She wore, as usual, her hair in a tight black bun at the back of her head. A glass of carbonated soda, for her digestion, stood next to her on the coffee table. I walked warily into the room, gauging the mood, but sensed instantly that Mamá was back to her kind and sober self. She looked the most tranquil I had seen her in a long time.
Mother had a long neck like a flamenco dancer, her skin as pale and glowing as a side of turbot. Her aristocratic nose pointed severely down at the work in hand, as if her body was reminding her that in such humble work God would be found. She looked up from her embroidery—and smiled. I went over and kissed her on the cheek and sat next to her. She reached out and patted my hand.
“Hola, José. Welcome home. You look so handsome and brown.”
Papá lowered his newspaper. “Hola, hijo. How many?”
“Seven hundred and twelve.”
“Incredible. The Prince of Asturias has struck again. You can coax the fish right out of the water. Like Saint Peter himself.”
“You are our special child.”
“I’m not that special, Mother. I wish you would stop saying that. It is Juan who is different and special.”
My mother froze stiff for a moment and then returned to her stitching. There was an electronic hum coming from across the room and I looked over. My parents had recently purchased a modern American refrigerator, a new and coveted import to Spain, and while I was away they had installed the white-enameled GE device in the living room, so visitors to our house could see how fashionable we were.
Outside the bay windows, across our crescent driveway, San Sebastián’s scalloped bay was lapping against the caramel sand. Maids and mothers and boisterous children passed through the frame of the window as they promenaded along the seawall, a strong breeze fluttering their hats and dresses.
Juan, normally out in the middle of all that sand and summer activity, was stuck upstairs in his room doing his homework. He was behind in math at school, and our English governess was tutoring him over the summer. I could hear his chair scraping across the wooden floor overhead, as he finally finished his assignment for the day. He came thumping down the stairs in a foul mood. “So, how’s the ‘golden one’?” he sneered.
“Pretty well, thank you. Smart enough to know it’s better to do your work in school than spend the summer indoors at a desk.” Juan gave me a withering look and then sat down in a corner armchair. He picked up Biggles’ Second Case, one of his adventure books about a British flying ace. His foot jiggled impatiently as we waited. After what seemed forever, but was probably only a few minutes, Jorge announced the Sunday dinner was ready to be served.
A porcelain soup tureen sent a fragrant steam of leeks up into the air of the dining room. Jorge, now wearing white gloves, silently moved around the table as he served us. He stood quietly next to Mother with a bottle of Albariño in his gloved hand, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Go on,” Papá said. “Have one. I hate drinking alone.”
“Yes. I think I will. Thank you, Jorge.”
Jorge poured my mother her first drink of the day, and my brother jiggled his legs under the table like he was a combustion engine ready to explode. There was a cold and leaden feeling to that meal, as the clock on the mantelpiece slowly ticked the minutes. Juan and I both kept our heads down, pushing the sea bream back and forth across our plates, intent on not provoking our parents, who were, as the meal progressed, getting increasingly drunk.
“I can’t stand it,” Mother said, holding out her glass for a refill. “No more about the bank. Please. Just one meal without talking about the bank . . .”
Papá poured her the last glass from the bottle. “What are we doing for Big Week? Rinaldo de Ribeiro Suner invited us to his farm. For a partridge shoot . . .”
“Juan! Your manners! Stop playing with your food . . .”
“Jorge!” Papá bellowed. “Get the forty-seven out from the cellar.”
I announced I was tired from the trip and asked permission to go upstairs to my room. “Of course, José,” Mother said, her neck already mottled red. “Sleep well.”
I went and kissed her good night. Papá waved at me dismissively, for he was suddenly focused on Juanito, grilling him on how the math tutorials were going. I will always remember the look of anguish on Juan’s face, as my father poked his wrist and lectured him on the skills needed to come work at the bank, when he was finally mature enough to take on the responsibility.
