The Poet's Wife (5 page)

Aurelia disappears round the back of the cave and a few moments later returns with a vessel filled with water. She pours out a cup for me. ‘Take it,’ she says. ‘
Es un pañí muy puro.
’

‘
Gracias
,’ I reply and gratefully tip the cold water down my throat. Aurelia motions to follow her round one side of the cave where amongst the prickly pears and cacti there is a rusty old table and a few stools lying on their sides. She turns them upright, brushes off the dirt and nods at us to sit down. Gratefully, I heave the weight of the babies off my front and back and look around for Isabel, who is sidling up to the two small children in curiosity.

I sit down and wait for Aurelia to say something. When no words are forthcoming, I clear my throat.

‘¿
Cómo estás, Aurelia?
’

She grunts indifferently as she beckons for one of the children to come to her. The little girl has a mass of black tangled curls and I think wistfully how I should like to take a comb to them, for her hair would doubtless look quite pretty if given a chance. Reluctantly she approaches and raises her hands above her head. Aurelia peels the child’s grubby vest from her body, picks up a pot beside her and scoops out a handful of what resembles thick grease and begins spreading it all over her granddaughter’s back and shoulders, pummelling it in with her callused hands.

‘
Manteca pal cuerpo
,’ Aurelia says as the little girl squirms. She turns the child round to face her so that she can repeat the same lathering on her chest and then once she has finished, does the same with each of the children who begrudgingly come forward.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s lard. I put this on their bodies every day for health and luck.’

‘And…does it work?’ I ask hesitantly.

Aurelia turns round and stares at me, her eyes wide and defiant. ‘What do my grandchildren look like to you? They’re healthy as fleas, each one of them.’ I avert my eyes from her gaze and look down.

‘And you, child?’ Aurelia continues. ‘I see that you have your hands full.’ She gestures towards the babies. María is sleeping and Joaquín has just woken up, rubbing his eyes groggily with his small fists.

‘
Sí
. I…I…had twins.’

Aurelia looks at me long and hard, then stands up and shuffles under the overhanging cloth protecting the mouth of the cave. A few minutes later she returns with a bowl of peeled
higochumbres
, the prickly pears that liberally dot the
vega
. As she pushes the bowl towards me, she looks me directly in the eye.

‘We both know you didn’t have twins.’

I gulp. That same sensation I experienced the last time I was here tugs at me: unnerving yet enticing. Aurelia knows things about me that she oughtn’t logically know.

The children have spotted the prickly pears and are approaching the table. Isabel returns to my side and gawks up at Aurelia who is smiling down upon her like an indulgent grandmother. Nudging me, Isabel points at the old
gitana
.

‘
Sí
, little one,’ Aurelia intones. ‘You remember me, do you not?’

My daughter beams and starts swinging on my skirt. Aurelia hands out
higochumbres
to the children and then places a large one in my hand. I cannot bring myself to eat; I am still reeling in shock from her earlier comment whilst she noisily sucks the juice from the fruit. Finally, I can contain my curiosity not a moment longer.

‘Do you know who this child is?’

Aurelia emits a deep, throaty laugh that makes all the children titter and even produces an enormous smile in Joaquín’s little face.

‘Why,
claro que sí
. This is my grandson.’

I feel all the blood slowly draining from my face. The
higochumbre
falls with a gentle thud to the floor and two dogs immediately hurry over and battle one another for the fruit. Isabel and the small children stare up at me as I push it aside with my foot to move the dogs away.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble. Aurelia looks unaffected by my reaction. When she has finished eating, she licks the juice from her fingers, a thin trickle dribbling down her chin.

‘In fact,’ Aurelia continues, once she has finished, ‘you shall meet his mother. She’ll be back any minute.’

I stare at the old
gitana
, eyes wide open. ‘But…I don’t understand.’

Aurelia kicks at the dogs then leans forwards in her seat. ‘Come now, child. What is there to understand?’

Suddenly, I feel afraid. Afraid of Aurelia’s powers and afraid of what I have just been told. But what alarms me most is that Joaquín’s mother may want to reclaim him. I jump up from my seat and hurriedly begin preparing the makeshift length of material to re-attach the babies. ‘I really ought to get going. It must be late and I—’

‘Sit!’ barks Aurelia.

I stop what I am doing and sink back onto the stool.

