The Poet's Wife (9 page)

I watch as Mother reaches out and places her hand on Father’s forearm. ‘It is when people from the same country fight against one another,’ she says.

‘But it’s not going to happen here,’ Father adds hastily. ‘Don’t worry about what the king said. Things will only get better.’

The evening is warm and smells of blossom and jasmine. The sky is lit up with bright colours as showers cascade down in thousands of tiny sparks. From outside the walls of Carmen de las Estrellas we can hear people joyfully making their way through the streets. I am lighter than air and full of sweet invincibility.

I
n these early
days of the Republic, one celebration leads into another. Our family sometimes goes down to the city to join in with the huge street parties and occasionally we’re allowed to stay up till the early hours. People of all ages dance and sing in the streets and plazas
and I watch my parents’ eyes shining with joy and disbelief.

‘And who says us Granadinos
are straight-laced?’ Mother cries as she twirls round in a graceful arc.

We stroll through the sunny streets, stopping occasionally to watch people giving impromptu speeches. One man talks about the need for higher incomes, another speaks of rights for workers, but the word I remember above all others is
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!

‘Freedom from what? Fernando asks. From oppression, Father replies. From tyranny, Mother says. Freedom.
Libertad.
I can’t see personally that we’ve been oppressed, but I breathe
libertad
again and again as though this magic word alone will release the genie from the bottle.

With the Second Republic, Spain has become
la niña bonita
. Everybody wans to show her off, so men scramble up lampposts on street corners to attach Republican flags, the traditional national red-yellow-red flag losing one of its scarlet stripes and being replaced with a deep purple band. Purple has become the new colour, and women come out of their homes in droves wearing fabulous rich purple dresses in velvets and silks and brocades. I even see several policemen striding through the streets with their capes draped over their shoulders, displaying the deep purple inner lining of their garments.

One afternoon when we are all in the city with Mother, drinking
horchata
in Plaza Bib-Rambla, we see a procession of what must be thousands of peasants from surrounding villages marching through the square in support of the new democracy, waving banners of progress and rights against landowners. I feel the beat of wings in my stomach, a flutter of confusion and excitement.

‘Mother,’ I ask, not wanting to seem ignorant in front of my younger brothers and sister but needing to understand it better all the same. ‘Why are they all here?’ To our surprise, Mother responds by banging a fist down on the table, causing our
horchata
to slosh unsteadily in its tall glasses.

‘These poor labourers have been suffering under terrible laws for so many generations. They’ve never had a voice before and they’ve been kept in poverty for too long. Too long!’ Mother’s voice has raised to a shrill level I barely recognise and she clenches her right fist in the gesture of support for the Republic. ‘You see all these people here.’ She waves a hand in the direction of the hordes of
campesinos
passing just metres from our tables. ‘This is their chance,
finally
, to be heard and to rise up against their oppressors. Do you understand, Isabel?’ she asks, her dark eyes staring at me intently. Do I? Not really, but what I see is that these poor-looking people with their work-darkened faces and shabby clothes are overjoyed as they march and their enthusiasm, as well as Mother’s of course, is infectious.

O
ne evening
, during dinner, my parents make an announcement.

‘Children,’ Mother says as she exchanges a grin with Father, ‘we have some wonderful news for you. You have probably heard that the Republic has been opening up many liberal, non-religious schools.’

I hold my breath. Can it be possible that our stifling classes in the attic are coming to an end?

‘Well…’ Father says slowly, looking round at our expectant faces. ‘We have decided that the time has come to enrol you in El Colegio de la Republica!’ Father’s words unravel excitedly and we all gasp. The outside world! The thrill I feel is even better than the smell of Mother’s fortune cookies, freshly baked; it’s even better than being told we are visiting Abuela Aurelia. Finally,
finally
we can escape the sour scent of the attic that slowly roasts us in the summer and freezes our fingers to our pencils in the winter. And not only that, but to me it feels like a great honour; a social experiment of the Republic in which we play the fundamental role.