I should have stepped in, should have protected him, but instead I went upstairs, down the corridor that was lined by medieval armor and the sixteenth-century linen closet that once belonged to our relative, the Archbishop of Bilbao. Finally safe behind the door of my bedroom, I went to the windows that faced the street and threw them wide open, to let in air.
Manuel lived in the house next to us, and, at that moment, his family’s uniformed maid was leaning from the roof garret window, her golden hair catching the light from the attic’s overhead bulb. She was smoking a cigarette and staring wistfully out over the rooftops, at the ships heading into the night-blackened sea. I sensed her loneliness, her craving to escape her life, and I was suddenly filled with a similar ache.
It was Monday and we were all back to our normal routine. I came down to find my parents sitting around the breakfast table. Papá was dressed in his blue suit for the bank. Mother’s white gloves and matching hat were resting on the sideboard.
“Today we are discussing a new dorm for the orphanage,” she said.
“How much is this going to cost me?”
“Don’t be so cynical, Jesús. If the monsignor approves the plan, I will launch a fundraising drive . . . Jorge, please remind Conchata that we will be out for lunch.”
“Por supuesto, Doña Isabel.”
Father shoveled some cooked mushrooms into his mouth. “What lunch?”
“Augustin invited us to lunch today. At the beach club.” She looked at Papá, flatly. “I put it in the book weeks ago.”
“I don’t recall seeing it. But, either way, I can’t go. Augustin may have time for languid lunches, but I actually have to work. I’m off to Vitoria this morning, to see our bank manager there. I will be back by dinner. You go.”
“Oh. How disappointing . . .”
“It’s maddening. Augustin never does any real work anymore. I have to have a talk with him. He’s either having long lunches or off shooting with the clients.” My father looked up from his blood sausage and said, “José María, join your mother and uncle for lunch. And bring your brother.”
“I have plans . . .”
“Not anymore.”
My mother gave me a warm and understanding smile. She looked back at Papá and touched his hand. “Jesus, don’t be like that. He’s off to university soon. Let him have a little fun his last summer of childhood.”
“You’re not dining alone in public with a man, even if he is my brother. All the hens of San Sebastián will be clucking.”
Mother dropped her head and dabbed her lips with the serviette.
When my lunch break at the bank rolled around, I took a taxi home, so I could walk with Juan the short distance to the beach club. Our bodyguard—hired by Papá to watch over us the day he dismissed ETA’s demands—was dressed in a tan summer suit and followed us out of the driveway at a discreet distance.
It was still and hot, with little breeze coming off the preternaturally calm Atlantic. The smell of roasting almonds from the vendor at the corner of the Paseo de la Concha mingled with the hot shimmerings of the black tar and the diesel fumes of the trucks rattling by with hauls of furniture and cabbage.
On the boulevard, Señor Domingo, the bank’s chief accountant, came out of Don Pedro’s jewelry store and almost bumped into us. He looked startled for a moment and then politely doffed his Panama hat. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He appeared to have just purchased a gold identification bracelet, which dangled brilliantly in the sun on his raised wrist.
“Señor Domingo,
” I said nervously, as if I had just been caught playing hooky. “We’re off to have lunch with our mother and uncle.”
“How lovely.” He bowed slightly. “Give them my warmest regards. Good day. I will see you back at the bank. Don’t be late.”
Uncle’s beach club was a two-story art deco building that appeared like a Baked Alaska cooked right into San Sebastián’s seawall. One set of stairs led down to the cool and dark changing rooms, umbrellas, and the wooden-slat walkway that headed through the sand to the sea. Another set of stone steps led up to the potted palm on the upper terrace, and the ornate iron-and-brass door of the club restaurant. Candy-striped umbrellas and cast-iron tables sat out on the terrace, providing wonderful views of the Bay of Biscay.
The club doorman, standing in uniform under the sidewalk umbrella, nodded at our approach and went to open the glass door for us. I looked up and saw Mother and Uncle Augustin already sitting out at the corner table of the upper terrace, the best spot to catch whatever breeze was available that day.
