The Poet's Wife (32 page)

‘You haven’t told any of your family about me, have you?’ My smile fades and, biting my lip, I start to explain that I wanted to but didn’t know where to begin or how I could do him justice. Hugging me again, Alberto breathes into my hair. ‘
No te preoccupes
, my family don’t know about you yet, either. I think we’ve both got a lot of introducing to do.’

The following week is blissful and I feel I may burst with joy at any moment. Alberto and I stroll along the Paseo de Los Tristes and over the old stone bridges. We explore the gardens and tiled courtyards of the Alhambra. And we sit in Moroccan tea-houses, sipping at mint tea from tiny painted glasses. Not only is Alberto introduced to all of my family members, who adore him straight away, but I also go to Otivar where I meet his elder sister and grandfather, the only members of his family who have survived the wave of post-war violence directed against left-wing supporters.

Whilst in Morocco, Alberto told me about the fate that had befallen his staunchly Republican family, so I feel I’m prepared to meet them. I’ve learnt to deal with my own family’s loss because I’ve grown up with it. But to walk into a house in which memories and the absence of loved ones audibly echoes around the photograph-lined walls is more than I can take. I feel the warm, calloused hands of Alberto’s grandfather draw around my face and bring me closer to him as he gazes short-sightedly at me. He kisses me tenderly on both cheeks and tells me I should sit at his wife’s seat at the table. I have to muster every last ounce of strength I possess not to break down and cry. Just as my family whole-heartedly accept Alberto, I rapidly feel at ease with Alberto’s grandfather and sister who fuss over me as though I’m a long lost daughter.

In the cellar downstairs is Alberto’s dark room and during the few days that I spend in his home, I’m introduced to the wonder of fixing and setting and the magical apparition of images on contact sheets as they swirl about in the solution. Alberto has shot endless rolls of film and randomly, he chooses just a couple to show me what can be done with them. ‘Incredible,’ I murmur as before my eyes a close-up image appears of myself sitting on the beach, examining some pebbles I’ve just collected. As we develop print after print and I peg them up on the line at the back of the cellar to dry, I come to a picture taken at the start of the film. It’s of Alberto’s grandfather, sitting in his chair outside the house staring wistfully into the distance, cradling a pipe in his hand.

‘This is a sad photo,’ I whisper.

Alberto walks round beside me and studies it as it hangs loosely from the cord, wet blotches slowly drying in the corners.

‘He’s still in mourning. Even after all this time. He lost his wife, his brother, his son and his daughter-in-law. He knows they’re never coming back, but even so, I’ve always felt that deep down he’s never quite given up that hope. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d been away that night, he definitely wouldn’t be around today either.’

Alberto runs a hand through his hair as he blows gently on the drying photo.

‘But…but where were you and your sister when this happened?’

Alberto shrugs. ‘We were locked up in the house. We were only tiny, they didn’t want us. The next day, when it was all over, a neighbour banged the door down and we waited for our grandfather to get back. It was left up to him to explain to us what had happened.’

I feel myself choking as the tears I’ve tried to suppress during my days in Otivar finally work their way free and I reach out for Alberto and cling to him, burying my face deep into his chest. ‘You’ve never told me that.’

His hands stroke my hair as slowly, quietly he responds. ‘Paloma, my heart and soul are yours. But there are some things that will take longer than others to tell you. We still have a great deal to learn about one another.’

I nod into his chest and I suddenly understand that it’s down in the dark depths of the basement he’s chosen to tell me this most traumatic event of his past. For we are in a place where the sunlight can’t fall on his tears and where they can drop noiselessly, anonymously. As I feel the dampness against his cheek, I clasp him tighter and murmur again and again, ‘I’m sorry.
Lo siento mucho
.’

This same afternoon we leave the village and drive to the coast for the afternoon before returning to Carmen de las Estrellas where we plan to have dinner. It’s one of the rare occasions that Tío Joaquín will be there and I’m desperate for Alberto to meet him. I haven’t told Alberto that my uncle is a celebrated musician,
the
Joaquín Torres Ramirez, and I can’t wait to surprise him this evening.