‘You have nothing to be afraid of,’ Aurelia says. ‘My daughter does not want the child back any more than you want to give him up. You did a great kindness taking him in, and Mar will be the first to thank you.’ She pulls one of the children onto her lap and absently pats his tousled head with her huge hand. ‘You see how simply we live here. Look at this poor
chaboró
. We can barely feed these children, let alone any more that come along.’ The child nestles into her frame and begins to play with strands of Aurelia’s long silver hair. ‘My daughter falls in love far too easily. Look at these little ones. They are the result.’ Aurelia’s features soften. ‘But for all that, she’s not a bad girl.’

‘How did you know that we took Joaquín in?’

‘Joaquín?’ Aurelia grunts. ‘Is that his name?
Pues
,
how do I know the difference between black and white? How do I know that winter is on its way? Don’t ask silly questions, child.’

With that, we hear a rustling of leaves from the front of the cave. Turning away from the table, there she is. Mar. Against my will, I gasp. Never in my life have I seen such a striking woman. She is dressed in a simple long skirt and loose blouse, but this cannot detract from her beauty or the pride she exudes. It is not difficult to see what my brother-in-law was attracted to. Her long black hair hangs to her waist in curls and she has a bold green sash wound around her head, framing beautiful dark-lashed eyes that flash boldly. Her face is stern and haughty and as she stands there at the gate, hands on hips, I see that she is looking towards her son.
Our
son.

Ever since the extraordinary day that Joaquín arrived at Carmen de las Estrellas, I have thought a great deal about the identity and whereabouts of his mother but did not know how to search for her. I knew that she had given her child up, yet was aware this was an act of desperation and that she had possibly regretted it. On several occasions, I had attempted to contact Miguel without the knowledge of Eduardo, but he remained silent and elusive. At the same time, I found myself growing more and more attached to this mysterious child with his heart-melting smile and dark, intense eyes. I suckled him at my breast and loved him as much as if he were my own. And now, to be confronted with his mother in flesh and blood, and discover that she is the daughter of Aurelia of all people, is almost more than I can comprehend. Surely she shall take one look at Joaquín and wish to reclaim him? The thought of this causes a physical pain to wrench its way through my body and I find myself fighting back tears.

Mar approaches us. She reaches into my lap and holds Joaquín up at a distance, as though inspecting him. The tiny boy peers solemnly at her, his legs dangling in their cotton trousers.

‘Well,
buenas tardes
.’

She immediately hands him back to me and smiles, her features softening.

‘He looks well. You’ve been taking good care of him.’

I know at that moment, with all certainty, that Mar does not want Joaquín back. I feel sick with relief and smile at Mar, who then turns and walks into the cave, the small children scampering after her. A chill has crept into the air and, allowing my breathing to return to normal, I turn to look at Isabel as she chases dancing leaves around the yard.

‘We really ought to return before it starts getting dark.
Gracias
,
Aurelia. For your understanding.’

Aurelia rises, smiling with her pearly whites and reaching for a broom. ‘Don’t thank me, child. Thank Mar.’

I breathe deeply and walk towards the cave where I enter through the low door to see Mar at the stove with her back to me.

‘Mar…’

She spins round, a trace of a faint but cheerless smile upon her lips.

‘You know that you can come and visit any time you want? Truly, I mean that. Eduardo and I have not yet made a decision what we ought to tell him when he is older. But… I know should feel so much happier if you were to be a part of his life.’

Mar half turns, her eyes cast downwards. ‘
Gracias
,’ she whispers, almost inaudibly.

We stand there in silence for several moments. Eventually I turn, organise the children with Aurelia’s help and, as the warmth of the day leaves the valley, bid her farewell as I begin to walk along the jagged path strewn with rusty nails and cacti.

T
hat winter is ruthless
. The cold creeps under the door cracks of Carmen de las Estrellas and tiny icicles hang from the ceilings. Bitter winds whip through the corridors of the house, causing heavy doors to bang and the neighbourhood dogs to howl. We all spend most of the time huddled in the kitchen around the fire whilst icy gusts batter against the windows. I desperately long to visit Aurelia and Mar and take Eduardo with me to meet the mother of our son, but a fierce snow flurry has rendered the mountain paths impassable. Nor has Mar taken up the offer of visiting Joaquín. In order to keep my hands warm and my mind lively, it is during these cold winter nights I commence with my new pursuit of making and selling fortune cookies.

