The Spanish Promise

by Karen Swan

  ‘From the very start, I’ve been working on one basic assumption – that Jack Quincy was Marina’s husband. But I overlooked one critical detail: before he signed up to serve, Jack Quincy was a Baptist minister. Quincy wasn’t the man she married. He was the one marrying them.’

  Them? Charlotte shifted uneasily, she could feel something gathering . . . ‘Who . . . ?’ But even as she asked the question, the name came to her.

  ‘Santi Esperanza was the other man killed alongside Quincy that night. Just like he was there with Quincy the night the Mendoza men were murdered. He blamed the Mendozas for his father’s murder. He was implicated in the slaughter of Marina Mendoza’s treasured horse the night of the fiesta at La Ventilla – just over a week before she disappeared.’

  We have both loved men we have tried to hate.

  ‘But his name. She took Quincy’s name.’

  ‘Yes. To protect her child. If Carlos had found out she was having Esperanza’s child, do you think he would have allowed that? He’d killed the father, do you think he would allow the son to live too—?’

  Charlotte gasped as she remembered the señora’s words in her bedroom: He may not have been why I left but he was the reason I never returned.

  ‘. . . After everything that had passed between their families, at the very least he would have put the child up for adoption. But Franco’s government legalized changing the names of Republican orphans and children of prisoners; if Marina Mendoza was in a psychiatric hospital when she gave birth and he was adopted, she never would have found him again. Now I’ve just double-checked the paperwork – the hospital she was sent to was bombed and burnt down in ’38, the year after she was admitted; many of the inpatients were killed, but others fled and disappeared. If she was one of them, by taking Quincy’s name and not Esperanza’s, she protected her child and found a way to ensure her brother could never find her.’

  Charlotte felt herself go cold. Carlos had said it himself, right there in that room. I never would have thought to look for that name.

  She stared over at Marina, words running through her head. Omens. Clues. Both loved men we have tried to hate . . . This last week . . . Bringing it back to him . . . He’s long dead . . . We came into this world together.

  She stiffened suddenly. They came into this world together and, it was implied—

  ‘Oh my God!’ The phone dropped from her hand as she began to run, limping badly but the adrenaline lifting her as it had in the bullring.

  ‘Charlotte, wait! What is it?’ Marina cried, panic suffusing her voice as she raced after her.

  She limped up the stairs, not caring about the searing pain that shot through her with every step. ‘No! No-no- no!’ she cried, seeing the two orderlies sitting outside the room, leaning against the wall and scrolling on their phones. They had been sent out too? They looked up in alarm at the sound and sight of her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ they asked as she tore past, throwing open the door so that it banged hard against the wall.

  She felt the breath knocked out of her as she took in the sight on the bed. Marina was only a moment behind her and she screamed, her legs giving out as saw the growing red stain, the two pale frail bodies lying beside one another. Two letters in separate handwriting were propped on the side table, an all but empty bottle of pills tipped on the floor and a vivid red cut on each one’s wrists; the stained shark’s tooth was on the blanket, and their hands tightly clasped as the blood pooled between them.

  They had come into this world together. And now they had left it together.

  One blood.

  Guadalajara, March 1937

  She stared at him, the black eyes that were seared onto her soul – awake or dreaming, ever-present – burning back at her. ‘You’re alive,’ she whispered, her hand reaching out to touch his skin, to check he was real.

  His flinch told her he was, the warrior more threatened by the tear than the spear. ‘I couldn’t die yet. Not until I found you again.’

  The words rocked her, turning her heart upside down, the world. ‘. . . You’ve been looking for me?’

  ‘Almost since you left.’ His voice was thick, the initial shock marbling now with shame. ‘I tried not to. I tried to let you go. I told myself it was better you were gone. That it was safer that way.’ His eyes raked over her, taking in the short haircut, and she saw the emotion spring to his face as he realized—

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, seeing the horror form like a cloudburst. ‘I did it. When I escaped. I was trying to disguise myself.’

  He studied her face, looking for the kind lie, and when seeing none, turned away, his back expanding and contracting in broad, relieved breaths as his fist pulled into a punch before he splayed his palm flat against the wall of the cave again.

  ‘Santi, I’m okay. Really.’ She placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles and scars beneath her palm. What horrors had he lived through? What atrocities had he seen?

  ‘What I did . . .’ he said quietly, his head bowed.

  ‘Don’t. You don’t have to say it.’

  He turned his head fractionally, still not facing her. ‘No, I must. I have to . . . I was angry. I needed to avenge my father and yet . . . I couldn’t do what I needed because of you. I hated that I couldn’t hate you too. And when I saw you at the church, saw how sorry you were, it only made it harder. I thought that if I pushed you away and made you hate me, then I would be free to do what I had to do.’

  She dropped her head, realizing then that her father was dead. Her hand, still on his back, felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat echoing through his bones, the ropes of old scars still visible to the touch. ‘. . . I understand.’

  Slowly he turned. ‘But can you forgive?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I tried to hate you too. I tried to be glad when I thought you were dead. They told me they rounded you all up in the bullring.’

