The Map

by T. S. Learner

  August stopped in the middle of the plaza and looked around slowly. If there was anything more disturbing than being watched, it had to be the sense of not being observed in the centre of a seemingly empty town, he decided. There was something almost catastrophic about such profound emptiness, as if the inhabitants had been inexplicably obliterated by some terrible unseen force. Then suddenly it started, the sound of singing came from the church – the largest building on the plaza. Hymns in a language he recognised as Euskara. The voices – mainly female – floated out into the empty square, curling around the stone walls, then up across the valley.

  ‘Extraordinary.’ He spoke out loud only to have the kid goat bleat back. ‘This must be one of the only services in Basque left in the country.’

  He glanced up at the bell tower butted up against the Romanesque church. The belfry was the highest building in Irumendi, and each floor within the tower boasted an arched window, some bigger than others. It was exactly what he was looking for.

  He stood under the bronze bell suspended by its hinge a good nine feet above him. Steadying himself with one hand, he leaned out, binoculars in hand. The view was amazing; from the top of the tower August could clearly see back over the valley, the sweep of oak and beech forest, the tiny white line of the track he’d travelled down the mountain earlier that day and just between two of the mountains a sliver of blue he knew was the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Apart from the village itself, there were no signs of civilisation to be seen. It was just how Shimon Ruiz de Luna had described in his chronicle – down to the details of the ornaments on the church tower. August had an overwhelming sense of connection with the alchemist, almost as if it were he standing there three hundred years earlier – frantic with both hope and terror, in the middle of the expedition of his life, while being pursued by the Inquisitional police. Without warning, a bullet whizzed past, narrowly missing August’s head, only to chip the stone next to him. Jolted back to reality, he ducked down, the kid goat strapped to his back bleating in fear.

  ‘Come down! We can see you!’ The man’s voice came from below, in the plaza. August slid into a crouch and ventured to the opening again. Down in the square, with his arms crossed defiantly, stood the local priest, rifle in hand. Crowding around him were his parishioners dressed in their Sunday best, some of the women in the traditional Basque Gipuzkoa, long dresses covered in bright shawls, their heads in coloured and white head scarfs, across their arms neatly folded black lace mantillas; small children, old men, old women, a splattering of women in their thirties and forties, a couple of adolescents, and a couple of burly men dressed in freshly pressed check shirts and black berets – all staring up at him. August threw up his arms and smiled.

  ‘Don’t shoot again! I’m friendly. Besides, isn’t it a sin to kill on a Sunday?’ he shouted, in Spanish. He was answered by another bullet flying past.

  When August stepped out of the shadow of the tower, the crowd was waiting. Sullen and closed-faced, they fell into an uneasy silence as he walked towards them careful to keep his hands visible.

  The priest handed the rifle to a young girl of about twelve, then stepped forward. ‘Who are you, stranger?’ he asked, in a thickly accented Spanish that sounded almost archaic.

  ‘A friend.’ August pushed back his hood and scanned the faces, keeping his own expression open and friendly to reassure them. No one smiled back.

  ‘We don’t have friends here, only enemies living and dead,’ an old woman, her chin peppered with long grey whiskers, spat onto the cobblestone.

  ‘I mean no harm. I’m just a history professor, researching the wonderful old architecture you have here.’ He tried to sound as naive as possible.

  They continued to stare at him hostilely. A youth of about thirteen stepped forward.

  ‘Then how come you speak Spanish like you come from Barcelona, you with your blond locks?’

  ‘I am here to see the family of …’ As he was about to mention La Leona’s name a shout came from the other side of the plaza and the crowd swung around. Now August could see a lone policeman hurrying out of the police station, buttoning up his jacket. He looked as if he’d just been pulled out of bed. A buxom woman with dyed blonde hair followed, her breasts free and bouncing under a thin blouse.

  ‘Father! Father! What are you doing?’ the policeman shouted across the plaza, as he ran towards them.

