallows and looks away from me. ‘I must bring him back safely.’ Eduardo stands up and I follow him out to the hall where he puts on his overcoat and gloves.

Something is building up inside me, a desperation that I cannot let him out of my sight, and I clutch his forearm.

‘Edu,
por favor!
No te vayas
. I know your intentions are honourable, but it’s not safe.
Por favor
, for me, stay here.’

‘And what about Pablo?’

He looks me directly in the eye and I realise that I have not seen him so poised in months. Yet every fibre of my body rejects his decision. He makes to leave, but I continue holding his forearm.

‘Let me
go
,’ he says sharply, shaking his arm. I tighten my grasp.

‘
Por favor
,’ I beg him, tears streaming down my face.

‘Luisa,’ he says, this time more gently. ‘Please let me go.’

Defeated, I drop his arm and hang my head as tears burn my cheeks. Eduardo takes me in his arms, holds me for a moment, then kisses me on the cheek.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says, ‘I promise.’

I
am surprised
that Juan answers the telephone. As his voice crackles over the line, I try desperately to make out what he is saying. Slamming down the receiver, I push the door of the booth open.

‘I need another line,
por favor
. I can’t hear a thing.’

The man behind the desk glares at me beneath his puffy eyelids and sighs as he tries the number again. He nods his head over in my direction, motioning me to pick up the receiver. I dart back into the booth and snap it up impatiently as Juan’s voice rings out clearer. I know that Juan more often than not sounds nervous when he speaks to people – that is just who he is _ but as soon as he starts talking I know that something is wrong.

‘Juan…Juan, it’s Isabel.’

‘Isabel, Isabel…’

He keeps saying my voice over and over again, fighting for breath.

‘Juan,
qué pasa
, what’s wrong?’

Suddenly, I realise that he is crying. Between his gasps for breath, I keep hearing him say ‘Pablo’ and I try to interrupt his garbled flow to get him to speak clearly.

‘Juan,
bueno
. Take a few deep breaths and tell me what’s happened.’

I hear him breathing heavily down the phone as I envisage him on the other end, white knuckles gripping the receiver and pale cheeks soaked with tears. I bury my head into my collar to hear him better as the story reaches me in fits and starts.

‘Pablo…two days ago, he went missing. He went to the market and never came back. Then yesterday night Father…he went to look for him and now he’s gone too…nobody has seen him…’

I feel my heart start to thud loudly against my ribcage. I lift my head to breathe air into my lungs as perspiration gathers at my neck and damp droplets work their way down my back.

‘Juan,’ I say weakly. ‘Is Mother there? Can I speak to her?’

The line crackles and hisses and I think I can make out his voice at the other end, shouting back at me. But then it goes dead and I push open the glass door once more and tell the man I need to be connected again.

‘Have you got enough money for this?’

‘I have more money back at my pensión…I’ll go back and get it—’

‘How do I know that you’ll come back?’

‘I’ll come back! You have my word. I need to—’

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

‘
¡Por favor!
’ I beg. ‘I just need a couple more minutes.’

The man shrugs and picks up his newspaper. ‘What do you want? For
me
to pay?’

I can see that it’s useless and slam all the money in my pocket down on the counter and run outside, a rising sense of panic building up from the pit of my stomach. I run towards the
pensión
, all thoughts of staying and continuing my much-needed work as a nurse gone in an instant. There is only one thing I have to do and that is to get home as quickly as possible.

By the time I reach the station, I’ve missed the last train to Madrid. I have to sit in the waiting room for five hours until the early morning departure, watching as the clock hands tick round, agonisingly slowly. I am trying to stay calm, trying to tell myself that they are both fine. Pablo has wandered off to do some sketching and Father has bumped into an old friend and is sitting in a cosy bar somewhere drinking wine, unaware how long he’s been gone. I stare round the waiting room, seeing everything – the people, the suitcases, the screaming infant, the emaciated mother – but taking nothing in. None of it means a thing to me. All I can think of is getting home. Pablo and Father will have reappeared by then and, with any luck, I can get on a train back north a few days later.

Eventually, five hours pass and the train arrives. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment I sit down and have to be prodded awake by the passenger in the next seat.

‘Madrid,’ he growls at me through yellowed teeth. I pull my bag down from the rack and rush out onto the platform. Frustratingly, there is another long wait until a train leaves for Granada. I fiddle with the thread on my finger, though Henry himself isn’t on my mind at all.

