“Of course,” Luna said with a sarcastic chuckle.
“So you just decided to start a tutoring school, and you want us all to jump for you?” Paco asked.
“Why not? Why should our talents go to waste while we wait for Paquito to compete?”
“Only if Paquito wants to compete,” Luna warned. “I won’t have Paquito pushed into being a bullfighter.”
“It’s in his blood.”
“Fine, I just don’t want that blood spilled over a corrida filled with sand.”
Cayetano glanced over at his children, playing with the other Morales children on rows of huge cushions laid out for them to jump all over with joy. “Okay. I understand. Why not start a training school?”
“Good bullfighters don’t make good teachers, Caya,” Paco warned. “Good bullfighters are good because of their instincts.”
“I’m not good, I’m great,” Cayetano sighed with a smile. “I’m ‘El Valiente’ Beltrán.”
“Sí, sí, and handsome enough to make girls giggle when you pose in your underpants on billboards,” Paco chided his son.
“Hey, in my last billboard I was dressed!”
“Paco,” Luna said, to stop the potential for an argument between father and son. “You have a reputation, a legacy, on being the man who orchestrated an empire based out of poverty. What Caya is saying, about taking in young guys with potential, fits that image well.”
“If nothing else, we can train them to ride horses and then be cheap labour with the bulls we’re breeding,” Pedro added.
Pedro’s son, Miguel, laughed, no doubt tired of picking up so much slack at Rebelión since the 2010 budget cuts reduced staff to a minimum. “Papá is right. Young toreros and banderilleros can learn strengths and weakness’, stamina, speed, how to attack and defend, all from working with bulls. Watching bulls in the fields, locking horns with one another gives toreros skills.”
“Training camps on exercise, scheduling… maybe we could recruit a few to drive the long distances we have left over this year,” Eduardo joked from his seat across the rooftop restaurant.
“We could train these fighters and then breed bulls to suit them. Once they’re stars, we will have a steady income as premier ferias request our bulls more often,” Cayetano said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Wow, you’ve planned the whole thing already,” Paco sighed. “You don’t need an old man like me.”
“Are you kidding, Papá? Fighters would love to learn about your style of performing, you are traditional and raw when you fight. We’ll name the school after you.”
“I haven’t fought in years. I have thought about taking on fighters before, but I spent my life being invested in Caya. Now, I don’t have the youth required to make spur-of-the-moment decisions. They’re risky.”
“I made the risky and stupid decision just to leave my home and move across the world with a man much older than me, a man I was seeing long-distance. I ended up with a husband and two sons,” Luna said. “Okay, it didn’t end well, but it wasn’t because of the impetuous starting Fabrizio and I had with our marriage.”
“Maybe,” Paco said. “We have many changes coming up, so let’s not be hasty.”
“Let’s enjoy my pure magnificence,” Cayetano said and leaned forward for his wine on the nearby coffee table. “It will be a long time before a torero of my calibre appears in Spain. His name will be Alejandro Paco Beltrán Montgomery.”
“Will he have an ego as large?” Luna added, to the laughter of the entire group, except Paco. Luna noticed Paco was not himself today; his son had performed for the King and took on the responsibility with great skill and behaviour. Cayetano wanted to take over Rebelión as Paco always wanted. The ganadería could go on to do great things after stumbling through the recession. Yet Paco wasn’t acting as anyone would have expected. In the shadow of ‘El Valiente’s great success, ‘El Potente’ Beltrán was quiet in his son’s shadow.
31
Madrid, España ~ Junio de 2014
“If you’re tired, I can drive, Caya.”
Luna looked at her husband as she spoke, but he remained motionless behind the wheel of the huge Mercedes. The children sat in the back, Paquito and Scarlett in their car seats behind their parents, fast asleep. Giacomo and Enzo sat in the third row of seating, chatting about the views of the plains that surrounded Rebelión. The fifty kilometre drive from La Moraleja had been in virtual silence in the front seats, Cayetano uncomfortable about the entire day.
“Caya?” Luna said again.
