The Poet's Wife (29 page)

‘What happened, Henry?’ Mother asks.

‘It was like a witch-hunt, Luisa. People were marching through the streets yelling “
¡Gibraltar Español! ¡Viva Franco! ¡Viva España!
”
Then they were yelling for the downfall of England and death to Winston Churchill—’

‘
¡Dios!
’

‘Honestly. Lots of them were wearing Falangista uniforms and carrying Spanish flags and red and black banners – they were just kids, half of them – but pretty threatening, I can tell you.’

‘And they saw you?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ Henry frowns and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I was frantically searching around on the ground to see if anyone had dropped a cap to hide this damned hair colour of mine, but I ran out of time and a group of them came towards me, yelling “Where are you from?”
Well, there was hardly any point trying to make out I was Spanish, so I just told them as calmly as I could that I was English, but I lived in Granada.’

‘And then?’

‘And then one of the louts at the front started to spit and jab at me.’

Anger wells up inside me as I shake my head in disbelief, glancing beside me to see Mother’s features etched into a deep frown.

‘He was calling me every name under the sun, quite a ring-leader, I should say. I truly thought he was going to physically harm me, he was in such a frenzy. He was puffing out his chest and then snarled at me and then…’

I hold my breath and nod.

‘…then somebody next to him whispered in his ear and they both nodded and then he said to me “Kiss the Spanish flag”!’

‘
Como?
’ Mother cries, with such force that we both look at her in surprise. ‘They made you kiss the flag?’

Henry nods grimly. ‘
Sí
.’ Reflexively, he looks around him and adds quietly, ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’

I frown and hug him tightly. ‘At least they didn’t hurt you,
cariño.
’

He pulls away and smiles at us both, though I can see he is still shaken. ‘When they decided they’d had enough fun with me, they all headed off in the direction of the British Consul, no doubt to see what fun could be had up there. I hope Davenport’s faring alright, poor bugger.’

Henry goes off to make coffee and Mother and I sit down. Anger is bubbling up inside me and I know Mother feels it too. When I look at her, I see that look of defiance of old on her face and though I’m horrified at the treatment my husband has experienced, I can’t deny I feel a surge of gladness at her indignation.

Henry, I know, doesn’t dislike his work. For a long time, however, he cannot shake the feeling of discomfort that as a man, he should be permitted to work whereas in my case, it is close to impossible, a source of great frustration for me. It has been many years now that I’ve dreamt of my hospice; of caring for people who are dying in a loving, humanitarian environment. But I simply am not allowed to work. Furthermore, this potentially provocative work lies outside a religious context and I know that I would be hounded down by fierce Catholic groups and severely punished if I should be caught. However, though it’s perhaps a foolish step, it’s a risk I am prepared to take as I am filled with energy and ideas and very slowly and cautiously, people begin to hear about me.

Though a vast number of left-wing Granadinos have either not survived the civil war or have fled, there are of course those who have remained. People who, like us, have to vocally compromise their beliefs yet whose true ideals burn brighter than ever before. It is to these kinds of people that my services have become known.

To this day I’m amazed how far my reputation has spread whilst managing to keep it in check and preventing my work being found out by the numerous
mangas verdes
and other informers that creep around Granada. A message is posted through the letterbox of Carmen de las Estrellas (the door is
never
knocked at), and as one or another of us are often passing through the courtyard, someone always lays eyes on it and brings it to me. I wait a short while and then go to the address given on the note. There, I enter the house of the person in question and sit with them. Talk to them. If possible, be with them in their final moments. People often ask me how it makes sense that I should take precedence over the dying person’s closest family members. Yet I always explain that I am by no means more important than the people they know and love. Rather, it is less difficult for a person on the outside to deal with the death of someone they care for so much. I only serve to lessen the strain of that time and help them, as much as I possibly can, to not feel afraid but rather at peace.

