by Karen Swan
They skirted the far wall, still far enough away from the hacienda to be confident of moving unseen. They could already see the prize bull in the furthest field; he had to be kept alone – at two tonnes he was by far the biggest bull they had ever bred and would be easily capable of killing more of his brothers than any matador. It was her father who had called him Leviatan. He was high in the shoulder, barrel-chested, with horns wider than her arms’ span, and he could turn as fast as a polo pony.
‘Shh!’ Santi said suddenly, pulling her sharply behind a tree.
‘What is it?’ she hissed, watching as he peered around the trunk. It was only a juniper – crooked and slim-legged: whatever they were hiding from, they wouldn’t be well hidden here.
‘The conocedor,’ Santi hissed back.
Her eyes widened. As her father’s foreman, Pedro Martin was also spy and informant. If she was seen consorting with Santi, after her father’s express orders never to speak to him, she would be for the lash.
She pinned herself behind him, smelling his particular odour of sweat and pines. His shaggy dark hair was sifted a pale coffee colour from the dust and she saw his mother had repaired his shirt again, for surely the fifteenth time. But it was his only one. It would have to keep making do.
‘Did he see us?’ she asked, her hands resting on his shoulders, her voice by his ear.
‘I don’t think so,’ he whispered, his eyes pinned to their enemy.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘See for yourself.’
Carefully, she tipped her head round the tree and saw the foreman cantering up to a bull on the ground. The smear of red on its flank was visible from this distance.
‘Is it dead?’ she asked, watching as he jumped down from his horse and walked carefully around it: these animals, dangerous at the best of times, were never more deadly than when they were injured.
‘Looks like it.’
Nene knew as many bulls were killed fighting each other in the fields as died in the rings; the young calves were particularly bad, always wanting to prove themselves and move up the pecking order. It was the conocedor’s job – or one of them – to protect them from themselves.
They watched as he crouched down, examining the wound, swatting away the flies that buzzed at its eyes and mouth. He looked up and around him as if looking for help but no one else was around that he could see and, clearly, moving the beast on his own wasn’t an option. He straightened again, his hands on his hips, the brim of his hat obscuring his face, but Nene didn’t need to see it to know what his expression would be; he only ever smiled when her father was around, the rest of the time his thin face was folded with scowl lines, his hand ever-ready at his hip to grab the riding whip coiled at his belt. This was bad news. Each bull was worth 1,200 pesetas – more money than he earned in a month, more money than most of the peasants earned in three years. Five.
‘Oh no,’ she whispered, watching as Pedro walked back to his horse, throwing the reins back over its head. ‘He’s going to tell Papa.’
‘Of course. He has to, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, but . . . couldn’t he wait until after dinner?’ Every accidental or unearned death was costly, sending her father into a spiral of rage; she already knew he would be angry at the table tonight, his forceful glares suppressing everyone, even her brothers, into silence.
They heard the sound of hooves begin to drum the hard earth. Santi stepped out from behind the tree, his curiosity getting the better of him – as it always did – eager to get a better look at the mortal wound.
‘Santi, wait! Has he really gone?’ she whispered.
But he had already frozen on the spot and she felt herself grow cold at the sight of him, stock still, inanimate.
‘Run,’ he whispered, trying not to move his lips.
‘No!’
He looked back. ‘He’s seen me. Just go. Now.’ And when she didn’t move, he kicked his leg out sideways, catching her hard on the shin. Tears immediately rushed to her eyes. ‘And stay down . . . Hurry.’
She ran in a half-crouch behind the stone wall, wanting to turn back to see if Santi was following, but knowing he was rooted to the spot. They both knew it was more than his life was worth to take flight now. Feeling her lungs gasp in the hot air, thighs burning from the hunched posture, she ran the several hundred metres as stealthily as she could, hands clawing at the ground as she stumbled, finally getting to the old alberca, the vast metal water store in the far corner of the field. She hid behind it with a frightened sob, her slender frame easily hidden now whilst Santi stood as rooted and exposed as the trees.
She didn’t dare peer round to watch. She could hear the timbre of their voices – the conocedor’s angry shouts, Santi’s meek, deferential responses that were so unlike him – but not what they were saying. Spare words drifted over on the breeze – ‘thief’, ‘criminal’ – but how could that be? He had done nothing wrong. He was just standing by a wall. Harmless. What could he possibly be accused of stealing?
Daring to take a peek, she saw the old foreman on horseback and bearing down over Santi, the stone wall between them looking pitifully inadequate. He was pointing his crop at Santi’s chest – and more specifically, to her horror, at the orange juice that had spilled on it.
No! Immediately she knew which so-called ‘crime’ he was being accused of and she went to spring forward, to cry out, to explain – but an arm jerked her back in the same moment, a hand clasping over her mouth.
‘Don’t.’ The voice was low, hushed and deadly serious. Eyes wide, she looked back at her brother, Arlo, his arms tight around her just as she heard the crack of the whip – how it whistled through the air, the stinging slap against skin, and then the cry, Santi’s cry.