“Look, I’m fine,” he muttered, his scarred fingers massaging the leather steering wheel while he drove. The family were just a few kilometres from the gate to Rebelión now. The tension in Cayetano’s fingers said everything Luna needed to understand about his mood.
“Can we talk now, so we don’t end up yelling at each other when we arrive?”
“Why will you be yelling, Mamá?” Enzo interrupted his parents.
“Honey, you know Spanish people,” Luna said with a smile. “Spaniards yell everything, even when they’re happy. Big strong voices.”
Giacomo and Enzo giggled, and Cayetano gave Luna a frown. “Please,” she said.
“Okay, fine, let’s have this conversation. I never, ever liked that you went on the hunt for bodies at Escondrijo, nor did I approve of digging up anyone. But, I am glad you found your grandfather, and I’m glad that Papá’s biological mother is formally identified. I’m glad that Montserrat Lugo got her parents’ bodies, and that Inmaculada Ortiz got her mother’s body. Considering how ugly the whole scenario of the Escondrijo bodies could have been, it’s all turned out pretty well. But digging up Escondrijo almost killed you. It caused a lot of heartache for Papá; the situation caused my grandparents trouble, though they never admitted anything in regard to the murders on the mountain. Now, if we go to Rebelión today and tell Pedro, Jaime and Luis about the discovery of their real mother’s body, it could destroy our family. You and I and Papá and Miguel have known the facts about the body for four years now. Four years we have lied to my uncles. None will take the news of their adoption or abduction well. How can I, as a torero, function without them? Plus, how can Rebelión function without them? How can we be a family without them? Rebelión is in Papá’s name; technically they have no claim to their homes, their jobs, the business, anything. We are a family, so everyone shares the spoils. Once that’s broken, won’t we all be broken, too?”
“So what should we do? Lie forever? Abandon the body of the gypsy girl at the university lab? Deny everyone the truth?”
Cayetano turned off the dusty unsealed road and drove through the towering white arch gates of Rebelión. “What if, just say, Pedro is the child of this woman? Only Miguel got a positive DNA result. Without DNA testing, we can prove nothing about Jaime and Luis.”
“I waited years for my whole family’s identity, and I’m happy to have it all. If someone else knew who my grandfather was and didn’t tell me, I would be livid.”
“It’s different for you, Luna; you looked for Cayetano Ortega’s body on behalf of your father, who missed out on a relationship with him after the war. We are talking about three brothers, whose parents are now dead, and their sister, too. If we tell them perhaps they had another family, and their mother is an unidentified body, and their father is a mystery, how will that feel? Besides, we’ve nothing to offer them, other than a partial DNA match and loads of theories.” Cayetano glanced in his rear vision mirror as they pulled into the dusty, parched area outside the fenced yard around the mammoth Rebelión mansion house. “Kids,” he said, “can you hear us talking?”
“What?” Giacomo asked. “I can’t hear you over the air-conditioning.”
“At least we can rely on their discretion,” Cayetano muttered as he cut the engine.
Right on cue, Paco appeared from the front door of the house, a wide smile on his face. Giacomo and Enzo jumped out to give their grandfather a hug and kiss, and Scarlett awoke with all the nois
e; the child jumped straight into Paco’s arms the moment Luna unbuckled her from her car seat. Paquito didn’t want to wake, and clung to his mother, his face buried against Luna’s neck.
“It’s 37 degrees, and all is well,” Paco said with a bright smile and bounced Scarlett in his arms. “I’ve just been on the phone with the guys in San Sebastian. The fight there tomorrow will be spectacular, Caya.”
“I’m not sure how you all do it,” Luna said as the group inched towards the main doors, the wooden archway wide open. “It’s five hours by car from Rebelión to San Sebastian. Toreros drive all day and fight all evening! And then will you drive hours to Gijon and fight again, and then it’s another five hours back to Madrid from there.”
“Bullfighters drive, it’s what we do,” Paco shrugged. “Flying is too hard, likewise trains, with the equipment needed. Cars are fine for the journeys.”