I have never loved my parents as much as the moment when they give each of us a leather satchel and two new pencils and we walk through the narrow cypress-lined streets from Carmen de las Estrellas, snaking round the bends in single file in age order. ‘Look at me!’ I want to shout to everyone we pass, ‘
¡Me voy al colegio!
’ Of course this is nothing out of the ordinary to the average onlooker of our district who has never held such moral high ground as my parents, but after years of being educated at home by uninspiring tutors, I feel as though I can finally stretch my intellectual limbs.

I take to my classes with an enthusiasm similar to the passion Joaquín has displayed for his guitar and Fernando for his tomfoolery, drinking in the knowledge that flows from our teachers. Going to school doesn’t just change my
life, it also has a profound effect one way or another on my siblings. As the teachers of our school pride themselves on being cultural pioneers for the new Republic, they bring their love of the arts to the classroom in so many inspiring ways. Joaquín’s musical talent is recognised immediately and as well as playing in school concerts and being entered for regional competitions, he begins Saturday classes with a renowned flamenco guitarist.

My parents have always encouraged us in the arts at home, but now we enjoy literature, music, art and theatre in a less lonely and restrictive atmosphere and I’m surprised to discover my siblings’ hidden talents. My brother Juan, for example – poor Juan who never says boo to a goose – suddenly becomes fond of acting. He plays important roles in several school productions which we all attend, astonished to see the transformation from painfully shy child to self-assured actor, completely at ease on stage in a way that he can never maintain once he becomes Juan Torres Ramirez again. María realises she has a talent for needlework and begins making clothes for both herself and all of us. Even Fernando feels less inclined to play the fool in class now that he has come into contact with older boys he looks up to. We feel liberated both creatively and academically, and not only that, but we also make friends at our schools who open our eyes in new ways.

Whilst our minds and imaginations are being nurtured at school, our parents’ lives are also being steered in a different direction. Both of them start to spend more and more time out of the house whilst we are at school, occasionally not returning till dinner time and leaving Conchi and myself to see to the other children. Mother never goes into details about what she is doing, but I have a hunch she is becoming more politically active. Groups of people often congregate at Carmen de las Estrellas in the evenings and weekends and sit in the conservatory drinking small glasses of
café cortado
and thumbing through sheets of papers on their laps. My brothers and sister and I hover in the doorways before tiring of the adult conversations and running off. As far as I can gather, they’re discussing reform of some kind and dreaming of a better future and
libertad, libertad, libertad!

Father occasionally goes along, but usually he’s far too heavily involved in his latest cause to do so. He still practises law, but it’s clear that he loathes it. He has four passions in life: Federico García Lorca, writing poetry, Mother and us children. I’d never say that these passions run in this particular order, because I do know that he loves us all, but I always feel that his love for García Lorca borders on something close to obsession. He tries to make his verse comparable to his hero’s and devotedly follows his career. Somehow Father even gets wind of the poet’s literary
tertulia
gatherings in the Café Alameda in Plaza del Campillo and when he misses dinner, we know that’s where he is. I can just imagine him, dear Father, leaning against the bar trying to look relaxed, hoping against hope that he might be invited to join the gathering. So when a job opportunity comes up to be part of a newly formed committee promoting García Lorca’s project to take theatre to remote villages, Father of course pounces on it like a wild cat attacking prey.

It is a part-time, voluntary position in which his role is to help design the posters that will be taken out to the rural communities and plastered on the doors of the town hall to encourage all the villagers to attend. One late afternoon, we’re all in the garden, lounging on the warm grass, when Father returns home from his voluntary work. He is in such a state of excitement that it takes Mother several minutes to get the story out of him.

‘Calm down, Edu, deep breaths. What,
por Dios
, is it?’

Father is pumping his arms up and down like a bird trying to fly, his mouth opening and closing breathlessly, and María and I start to giggle uncontrollably.