By the time I reach my hometown, I am mentally and physically exhausted. I wait impatiently at the station for a bus, but after half an hour I rummage in my purse to see how much money I have left. It is just enough for a cab and I wave my arm desperately in the air to flag one down.

It should have been my great homecoming. It has been almost two years since I hugged my family and walked away from Carmen de las Estrellas. So much has changed: I have trained as a front-line nurse and I have grown up in so many ways. And I have fallen in love. Yet as we speed through the streets, none of that matters. The city I’ve grown up in has lost its
alegría
, that lightness of spirit that I’ve always loved Granada for so much. True, even when I left all those months before, it was occupied by the fascists. But as I press my nose against the window and stare at the red and gold flags flying from the sides of buildings that have replaced the Republican flag and the civil guard hovering on street corners, it’s clear that life in Granada as I once knew it has altered beyond recognition.

Walking through the front door I feel weak with fear and lack of energy. I pull it shut behind me and lean heavily against it, clutching my bag. I try to take long, deep breaths as I stare around the inner courtyard, immaculate as ever with its neatly potted plants and trellises of honeysuckle weaving their way along the latticed balconies. From the creak of the heavy wooden door to the cracked, sapphire flowerpot in the corner to the stars dotted around the floor, everything seems the same, save of course the gaping hole in the centre where my orange tree once stood, which I try hard not to look at. I know I must put one foot in front of the other, to make my way beyond the courtyard, but every time I almost move, my legs begin to shake uncontrollably; I feel certain that if I manage to take a step, they will give way beneath me.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. As I do so, I hear someone approaching me. Half-opening my eyes, I see a blurred figure surrounded by full skirts coming closer and as I open my eyes fully, I find myself face to face with Abuela Aurelia. I drop my bag and throw my arms around her, laying my head against her ample bosom as she clasps me and strokes my hair.

‘
Gracias a Dios
, you’re finally home, little one.’ She lets my head rest there for a while and then, pulling me away, she looks me up and down. ‘But you’re as skinny as a sparrow! Let’s get you down to the kitchen and find you something to eat.’

‘But Father…Pablo…Where’s Mother?’

‘Food now, talk later. Your mother’s asleep.’

I hesitate as my eyes search the higher level of the house.

‘Come, little one.’

The kitchen is warm and comforting. I sit down at the head of the table and watch Abuela Aurelia heating up a pot of stew on the stove for me. She’s right, I probably have lost weight, yet looking at Abuela Aurelia, who’s always been so robust and healthy, even from beneath the folds of her clothing I can see that they don’t fit as snugly as before. Her skin, which always reminded me of polished brass, had also lost its sheen.

The stew is simple but delicious and warming and as I gratefully eat Abuela Aurelia sits beside me at the table. Her eyes never leave me for one second as she urges me to finish it and ladles out more. It is strangely comforting, a way to prolong the unspoken questions and answers that hang in the air between us. But once I have eaten my fill and lean back into the chair, we both know we can’t avoid the conversation any longer. As she gazes at me with her dark eyes, I feel my heartbeat quicken.

‘You spoke to Juan?’

I nod.

‘And he told you that your father and Pablo have gone missing?’

I nod again as I begin to tap my fingers on the table’s surface.

‘They still haven’t come back, little one. It’s been three days since Pablo went and almost two since your father, the complete fool, went out to search for him.’

I feel tears stinging my eyes and I pick up the glass of water in front of me and take a large gulp. It trickles painfully down my throat.

‘Where do you think they are?’

Aurelia continues to stare at me, her eyes giving nothing away as I search her face for a clue.

‘Where do I think they are?’ she echoes, taking my hands in hers and grasping them tightly. ‘
No lo sé
.’

I search her face imploringly as I feel tears falling down my face. Aurelia reaches into her pocket for a handkerchief. With one hand, she grasps my chin and with the other she firmly presses away the tears in the same way she used to do with her grandchildren when they were little.

‘Isabel…’ She brings her face very close to mine. ‘You must be strong,
entiendes
? I know this is a hard time for everyone, but the only way we can get through it is to be strong.’

