The Poet's Wife (4 page)

I attempt to reassure her but find myself being violently sick into the willow’s roots.

‘
¿Mamá, mamá, estás bien?
’
Isabel cries.

I smile and shrug. There can be no doubt: I am expecting.

E
xactly nine months
after our trip to the coast, we welcome our second child into the family. I consent to a more traditional name on this occasion and our baby is christened with Eduardo’s longed-for name, María. Isabel is not delighted to have a new sister. She stands over the crib and peers down her nose at María, her pretty face twisted into a scowl. When she takes to wheeling her around the garden in the perambulator, I imagine she is beginning to accept her sister’s presence, but then on one occasion, Isabel leaves her in the furthest hidden corner from the house, later claiming that María herself wanted to be there. I know I can do little, save wait patiently for the green-eyed monster to release its hold on my first-born.

But this year, due to a strange sequence of events, our family grows not by just a single child. Around three months before the birth of María, we receive a visit from Vicente at Carmen de las Estrellas. We are sitting in the garden, the sinking sun catching against the bright yellow of the lemons hanging from the nearby tree. Even with the large glass of sherry Eduardo has poured him, Vicente is nervous and fidgety, which is quite unlike him,. He asks polite questions about Isabel and our health and how my pregnancy is progressing, all matters we know he is not terribly interested in.

‘
Venga
, Vicente,’ Eduardo says jovially. ‘Let’s hear it.’ My husband has been in good spirits lately; he is looking forward to the arrival of our second child and is enthused by some new poems he is working on.

Vicente shifts in his seat and clears his throat. ‘Yes, well. Eduardo. Luisa. The truth is that there
is
something else I must talk to you about. We need to discuss something extremely important.’

‘
¿Sí?
’ Eduardo asks, smiling.

‘Do you remember when you came to visit several months ago and I told you about a complicated situation that Miguel had got himself into with a girl?’

Eduardo’s smile crumples into a frown. ‘Yes, but what business is that of ours?’

Vicente takes a deep breath. ‘
Pues
…’ he falters.

Eduardo and I exchange a glance.

‘Something terrible has happened.’ Vicente stares into his tumbler of sherry. ‘You see, last week, Miguel returned home one evening to find a box on his doorstep and inside the box was a baby.’

I let out a loud gasp.

‘
His
baby, you mean,’ Eduardo snorts.

‘
Bueno
, his
baby.’

I glance at Eduardo and can see a small purple vein on his forehead that is only visible when he is angry. I place a hand on his arm and look at Vicente expectantly.

‘And?’

‘And because Miguel doesn’t know where the child’s mother lives, he’s had to bring the baby into his house.’

‘How very noble of him,’ Eduardo mutters.

‘And what else?’ I push.

‘And…and what Miguel wants to know is if you will have the baby,’ he blurts out.

This time it is Eduardo’s turn to gasp. His face turns very pale and he stares at his brother, aghast.

‘
Por favor
,
what do you mean, Vicente?’ I ask. ‘How can we possibly take in another child, particularly the child of Miguel?’

Vicente takes a large gulp of his sherry and his eyes flick from me to Eduardo, who has been shocked into silence, and then back to me again.

‘He’s prepared to give you money if you agree,’ he says very quietly. ‘A great deal. I told him to come here and talk to you himself, but he knows how much you dislike him and…well, he’s being a coward. I said that I’d talk it over with you. See what you both thought. So there it is.’

Vicente suddenly looks enormously relieved. He drains his tumbler and helps himself to more sherry. I look at Eduardo, who is gazing out over the mountains, a strange expression of hatred and pity etched into his face. The Alhambra has been cast into shadow and the garden is losing its warmth and I am about to suggest we all go inside when my husband, still staring at the mountains, starts to speak.

‘Do you understand what you are asking, Vicente? I mean, do you…or
Miguel
,’
he scoffs, ‘truly understand? How, for a start, would we be able to explain to people where this child came from—’

‘Yes, but Luisa’s going to give birth soon. Of course that’s one of the main reasons he thought of you. You could tell everyone they’re twins.’ Vicente stares at his brother imploringly. ‘I agree with you that Miguel has behaved outrageously. But he seems to be repentant and he’s going to stop all this messing around with women. Like I said, he would provide you with a handsome sum of money. If you say no…I must be honest with you, I fear for the fate of that child.’

