by Joan Lingard
Luisa emerged, carrying a child. He was naked and had a cluster of sores on his stomach. He was fretting and trying to scratch them and his sister was doing her best to keep his hands away.
‘I have been trying to heal them,’ she said worriedly, when she saw Encarnita looking at them. ‘I got some herbs and made a paste but it hasn’t helped.’
‘There’s a woman in Válor who is good.’
‘I have nothing to pay her with.’
Encarnita gave her two pesetas.
‘You can’t do that! You’ll need all your money for your journey.’
‘Take it! Please, Luisa. It’s part of the money Don Geraldo gave me.’
They broke off as they heard the roar of Luisa’s father’s voice from within the house. ‘What are you doing out there, you lazy bitch? I want food!’
One of the boys came out and yelled, ‘Papa wants you, Luisa!’
‘I’m coming!’ Luisa turned back to Encarnita. ‘I wish you weren’t going.’
‘I must! I’ve always promised it to myself.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Luisa! I wish you could come with me.’
The girls looked at each other and for one crazy moment it seemed as if it might be possible. Then Luisa’s shoulders slumped.
‘I can’t.’
They promised to write to each other and vowed that they would always be friends and never forget each other. They embraced and then they parted. Encarnita sensed Luisa’s eyes watching her as she walked away, but she did not look back. Her own eyes smarted with tears.
Before leaving the campo she picked a bouquet of wild flowers; blue delphiniums and pink dianthus, along with a few sprigs of lavender, Pilar’s favourite herb. She had always said it was a calming, soothing herb. On her way down the hill Encarnita called in at the shop and bought half a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese, and a collar and bell for Cinderella. She had never belled her before but she had to be sure that the goat would not slip her stake and wander off while she herself slept. It was not likely that Cinderella would want to stray but the smell of some delicate plant reaching her on the night air might tempt her. And who knew what desires a goat might have once she was embarked on a journey. She might scent freedom.
‘So you’re off tomorrow?’ said José.
‘First thing.’
‘Looking forward to it, are you?’
Encarnita nodded.
‘You can always come back,’ he said gloomily.
Two women were standing outside the shop gossiping. They turned their heads to greet Encarnita. ‘Vaya con Dios!’ they said. Go with God.
Encarnita smiled and thanked them, a lump in her throat. She could not believe that this would be the last time she would walk down through the village.
When she reached the church she slipped inside and lit a candle for her mother. She talked to her. ‘Mama, I am not leaving you. You will go with me and Cinderella. And as soon as I get to Almuñecar I will go into the church and light a candle for you there, too.’ On her way out she passed the priest and nodded to him but did not stop to speak.
She went round the back of the church to the graveyard. It was a pitiful looking place, so sadly neglected and going to rack and ruin. Encarnita felt ashamed that her mother should lie here. She laid the wild flowers on the mound that was her grave. They were wilting already, from the heat of her hand, and soon they would die; she knew and accepted that. One of her regrets was that she was leaving the grave behind but was comforted by the thought that it was only the husk of her mother that lay there.
The only person left to say goodbye to was Juliana. The girls embraced, with little more to be said now, except to wish each other luck.
Encarnita left early the next morning, when the day was still fresh and the air cool.
‘We are going on a journey, Cinderella,’ she told the goat as she led her out of their home. Don Quixote came into her mind and she smiled. It would have been good to have had a Sancho Panza with her, a comforting sort of uncle, but the book itself would keep her company and, in the evening, if she were not too tired, she would read a little before sleeping. She had packed all her books, as well as Señorita Carrington’s drawing, in her bag.
They took a path leading out of the lower barrio. The going was steep but both travellers were sure-footed and used to the terrain. They descended down through cliffs of soft red sandstone, bordered by plunging ravines, stopping for a few minutes to look at the view when they reached the Piedra Fuerte, a large rock where a Moorish castle had stood, many centuries before. They had to stop from time to time to give Cinderella a chance to graze undisturbed. Below them grew orange and lemon trees, apricots, peaches, olives, figs and prickly pears, the fruit glowing warmly in the sunshine. A traveller need not starve with fallen fruit to lift from the ground and fresh milk from a goat’s udder.