  Pain crossed him like a shadow. ‘Quincy and I had already left. He had been ordered up to Madrid and agreed to take me with him so I could find you . . .’ He took a breath. ‘I really thought I could do it – live with you hating me – but that last time I saw you, in the field . . .’ He met her gaze then looked away again. ‘You’d never looked so beautiful. The image of you haunted me . . .’

  She stared up at him. ‘And you me,’ she said simply. ‘I hated that I loved you.’

  Shock made him startle. ‘. . . You loved me?’

  ‘And still do. You were the only one who ever let me be me. There was never going to be anyone but you,’ she whispered, seeing how her words made him tremble, her touch made him shiver. She stepped closer, her finger tenderly tracing the sweep of his cheek, before she reached up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his – gently, lest he might break.

  When she pulled away, his eyes were shining. ‘I’ll never leave you again, Nene,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘I’ll protect you now. We’ll always be together, I promise.’

  ‘We always were,’ she smiled, feeling his arm hook around her waist and pull her closer to him, their bodies pressed together, exhausted and thin, bloodied and desperate. He kissed her again, more urgently now, his hands gripping her to him and she felt her body respond, softening, yielding . . .

  The punch, when it came, sent them both flying. Marina found herself on the ground, Santi spun into the wall, dazed. She looked up and cried out in fright to see Modesto bearing down upon them both, his bloodied fist unnoticed as his chest heaved with terrifying anger.

  ‘Miguel,’ she beseeched, holding her hands up placatingly. ‘Please—’

  ‘You little whore,’ he snarled, his words a hiss as he spat at her, kicking out with a booted foot. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘No!’ Santi cried, launching himself at him, throwing a punch that connected with Miguel’s jaw, but made little impact – there was at least five inches and twenty kilograms’ difference between them.

  ‘Stop!’ Marina shouted as they wrestled, fists flying, missing, connecting, a
melee of limbs sending them both careering into the wall and off again.

  She scrambled away from them desperately as they brawled, tears streaming down her face in horror as Miguel landed one, two blows, sending Santi sprawling to the floor. He was bleeding from the nose, one brow cut, but he got up again, his black eyes blazing as they always did. Often down, never out.

  ‘Please! Miguel, stop! You’ll kill him!’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ Miguel snarled, raising his hands up in a fist, ready to go again.

  Santi rushed in at him again – fearless, furious – this time getting one up on the bigger man by kicking his feet out from under him and sending him flat on his back, winding him momentarily. He kicked out, catching him in the ribs, the head, but Miguel – a seasoned thug – caught his leg and flipped him up like a twig.

  Both men lay dazed for a moment and Marina scrambled to her feet, looking around for something, anything, with which to fight. She saw the pistol which Santi had tossed away in alarm when he had realized it was her, half buried in the dust. She ran towards it but Miguel caught her foot, as if realizing her intent, sending her sprawling again.

  ‘Get back here, you fascist bitch,’ he said, closing his fist around her ankle just as her fingers made contact with the cold steel. With hands shaking violently, she grabbed it, pointing it straight at him as he flipped her over onto her back.

  He froze momentarily as he looked down the barrel of the frantically shaking gun, a cold smile gradually spreading across his lips. ‘You wouldn’t dare. You don’t have it in you, Marina Mendoza. You can’t even kill the enemy.’

  ‘You are the enemy!’ she screamed – and pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot ricocheted around the cave, deafening, amplified. She dropped the gun like it was hot, staring down at her captor with horror and relief.

  ‘Nene!’ Santi cried, running over to her and enfolding her in his arms. ‘Don’t look, don’t look,’ he said as she began trembling violently. She had killed a man.

  The sound of voices, of footsteps, made them both turn, as Sindo and Quincy burst into the cave, pistols pulled, faces set for battle.

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’ Quincy cried, seeing the two of them standing there, Miguel’s slumped corpse on the ground, blood soaking into the earth, the metallic smell of it already filling the confined space.

  Marina felt her terror heighten. This was it, they’d both be shot now, killed for treachery when they’d only just found each other again. ‘He was . . . he was . . .’ she stammered, but she was too shocked to form the words.

  Slowly, the two men dropped their guns, Sindo replacing his in his belt.

  ‘We know what he was,’ he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers in perfect understanding. ‘Come. We need to get rid of the body.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Madrid, October 2018

  ‘It’s a triumph, Marina,’ Charlotte smiled.

  They stood together, looking back at the party. Guests were mingling, talking and laughing as they moved around the exhibition, admiring the photographs, poems and artworks and reading the brief histories that had been compiled for each one. Marina and Mateo had worked tirelessly together trying to find the best material to sum up the project’s theme – Love and War – and it had been a particular coup getting the rival Reina Sofia museum to lend Picasso’s masterpiece Guernica as the centrepiece; Katerina had pulled in more than a few favours to make it happen and she had been key in helping draw the whole show together, not least in enabling the party to be held here, at the museum. Such was the power of the Mendoza name.

  ‘I can hardly believe it is happening,’ Marina said, watching as the catering staff attended to the guests as per her instructions. This was her fledgling company’s first big event, and with such a high-profile guest list, she needed it to go off without a hitch; between setting up the company and compiling the memorial exhibition, she had been working fifteen-hour days for the past few months and Charlotte knew that was, in part, a way to fill the void left by her grandmother’s death.