  The old woman swung back to August. ‘You want some history, here comes our fascista with our one whore,’ she said, loud enough for the others to hear but soft enough for the policeman to miss. Some in the crowd sniggered as the policeman arrived flustered and sweating. He snatched the rifle from the girl.

  ‘How many times have I told you folks? This is not the way to welcome visitors.’ His accent placed him as both Spanish and from Madrid.

  ‘Good to see you observe the domingo by resting, Commander Castillo,’ the priest remarked, dryly, a comment that had the crowd laughing again and the woman – obviously a prostitute – outraged and blustering, pulling at the policeman’s jacket.

  ‘Tell him, Pepe! Tell him, he’s got no respect!’ The policeman pushed her away.

  ‘Enough, woman.’ He turned to August. ‘So, what is your business here?’

  Hoping he wouldn’t ask for papers, August adopted the most refined-sounding Spanish accent he could. ‘I’m here to research the house of Ruiz de Luna. I’ve heard it is of particular architectural interest.’

  A ripple went through the crowd, several of the women looking knowingly at each other. The policeman frowned. ‘But there is no house of Ruiz de Luna, is there, Father?’

  The priest glanced over at August, and it was apparent to August that the villagers concealed much from the policeman.

  ‘Indeed, there is not, Castillo Jauna,’ the priest finally replied, switching to the Basque form of address – a mark of defiance to the Spanish policeman. The tension in the crowd ratcheted up a notch. The policeman paused then chose to ignore the slight. He swung back to August.

  ‘And what kind of professor travels with a goat on his back, eh? Answer me that!’ he continued, triumphantly.

  ‘A practical one who might be hungry?’ August ventured. There was a smattering of laughter among the crowd, again to the irritation of the policeman. Deciding he had better act before the situation deteriorated and the policeman was dangerously humiliated, August reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter he’d mocked up before leaving London. Written in English, with the letterhead of the British Museum visible, it declared the keeper of the letter was indeed a professor of history writing a treatise on thirteenth-century Spanish architecture. He waved it at the policeman.

  ‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but here is my official letter.’

  The policeman peered at the letter short-sightedly; it was obvious he didn’t write or speak a word of English, but the letterhead was impressive enough for him. His attitude changed to that of reluctant deference.

  ‘So where does the good professor intend to stay? We have no hotel or inn here.’

  His tone was not friendly. August scanned the faces of the surrounding people; none looked sympathetic.

  ‘I suppose I could always find an old barn or something on the outskirts of the village. I shall only be staying a few nights,’ he replied, as vaguely as he could.

  ‘Okay, okay, away with you all,’ the policeman said, waving his arms, but no one moved. Ignoring them, he placed a hand on August’s shoulder and the crowd began to murmur, as August tensed – was he about to be arrested? Struggling with the instinct to lash out, he let the policeman begin leading him away.

  ‘I think I should register you at the station anyway. That is official procedure with strangers. Maybe ring headquarters. They’re always interested in foreigners.’

  August’s chest tightened. Over the policeman’s shoulder he quickly studied the square, wondering if he broke away how long it would take to escape. Judging by the mood of the crowd, he was sure he would
be helped. A faint muttering of displeasure began among the onlookers, a potential arrest was an arrest even if it was of a stranger – the crowd were not happy. The policeman’s grip on his shoulder got tighter. If the man checked his papers with headquarters, August would be arrested for certain.

  As he was about to shake himself free, a female voice rang over the heads of the villagers.

  ‘Enough, Pepe.’

  August swung around. A striking woman, tall, pale, with black eyes and long black hair scraped into a tight bun, pushed her way through towards August and the policeman. A tall young boy, maybe fifteen years old, loped awkwardly along behind her, his protruding ears burning with shyness.

  ‘Señora de Aznar,’ the policeman said, bowing his head formally. August noticed the others around her react with the kind of reverence that made him think she was possibly the daughter or wife of a local landowner. It was only when she was finally standing in front of him that he noticed she was wearing the black of a widow.

  ‘The professor can stay with me, I have plenty of spare rooms in the Aznar etxea.’