‘I. Have. Been. Invited,’ he gushes, ‘to spend an entire weekend with the committee in a small village.’ He starts to hop from one leg to the other
. ‘
A six-hour mule journey from here over the mountains! Do you know what this means,
cariños mios
?’

Of course we know what it means; that Father will be spending hours and hours in the company of García Lorca, but we all look at him and smile. Like a child chasing sparrows, he runs round and round a walnut tree, laughing and whooping. Juan jumps up and runs after him and eventually Father stops, ruddy-cheeked and breathless, and catches Juan up in his arms. ‘And you,
hijo mío
,
are coming with me!’ This time it is Juan’s turn to give a great shout of excitement and as the two of them continue to scamper around the tree like a couple of schoolboys, I laugh and lie back down in the warm grass and close my eyes, the scent of blossom washing over me.

Many people attend that weekend of theatre to the villages, so it turns out that Father doesn’t get the opportunity to directly speak to García Lorca. But that doesn’t seem to matter. The fact remains that he’s been in close proximity to him, even closer than those
tertulias
he invites himself to in the Café Alameda, and the effect their time away has on both Father and my brother Juan is enormous. When they return late on Sunday evening, they speak excitedly over one another at dinner and I think to myself that Juan speaks more during the next hour than in his whole life up till then.

‘The people in the villages, they were so
poor…
’ Juan says.

‘…but you can’t imagine how much pleasure they derived in seeing these plays performed. It was the first time these poor souls had ever seen theatre and you could see their faces quite literally come alive…’

‘…and they applauded for hours on end…’

‘…not hours, Juan, but I agree, it was a very long time…’

‘…it
was
for hours, Papá. When can we go again? Please tell me we can go again?’

‘I’m sure Federico will invite us again soon,
hijo mío
. Ah Federico, the talent of that man…’

And so it goes on, all through dinner, whilst the rest of us shoot looks of amusement at one another at Juan’s new voice.

S
o the months
following the declaration of the Republic are a happy time for everyone. There is an excited buzz as the rooms of Carmen de las Estrellas fill up with new friends and all kinds of interesting associates of Mother’s. But even though our lives have become far more active and sociable, Mother is sure not to forget our friends on the other side of the valley. We don’t visit Abuela Aurelia and her family as much as I would like, but when we do go I always return with a swing in my stride, a smile on my face –
we
have friends amongst the
gitanos
.

This period of intense joy and opportunity of the new Republic is short-lived, yet to me it feels like a lifetime. A time during which I can taste what it means to live in an exhilarating world. How am I to know that we are sitting on a time bomb that is eating away at the fabric of our society?

One day at school during the mid-morning break, I overhear a cluster of older girls talking in hushed whispers behind me. Something about the urgency of their voices makes me want to hear what they’re saying, so I stop eating my crunchy
galleta
and place it in my lap.

‘…they’re rising up and taking the land by force,’ says one girl.

‘…and
murdering
their landowners,’ hisses another.

‘
No digas tonterías
,’ says a third girl with a loud, authoritative voice. ‘Peasants would never kill their landowners.’

‘They would, and they
are
,
believe me. My brother told me, and he heard it from a friend whose uncle lives in one of the villages where it’s happening.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a very reliable source to me,’ retorts the loud girl. ‘Are you sure it’s not your brother’s friend’s uncle’s cousin’s nephew?’ All the girls laugh. ‘Anyway, even if it is true, perhaps they deserved it.’

Cold fear rushes down my spine and I realise that my biscuit has crumbled within my grasp. I don’t want to hear more and move away from the group across the playground, crumbs scattering the ground. I’m confused – hasn’t everything improved for the poor labourers under the Republic? Aren’t they being paid more now, and seeing new reforms all the time? Surely they can’t
really
be murdering their landowners. Can they? As I walk across the playground, away from the laughing girls, I realise how little I truly understand of what is going on in my country. I feel deeply, achingly ignorant and make a vow to myself to ask my parents to be truthful with me.