Mother was fanning herself with the day’s menu, and was talking earnestly and fervently with Uncle Augustin, as if she had so much to say in a short time. She had a slight smile on her lips. I remember her pleasure and I remember thinking how rare it was to see her looking that way and how happy it made me feel.
Right then, her hand stretched forward and delicately touched my uncle’s hairy wrist.
His forefinger lightly caressed hers back.
I stopped in my tracks. My brother was looking in the other direction, down at the beach, a hand cupped over his eyes, searching for friends. I saw it then, in his face, in the silhouette, as clear as day—my brother was the spitting image of my uncle.
The wind turned. Uncle Augustin swiveled his head slightly to the left and peered down the promenade. We locked eyes and he quickly pulled his hand away from my mother, who, sensing the danger, turned, a smile frozen across her face.
She waved at us, gestured we should come join them up on the terrace.
“Juan. You go.”
My brother turned his head.
“What? Aren’t you having lunch?”
“I’m not feeling well. Tell them I am going home to lie down. Conchata will make me some soup.”
“Don’t be such an old woman. Come.”
“Go, you little shit. Go before I smash you in the face.”
I shoved him in the chest.
I had never done this sort of thing to Juan before, and he blanched at my attack, stepped back, swiveled, and ran hard, trying to get away from me, straight across the Paseo de la Concha.
There was a screech and shudder and thud as my brother flew through the air, his limbs at odd angles. His head bounced on the cement and then disappeared under the wheels of the rusty truck hauling onions. The sea roaring in my ear was deafening. I could not immediately hear anything. All I could see were the round, open mouths of anguish, belonging to my mother and Uncle Augustin and the doorman, as they leapt up, shocked and straight and immobile, from their positions on the club’s terrace.
Our bodyguard was the first to move. He ran across the street and cradled my brother’s pulpy head in his hands. Blood leached into his summer suit, as he tried to determine if life was still there. Then the truck driver jumped from the front seat, bellowing like a madman, and ran back to help, just as Uncle Augustin finally found his legs and came clattering down the club’s stairs as well.
I still could not move. But I could hear again. As I filled up with the horror of what had just happened, I heard a laconic baritone, without a trace of upset, calmly say, “All quiet in the Alcázar, my General.”
SEVEN
Mother sat in the corner of her bedroom, on a cream divan, staring out to sea. She was still in her shift and gown, and although we were alone, she wouldn’t look at me.
“Mother, I need to talk to you. To tell you something.”
She didn’t acknowledge that I had spoken. She was so still and quiet, it was like she had even stopped blinking.
“Mamá, I killed Juan. I yelled at him, pushed him, and he ran across the road.”
She finally woke up, blinked rapidly, and turned ever so slightly from the sea.
“Promise me,” she finally said, her hands clasped tight in her lap, two fingers held by five. “Promise me you will hear what I am about to tell you.”
“Sí, Mamá. Anything.”
“You are innocent.”
“You didn’t understand what I just said.”
“You have nothing to do with this. Nothing. I alone am to blame for Juan’s death. This is God at work, punishing me for my sins.”
“I was angry. About what I saw between you and . . . I pushed him.”
She shook her head.
“José, please understand. God was working through you. It was not you. God is punishing me for my wickedness, through my children.”
She turned then, all the way in my direction, and looked me square and earnestly in the face. “If I give you anything in this life, José, let it be that you understand you were not to blame for Juan’s death. It was me. Entirely. It was my sinful behavior that killed Juanito, just as if I gave birth and then strangled him with my bare hands.”
Her speech was so forceful it made me sit down hard on the embroidered footstool at her feet. She reached out and caressed the back of my head.
“Remember, José. Remember. You are innocent.”
She kissed my hair. Even then I knew that this attempt to absolve me of the guilt that was mine alone and not hers to forgive—it was the purest and most decent thing my mother ever tried to do for me.