Cinderella was especially pleased when they reached the more fertile ground of the valley. Her pickings were sweeter here though much of the undergrowth was dry. They bypassed the pueblos of Yátor and Cádiar, moving steadily southward and westward, the goat’s bell tingling gently as they walked. Encarnita looked back once at Yegen, perched now high above them, but only for a second.
They met a few people on their journey: men working in the fields mostly; one or two children who ran alongside them for a while with outstretched hands, hoping for an offering which Encarnita could not afford to give; a woman trying to wash clothes in an almost dried-up stream. Cinderella was glad of the trickle of water. They rested in the shade while the midday sun burned overhead and Encarnita allowed herself a few small sips from her water bottle. Later, they met a man driving an ox cart, piled high with sugar cane. He had come up from the coast, having been walking for two days. His paired oxen lumbered slowly between their shafts, their flanks alive with insects. The man knew Almuñecar; he said it was a poor living for the fishermen there. Don’t expect much, he told Encarnita. He thought they were better off in the campo, where they could grow their own food. A little disheartened, she moved on. People had often talked about going down to the coast as if life would be easier there. But soon her spirits picked up again for the day was beautiful and everything was new to her. The land was softer than higher up in the sierra.
She stopped for the night somewhere between Cádiar and Órgiva, in a grove of old olive trees, whose gnarled, twisted branches looked like witches’ arms and make her think of Black Maria. Had she been on her own she might have made it as far as Órgiva in the day, but not with Cinderella, who had her own speed and way of walking. Encarnita’s backpack, too, was heavy, and her shoulders ached. Once she had milked the goat and tied her to a stake she was able to eat her own meal in peace. She was ravenous. She tore off a hunk of bread and ate it with the cheese which had gone soggy and slightly rancid in the heat but still tasted good. A drink of milk, a handful of wrinkled black olives and an orange completed her meal. The sun was gradually dropping behind the sierras, but soon it was gone and the light in the valley dimmed and it was too dark to read more than the first few lines of Don Quixote.
She began to prepare for the night, first making sure that Cinderella was firmly secured. Then she took the knife from her pack and placed it by her side where she could reach it quickly, after which she wrapped herself in her blanket and settled down in a patch of lavender. As she drifted into sleep she heard a nightingale begin its plaintive song.
Awaking to a grey dawn, a panic overtook her. She leapt up and glanced around, startling Cinderella, who had been quietly grazing. For the first time in her life Encarnita had woken in strange surroundings. She felt confused and could not think where she was. It took a few minutes for her alarm to subside. The thought of returning home, to Yegen, intruded, and appealed, but only briefly, before she dismissed it. She ate and drank and by the time she was ready to move on the sky had cleared again to an azure blue.
She reached the coast that day, at sundown, and went down to meet the
sea. The vastness of it astounded her. She stood barefooted in the gritty sand, transfixed, the frilly white edge of the Mediterranean washing over her ankles. The coolness of the water was soothing after the harsh heat of the day. ‘Look, Cinderella,’ she said, ‘look how far and wide the sea stretches! It goes on forever and ever.’ They watched together as the great expanse changed colour with the lowering of the sun, turning from a shimmering orange to a milky pink to a very pale lilac until, suddenly, it had no colour at all. It was very quiet then.
Encarnita shivered, the feeling of alienation returning. She was uncertain as to where to spend the night. Putting her back to the sea she surveyed the beach, but it looked too open, and she was used to enclosures. She decided to retreat into the campo.
On the way there she stumbled across two members of the Guardia Civil. She had seen their tricorn hats looming up out of the twilight, too late to draw back.
‘Where are you going at this hour?’ The voice was curt.