She couldn’t bear it, wanting to cry out herself, and she struggled to get free again but Arlo’s grip only increased, her tears instantly running down her cheeks and over his hand as the whip spiralled through the air, once, twice, three times. She wanted to turn and see Santi, to make it stop, to run over and comfort him, but she could do none of those things as instead she was held in a vice, both of them huddled down beside the water tank until the whipcracks stopped and moments later they heard the sound of hooves drumming the hard ground once more.
After a minute of silence Arlo dared to raise his head above the wall. ‘They’ve gone,’ he said quietly, releasing her.
Nene sprang free like a wildcat, desperate to see Santi – but he was already running in the opposite direction, towards the pueblo blanco in the distance. He was stumbling and limping badly, his hands outstretched as though ready to break a fall, but he was still fast – faster than her – and she could see his shirt had split across the back, revealing the red seams on his skin beneath.
‘Santi!’ she screamed.
But nothing could be heard above the galloping horse, nor seen through the plumes of red dust its feet kicked up.
‘It was me!’ she cried, whirling round to her brother instead, enraged, desperate. ‘Me! I took those oranges from the grove!’
‘It would have made no difference. If not the oranges, something else.’
‘Why? He did nothing wrong.’ It was the brutal simplicity of his words that hurt her the most, the brazen acceptance of the status quo.
‘He was there,’ he shrugged, as though that was reason enough. ‘You know how Papa will react when Pedro tells him about the bull.’
‘So he hurt Santi because Papa will hurt him?’ she cried, incredulous.
‘He could have just as easily hurt him if he had seen Santi walking with you – and he would have been justified that time. Look at you!’ He gestured down to her bare legs, her skirt still tucked into her undergarments and hanging in loose billows like old-fashioned bloomers.
Furiously, she pulled the skirts free. ‘We were just climbing trees and watching the harvest!’
‘You know what Papa has said about you talking to the campesinos. They are dangerous.’
‘No,
they are hungry! They have not been paid for months now.’
‘That is not your concern, Nene. Papa has said these are things we cannot yet understand.’
‘Papa says, Papa says . . .’ she catcalled. ‘I tell you what I understand. I understand it is not right to make people work extra hours for no extra money! To make sure they have no land to grow their own food! How can they survive? They are starving, Arlo!’
He gripped her by the shoulders again, seeing how her voice rose through the octaves. ‘Nene, control yourself. These are not matters to concern you.’
‘Why? Because I’m a girl?’ she spat.
‘No. Because you are a Mendoza.’ The words hung like a death sentence – stifling, oppressive, immutable. ‘There are standards to uphold. Other people look to you for an example. They must see through you – through us – that there is an order to things. And where there is order, there is safety. For everyone. It has always been this way. Why should it change now?’
‘You sound just like Papa,’ she sobbed.
He loosened his grip on her shoulders again; it was the worst insult she could have hurled at him. ‘I am trying to protect you, Nene. I don’t like to see Santi whipped any more than you do. He is your friend, I know that.’
‘So then why did you let it happen? You could have stopped Pedro! If not me, he would have listened to you!’
Arlo tipped his head to the side sadly. ‘I worry about you. Your impetuousness. Your passion – it will lead you into danger. You have to learn to pick your battles, Nene. You cannot fight them all.’
‘You don’t fight any!’ she spat.
‘That is not true. I will always fight for you.’
‘I don’t need fighting for. I can look after myself.’ She wiped her tears away furiously, inadvertently smearing the dust into muddy streaks over her cheeks.
‘No. You are ruled by your heart, Nene, and that frightens me. Consequences mean nothing to you.’
‘So you think you are the one to protect me?’ she cried mockingly. ‘You? You are weak, Arlo! It is you who needs me.’
‘Nene, wait, come back!’ he cried as she began walking away. But she didn’t turn around, and though the sobs wracked her frame, her arms sliced the air like blades and her legs struck the ground like swiping swords.
Chapter Four
They stopped at the crowd of people huddled around the Velásquez painting Las Meninas, both of them staring up at it in silence for several moments. ‘So this is pretty much the most famous painting here,’ Charlotte said in a low voice. ‘The Prado’s equivalent to Mona Lisa.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Lucy murmured in agreement, before her neat little nose wrinkled. ‘I’m not loving it though.’
Charlotte looked across at her. ‘No? Some believe it’s the best painting in the world.’
‘Huh. I mean, I get that it’s a big deal but . . .’ Her eyes roamed the giant canvas. ‘Is that a dwarf?’
‘Yes, she was a maidservant.’
Lucy stared at it, looking more and more baffled. ‘There’s way too many people in it.’ She counted. ‘Jesus – eleven. Eleven figures. I mean, why? It’s hardly the Last Supper.’
‘No, but which figure is your eye drawn to?’
‘The little girl in the middle.’
‘Exactly. The Princess Margaret Theresa, she was the king’s only surviving child. The other girls are just her maidservants. See the king and queen in the mirror there?’ Charlotte pointed to the figures in the background. ‘Velásquez was the court painter, an incredibly ambitious man both professionally and socially. He had to reflect the importance of the Infanta, as well as pay deference to his sovereign. The little princess was actually betrothed to her uncle so these paintings were sent to him, as updates if you like, to show how she was growing up.’