As a child, I read in a book about the Far East that it was common to eat such snacks, breaking open their crunchy shells to reveal wise words written on small scrolls of paper. I have no idea whatsoever of the recipe, but invent my own. I mix almond butter, orange water, molasses, oats, vanilla and mulberry essence, cinnamon and crushed cloves in a huge pot on the stove, thickening the mixture with the most essential ingredient: generous helpings of compressed figs. I then leave the mixture outside in the cold yard to harden a little before moulding it around the fortune. I spend hours upon end writing these out in black fountain pen, inventing un-extraordinary words of advice to the reader, for I am no diviner of the future. But my new pastime keeps me busy and warm and the aroma of spices from my cooking lingers in the air, often sending my children into an agitation of hunger and longing.

By the time winter begins to thaw out and spring is breathing her temperate brightness over the frosted river and slated roofs, I am with child again. I do so enjoy being pregnant; it makes me feel more alive and vital than ever and brings a healthy glow to my cheeks and gloss to my hair.

When I go into labour one month prematurely in the dead of night, I roll over and pinch Eduardo awake. ‘Edu! The baby is coming!’

He moans in his sleep and turns away from me before resuming his snoring.

‘Edu!’ I cry, pinching him harder. ‘Wake up!’

He heaves himself up in the bed. ‘
¿Qué pasa, Luisa?
’ he grumbles, rubbing his arm.

‘He is coming, the baby is coming.’

‘Impossible,’ he replies. ‘We have a whole month—’

‘
Te prometo
, Eduardo, he is on his way. Now go and fetch the midwife and bring plenty of warm water and blankets. And hurry!’

Comprehending at last that my words are in earnest, Eduardo is thrown into a frenzy as he runs to and fro trying to organise everything.

‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ he cries as he darts along the corridors, his thin white legs flailing out from under his nightshirt. At one point, he stops in his tracks. ‘How do you know it’s a
he
?’ he calls, but I am in mid-contraction and cannot answer. It is a good question, however. I have in fact known for some time; sometimes a mother just knows such things. In the weeks following the birth of our son, Eduardo comments that it was probably due to the manly kicks he gave whilst still wrapped up inside me. I say not a word, but this is certainly not the case. One can say many things about my darling Juan, but he should be the last of our children to be giving great kicks, manly or otherwise.

Delicate as an orchid, Juan is the spitting image of his father. He wails at the slightest provocation, suffers chronically from asthma and is allergic to a multitude of things, from dust to dogs. But for all this, he is the most sweet-natured child imaginable.

I am busier than ever dealing with the ups and downs and caprices of four children. Of course it is no surprise that Joaquín’s appearance is something of an anomaly, for as he grows his entire countenance turns darker. But the dissimilarities between the other children only help to assimilate Joaquín smoothly into our brood.

Eduardo continues his work at the law firm, devoid of enthusiasm. He has little choice, considering the pace at which our family is growing. Nevertheless, not once have I heard him admit he practises law. ‘Poet,’ he utters, his bottom lip quivering with pride. ‘
Granadino Musings
, 1920, Brocches Publishing House.’

Amidst the whirlwind of feeding, bathing, dressing, changing, mopping up and generally raising children, I never cease hoping I shall receive a visit from my friends on the other side of the valley, but as the months pass, I have to acknowledge it is becoming less likely. Any spare time I find, I spend in the kitchen stirring my pot of fig flesh and fortune with a wooden spoon, humming happily as the breeze carries the aroma out of the open kitchen windows.

In September our family begins to make preparations for Isabel’s fourth birthday. Eduardo suggests a quiet family tea-party in the courtyard beside her orange tree. Señor and Señora Torres, however, are calling for a far more ostentatious affair in one of the city’s finest tea-houses, modelled on a French patisserie with balloons, tartlets and cousins one and all. Frankly, it is dreadfully pretentious but just the kind of place that my parents-in-law adore. The notion fills Eduardo with horror as no doubt it shall involve the presence of Miguel. Ever since the fateful day on which his brother handed the sleeping Joaquín into our arms, Eduardo has managed to avoid his brother entirely. Miguel’s eyes have never fallen upon his son and Eduardo tries to avoid the impending tea-party in every conceivable manner.