  ‘Well, you’ve worked so hard for this. You deserve the success. Enjoy it. Let your team take it from here now.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s –’ She bit her lip anxiously. ‘It’s just hard to step back, that’s all. I’m so used to doing everything myself, I’m not good at delegating.’

  ‘It’ll come. You’re doing brilliantly,’ Charlotte said reassuringly. ‘You’re learning to be the boss. A Mendoza.’

  Marina turned in to face her, dropping her voice. ‘Talking of that, I thought you’d want to know – we had the coroner’s report back.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Stage-four breast cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Charlotte’s mouth parted in surprise. ‘And she never said?’

  ‘Not a word. Her carers never knew either. She refused all medication.’

  ‘. . . She didn’t want to worry you?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Charlotte said after a pause. ‘I suppose there’s some comfort to take in that. If she didn’t have long either . . . at least they were together at the end.’

  Marina nodded, looking pensive. ‘I’ve been thinking about this a lot actually, and I think . . . I think she knew that was what she would do, as soon as she heard he was dying too.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why he was trying to find her?’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Could it have been some sort of pact?’

  ‘I think it was more of a promise, if anything. Before you came into the room that day, I asked her why she was going through with this. He’d caused her such pain and it was clear she was tormented by the prospect of seeing him again.’ Marina took a breath, emotion taking grip of her once again as she remembered the events of that fateful day. ‘But just before you came in, she told me that as a little girl, her mother had made her swear to always protect him, that he wasn’t as strong as she was.’ She bit her lip. ‘I think she felt there was comfort in going together, that he wouldn’t be alone. No matter what had happened between them and how bad things got, they looked out for each other at the end. They kept the promise.’

  ‘Oh, Marina,’ Charlotte said, placing a hand on her arm, her voice thickening with emotion.

  Marina looked at her with teary eyes, the pain still fresh. ‘I know Nathan did a great job but I’m still not sure we got to the bottom of what really happened between them.’

  Charlotte managed not to react at the sudden mention of his name. ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t think anyone ever could – they may not have even known the full truths themselves. So much of life is influenced and dictated by chance details that get lost in the retelling.’

  ‘Hey.’ Lucy Santos came over, her eyes bright. ‘So I think they’re ready for the speeches. How are you feeling?’

  Marina and Charlotte both recovered themselves with quick smiles, Marina dabbing at her eyes quickly and pulling a nervous face. ‘Terrified.’ The two women had become fast friends when Charlotte had introduced them, sensing that they shared more than just fat bank accounts: both had been pulled into this new world by means outside their control and they had bonded immediately over the etiquette perils and paparazzi pitfalls, trying to navigate it together; Lucy was even helping Marina find a new apartment.

  ‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Lucy said confidently. ‘Is Mateo going first?’

  ‘Yes. Oh God, they’re all going to be staring at me.’ Marina went to bite her nails but Lucy pushed her hand down again.

  ‘Of course they are. Everyone wants to see the long-lost Mendoza heir,’ she shrugged. ‘But remember why you’re doing this: for your grandmother, you’re honouring her life and the sacrifices she made. You’ve got this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Marina nodded as Lucy winked at her.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen—’ The voice made them turn, the rushing babble of conversation diminishing to a trickle. ‘I give you this evening’s co-host, Mateo Mendoza.’

  Everyone clapped
politely as Mateo took to the podium, looking utterly at ease. Charlotte surveyed the room again, aware of a vague sense of being watched. But then she knew a fair few of the guests gathered here tonight, many of them were clients.

  ‘Standing here before you tonight is, it is no exaggeration to say, one of the great honours of my life,’ Mateo began. ‘As you will all be aware, it was a difficult summer for our family, losing my father, and we feel the loss greatly. He was an exceptional man who lived an extraordinary life. The Mendoza name casts a long shadow but I think, in many ways, he often felt like he was the one standing in the shade. Despite the public perception of him as a business titan or mogul – descriptions he abhorred – he was in private a very humble and modest man. Family was everything to him and my sisters and I grew up knowing we were deeply loved.’

  He inhaled, looking slowly around the room. ‘But if we suffered a great loss this year, we have also made gains, and discovering my father had a twin sister, Marina, was a shock that has since become a joy. Lucky is a word that is used a lot in connection with our name but my father came of age in a time of war when the certainties of life shifted on an hourly basis and there wasn’t much luck to be had by anyone. And although ours was certainly not the only family to be ruptured during those dark days of the late thirties, having had these past few months to ruminate on the discoveries made this summer, I do believe that losing Marina was the great tragedy of his life. They were apart for eighty-two years out of ninety-eight. Those are very sad odds for two people who came into the world together; things should have been different for them and in another time, I think they would have been.’

  He looked out at the gathered guests, speaking easily, without notes.

  ‘But I take comfort in an interesting conversation I had this summer, one which has stuck with me, to do with the course of life and how it unfolds. I was drinking brandy – rather too much brandy – in my library one evening with a history professor –’