‘Any preferences for where we stop?’ Alberto asks as he hands the road map to me. I’m busy fiddling with the radio dial as fits and starts of heated interviews, flamenco music and news reports burst across the airwaves. Finding some relaxing music, I settle back into the seat, open the map and study the winding lines and clustered towns and villages before me.

‘The coast around here is too developed.’

Alberto nods in agreement.

‘Actually, there is a place I’d like to go to.’ I bring the map closer as I scrutinise the area further along the coast.

‘Where is it?’

‘I’m just trying to remember the name. My mother once told me about a house she went to a few times – I think it belonged to a cousin or brother of my grandfather. Oh, what was the name…’

I frown, place the road map down in my lap and gaze out of the window as we whiz past jacaranda trees and cacti bathed in the golden afternoon sunshine.

‘Mamá’s mentioned it to me a couple of times…I think Papá might have done once as well. A tiny little bay, somewhere not far from the turn-off up to Granada.’

‘We’ve got a while till then. Let’s just keep going and we may spot it.’

I nod and sink back in my seat as I half-close my eyes and look outside. Spring sunshine – there is nothing like it. Nor any light as intensely beautiful as the evening sun. During the years I was away, I always missed the quality of light I swear is more beautiful in my native Andalucía than anywhere else.

‘Paloma…Paloma, wake up.’

Alberto is shaking my elbow, gently nudging me out of my slumber.

‘I’ve passed the sierra turn-off. I kept looking out for a road to take us down to the sea but they were all quite major turnings leading to resorts so I’m carrying on a bit.’

I heave myself up in my seat. ‘Wherever they were talking about could have changed a lot since the last time they went there, but let’s keep going a little further and if we don’t find anything, we can turn back.’

Alberto’s stomach rumbles violently and he turns and winks at me as the landscape around us becomes wilder with lemon groves and olive trees dotting the hills.

‘I think that’s a village over there.’ I point to a white spire gleaming in the distance with the deep blue of the sea beyond it. Alberto continues driving until we reach the centre of the tiny
pueblo
, a palm-tree flanked plaza where old men sit in groups sharing stories and small children chase one another round and splash each other with water from the fountain.

‘Excuse me,’ calls Alberto, leaning out of the car window. ‘Is there a road that drives us down to the coast from here?’

‘
Solo hay un camino estrecho
,’ one old man calls back, nodding with his head in the direction of what looks like a small track, possible only to follow on foot.

‘Is it far?’ I ask.

‘
Media hora, más o menos
,’ he replies before turning back to his companions and resuming his animated debate. Alberto and I look at each other and grin. We both know exactly what ‘more or less’ signifies; that it could just as likely be a ten-minute stroll as an entire hour.

We park the car off the plaza and when we reach the cove forty-five minutes later, there are a few families there. A young boy is paddling in the shallow white sea-foam and an old woman crouches on the sand, barbecuing fish as the smoke carries its mouth-watering smell around the bay.

‘Do you think this is the beach your parents were talking about?’

I shrug as I look around me, shielding my eyes from the low sun. ‘I don’t know, possibly. I seem to remember that the house they were talking about was set back from the coast. I can’t see a house, though.’

We wander slowly over to an outcrop of rocks that give us good views of the crescent-shaped bay, the sea and the sun that has started its gentle descent into the horizon. Alberto has brought some bread and
queso manchego
and we sit and eat in silence. We listen to the steady swell of the waves against the shore and the call of the gulls mingled with the laugh of the young boy as he gleefully runs back and forth. The moon has come out and I gaze up at it, trying to imagine those invisible lines that dance between it and the powerful pull of the tide.

After finishing the food, we stare out across the sea and I take Alberto’s hand in mine, gently stroking it. So much has happened since I’ve met him and I’ve never been so sure about anything else that our lives are entwined. What he told me this morning is just the beginning, I know. I turn to look at him, at his proud profile staring at the ocean. He has the kindest face I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how it’s possible to read such kindness in the features of a face but it is there, unmistakably, from the loyalty of his brown eyes to the set of his brow. And I feel, at that moment, like so many moments since our worlds collided in Marrakech, that I am the luckiest woman alive.

