Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “We don’t have to make small talk on the phone while you’re away, Caya, I’m okay.”

  “I do need to go and get changed, I’m covered in blood. That last bull squirted all over me.”

  “Aww,” Luna laughed. “Oh, the glamour of bullfighting. Go and shower, and enjoy an evening in Seville with Paco, Eduardo and Alonso. I’m sure you gents will enjoy yourselves.”

  “I won’t touch the girls, though. We’ll spend most of our time pulling Alonso off them. That man’s wandering hands…” Cayetano sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow before you leave for Madrid, even if we have nothing to say.”

  “That’s very sweet. Goodnight, cariño.”

  “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  The moment Luna ended the call, she grabbed her laptop and looked up the historical memory website. Images of missing relatives from the civil war filled the homepage, but the information on the protest took centre stage. Puerta del Sol in Madrid, Friday April 24, 20:00. There would be the main players in the association, and it would be a splendid chance to talk to them about the grave at Escondrijo. Luna understood the pain of these people; she too spent years looking for her grandfather. All she found was his gravesite in the middle of nowhere, his body shot in the back and abandoned. Not everyone had been as lucky as Luna, many didn’t know what happened to their relatives. Others did; they knew where their makeshifts graves were, but couldn’t do anything about them. Everyone who cared about these forgotten people needed to make their voice heard.

  The phone rang and interrupted Luna’s reading. “Tomás,” she said, her voice quiet. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but I fear you’re not.”

  “I’ve had better days. I hate to say it, but I’ve been avoiding you, Tomás.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. You and Darren had an intense and private conversation in a public setting.”

  “No, I’m glad you were there to witness the whole ugly scene; now Darren can’t take back his admissions.”

  “It’s a tricky situation. Darren hasn’t been found guilty of anything, and I don’t suspect him to be using drugs or blood doping now.”

  “I don’t think Darren is cheating now either, but considering how much he has lied in the past, I wouldn’t believe anything.”

  “Luna, I have been trying to figure to how we all move forward with this situation. I don’t know if you have spoken with Darren…”

  “No, and I don’t want to, either.”

  “That is going to make things tricky between my number one rider and his personal mechanic.”

  “I know, Tomás, I know, and right after you lifted the suspensions on both of us.”

  “If Darren goes public with this admission, he won’t be censured in any way because he never won anything during those dark years.”

  “But Fabrizio is dead, how much trouble could he get into now?”

  “None, I suppose, but you still get hurt.”

  “I don’t think Darren would breathe a word of his admission to the public. He has too much to lose.”

  “That…” Tomás took a long pause… “that’s why I have decided to let the situation rest. There is no sense in me firing Darren from the team. He’s clean now, and the truth may not ever get out. The case of Doctor Ferra may never get to court.”

  “You will let Darren be your lead rider, even though you know he’s a cheat?”

  “Ciclo Valenciana has made ambitious claims. We said we would be a rookie team that wins the Tour de France. We don’t have any other riders as experienced as Darren. He will win this year, and I have sponsors to keep happy. We can’t just go to France with a substandard team and under-perform – or our budget will get cut. I have no choice but to forgive Darren’s past transgressions and move forward.”

  Luna sighed. “I understand, Tomás, you have a team of forty staff to employ. If the team collapsed, everyone would be out of a job in an economy that wouldn’t afford them the option of other employment.”

  “I’m glad you understand. However, I’m sure you can’t work with Darren now, Luna.”

  “What do you do when the person you trust the most, is the person who hurts you? Darren and I… I’m not sure we can ever deal with one another again.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him; get the answers you need.”

  “The questions I have are all directed at a dead man, so there will be no closure for me.”

  “So, you can’t work as Darren’s mechanic?”

  “I doubt it, but I also can’t swap jobs with the other mechanics. I can’t work to their schedule, because of my sons.”

  “The schedule of working with Darren was unique, and we bent it to fit into your life, Luna. We can’t change now.”

  “So, you’re saying either I work with Darren, or I’m fired from the team? My three-year, half a million Euro contract is dead?”

  “It helped you get your work permit renewed, so it wasn’t a total loss.”

  “I can’t believe I’m the one getting fired, Tomás! You, the man so hell-bent on cleaning up the sport! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “I’m sorry, Luna, but that’s the facts. Let me know on Monday if you want your job with Darren… or not.”

  “Thanks, Tomás… for nothing!” Luna hung up the call and threw the phone on the coffee table. Someone had to pay for all this, but Luna wouldn’t be the victim, not anymore.

  21

  Madrid, España ~ Mayo de 2010

  As the sun set over a cloudless sky, the bustle of inner-city Madrid was in full swing. Puerta del Sol, the heart of the capital, filled with sound, with life. The austere and reserved city was alive, alive with the sounds of angry Madrileños.

  “If I knew you loved this type of thing, we should have become friends sooner!” Sofía said over the noise.

  “There’s a lot you Beltrán’s don’t know about me yet,” Luna replied.

  The pair stood with their backs against a store window, and Luna held the hands of her little boys. It would be easy to become lost in the scuffle. Across the rectangular plaza sat the dominating terracotta and grey Town Hall building, its doors shut. Policía Municipal officers flanked across its frontage. The type of officers who wore balaclavas. The kind happy enough to beat anyone they considered trouble.