Lucy pulled a face. ‘Eww, that’s so creepy!’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Yes, in this day and age it really doesn’t translate well, does it? But it was their equivalent of a photograph.’
They continued walking again, eyes alighting on the baroque frames of the vast murals, the rich colour palettes, stiff costumes and stylized scenes.
‘Nah, not sure this is my vibe either,’ Lucy sighed as they stopped below Bosch’s challenging triptych, Garden of Earthly Delights. ‘I like it all a bit . . . looser. Airier. More relaxed. Less hell and damnation and burning brimstones.’
‘Well, let’s keep walking. They have some stunning Fortunys through here. We could go see them if you like?’
‘Fortuny? Sure, why not,’ Lucy shrugged, her Valentino sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor. ‘How come you know so much about art anyway? Cambridge again?’
‘No, I read history there. I guess it was my parents I have to thank for this. They were always keen, forever dragging me and my sister round galleries as children.’
‘Including here? You seem to know this place well.’
‘Yes, here too. We visited every time we came to Madrid. My father always loved The Fable of Arachne. Do you know it?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘It’s not the most accomplished painting by any means but there are a few riddles in it that kept drawing him back.’
‘Huh. My mum only took us to the National Gallery once and that was because it was free and raining outside.’
Charlotte smiled. She was a big fan of these ‘walk and talk’ therapies; people opened up so much more when they weren’t subjected to direct eye contact, if the body could be distracted whilst the mind roamed . . . Sometimes, she thought the best thing she could do for her clients was take them on a road trip: London–Glasgow for the lesser afflicted; New York to San Francisco for the tougher cases. ‘You seem a lot brighter today. I was concerned about you when I left yesterday. Is this new optimism just down to remembering your love of art or has something else happened?’
‘Bit of both maybe: Rob got back early from training last night. He said he was playing like a numpty.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t care, it was just nice to have him around for a bit. We had a barbie and then the three of us watched that new Marvel Avengers movie.’
‘Sounds great.’ Certainly better than her evening had turned out, anyway, dwelling on the past over a bottle of rosé. ‘And did you talk to him about how you’ve been feeling?’
Lucy looked across at her like she was mad. ‘No! Why’d I do that? We were having a nice time. Why spoil it with a downer?’
‘You don’t think it’s important he knows you’re feeling lonely?’
‘Not really,’ Lucy mumbled, looking sharply to the left and studying the Adoration of the Magi, her face turned away from Charlotte.
‘Lucy, do you think your feelings don’t matter?’
‘Well he’s the important one, let’s face it.’
‘He’s the breadwinner, that’s a different thing. And it certainly doesn’t make him any more important than you. Your role in the household is crucial too. Vital, in fact.’
‘Listen, you just caught me at a low ebb, that’s all. I’m fine.’ As if as proof, she held up her arms, the designer shopping bags swinging from her hands à la Julia Roberts, evidence of her productive morning before their meeting here.
Charlotte wasn’t at all convinced, but they left the room and walked down a long, vaulted, light-filled gallery. Black velvet ropes were looped along the run, keeping the hordes from getting too close, weary visitors slumping on benches, backpacks at their feet as they gazed up in cowed admiration at the epic depictions overhead. A troupe of schoolchildren were moving en masse to an audio tour, headphones on as they sloped from one painting to the next, talking too loudly whenever they wanted to ask a question or make a comment.
Charlotte tried a different tack. ‘So, back to painting – how are you going to set about getting into it again? Do a course?’
‘Oh nothing like that. I was just thinking I’d get some brushes and canvases and give it a go at home.’
‘I would strongly recommend doing a course.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s sociable, for one thing. You’d get to meet other, like-minded people.’
‘But then they’ll find out who I am—’
‘And who’s that? Lucy, a twenty-three- year-old English woman, married and mother to a little boy, relocated to Spain for her husband’s work. That’s all they need to know. This is an arena where you can be you in there and not Roberto Santos’s wife.’
Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘It never works out that way though. People always find out.’
‘Not everyone is impressed by money or fame.’
‘Everyone we meet is.’
‘So then change your social landscape. You might be surprised to find that anyone you met on a drawing course would be far more interested in you as an artist than in your husband. To them, your marriage should be just a detail, incidental. You have to stop defining yourself through the prism of Rob’s career. At the moment, that is all you see yourself as: his wife. But it’s suffocating you and you need to see that is only one side to who you are. Who are you in your totality? Mother, wife – yes. But what else? You have so much more to offer.’ She saw the doubt in Lucy’s still-unlined face. ‘Do an art course, join a class. I really don’t think you’d regret it.’
‘But what if I can’t do it? It’s been years since I’ve even picked up a brush—’
‘Art is instinct. You either can or you can’t and if you could once, then you can again.’
‘But where would I begin? I don’t know where to buy cotton earbuds in this city, much less find an art class.’
Charlotte smiled. ‘Leave it with me. I know a few people in this field. I could make some calls for you.’
‘Yeah?’ Lucy looked at her, the expression on her face bemused. ‘Honestly, how do you know all these things, all these people?’
‘Life,’ Charlotte said lightly.
‘Helluva life,’ Lucy said drily.
