by Pete Ayrton
In the days following that famous toast, the neighbourhood was kept entertained by the love affair between the Russian and La Pepa. And for her, that was a wonderful time: she went about her tasks in a daze or as if she could hear tender music in her heart.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ she said the whole time.
Mama would watch her with those clear, caressing eyes of hers.
One stormy evening the two of them talked for a long while, sitting on the wicker armchairs we used in summer.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, señora. What are they going to say in La Puerta?’
I once saw mama stroke her hair.
At nightfall, when the Russians and the music master, who was a good friend of theirs and lived in the same hotel, arrived at the doctor’s house, mama would let La Pepa come out with us to the corner café. The silly girl would wear a flower from mama’s flower-bed in her hair, and stand there waiting in her white pinafore and red sandals.
‘There’s La Pepa waiting for her Russian,’ the women would say from their doorways, windows and balconies.
The Russians would arrive in their leather jackets and carrying bottles, together with the music master, who knew how to say tovarich. When he saw La Pepa, the tall Russian with the blue-grey eyes would come forward with a broad smile on his face. He would give a deep bow and give her boxes of sweets or tablets of soap. And occasionally fabrics. Then they would stand staring at each other for ages, without a word. At most, he would say in a lilting voice: ‘love... love’. Or: ‘pretty girl... love.’
At this La Pepa would blush and give him the little flower from her hair. And the Russian would kiss it and put it in his big haversack. All the local kids and nannies would crowd round them, but they didn’t seem to care.
‘Sweet Jesus, señora, he’s called Nicolás Nicolavich.’
‘So what, Pepa?’
‘Well, what does that Nicolavich mean?’
One evening, Nicolás insisted La Pepa enter the doctor’s house, but she didn’t want to. She had felt too ashamed ever since the day of the toast. The doctor’s wife had to come out and convince her.
When we were in the courtyard, Nicolás Nicolavich called for silence and then addressed everyone solemnly. He said a lot in Russian, staring at La Pepa. Everyone applauded. Then a very small Russian who looked like a Mongol from the comic books who acted as their interpreter translated what his comrade had said in a syrupy accent: ‘... that Nicolás Nicolavich was pleased to inform everyone that he was going to make la Pepa his “partner”.’ And that he was going to dedicate with all his heart, or something similar, the dance he was about to perform. And that he – the interpreter – especially wished to congratulate La Pepa on having the good fortune to become part of ‘the great Soviet family’.
All we Spaniards applauded. The Russians came over one by one to shake hands with La Pepa. Then Nicolás gave her two big kisses on the cheeks. La Pepa received all this public declaration without moving, although she had turned very pale, and was perspiring.
Nicolás Nicolavich gave another shout, and all of a sudden to the sound of the piano played by someone called Kolsof, he started spinning round on one leg.
We all clapped our hands in tune like the Russians did.
Drawn by this extraordinary celebration, a lot of people from the nearby houses came to the gateway and surrounded La Pepa admiringly. She was still rooted to the spot, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, her hands folded across her chest like a mannequin.
The next day, La Pepa had a long discussion with La Sagrario and Requinto. La Sagrario listened open-mouthed to everything her friend was saying. Requinto looked on snootily. All of a sudden, La Sagrario burst out laughing and slapped herself on the backside.
‘Well, well, my dear Pepa... what are you going to do with a husband you don’t understand? A Russian, by Jesus! Ay, Pepa my love, who would credit it?’
Requinto was blowing out clouds of cigarette smoke and looking very superior.
‘Nobody knows where their destiny will take them,’ he declared finally.
Possibly Requinto would himself have liked to be the protagonist of that famous love story. As we were to discover later on, he was someone with a great desire for fame and distinction.
‘You’re head over heels in love with him, aren’t you, Pepa my love? And you not understanding a word: who would have thought it? Wait till they hear about it in La Puerta... ’
Requinto must have been annoyed as well that La Pepa was more head over heels than his Sagrario.
When doña Nati learned from mama the direction Hispano-Russian affairs were taking, in the shape of their modest representatives Nicolás and Pepa, one evening as we were passing in front of her house on the way to granddad’s factory, she appeared on her balcony and called us over.
An extremely long conversation ensued, in which naturally doña Nati was the main protagonist, since to begin with all La Pepa did was give a brief account of what she knew about the Russian and her love for him.
Doña Nati spoke her mind. She referred to the differences in climate, language, religion, customs, food and political systems between the two countries. On this last subject she made a real declaration of principle, explaining how she, who was nothing more than a liberal Republican, repudiated all kinds of dictatorship and state intervention. She further rejected any coercion of conscience and thought. She hated all militarism and the farce of a single party. And she could not fail to mention her doubts when it came to Communist theories of equality in economic and social matters. She thought that human beings ought to have complete freedom even when it came to being poor... and yet – and here she made a very theatrical gesture to emphasize the reasons she was about to give – she understood that true love was a sublime emotion capable of overcoming whatever differences might get in the way of normal relationships that were not fired by the divine temperature of passion. And that this – doña Nati still used many romantic turns of phrase – when it was both pure and strong, was sufficient to fuse two beings into one even if they were of very contrasting natures. And that she, La Pepa, would end up learning Russian without noticing it, as though it was knowledge spread by the heart and the bloodstream. As for the temperature, climate, customs and even the political regime, La Pepa would assimilate them all if her love for Nicolás was as intense and unstoppable as it appeared... and that, in conclusion and always taking into account the burning heat of her passion, doña Nati considered she was doing the right thing by marrying her Russian.