  On a normal placid Madrid evening, the square would be packed as people moved about Madrid’s old town. Where Luna and Sofía stood, on the corner of Calle Preciados, people flowed in and out of the generic El Corte Inglés department store. The circular fountains, which usually flowed water as people sat around their concrete edges, sat dry. A statue of King Carlos III on horseback had a temporary barrier built around its already barricaded trunk, for protection. The plaza wasn’t itself. Newspaper kiosks didn’t bustle with locals buying their daily read or tourists purchasing postcards. Street cleaners and beggars didn’t hustle between the myriad of patrons; the taxis had all been moved on from their rank. Despite the change from daily life, Puerta del Sol still had its soul, because the people of Madrid were coming in droves.

  Across the wide plaza, Luna watched the first of the protestors march into the square. The air filled with the sounds of whistles, blown by the police, which echoed in the plaza on the still night. Television cameras held by enthusiastic operators jumped in and around the protestors as they captured the action.

  “Ready to go and denounce the government?” Sofía said with a grin, and they set off across the square, dodging both officers and bystanders. The protest began to flood the square, the crowd underneath a sea of red, yellow and purple flags, the flag of the Republic. The flag that Luna’s grandfather Cayetano had fought for in the civil war. Others waved Spanish flags, some were flags of their local areas or their unions. People chanted and cheered, waved their flags and held up their signs. The people weren’t happy, not with their socialist government, their prime minister, or the monarchy that lorded over Spain.

  “I came prepared,” Sofía said over the noise of chants, w
histles, and drums being banged by protestors. She opened her satchel and pulled out rolled-up Republican flags. “Should we join in the fun?”

  “Absolutely,” Luna said with a smile and unrolled a flag. She handed the soft fabric to the boys. “Here you go, gentlemen, you can carry this one together if you want.”

  “Cool,” Giacomo replied. “Let’s go and yell at… someone.”

  “It will make sense one day,” Sofía said to her future nephew. “Remember, we’re Spanish, and we need to stand up for ourselves and our country.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Enzo said and waved his flag.

  “What’s your plan, Luna?” Sofía asked as they started to blend into the protest, which overtook Puerta del Sol at a great pace. Thousands of people had turned out for the event. “Which cause do you want to protest?”

  Luna looked around; signs everywhere spoke the issues facing Spain in 2010; most about spending cuts and intended austerity measures. Some protested the plan to change the retirement age. Unemployment was being highlighted. Union officials carried large signs, calling for the prime minister to change labour laws. In that one plaza, it felt like all of Spain was mad. Angry people felt threatened and were prepared to fight back. Luna had lived in Spain for a decade, most of it under the socialist government, and things had been pretty quiet, calm, under control since the Madrid Metro train bombing of ‘04. But since the recession began, power was slipping away from Spain’s left-wing government.

  “I want to protest against restrictions of family members digging up civil war graves,” Luna said to Sofía, a challenge over all the noise. Luna draped her Republican flag over her shoulders and placed a hand on each of her boys. She liked the idea of the Republican flag; while the left-wing party was in power, it gave her a connection to her forgotten Spanish family.

  “Then you’re in luck!” Sofía pointed over to the edge of the plaza where the protestors continued to spill into the square. A huge banner, the length of the street, read Verdad, justicia y reparación para las víctimas del franquismo. Truth, justice and reparation for the victims of Franco.

  “That’s who we’re here for,” Luna said, and they began a tricky fight through the crowd toward the historical memory protestors. As they got closer, Luna could see their sign better. They contained photos of family members, lost during the war, waiting to be discovered. Most in the crowd were middle-aged or older; some elderly and aided by younger relatives. They represented the broken hearts that still existed in Spain, those courageous enough to voice their trauma. They were the smallest group in the protest, but these people’s voices needed to be heard.

  Through the crowd, Luna spotted the man she needed to see. She pulled her little ones forward, and Sofía followed close behind them. Despite the volume of people, when they saw Luna with the boys, everyone was happy enough to step aside and let her through. This particular group of protestors, swallowed up by thousands of other people around, were less vocal than their counterparts.

  As the groups managed to come to a spot outside the Town Hall building, Luna stepped forward to a tall man, who held the enormous sign in its centre. “Jorge?” Luna called out. “Jorge Arias?”

  The man turned and looked down at Luna, squished behind him with the boys and Sofía. “¿Sí?”

  “Hola, soy Luna Montgomery.”

  The young man’s face lit up with recognition. “Luna, yes of course, I got your email last night. So glad you made it. I read your message, about finding your grandfather’s grave in Valencia.”

  “It’s sad,” Luna replied as they continued to shuffle forward. The protest came to its finishing spot in the centre of the plaza, now full with protesters, those curious, and those who would like to see them gone. “All these people here, wanting to find the peace I received when I located my grandfather’s grave.”

  “Indeed,” Jorge replied and looked out over the group of aging protestors. “But still, we work to recover bodies from mass graves as best we can. The association has eight such fosas open at the moment, each body begging to be identified and reburied with dignity.”