‘Why can’t
you
take the infant, Vicente?’ Eduardo snaps.

‘My wife? Looking after a baby?’ He shakes his head. ‘We decided a long time ago not to have a family and nothing, I fear, shall change that. You and Luisa are marvellous with children, we saw how you were with Isabel when you came to stay with us.’ He draws a hand through his hair and looks at me. ‘Luisa, at least tell me you’ll think about it.’

I glance back at Eduardo, the small purple vein on his forehead pulsating.

‘Let’s go inside,’ I say again. ‘Eduardo and I will need some time alone to talk about this, Vicente.’

‘
Claro
, I quite understand.’

I squeeze Eduardo’s shoulders and he pushes back his chair to stand up. ‘I cannot take in the child of Miguel,’ Eduardo says, staring defiantly at his brother.

‘Edu,’ I press. ‘Oughtn’t we discuss this after Vicente has left?’

‘We can talk all you like,’ his face is ashen, ‘but my answer shan’t change.’ I sigh and pull my shawl around me. I know it shall be a long night for both of us.

M
iguel and Vicente
bring the tiny dark bundle late one night to Carmen de las Estrellas. Miguel holds the baby, entering the courtyard awkwardly and handing him over to my outstretched arms since Eduardo says he cannot bear to see his brother for fear of what he may do to him. I take one look at the child and realise immediately we have made the right decision. He stares up at me with bright, inquisitive eyes and grasps my thumb. I must say it is the first time I have ever seen Miguel acting sheepishly. His eyes dart nervously around the room and he digs his hands deep into his pockets before pulling them out again.

‘I know Vicente mentioned money to you, Luisa. How much do you and Eduardo want? Name your price.’

Money? I have completely forgotten about all that. I continue gazing at the enchanting child in my arms and am about to speak when we hear a creak of the door behind us and turn to see Eduardo standing there.

‘We don’t want your money.’ His voice is quiet but confident and I feel a surge of pride. For the first time in his life, Eduardo holds an incredible power over his brother.

‘We want nothing from you. You disgust me.’ Vicente and I watch in astonishment as Miguel stares at his feet, cowed. ‘I never want you to darken this house again, do you hear me? I want nothing from you towards the upkeep of this child, not now and not while he’s growing up.’

‘Eduardo,’ interjects Vicente. ‘Why don’t you accept some money? For the boy’s future? Tell him, Luisa—’

‘I don’t want your money!’ Eduardo barks so loudly that it makes us all jump.

I rush to my husband’s side and lay a hand on his arm. ‘Edu! Isabel will wake up!’

Eduardo pushes his hair away from his face and stands upright. ‘We don’t
want
your money,’ he says more quietly through his teeth.

‘Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. And…I am extremely grateful, you know.’

‘I don’t want your gratitude either. I’m doing it for this poor creature, not you.’

Miguel nods briskly and makes for the door. ‘Are you going to come now, Vicente?’

‘No, I may stay here a little while.’

As Miguel is about to close the door behind him, Eduardo suddenly remembers something.

‘Oh, d…does he have a name?’

Miguel merely shrugs his shoulders and with that, he is gone.

I
sabel is puzzled
by the origins of this baby and frequently points to my rounded stomach and then to the baby with a bewildered look upon her face. I am pleased that she understands this; after all, I have taught her to be curious of the world around her. But all the same, I do not wish to confuse the child and decide that as soon as she is old enough to explain the situation to her, I shall do. Curiously, Isabel’s aversion to being presented with a younger sibling never extends to her new brother, whom we decide to name Joaquín . She can be equally unkind and spiteful with María as she is loving and gentle with our new child and I can only hope that this shall not always be the case. María is as fair as Joaquín is dark and as timid as he is curious. A less likely pair of twins could never be found, but to our great relief, nobody thinks to question it. Not my parents, nor Eduardo’s, not the postman, the butcher or the stream of visitors that flood through the gates of Carmen de las Estrellas three months after the birth of María. Up until that point, Eduardo and I decide it unwise to allow anyone into our home, as most likely they will discern the difference in age. Thus the story sent out to the world is that I suffered a trying pregnancy and labour and feel terribly fatigued. Joaquín is, naturally, much bigger than María but we explain this is due to the fact he is the first-born and thus more strapping. It is far-fetched, but it works.