  ‘That would be most kind of you. I can pay,’ August offered.

  ‘And I shall be happy to accept payment. These are hard times, Professor,’ she replied, in perfect English, to August’s surprise.

  ‘Thank you, Señora de Aznar.’

  She bowed her head with a chilly seriousness and August sensed unease in the surrounding crowd. The people appeared to shrink back from the two, almost as if they carried some invisible infection, as if the woman and her child might be outcasts. It was unnerving. The boy stepped up to him and stared at him with large brown mournful eyes.

  ‘I thought you would co … co … come,’ he stuttered to August, in a deadly earnestness. For a moment August wondered if he was mentally impaired.

  Señora Aznar, presumably his mother, turned back to the young boy. ‘Gabirel, help the professor with his bags, and his goat.’ The blushing adolescent took the bag with the kid goat off August’s shoulders. Señora Aznar then swung back to the policeman.

  ‘And, Pepe, we won’t worry about registering the professor, will we? After all he is a guest of our esteemed village, and should be treated as such.’ Her voice resonated with authority, and to August’s surprise the policeman demurred.

  ‘I suppose if he is in your good hands … but I expect to see his papers tomorrow.’

  ‘Expect away …’ August heard the woman murmur under her voice as she started to move back towards the milling people. August noticed that as soon as she stepped towards them they moved out of the way as if frightened, a curiously timid yet reverent expression traversing their faces. The words ‘Aznar andrea’ rippled across as they greeted her formally in Euskara.

  August had seen such reactions before on a research trip to Haiti when he visited a local voodoo priest – it was both awe and fear.

  ‘This way, Professor,’ she instructed, and the two of them – the boy and August – followed her out of the plaza onto a broader dirt track lined with flowering chestnut trees. They walked in silence along the path that now wound up the mountain slope behind the village. As they passed one cottage an old woman standing on her doorstep crossed herself as if to warn off the evil eye.

  The etxea was a large farmhouse, standing four storeys high, painted white with red shutters. It was obviously the house of a once-wealthy family, and again August wondered whether it hadn’t been the domain of the major landowner in the valley. Señora Aznar ordered Gabirel to put the kid goat with the other animals in the barn, then pushed open the front door and immediately a large grey hunting dog trotted up to greet her. It growled at August and she grabbed the dog’s collar.

  ‘Nice dog,’ August said, manoeuvring his way around the snarling beast.

  ‘Si, he is good guard dog, but he doesn’t like men,’ she said, dourly, ushering him in and locking the dog out.

  They walked through a bare entrance hall into a small reception room, its centrepiece a large fireplace with a carved wooden mantelpiece bearing a coat of arms. There was nothing else in the room except for two antique oak chairs sitting up against the wall and a portrait of some patriarch. Moustached and in the clothing of the eighteenth century, the middle-aged autocrat looked formidable. Señora Aznar caught August’s gaze and nodded towards the painting.

  ‘My great-grandfather. This was his house.’ A flat statement that invited no further queries.

  Without the youth by her side, she seemed pricklier, aggressively defensive, August noticed. She was a well-built woman, with broad shoulders and hips. Her chiselled face boasted a strong aquiline nose, a high forehead and full lips, but her eyes were the most captivating feature; large and heavy-lidded, they seemed to speak of a lineage more Byzantine than Basque. Her Spanish accent was an educated one and she had something of the aristocrat in her bearing. Although, as she reached for his jacket, August noticed her reddened hands were worn and aged like a peasant’s. This was a woman who worked the fields.

  ‘It was very kind of you to take me in,’ he ventured, standing awkwardly in the middle of the small room, the space between them suddenly electric. He tried smiling. She looked back at him, expressionless, her face and eyes impossible to read. Yet he sensed some underlying vulnerability, a great brittleness. He’d seen this absence of self before in other survivors, the navigation of great unspoken loss. For a moment he wasn’t sure how to respond to her, it was hard not to go on automatic, to slip into the flirtation the proximity of an attractive woman always triggered in him. To his surprise, he found that he was nervous. Señora Aznar stepped back, bristling with suspicion.