It must hit a chord somehow, for rarely a week passes during which I’m not called upon. Naturally no money is exchanged and I draw hope and energy from these encounters, meeting wonderful and wise and brave people. There was the head teacher of the Republican school my siblings and I attended who was tortured during the war and finally succumbs to his wounds and his nightmares; and the first female professor of medicine who had her title stripped but held her pride very much intact. I even go to the cousin of Federico García Lorca who, from his deathbed, whispers stories of his wonderful cousin. And all the while, I long to open a hospice and create it in my head down to the finest detail. It’s ironic really, that all these years of going to confession and inventing ‘sins’ for the priest to atone, what I really want to say is ‘Father, I am helping left-wing Republicans to die. But I’m not repenting, I’m very proud of it.’

But of course, thoughts and deeds are a bridgeless chasm in these days and we all carry on as best we can, given the circumstances. Not a day passes that I don’t feel a surge of protective love for my husband, my children and my mother and I know that, even if it takes everything I possess, I must keep my family quiet and close and safe.

L
oneliness is a curious thing
, for it can overtake a person when one is the least alone physically speaking. Some years I have borne it better than others, but this summer, even with family and friends constantly flitting in and out of the house, I feel more alone than ever. It matters not how many years have passed – the breeze that travels across the
vega
still carries a song of sorrow and the traces of Eduardo. When my husband died, something in me also ceased to exist and no matter how hard I try to grasp that contentment I once took so much for granted, it eludes me too often, slipping through my fingers like sunbeams. If Eduardo had lived, I often wonder what would this have done to him, this necessity to exist under General Franco. It pains me to dwell upon this, for I know it should have destroyed him, just as I believe on my darker days that it is slowly destroying me, each bone of my body, each emotion, each fibre.

In the first few years following Eduardo’s death, I coped with my loss in the only way I knew how, by devoting myself entirely to the innumerable tasks around the house and obsessively caring for the garden as though it were a small child. I sought comfort in my children, though how much I ever let them be a party to my sorrows, I cannot say. My dear friends Aurelia and Mar were a great comfort to me through the grim nightmare of those years and helped me to understand that Eduardo should never return. To add insult to injury, in the eyes of Franco’s state, as a widow of a murdered Republican, I was not recognised as a widow but an abandoned wife. I was not permitted to grieve openly, yet my desire to leave the house those days at any rate was limited. When I did resume a life beyond the walls of Carmen de las Estrellas once more, mostly trips to the market, I paid no heed to the looks people gave me and locked myself into a solitary silence.

One by one my children have grown up, fallen in love, married and moved from the house with the exception of Isabel who, I am relieved to say, has chosen to remain with me at Carmen de las Estrellas. There is, of course, also Conchi. More than twenty years after she left she simply turned up one day at Carmen de las Estrellas. I answered the door and it took a while to recognise that the slight and frail person before me was the same woman from my memory, broad and strong as a bull. I welcomed her with open arms and, without even discussing it, returned her rightful job to her. She never told us what had happened to her during the war, but she did not need to. Suffering was pencilled into every line on her face and though she may have lost much of her physical strength in her body, her hands could still pummel dough in a way I have never seen in any other.

When Pablo first returned to us, I found it painful to look at him. This was not because I blamed him of course, but more that he was a reminder of how much I blamed myself for not being firmer that night with Eduardo. Should I have prevented him from going out to search for Pablo, how differently everything may have turned out. Yet with the passing of the years, the stabbing grief I experience when I look into Pablo’s eyes has dulled. Moreover, I have gradually admitted to myself that if Pablo’s disappearance had not served as the catalyst for Eduardo leaving the house, then something else would have done.