It’s starting to get cold and, as he stands up, Alberto points towards the far end of the cove. ‘What’s that over there?’

I follow his outstretched hand towards the corner of the beach where I try to make out the heap of wood that lies piled there. ‘I don’t know. Let’s go and have a quick look.’

The beach is deserted now and we walk across the sand that sinks under our feet and see what used to be an old hut. One side of it is still partially standing whilst the rest has rotted away with the years and is covered in grains of sand and pebbles. I walk round to the far end and run my hand over the fragile wood, gnarled with age and the dampness of the sea air and a plank falls away under my touch. I bring my hand away sharply and peer under to try to see what is lying beneath the collapsed structure.

‘I think this used to be a fisherman’s hut,’ calls Alberto who is busy setting his tripod up. ‘There are a couple of old rods down there.’ As I crouch down to have a look at them, I start to hear the comforting click of Alberto’s camera. Sure enough, there are a few rods, rendered useless with the passage of time and modern equipment. My imagination starts to run wild with questions. I wonder what the story of this hut is. Who used to come here, what kind of fish did they catch, where did they live, what was their story?

‘Everything has a story, doesn’t it?’

‘Hmm?’ Alberto murmurs as he adjusts the height of his camera.

I smile as I smooth hair away from my face which keeps curling round my eyes in the breeze. ‘Nothing.
Nada
, I was just thinking.’

The sun has reached the level of the ocean, a great ball of crimson fire that turns all the streaked clouds pink. And as it continues to slowly sink, the gulls screech and swoop and scavenge as a cool gust of wind makes me shiver. I dig my hands deep into my jeans.

‘Paloma…’ Alberto says. I look up at him, unsuspecting, into his waiting camera as I hear a faint click. Then he walks towards me and hugs me to him. ‘You look frozen.’

I nod and he tilts my chin up towards him. ‘I love this place,’ he says as he kisses me deeply. ‘And I love you.’ I gaze at him, light dancing and playing with the colour of his eyes and I say the words back to him, knowing that my heart will be his forever.

E
arly in the morning
, as I pull the curtains back in my bedroom, a small greenfinch appears on the other side of the window. It is picking delicately at some foliage and I freeze, not wanting to scare it away, transfixed by the beauty of its green and yellow plumage. I don’t know how long I stand there for, two lives separated by glass, but however long it is, I know it is a gift. The bird eventually hurtles off through the garden, a tiny bullet of startled green. I can never look at the colour green without thinking of Abuela Aurelia, for green was always her colour of choice. ‘
It’s the colour of hope, little one
,’ I remember her saying to me. I can still hear her voice now, as clear as ever.

Over the past few years, Franco has been growing frailer and Juan Carlos of the royal family has sworn loyalty to the head of state and the principles of the movement. For years, Franco has been preparing him as his heir but there is something in those intelligent brown eyes of that young man that I instinctively trust. Of course he has to pay lip service to Franco, but the will of the people is moving away from Francoism, and he knows it. When the general’s closest ally, prime minister Carrero Blanco, was assassinated by ETA a couple of years ago, we all held our breath. What was coming next? Murder can never be the answer to anything, but it was as though the Basques were pinning a label to their actions, shouting ‘
This is for Guernica, this is for your repression of our people. No more.
’

By this time, Paloma and Alberto had been married for a few years and were still living with us at Carmen de las Estrellas. Their wedding was a small affair attended by family and a few close friends with the ceremony in Iglesia San Nicolás and then a celebration back at our home where we drank
vino de la costa
and danced until late into the night. I could barely take my eyes from my daughter all day – she had wound jasmine into her hair and I shall always remember the sight of her and Alberto standing on the patio beneath the wisteria, his arm wound round her waist and their fingers interlaced. Never had Paloma looked so beautiful or contented. There was a look of Mother about her, the mother of my childhood with her long dark hair and natural grace, and I felt more proud than I ever had done in my life.