The group wandered through the massive entranceway and down the hallway to the wide, open living space. The bi-fold doors were all open and the home, designed in white and gold, connected with the outdoors in perfect symmetry. The children went straight for the lush green yard off the balcony steps, pleased to be out of the car. Paco and Luna sat out on the chairs on the balcony while Cayetano went in search of a drink.
“Tell me everything, my girl,” Paco said as Scarlett slipped off his lap to play; Paquito refused to budge from Luna’s embrace. “I’m always pleased to see you and the children at Rebelión, but you didn’t need to bring Caya here, he could have joined us on his own.”
“School finished for the summer, so I have time for a drive. I’ll go to Valencia tomorrow for a few days. There is another homeless family moving into my apartment for a week until Sofía can rehouse them. I need to be ready for them.”
“How is your face? Still sore?”
“No, no, I just want to put all that behind me.”
“Why is my son so tense?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Bullfighters are a study in body language. Caya walks as if he has a wooden plank strapped to his spine today. Also, he never fetches the drinks, so something is wrong with him.”
Luna smiled as she watched her children playing a short distance away. “Escondrijo – the DNA results.”
“You’ve got news.”
“Well, Cayetano Ortega is my grandfather. Thanks to the DNA sample you gave Jorge, they confirmed that Sofía Perez is your mother.”
“There goes my last glimmer of hope that is a bad dream. Luna Beltrán is my aunt, not my mother.”
“Do you wish you never found out? I realise I’ve asked this before...”
“If I could ask my mother why she lied, why she faked birth records to say I was her son, that would help. It was done with good intentions. My real mother died and my father ended up in a concentration camp. I still love the woman I thought was my mother, no matter what. But I wish she told me the truth.”
“Look who I found,” Cayetano raised his voice as he weaved his way through the fine furnishings to join the pair on the balcony. He carried a tray of cold drinks, and alongside him stood Miguel, covered in dust. His wavy black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat; his clothes also looked sticky and uncomfortable. Miguel was his usual handsome self, with a welcoming smile for the new arrivals.
“Luna has identified her grandfather’s body at last,” Paco commented as Miguel kissed her cheeks and tried not to spread Rebelión dust all over her.
“Congratulations, though you always knew he was your abuelo, ¿no?” Miguel asked.
“It’s still nice to gain proof,” Luna shrugged.
“Now, we must decide on the truth about the gypsy girl’s body. We assumed her name was Carmelita, ¿no?” Paco asked. “Is that what José said to you, Caya?”
“Papí said it all in passing,” Cayetano said, his voice deep and sceptical. “It’s all conjecture. We have a DNA match for Miguel and the gypsy girl and that’s it. We don’t know if she is the mother of the three Morales brothers.”
“Caya, all the clues we have found indicate that my father and his brothers are all adopted,” Miguel replied. “They suspect it themselves. All three are dark with their southern gypsy colouring, yet José and Consuela were Madrileños. It all makes perfect sense. Three DNA tests and the three men will learn of their parentage for certain.”
“We also suspect that José murdered the gypsy girl,” Luna added. “That isn’t good news.”
“Plus Alysa’s father, a close friend of José’s in Valencia… What if he had something to do with the killings?” Miguel wondered.
“Let’s not go down that road, we will never get the answers.”
“I wonder if we should tell the truth. We can bury this Carmelita girl in Valencia and move on,” Cayetano said to the group.
“How is that fair?” Luna asked. “Carmelita was killed; her children stolen from her. They have birth certificates, signed by the dodgy Doctor Adán Lugo, stating José Morales and Consuela Pena were their parents when they weren’t. If we search for a woman matching Carmelita’s description, I’m sure we’ll find everyone’s real identities. Doesn’t this poor girl, whose neck got broken before being hidden in the wilderness, get to be named, recognised and buried?”