I cannot say why, but in the past few years I have been thinking of those meetings I once held in the conservatory during the days of the Republic when we discussed reform and even philosophy. I should like to transport myself back to one of those meetings, to a time when none of us knew how to live any other way than optimistically. Surprised as I am to admit this to myself, I have been thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, it is time to reconvene them. Of course, I should have to begin again as my old companions are no more or scattered to the wind. Yet whilst I once imagined every free-thinking liberal to have been wiped from Granada, now I believe, I
know
, that many of us are still here. We are here, living these lives of oppression beneath a dictator and a system that wrongs us, each and every day of our lives. When my mind runs in this direction, these are the days when my spirit feels lighter and I can approach life with more vigour, yet in recent months I have felt, far too often, weak and despondent.

But then, the unthinkable happens. Alejandro is spending the day with me, a day of thick, cloying heat; my youngest, in whose calm, quiet presence I cannot help but feel safe. I am dozing in my chair, when we both hear a knock at the door. Alejandro answers it and brings Pablo into the conservatory. He has his black woollen hat pulled low over his head, despite the heat; a hat that he is never seen without as it hides the jagged scar where his ear once sat. He walks to me, places his arms gently about my neck, kissing me on both cheeks. Then he sits on the floor at my feet and removes a satchel from his shoulder, not meeting my eye as he opens it and draws out several sheets of paper. And then, only then, does Pablo look at me. The papers remain in his grasp but as his eyes fix themselves upon mine, I realise that what he is about to show me will somehow change everything. Pablo’s inability to talk has, I have always known, heightened his adeptness to express himself in other ways. Never have I known eyes to hold so many words; for the air around a person to hang so weightily with unspoken meaning. For when he looks at me, I feel myself swallowing hard, something catching in my throat before he nods almost imperceptibly and hands the papers to me. And this is what I see as I slowly turn the sheets.

E
duardo
. Alone. Sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. His feet are bare, illuminated by a slender stream of light that trickles through the barred windows from the half-moon.

E
duardo
. Standing in a dark courtyard opposite a guard in uniform. He is shouting. One arm is raised, a finger pointing skywards in anger, his cheekbones clenched in defiance.

A
group of men
, all in the same striped work-clothes. Faces gaunt with hunger and exhaustion. They look ahead of them with the empty eyes of the defeated. But towards the end of the line stands Eduardo, head askance. He is looking out at something beyond, something more.

E
duardo and Pablo
. Sharing a thin gruel from one bowl. With one spoon. They sit against a cracked wall, shoulders touching and there is the faintest glimmer of a smile upon Eduardo’s mouth, drawing strength from his nearness to Pablo.

E
duardo and Pablo
. Eduardo’s face is happier still. He is standing at one end of the room, reciting something, one hand raised in a theatrical flourish. Pablo sits and listens from an upturned crate, both hands beneath his chin.

A
group of men
, slumped against walls and broken chairs. Pablo in the middle of the room, looking up at Eduardo who stands, his face expressionless. From the door, a guard stands, beckoning to Eduardo.

P
ablo
. Alone. Weeping as he stares up at the high, barred window. There is no moon. There is no light.

E
duardo
. At Carmen de las Estrellas. Sitting in the shade of the orange tree. A book held tenderly in his hands and a smile of contentment playing upon his lips. The smile that I so loved him for, and shall always do so.

I
t’s been
a long time coming but slowly, very slowly, things are changing. For the better. Unlike the long, hungry days of my childhood, there’s now nearly always enough food to go around and people are starting to live more freely. Mamá and I continue to go to the cinema each fortnight like crazy fanatics and although the films are still censored, we now even see kisses on the big screen – imagine!

I can feel this change all around me. At first I just catch a subtle scent of its perfume on the restless breeze. But then it grows stronger and bolder. More than anything else in the world, I want to be part of these changes. I owe it to my family, you see, to pick up that thread of reform that was cast off so long ago. I know how much my parents want me to stay and study in Granada, but when I reach eighteen there’s no stopping me. After dinner one evening, as we’re sitting round the table peeling
naranjas
, I clear my throat.