  ‘It has nothing to do with kindness. I need the money,’ she said. ‘Your room is through here, please bring your bags.’

  She opened a small door that led into a cramped corridor and a back stairwell with a narrow staircase winding up through the rear of the house. The old servant quarters, August assumed. Again the corridor and walls were empty, as if poverty or some sudden grand theft had stripped the house of its possessions and now it stood naked with barely a rag to cover its nudity. The war? Some familial catastrophe? August wondered, momentarily distracted by the woman’s well-shaped haunches as she guided him up the uneven wooden staircase, its ancient floorboards creaking underfoot.

  They arrived at the first landing and August watched as Señora Aznar swung open a low door, revealing a dim box-like room, one small window on the opposite wall. He stood while she pushed open the wooden window and shutter. Immediately, sunlight streamed in, illuminating off-white cracked plaster walls and a spare iron single bed with a dusty striped mattress on top.

  ‘Please, don’t stand on ceremony,’ she told him, sternly.

  Ducking through the low doorway, he stepped in, the smell of musky linen, dust and old roses overpowering, sending him into a sneezing fit.

  ‘Sorry, it has been closed for a long time,’ she said, shrugging.

  A wooden cross hung off a nail on the wall above the head of the bed and an oak chest of drawers sat against the side wall, while in one corner a chipped washstand and a tin jug for water stood holding their breath as if still waiting for the previous occupant. On top of the chest of drawers lay a large ivory comb; August couldn’t help noticing the strand of long black hair still wound around its yellowing teeth.

  The whole room had a Spartan, utilitarian look to it. Frozen in time, it looked as if it hadn’t been slept in for years, when the last occupant had left in a sudden hurry.

  ‘My aunt slept in here, until she died. She was a very simple religious woman. So pious she didn’t even dream.’

  ‘I can’t promise I won’t dream, but I am neat,’ he cracked. Again Señora Aznar looked at him blankly, and he made a mental note to curtail his humour.

  August placed his travel bag onto the chair and sat down on the bed, a puff of dust springing up into the ray of sunlight as he did.

  ‘I will clean it for you. It is all right?’ she asked, hesitant for the first
time.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘I will bring you some water. You wash and then come down to the kitchen, and we have some wine and cheese. It is our own, there is rationing, you know.’ She sounded apologetic.

  ‘Home-made cheese sounds delicious.’

  She smiled back at him, and for a moment the stern demeanour fell away, splitting like a chestnut, and he saw that she wasn’t just pretty but beautiful, made more so for being utterly unaware of it. He stood, knowing that if he reached out to shake her hand she would not want to touch him. Instead, he found himself bowing his head, then felt an idiot for being so formal.

  ‘Thank you again,’ he said. Without another word she closed the door behind her.

  He sat back on the bed and stared out of the window. Returning the chronicle was going to be more difficult than he imagined. The villagers were so guarded – who knew if La Leona’s sister was still even alive or if any of the family had survived after the massacre? How do I even begin without drawing suspicion to myself? The curious reaction of the villagers at the mention of the name Ruiz de Luna came back to him. It had appeared a mixture of both apprehension and respect, and something else – a tightening of the faces. He’d seen it before in victims of atrocities. It was the deliberate blankness of those who wanted to forget.

  The kitchen was located around the back of the house on the ground floor, with an iron range flanking one wall opposite an old-fashioned low stone fireplace. It appeared to be the room where both Señora Aznar and Gabirel spent the most time. A large oak table ran alongside the stove. Scratched into the top were graffiti and notches: the hieroglyphs of centuries of restless diners. A wooden ice-box was tucked against a wall. An array of cooking utensils hung off a rack suspended above the table – huge silver soup ladles, metal meat skewers, long knives and carving forks – the weaponry of gastronomes. It confirmed August’s impression that this had once been the home of a family with money. Washed, with a new shirt pulled over his scrubbed flesh, he hesitated at the doorway.