“I’m not sure what to do,” Paco shrugged. “I feel lost. I’ve lost my Inés and I know this would have hurt her, if she had known. Consuela adopted three boys but she may have had no idea how or where they came from. There are so many unanswered questions…”
Miguel raised his hand, to pause the increasingly hostile conversation. “I have known the truth for four years. I am the son of Pedro and Jovana. I am a member of the Morales family. Since I found out my father isn’t a Morales, does that mean I am no longer part of the family?”
“Of course not,” Cayetano scoffed and placed an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “We are a family.”
“And Pedro, Jaime and Luis are brothers. They are family, they are Morales men. We should tell them the truth.”
“I am going to Valencia in the morning,” Luna said. “Sofía and I can search for the identity of the woman we call Carmelita. We know when she died, her approximate age, and that she bore three sons. It shouldn’t be too difficult. We should collate all we’ve learned and present it to Pedro, Jaime and Luis. They deserve a clear picture when we tell them.”
“Agreed,” Cayetano said. “Let’s wait a little longer before we destroy our family.”
“We should let Miguel decide,” Paco said and turned to his nephew.
“Luna is right,” Miguel said. “Get the facts straight first. But I am an advocate for the truth.”
32
Madrid, España ~ Noviembre de 1975
Three weeks. Every minute for the last three weeks, all Jaime could see was a bullet going into Apolinar’s chest. Jaime wasn’t sad; he didn’t even know the guy. But fear was a powerful opponent. Someone had tipped off those secret police in black; someone told them where to find the would-be bombers of the Valencia Town Hall. Nothing was said in the papers even though Jaime scoured everything he could get hold of since the shooting. Given the wide range of attacks happening around the country, coupled with killings, protests, and people setting cars on fire, the last thing the government needed was to discuss an attempted bombing. Reality had enough to concern itself with every day, without the stories of foiled attacks. It was as if Apolinar never existed at all.
The news each night and the papers each morning ran the same stories – the fate of Franco. His health changed by the minute, by the hour – each newscast told a new story, his body pointed at like a map of a nation heading to war. The news swore Franco was on the road to recovery, but even a simpleton could look at the information and know a man of his age wouldn’t just get off the bed and go home. Shares in the Spanish stock market soared as Franco edged closer to death. Day by day, things quietened down on all fronts, and Spain almost breathed a sigh of relief. Some were already preparing for a post-Franco life,
though what that looked like, remained a mystery.
Alazne was almost two months pregnant; the abortion still not a reality. She and Jaime fled Valencia the moment they had the chance. Jaime bought two tickets to Madrid, and they slept, on the ground, in the train station until transport took them to safety. All of Alazne’s belongings had been in Apolinar’s apartment, but they couldn’t take the risk of heading inside to find anything. Once in Madrid, Jaime bought Alazne a couple of items of clothing, so when they turned up at Rebelión with little, it might look less suspicious. José had raised an eyebrow at Fermín Belasco’s daughter back at Rebelión, though no one seemed to mind. Alazne and Jaime worked on the farm; safe out on the parched plains east of Madrid. But the sight of Apolinar’s beaten, lifeless, body still followed Jaime everywhere. Nothing would erase that night of pure chaos and confusion.
The phone rang as Jaime stalked out the back door of the main house, to begin work on the yard as his mother wanted. He headed into the barn to fetch the equipment to get the fence up today. Lord knew how he would grow a lawn for little Cayetano and baby Sofía to play on just as Consuela and Inés wished. Rebelión spent a fortune on irrigation for the animals already. Now a lush lawn? What a challenge.
Behind him, Jaime heard footsteps on the barn’s concrete floor. “Luis,” he called out as he pulled a shovel from its hook on the wall. “Please say you will help me dig the holes for the fence posts. I’m not concreting the bastard poles into the earth all by myself.”
A strong hand yanked his shirt from behind, and Jaime stumbled backwards. José had his huge ageing hands around Jaime’s throat before he even realised who attacked him. José threw his son hard against the old stone wall, which thumped the back of Jaime’s head with an alarming pace. He felt José’s thumbs dig into his windpipe as his feet struggled to touch the ground.
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