‘I want to make an announcement,’ I say. My parents, brothers and grandmother all look at me in surprise. Clearly they aren’t used to me making announcements.

‘
Pues
,’ I say slowly. ‘I have decided to go to Barcelona to study modern languages.’

After a short pause, Dani speaks. ‘You know they have a very good modern languages department at the University of Granada, Paloma.’

‘
Sí
,
muchas gracias
, Dani,’ I snap. ‘I did know that.’

Papá looks at me, his head on one side. ‘Your brother’s right though, Paloma. Need you go so far?’

‘Barcelona’s not that far, Papá,’ interjects Eduardo and I grin gratefully at my younger brother.

‘But you’re a little young to be going off on your own for such a long period,’ Papá continues.

‘Oh Henry,’ Mamá says. ‘You know full well that I was even younger than Paloma when I first went away from home.’

‘
Sí
, but that was different.’

‘Different in what way?’

Papá pauses and taps his middle finger on the table. ‘But really, what’s wrong with the university here? It has a marvellous reputation and…and…’ his eyes flit desperately around the room ‘…think of the money you’d be saving.’

I smile at Papá. Of course he’s saying this just because he’ll miss me. And I him. I’ll miss all my family, but it’s something I need to do. One day, I’m certain of it, I’ll find my path. And Franco or no Franco, I’ll work and earn a living. How can I possibly not?

I glance up at the head of the table where Abuela, who has remained silent till now, sits busily peeling her orange and removing the pith.

‘What do you think, Abuela?’

‘I think,’ Abuela answers, ‘no, I
know
, that you must go to whichever university you wish and study whatever you should desire.’ She extracts a couple of pips from her mouth and sucks on the peel. ‘And my final word on the matter is that it shall be a sorry day indeed in our family when a woman is prevented from holding their own alongside the men. It has never been like that amongst us and it never shall be.’ She gives her mouth a sharp wipe with her napkin and pushes her chair back, signalling the end of the conversation.

One morning as I sit in the kitchen with Mamá and Abuela, Mamá rushes in with the newspaper. She stands behind a chair, grasping the paper in her hands. Her dark eyes are burning with emotion.

‘What is it, Mamá?’ I ask, reaching out to turn down the volume.

‘Look!’ she replies, thrusting the paper into my hands and jabbing her finger at something half way down a page. I look from Mamá’s flushed face to the paper and read the words. I have to read them again before they really sink in. ‘
Women are being urged to join the workforce
,’ it reads. I knit my eyebrows together. This is a right-wing, pro-Franco paper. The only paper, in fact, that we can get our hands on. Can I really be reading this?

I scan the announcement beneath the headline and then look back at my mother in shock as I hand the paper to Abuela.

‘This is just the start, Paloma, you’ll see,’ Mamá says, grasping my shoulder. ‘The economy’s in tatters. The only way out of the mess this country’s in is to let us contribute. They’re going to open up nurseries and care homes and I’ll even be
permitted
to go out to work. I’m sure of it.’

I look at Abuela. Both of her eyebrows are raised in surprise, then she turns to me. I notice the faintest quiver in the corner of her mouth, but it’s her eyes that are shining like polished brass. I grin at her, my mind starting to race with the opportunities I myself might be presented with in the years to come. And I feel wildly, absurdly, ferociously happy.

A
nd so it
is that I leave Carmen de las Estrellas on my first extended trip alone. As I travel north the days become shorter and cooler and the dialect changes so much that in some areas I wonder what on earth’s being said. I often think of Mamá in these early days in Barcelona, imagining her own brave journey here thirty years back and where she’d stayed, what she’d seen. She’s told me various stories of her time here, but I’m certain the city I see has completely changed. For in the passing years, new roads have been paved, railway lines re-built and any vestiges of war swept under the carpet and heavily padded down.