  “Have you been digging for long?”

  “I’ve been with the association since we opened the first pit ten years ago. We’ve located almost 8,000 people since, though only 2,000 identified, but that is a tiny fraction of the people lost in Spain. We have another 100 to 200,000 left to find. You mentioned you found a grave on your land in Valencia.”

  “I did, and I’m not sure how many people are buried there, or whether they are from the war.”

  “You can contact the Guardia Civil, and they will remove the bones and get testing done.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Do you mean, ‘will they care, or tell the truth?’ That’s a tough question. I can come out and see your grave if you wish. There is a long winded process to go through if you want to identify human remains.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “We can help you, but it’s expensive. The association has been petitioning the government to pay for the digging and reburials for years, but each case is dealt with individually. Even the prime minister himself has a murdered grandfather who was unaccounted for, but still, our association is shunned. We need to raise money for each dig. The 2007 law change regarding grave digging made it legal, but it didn’t help much with funding.”

  “I have money, that’s not a problem. I’m aware there will be costs involved.”

  “How well versed are you in Spanish civil war history, Luna?”

  “Very well versed.”

  “Then you’ll know we haven’t been digging up many graves in the Valencia region. All of Spain is affected, but burial pits aren’t often uncovered in the area. Many were dug up without permission in the fifties and moved to Franco’s tomb, Valle de los Caídos, outside Madrid.”

  “There are more out there, I’m sure of it. After all, Valencia was the capital of the Second Spanish Republic. Despite the fact that the front lines were far away from Valencia in the war, things happened.”

  “Your grandfather is a prime example of that. Not all of our graves are civil war era, some are reprisal killings in the 1940’s that have been unearthed. We can help you, Luna.”

  “Mummy,” Enzo moaned, and Luna looked down at him. His eyes filled with tears. “I don’t like this, it’s too noisy.”

  “And too pushy,” Giacomo said.

  “I’ll call you on Monday if you like,” Jorge said. “Niños always come first. Things are crazy here, and I’ve just got back from a dig in Segovia.”

  “Feels like Spain has gone to hell tonight,” Luna commented.

  “This is just the beginning,” Jorge replied. “Things aren’t going to improve; imagine what the country will be like in a year. The economy won’t just improve on its own. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up with another right-wing government, and things will only get worse.”

  Luna made her polite farewell to the man and edged the frazzled children away from the crowds. They stood on the side-lines at the foot of Calle Montero and watched the protesters chant at the shut-up Town Hall building.

  “You’re welcome to go and join in,” Luna said to Sofía. “But when my boys say they don’t like something, I back off again.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Sofía replied and smiled down at the boys. “Shall we go and get a drink?” she asked them.

  “Can we drink Coke?” Giacomo asked with a cheeky smile.

  “Yeah, Coke, because we have been so good today,” Enzo added.

  “Yes, all right,” Luna said and watched their faces light up with excitement.

  “I know a fantastic bar on Calle de la Cruz. Enough room to sit down and chat, very modern, very contemporary, without that squashed sensation so many little bars around here can exude.”

  “I like squeezing into little bars. But after squeezing my two kids in and out of a protest, not so much.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Sofía said as she cleared a path through the cr
owd that lined the outskirts of the plaza, so the kids felt less intimidated by the gathering. “But people are mad. People that I work with, since we’re public servants at the Registro Civil, we’ve all had a pay freeze.”

  “Ouch,” Luna remarked as they left Puerta del Sol and headed up crowded Calle de Carretas away from the plaza.

  “Still, better than your employment troubles. Caya told me all about your fight with your cycling friend.”

  Luna glanced at the boys, who weren’t listening to the adult conversation. “Looks as if I’ll be joining the ranks of the unemployed again.”

  “You can become a maruja,” Sofía laughed.

  “A gossiping housewife? I will leave that Inés.”

  “My mother has been a housewife all her life; she doesn’t understand the concept of work.”

  “She does; she has been a mother most of her life.”

  “True.” Sofía watched Enzo wave the Republican flag at his brother and smiled. “We’ve done our bit for Spain tonight, let’s go and relax, and stimulate the economy with a few drinks.”

  22

  Madrid, España ~ Mayo de 2010

  Cayetano shut the front door of his pristine Madrid apartment and paused. Giacomo and Enzo jumped up from their toys on the living room floor and ran to greet him in the entrance way, both picked up and squeezed. “My boys, you are getting so heavy,” Cayetano groaned, and the pair giggled. “This man can’t pick up the two of you anymore.”

  “Did you kill some more bulls?” Giacomo asked.

  “I did; two in Seville and two in Jerez. Though, the ones last night weren’t so strong, one was so skinny, and one was muy gordo.” Cayetano puffed out his cheeks and pretended to be fat, and the boys giggled again. “Never mind, they will be steaks and hamburgers by now.”

  “Did you bring us presents?” Enzo asked.

  “Enzo,” Luna chastised as she came out of the kitchen.

  “Of course I brought presents.” Cayetano turned and unzipped his small suitcase. He pulled out two child-sized red bullfighting capes. “Now you can practice your passes with a cape of your own.”