I nod under her grasp. I feel something shifting within me – that firm resolve as I slip out of my body and hover above the scene, staring down at my trembling bottom lip and Aurelia’s silver plait, coiled round and round her head like a sleeping serpent. It is just as well that I can take on this role of observer rather than participant, because in the days that follow I need this strength more than any other time. More than when I closed Jean-Marie’s eyelids. More than when a man’s leg was amputated, the stench of rotting flesh overwhelming me. More than when I watched Henry turn in the dim room and weakly smile at me before closing the door behind him and clattering down the stairs. No, during these days I need an entirely different strength. Were it not for the hardships of the past months, I’m not sure I would have known how to bear it.

I
t is almost
impossible for me to imagine how my family has coped, for during all this time I’ve been away they have remained virtual prisoners in our home. True, it is a large home and in our privileged position we are fortunate in comparison with so many others in their cramped living conditions. But they rarely leave the house. It simply isn’t safe. I find myself having to re-adapt to this stifling atmosphere, made all the more tense by the absence of Father and Pablo.

Mother has stopped talking. She was always the one to know what to say and when to say it, no matter what the situation. But this is different – it is as though the world has caved in around her and she doesn’t know how to cope with the demons of ‘what if’. There is no way of knowing whether they are dead or alive, imprisoned or tortured. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick with fear and all those naïve hopes I entertained on the journey here quickly fade. But Aurelia is right: I have to be strong, for all our sakes. So as Mother sits in the conservatory, staring out across the sierras without eating or talking, I attempt to keep everyone occupied.

They all know what I’m trying to do. I organise little concerts and poetry readings and make up a cooking and cleaning rota so at least there is some variation to the long days. I think they appreciate it in their own ways, for it brings some activity and sound into the otherwise silent house. I am still convinced though that Father and Pablo will reappear at any minute and the horror of the past few days will fade away like a dimly remembered nightmare.

It is during these days, however, that the truth of Father’s recent state of mind hits me with a clarity that was always diluted in Mother’s letters. Juan might tell me a small story, or Joaquín might be reluctant to answer the questions I put to him, and little by little, I piece together what has been going on here. I also spend time walking around the garden and the inner courtyard, looking at the miserable stump where my orange tree once stood. This upsets me hugely. It isn’t only because it’s no longer here, but also because Fernando tells me that it was after the tree came down that Father started to behave so strangely.

It is a bitterly cold December, but on my third morning at home I wrap myself up in a warm coat, walk out to the courtyard and sit on the tree stump, tears uselessly escaping from my eyes.
Father, where are you? We need you here. Pablo, come back to Carmen de las Estrellas and draw the moon shining on the silver boughs, the dreaming towers of the Alhambra.
As I listen to the church bells rising from the city, I turn Pablo’s drawings over in my head. I’ve just spent the past couple of hours looking through them: Alejandro showed me where he kept them stashed under his bed in the room they shared with Fernando. Ever since I was small I longed to be able to draw. I made a great effort, but I had little talent, while drawing came to Pablo as naturally as walking or sleeping. I think he put all the energy that others invested in talking into the relationship between his pencils and the paper. I find all the sheets in chronological order – I never knew what a perfectionist Pablo was. When I look through those pictures, I realise that they are like reading a diary of events that have passed since I’ve been away. It is clear that when I suddenly stop featuring in any of the group scenes, this indicates my departure.

In his pictures I see Mar and Mother hanging the washing up with endless sheets blowing in the breeze. I see Aurelia telling Graciana off for some misdemeanour as she stares sulkily back at her grandmother. I see Joaquín and Fernando constructing football goalposts at the far end of the garden. And I see the boys chopping up the orange tree whilst Father stands to one side, watching them. This is the drawing that stays with me the most. In his expression and body language, Father’s pain jumps out from the paper. Pablo has clearly spent far more time on him than any of my brothers, because though I can make out who everyone is, only in the figure of Father can I read something of his emotional state of mind. His hands are drawn up to the back of his head where they are awkwardly resting and the tenseness of his body is captured in Pablo’s precise strokes. But it is the expression on his face that I can’t get out of my mind. Somehow, from the hollow look of his eyes to the rigid muscles in his cheekbones, he has combined grief with a deep anger.

The cold air has snowflakes in it and, as I sit there, I want to be submerged in white more than anything else in the world. I want to be covered in a layer so thick that it will engulf me. It will continue to snow until Carmen de las Estrellas is covered and we’ll all be frozen in body and in mind. Then when this nightmare is over, the spring sunshine will come out and the icicles will thaw and we can carry on with our lives. Father and Pablo will have reappeared, the war will be over, we will live in a democracy and Henry will be by my side.