When I get to the Universidad de Barcelona, it doesn’t take me long to look around and realise a painful truth: where are all the girls? To say that we’re in the minority is a huge understatement. But after the initial stab of sharp disappointment, I remind myself that ten years ago there would have been virtually no women studying at all. And in another ten years our numbers will multiply. I quickly find a soul mate in the equally quiet, industrious Ana from Galicia who is studying biological sciences and is the single girl on her course. We share university accommodation and connect immediately.

One evening as Ana and I walk through Plaza Catalunya after a full day of lectures, she confides in me how the attitudes towards her are mixed.

‘Most of the other students don’t worry about the fact I’m the only female. They treat me just the same. But there are a few who…’ she wrinkles her nose up, ‘well, they’re just
ignorantes.
If I worry about them, I give them strength.’

‘What do they say?’ I ask.

‘It’s not so much what they say, it’s what they do. The looks they give me, like I’m scum of the earth because I’m a woman. I know they think I should be at home.’ She quickly glances around her and lowers her voice. ‘Ignorant
Franquistas
. They’re not worth my energy, I know. But still…’ she trails off.

‘It hurts,’ I say and she gives a brief, brisk nod. ‘If only there were more of us,’ I continue. ‘I know there are so many like-minded girls out there craving for knowledge. But why aren’t they being braver and coming to study?’

Ana’s brow knits. ‘It’s not lack of interest, Paloma, that’s for sure. People are scared. You realise what we’re risking by coming here?’

I stop walking. I’ve never really thought of it like that before. Of course I know that the step I’ve taken is unusual. But risky? There’s no law saying women can’t study. I’m keeping my head down and getting on with my work, but at the same time, so much is changing and my friend has good reason to be paranoid. Several of her extended family members were killed during the civil war and many of her remaining family have left Spain.

Ana stares at me, her dark eyes intense under the glare of the streetlamp. ‘There are so many ghosts, Paloma. They’re sitting here,’ she taps both shoulders, ‘and each time a family thinks about sending their young women to university, families like ours, so that they can grow and learn and live, their ghosts start to whisper “But don’t you
remember what happened last time you spoke out like that? You really want that to happen again?”’

I shudder.

‘And so,’ Ana continues, ‘it’s not that people want to listen to them, but they can’t help it. They push aside their sense-speaking consciousness and give into these…these…’ she waves her hand through the air, searching for a word, ‘malevolent spirits. And that’s why there are so few of us here.’

‘You’re right. I know you are. But you have to believe that things are changing, Ana.’ I take a deep breath and look around me, but there’s nobody there. ‘Franco can’t live forever. And these wounds, I know they’re deep and they’re painful. But they will heal eventually.’

Ana frowns at me. ‘Paloma, aren’t you afraid of anything?’

I laugh gently, trying to lighten the tone. ‘Of course I am. Of many, many things.’

She looks at me for a while longer in that intense way of hers. ‘
No te creo
. I don’t believe you are. I wish I had your courage.’

‘Oh Ana.’ I smile at her and link my arm through hers as we start walking again. ‘You’re one of the bravest people I know.
Venga
, it’s chilly out here.’

We walk in pensive silence and then Ana asks me quietly, ‘Do you think about your abuelo often?’

I hold my breath slightly. ‘
Sí
,’ I reply. ‘I…I feel his presence in our house.’ I’ve never said this to anybody before. Somehow it’s a relief to now be talking about it.

‘What do you feel?’ Ana whispers.

‘I feel…I feel,
mierda
,
it’s hard to explain. I think it’s this idea of him I’ve pieced together over the years from photographs and Pablo’s drawings and so many people say my elder brother Dani looks just like him. And then there’s all the stories my mother has told me, and also my abuela.’

‘Does your abuela talk about him much?’

‘
No mucho
,’ I sigh. ‘She’s like a clam. She’ll open up and inside she’s a wealth of riches and stories but then her shell closes again and it can stay like that for months. But she’s amazing. And this presence I feel of my abuelo, it’s like he creeps up on me when I’m least expecting it. I might be walking down the corridor or in the garden and suddenly he’s just…there.’