But life continues relentlessly for the living. Mother’s maid returned to the room, carrying a black dress wrapped in tissue, and gasped when she saw my mother bent over and weeping into the back of my head.
“Oh no. None of this. Not now. We have to get ready.” The maid looked crossly at me. “José, stop upsetting your mother! She’s got to get dressed. The car is leaving shortly. Leave now, please. So I can get her dressed.”
I stood and Mamá sat up straight. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and then turned, surrendering herself to her maid.
On the way back down the corridor, I glanced left into my brother’s room, and through the crack in the door, I saw Biggles’ Second Case splayed on its binding in the middle of his bed, just where Juan left it the day he died. It was like he had just gone off to the bathroom a few moments earlier.
I somehow managed to get back to my room. I stared at myself in the closet-door mirror, while attempting to tie my tie, asking the same questions over and over again—
Why didn’t I let you come fishing with me in Galicia, Juanito? Why?
Papá came to my room with a black armband clamped between his damp fingers, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. His face was gray, racked with pain. He wandered aimlessly about my room; he picked up a book on trout flies, put it down again, listlessly spun the globe. “We have to help your mother get through the day,” he said, but he could not speak further. His lip was trembling. I reached out and helped him secure the black armband, which he did for me, both of us using the armbands as an excuse to cling to each other.
Jorge appeared, his chauffeur’s hat in hand, and told us the car was ready.
Mother was waiting for us in the foyer downstairs. She wore the black dress, her face hidden behind sunglasses. When she saw us coming down the stairs, she lifted the shawl from her shoulders and covered her head, so that her face was entirely blotted out by a wall of black lace.
“It’s time, my dear, to put Juanito to rest,” Papá said.
Mamá did not say a word, but stared at the front door, her ebony rosary and an embroidered linen handkerchief clutched fiercely in her hands. We saw then that she was incapable of moving. Papá and I stepped forward, gently lifted her to her feet, and guided her out the door.
The sun was shining harsh and bright, and it took us some moments to adjust from the gloom of
the drawn-curtain house. The Hispano-Suiza was glinting chrome out front, behind the flower-bedecked hearse sitting farther down our crescent drive. A Guardia Civil motorbike escort and our family friends were waiting in a long line of cars just outside the house gates. Papá had insisted we bury Juan in our ancestral town of Oviedo, and as we pulled out of the pebbled drive in the Hispano-Suiza, the train of cars fired up and fell into line behind us.
Papá kept one lifeless hand in his lap, while the other held aloft a Ducados, which he periodically puffed from the side of his mouth, blowing smoke in the direction of the half-open window. We drove almost the entire six-hour trip in silence. Mother was pressed into the far dark corner of the red-leather seats, her face in shadow, unable to look at any of us. We passed lush green fields of maize and brown dairy farms. We passed pine trees standing sentinel atop the cliffs, circled by eagles, as the waves below crashed upon the rocks.
Jorge whispered to me under his breath, so my parents couldn’t hear. “The sun should not shine on such a day. It makes things worse.”
It was late afternoon when we finally pulled into the Oviedo cemetery. The Bishop of Oviedo, a distant relative, stood regally in his miter and green chasuble laced with gold thread—and gathered us around my brother’s casket under the cork trees.
Uncle Augustin came separately and on his own. I watched him in his black suit come quietly up the left side of the cemetery drive, light on his feet and with his head down, as if he didn’t want to leave a firm impression. Mother had refused to see Augustin back at the house, when he came calling, and this now was the first time I had seen him since that fateful day at his beach club.
Papá was standing on the grass, thanking all our friends for coming this long distance to bury Juanito. He was the picture of manly rectitude, but the moment he saw Augustin, he threw his arms around his brother and openly wept on his neck. My uncle, his eyes closed, patted my father on the back, whispered in his ear.
It was amazing to me that Papá—who was so wily and good at the shadow game of business and viscerally understood the subverted reasons why people did what they did—was, in this case, totally blind to how his brother had betrayed him.
The Man With No Borders Page 10