‘To visit my uncle in Almuñecar.’
‘Almuñecar is that way.’ He pointed along the coast road.
‘Yes, I know,’ she faltered, ‘but it’s getting dark.’ She feared these men and knew that if they were to push her down she would not dare try to use the knife.
‘So what is your plan? To sleep rough?’
‘I thought I’d wait for a few hours and go on when it is light.’
‘Have you papers?’
She fumbled in her pack and produced them.
‘Born in Yegen, I see, Encarnación. You know my cousin Jésus-Maria Rodriguez?’
‘Yes, yes, I know him!’ She seized on the connection, in spite of it being a foul one. ‘He is the father of my best friend, Luisa Rodriguez.’
‘Luisa? I have not seen her for many years. She is your friend?’
‘My best friend. We always sat in school together.’
‘So she went to school? She is a clever girl, then?’
‘Very clever.’
He handed back her papers. ‘Take care where you pass the night. And make sure you find your uncle in the morning. A girl like you should not be out alone. I am sure my cousin would not let his daughter wander about in this way.’
‘With a goat!’ said his companion and he laughed. ‘Maybe we should look after her for a while, Diego? A girl like her might do better with a bit of company.’
‘No, let her be. She is a friend of my cousin’s family, after all.’
Encarnita did not stop trembling until their hats had faded into the darkness and their voices dwindled.
1935
She came into Almuñecar at its eastern end, by the long straight beach. A few battered-looking fishing boats were drawn up on the grey sand and, close by, fishermen were mending nets. Other men, older, with dark, lined faces, sat watching and smoking thin cigarettes that smelled of burning leaves. They lifted their heads to look at the girl and her goat but she kept her eyes averted from them. She did not want to have to account for herself until she had had the chance to take a look at the village. Cinderella was unhappy; she did not like the smell of the sea or the feel of the sand underfoot.
Further along the beach, they came upon a small white hotel sitting straight onto the sand. The Hotel Mediterráneo. Encarnita hesitated for a moment before plunging Cinderella’s stake into the sand and going inside. The lobby was empty. She cleared her throat a couple of times and a short, chubby young man with a practically bald head and a little black moustache appeared. He looked her up and down and then asked what she wanted, in an abrupt though not unkind voice, but realising obviously that she would not be a customer.
‘I’m sorry, we don’t need any housemaids at present,’ he added. He spoke Spanish with an unusual accent.
That was a pity. She would have welcomed such a job. She told him she was looking for her uncle, Rinaldo Benet.
‘Ah, Rinaldo? Yes, I know him quite well.’
‘You do?’ She felt like hugging him, it was such a relief to know that Rinaldo was alive and here, in Almuñecar.
‘He lives up the hill in Calle Carmen. Come, I’ll show you.’
She followed him outside. Turning to face inland, he pointed to a narrow opening. ‘Take that street and follow it right on up. There’s a ruined fortress at the top. They call it an alcazaba. Rinaldo lives up there, not sure which house, anyone will tell you. Part of the alcazaba is a cemetery now. Creepy place it is, too. They put their dead in drawers and slot them into cement niches. Maybe you’re used to that? Where I come from we put them in the ground. More civilised, if you ask me.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Germany. Heard of it?’
‘Of course. I’ve seen it on the globe.’
‘You’ve been to school, then? Can you read and write? Half of them here can’t. Your uncle can’t, can he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen him.’
‘I see. Is he expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll be a surprise then. Come to stay with him, have you?’
‘I hope to. For a little while. My uncle – is he married?
‘Never heard of him having a wife. So, what do they call you?’
‘Encarnita.’
‘Funny name. But you’re a a pretty girl, Encarnita. My name is Jacob but everyone here calls me Jacobo. The maids call me Don Jacobo.’ He giggled.
‘The hotel belongs to you?’