Ana’s eyes widen. ‘Isn’t it creepy?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘No. Not creepy. His presence is gentle.’ I shrug and run a hand through my hair. ‘I know it sounds mad…’

‘Not mad. As I said,’ Ana replies knowingly, ‘there are ghosts everywhere. But unlike
you
,’ she smiles at me sadly, ‘they scare me so much, I sometimes can’t sleep at night.’

I squeeze my friend’s arm and we round the corner into the street we live on.

L
ife at university
continues in a whirlwind of lectures and learning and conversation, though I am happy to keep my friendship circle small. By my second year of studies, I feel confident enough not only to watch one of the frequent student demonstrations that surge through Barcelona’s thoroughfares, but also take part in one. The feeling of empowerment and liberation it gives me is unlike anything I’ve experienced and I know I must share my exhilaration with my family, rushing home to pull out paper and pen the minute it’s over.

B
arcelona

14th April, 1962

D
ear everyone
,

I’m too excited to keep this to myself and I want to tell you about my very first demonstration I attended! Now, first of all, please don’t worry. It was all very law-abiding and peaceful. Ana came along too, though initially she wasn’t eager to. But she’s realising, as I am, that freedom of speech is real and powerful. I honestly believe, with my head as well as my heart that, despite Franco’s propaganda, his regime is starting to unravel. I did feel nervous going, I must admit. Ana and I made banners reading ‘
Nosotras también somos ciudadanas – danos tu voto!
’ – ‘We are equal citizens, give us the vote.’ And I felt so proud holding it, I can’t tell you. As I stepped into the moving crowd of women from the side of the road and began to be pulled along with them, I instantly felt as though I was part of a living, breathing organism: all of us working together for social good. The only other procession I’ve been in is Semana Santa, year after year. But we all know how oppressive and false that feels. Quite the opposite of this, which makes me feel like a flower turning its face towards the sunlight for the first time.

During this particular demonstration, we were calling for female franchise, religious tolerance, a free press and a greater openness to foreign investment, and we could do it with our heads held high! Of course there are those, both citizens of Barcelona and fellow students, who loathe what we’re doing. But they also know that they can’t stop us expressing our opinions. Ten years ago this would have landed us in jail, but not any more. I never doubt for a minute that there’s a collective point to our actions; that if enough people demonstrate in enough places throughout the country the government will have to eventually acknowledge the strengthening call for reform.

Even last year I wouldn’t have had the courage to write this letter, but I don’t believe anything will happen now. I believe I can write it and send it and you can read it and I am doing NOTHING WRONG and nobody can say otherwise!

I love you all,

Paloma

O
f course
I choose not to include my liaisons with men in my letters home. There have been a few, but nothing serious. The truth is that ever since my rebellious encounter with Antonio, the Semana Santa
boy, I lose interest a little. I do have male friends and whilst I know that some of them want more, I’m far too fired up by the demonstrations and everything else going on around me to leave much room for romance. This intensifies when I become involved in a movement calling for equal rights for women. I join the youth branch of the university and help organise meetings, debates and social events. During my time with this group I learn so much about female legal and social discrimination and I even write a couple of small articles for the movement’s magazine.

During my final year at university, Franco and his supporters organise a huge celebration to commemorate twenty-five years since the nationalist victory. ‘Twenty-five years of peace!’ they cry from every platform available. Cities, towns and villages the length and breadth of the country are festooned with Francoist posters, but in my little student corner of Barcelona, the poster I see time and again declares ‘1939–1964: A glorious achievement of righteousness over Spain’s godless atheists’.
Mierda
, it makes me crazy to see these propaganda posters hanging on the walls in Barcelona. After all, I know from my parents’ stories that this is a city that held out for so long against the insurgents. Ana and I see students tearing the posters angrily down, ripping them to pieces and burning them in the streets.