Henry, I know, was experiencing much the same as me as his eyes were lost into the creases of his face when he smiled. His grey-blond hair, no matter how much water I put on it in the morning to smooth it down neatly, had still worked its way skywards again. Over the course of the day, he took my hand in his many, many times and squeezed it, equally wordless with happiness.

Paloma and Alberto decided to continue living at Carmen de las Estrellas, which I am glad of as there is more than enough room for us all in the house. A morning routine has long been established without ever having to discuss it. Alberto is always up first and he goes out to buy the paper and a long
barra
of bread. By the time he is home, I have made
café
for everyone, strong with hot milk. Henry prepares the table for
desayuno
and Paloma pounds fresh tomato to top the bread, mixed with olive oil, salt and garlic. By the time breakfast is ready and the tomato pulp spread thickly onto the
tostada
I wake Mother with a cup of chamomile tea and sooner or later she joins us at the breakfast table.

And so, this morning when I come downstairs after seeing the greenfinch, everything seems just the same. We all eat breakfast and the newspaper is pushed back and forth between us and nobody speaks; none of us like to talk much at breakfast. Henry leaves for work, Alberto goes down to the darkroom in the cellar, Paloma helps me tidy away and Mother drifts through the patio doors, as she does most mornings to inspect the garden and the mountains.

And then. Do I imagine this or is everything suddenly quiet? Henry returns from work just two hours after leaving and when he comes through the doors and I look round in surprise from the kitchen, I read it instantly in his eyes that something has happened. He reaches for my hands and he stares at me long and hard and he breathes the words ‘
Franco ha muerto
’. Franco has died. Franco has died.

And like moths straining towards the light, everybody in the house gravitates to the courtyard and we all reach out towards one another, a silence bearing down upon us so weighty and so wordless that our only means of communication become small gestures: the nod of a head, eyelids squeezing tightly closed, and mouths opening and closing – words forming in our heads but incapable of transferring to our tongues. It is all too much – it all means too much and how can we say anything with this weightless, soundless pressure bearing against us from all sides?

The death of a single man, arguably, can make no tangible difference to any of our lives. But perhaps this day means so much to us all because we know, in our hearts, that Francoism eventually
will
die with Franco; that our lives
will
improve.
Democracia, democracia
, whispers the wind and for the first time since the Second Republic has been pulled out from beneath our feet all those years before, we can believe it may be returned to us within our lifetimes.

The following days are a blur and tangle. I know that Juan Carlos is crowned king and I know that an enormous memorial service is held for
el Generalissimo
and he is interned at El Valle de los Caidos along with the other victims of the civil war who were lucky enough to have their deaths commemorated. But the details are hazy. What I remember above all else is the voice that comes on the radio at ten o’clock on the morning of his death; Franco’s will being read out to the nation. I hear those words so many times over the following days that they have been forever stamped upon my memory. ‘
I beg forgiveness of everyone
,’ the will reads, ‘
just as with all my heart I forgive those who declared themselves my enemies even though I never thought of them as such. I believe that I had no enemies other than the enemies of Spain
.’

The first time I hear those words, a strange buzzing sensation overcomes me, almost like a jolt of electricity surging through me, because just by hearing these words, a realisation hits me for the very first time through all this lunacy: Franco actually thought he was doing the right thing. Yes, I still believe he was a cruel dictator and yes, I believe the suffering he caused over decades was immeasurable. But despite this, Franco never doubted his own ideals and if it weren’t him, it would have been someone else. So did I have any right to continue hating him? He killed my father; true, he may not have been the one to pull the trigger himself but my father’s death came about as a result of extremism; of fascism; of the suppression of free speech. For the first time ever, I realise that the time will come when I will have to forgive the murderer of my father. Because through the joy and the pain of those following weeks, all I keep thinking of is that small greenfinch and the song of hope it carries on its wings as it flies away from me. Franco, I think to myself, you are wrong that I am an enemy of Spain. I love my country and I love the promise of what it can become. But it can only become this now that you are gone.