‘No, I wish it did. Herr Christien is the proprietor but he relies on me a lot. He’s Swiss.’ He looked back at the beach. ‘See that fat man walking along by the sea. That’s him, taking the sea air, for his nerves. He’s the nervous type. washes his hands until they’re nearly rubbed raw. And he keeps changing the locks, thinking we’re going to be robbed.’ Jacobo had been eyeing Encarnita while he was talking and moving a little closer to her so that she began to feel uncomfortable. She wanted to get away but did not like to be rude when he had been so helpful. He was fingering his little bristly moustache. ‘Perhaps we might take a walk along the beach together sometime, Encarnita, you and me?’
‘Perhaps,’ she answered and bent to untie Cinderella.
‘Is that your goat? I hope she hasn’t fouled the sand. I cleaned it just a little while ago for the sake of our guests who don’t like goat shit on their shoes. It stinks.’
‘I’ll clean it,’ Encarnita said quickly, noticing a few round black balls on the sand.
‘It’s all right, I’ll do it. You can be nice to me in return when we go for our walk. You will, won’t you? You look a kind girl.’ He gave a little giggle again.
She thanked him, without engaging his eyes, and led Cinderella to the street called Calle Carmen. It was cobbled and steep, but there were wide side-steps for donkeys and goats, already well fouled by animal excrement. A warren of streets sprawled upward, winding their way round the hill. The houses looked in poor condition; some were half-broken down and appeared abandoned. The streets themselves were deserted but it was the siesta hour, the time to stay indoors out of the heat of the sun.
She pressed on, encouraging Cinderella, who was lagging behind and becoming stubborn. She needed food and water, as did Encarnita herself. A scraggy hen skittered across their path and Encarnita had to hold Cinderella back. In a doorway an old man sat on a low chair, with one of his trouser legs pinned up at the knee. Encarnita stopped.
‘I’m looking for Rinaldo Benet’s house,’ she said.
The man stared back at her with glazed, rheumy eyes and she wondered if he might be deaf. She muttered that she was sorry to have disturbed him, even though she had not. He did not move his head to watch her go. The silence in the street was beginning to unnerve her but when she turned the next corner she could see the ruin of the alcazaba ahead. She passed the few remaining houses, hearing the sound of men’s voices, loud, raised voices, coming through the unglazed window of the last one. She wondered if o
ne of them might belong to her uncle but hesitated to knock without knowing.
She climbed on up into the ruin of the alcazaba which lay sprawled over a wide area, with some of its outer and inner walls still intact. Its size surprised her. She staked Cinderella so that she could wander among the stones on her own. She began to visualise the layout of the fortress. Some shapes must have been rooms, and other long narrow ones might have been baths. Their teacher had told them about the Moors who had built grand palaces and castles with baths and fountains. They had loved water. There was none here now. Weeds grew amongst the tumbled stones. At the top she had a marvellous view of the sea on one side and, on the other, the campo leading to the sierras. The place might no longer be as splendid as when the Moors were here but Encarnita thought it a magical place where a child might play and hide in the nooks and crannies.
The cemetery occupied a space at the far wall. A squat, middle-aged woman in a black dress and headscarf was dusting the outside of one of the niches while, in her left hand, she held a crucifix. She looked startled when she saw Encarnita.
‘I used all my savings to give him a proper funeral,’ she said.
‘You did?’
‘I wasn’t going to let him lie in the ground and have the dogs gnaw his bones, was I?’
Encarnita swallowed and put a hand to her throat. ‘No.’
‘Are you all right?’ The woman came a step closer to her. ‘You’ve turned a funny colour.’
‘It’s just the heat. I need some water.’
‘Come and sit down on the wall.’ The woman guided her. ‘I don’t know you, do I? You’re a stranger here?’
‘Yes. I’m looking for Rinaldo Benet. He is my uncle.’
‘Your uncle? Didn’t know he had any family. He’s never spoken of anyone. You don’t look like him.’
‘I’ve been told I take after my father’s side.’
‘So where is he now, your father?’