I have scarcely a moment to sit and breathe with three small children. Conchi, whom I know will keep our secret, helps enormously in her customary stoical manner. Yet even with the two of us, there seems an inordinate amount of work. I must confess I should be quite lost without her during these days. Eduardo, meanwhile, reluctantly concedes that he is not receiving the financial returns that his poetry merits, and returns to the city to work in the only law firm prepared to accept him after his previous dramatic resignation.

My new role as mother of three consumes me so entirely that it is not until some six months later I feel able to resume my walks across the sierras. Isabel is old enough to walk alone by then, and although Conchi wishes to accompany me and help carry the children, I know her disapproval would be all too predictable should I make my way back to the gypsy settlement, particularly if she discovers we spent a night there. Her older sister still works for my parents and word is likely to reach their disparaging ears through this channel. Anxious that I am embarking on such a walk alone with three children, Conchi helps to attach one baby to my front and the other to my back, furiously pulling at the knots till I am quite winded. María and Joaquín are heavy, but I know if I walk at a slow, steady pace, I can manage it.

We wind our way through the whispering fountains and graceful cypress trees of the Albaicín, along grassy banks by the Río Darro until we reach the
montañas
. It is a day in early autumn and as I breathe the sharp, silvery air into my lungs, I feel utterly free and exhilarated.

I have not been close to the cave at all since the night Isabel and I slept there, though I have thought about it on many occasions and I know that my curiosity is too great to resist walking in that direction. It is intriguing approaching the settlement in daylight, for everything was cloaked in darkness on my first visit. Just beyond the cluster of caves I notice the remains of Moorish walls, crumbling forlornly into the hillside. Children play on the ruins and shout to one another as they balance precariously on the sunken bricks. I can see a number of people, some of them lost in their tasks, and I watch as
gitanos
pick through olives covering large sheets, throwing the bad ones aside. Others sit in small groups between the clumps of sharp-spiked agave plants, weaving baskets from beige strands of esparto grass and I can hear the distant banging of hammers against metal. Most of them heed me no attention, but one woman stands on top of a cave, staring at me with open hostility. Her hands are placed on her hips, belly thrust out, and she glares at me as I nod and carry along the path.

From around the back of the dwelling’s blinding white façade, a wisp of smoke curls upwards and I can hear the crackle and spit of logs being placed on a fire to stoke it. The door is half open and I call into the gloom. Two young children come out, both of whom I recognise from the previous visit.

‘Is your abuela here?’ I ask. They stare solemnly up at me with huge dark eyes before scurrying off around the outside of the cave to the backyard where they call excitedly to their grandmother. A noise startles me and I look up to see that a swallow is building a nest from mud and twigs on the cave and a piece of the wall has dislodged, rattling noisily to the ground. I stare, transfixed, until the children return, beckoning me to follow.

‘
Ven! Ven!
’ they call, their black eyes shining like coal. Aurelia is burning leaves, a musky scent spicing the air. Her hair is drawn straight back and caught up with a clasp at the back of her head, falling down into a tress which rests below her shoulders. Beneath her brightly coloured skirt, she is barefooted and as she moves, her bangles clash noisily against one another. In the sunlight, she looks not as old as I recall; it must have been the cave’s dark shadows throwing lines onto her face that did not truly exist. She looks at us and smiles that same, knowing smile I remember so well from the previous occasion. Scattered around the yard are baskets filled with esparto grass and several half-started woven baskets. How I should love to learn weaving, I think.

‘
Pañí?
’ she asks. I look at her questioningly, for it is a word I am unfamiliar with. She performs a mime of drinking from a glass and I nod. ‘You should learn some Caló, child. Your first word:
pañí
.’