When she had finished her speech, La Pepa answered briefly as follows:
She loved Nicolás very much. It had come over her all of a sudden, like a fever she couldn’t get rid of. She was sure he was a very good and loving man. She had nothing to lose in Spain. As for cold and hunger, until she arrived in our house she had not known what it meant to have a hot meal every day and to sleep in a bed with sheets. As for religion, the poor life she had led had not allowed her to consider the Spanish god with any great sympathy. And as for political ideas, she didn’t understand about dictatorships and freedoms, but of course she thought it was splendid there were no rich and poor because we were all God’s children, and she didn’t see why some people had more than enough whereas others didn’t even have bread to eat... And as an afterthought she added that she, who was destined to marry a half-starving labourer who would have no work for half the year, could never have dreamt of a husband who was not only a commissioned officer but an air force pilot...
Doña Nati listened calmly to La Pepa’s defence, questioning some of her assertions with a doubtful gesture, but when she saw how determined she was, she decided not to make any further recommendations, congratulated her and wished her all the best.
The only thing she made La Pepa promise was that she would write with her impressions of Russia so that she could have direct information about that mysterious country.
La Pepa promised she would; doña Nati gave us both a kiss; the two women said fare
well, and off we went.
Very early one morning, María la Foca appeared at our front door. She was a poor beggar woman – at that time helped by Red Aid – who traded in the cheapest flesh, was an expert in maids, and lustful old men. She came with a secret message for La Pepa.
She was stocky, her skin so dark it was almost black, with one wandering eye and the other tearing the whole time, and drooping Chinese moustaches. She was leaning on a pitchfork, her greasy grey hair straggling out from beneath the black kerchief she wore as a cap.
Winking her rheumy eye and gulping down her words, she told poor Pepa that the Russians were going home that evening without telling a soul... ‘I’m warning you, my child, so you’ll get a move on. You don’t want that airman to leave you at the altar.’
When we got up that morning, mama found La Pepa on her bed in her room, howling softly to herself like a wounded animal.
Mama sat beside her and gave her encouragement and hope once she had learned that things between the two of them ‘had not gone too far’.
‘No, señora, no. Like two angels... ’
When papa arrived and learned what was going on, he also reassured La Pepa. He told her he had the impression that as far as he could see, Nicolás wasn’t going to play any dirty trick on her. La Pepa recovered a little and got up off her bed. Although she carried on with her sniffles, she set about her household chores as usual. Papa said that as soon as he had eaten he would go and visit our doctor neighbour to find out if it was true that the Russians were pulling out. But there was no need.
We were having dessert after lunch when there was a loud banging at the door. La Pepa went as stiff as if she had been punched in the chest. Then she went to open, visibly quaking.
The front door was flung wide open, and the afternoon sun came flooding in. We heard a few short words. Then in the doorway we heard the resolute footsteps of three Russians and the music master who knew how to say tovarich. Of course, one of them was Nicolás Nicolavich; another was a high-ranking officer with a fine uniform, and the third was the Mongol with the face out of a comic.
After nodding his head several times in greeting, the interpreter began to speak to papa, while the others, even the music master, remained motionless. Mama asked them to sit down, but they refused, saying they were in a great hurry.
The interpreter said that the squadron had received orders to return to its base in Russia that same day. That Nicolás was a perfect gentleman, and had asked the squadron leader for permission to take La Pepa with him, as he would probably never be returning to Spain. His superior had said it was essential La Pepa had papa’s permission to leave, as he seemed to be her guardian or relative – they did not recognize the master–servant relation, which had been abolished in their country by the glorious 1917 revolution. And that the commander wanted papa to confirm his permission verbally and by signing the piece of paper they had placed on the table.
Papa told the interpreter that La Pepa was an adult and so was free to marry whomever she chose. That if she was in agreement he himself, aware of her feelings towards Nicolás Nicolavich, had no objection. So then, with great formality, the interpreter asked Pepa if she wanted to go to Russia with Nicolás that same evening, and there be joined to him in marriage according to the laws of that country. Without a moment’s hesitation, La Pepa said she did. She put her hand on Nicolás’ shoulder, and the pilot, still standing to attention, encircled her waist.
Papa was bold enough to say to Pepa that he assumed she had considered that she had never left Spain and was now going to discover a land that was different in every way.
The interpreter did not let him finish, inteijecting with great pride that Pepa’s destiny could not be rosier. She would be a Soviet citizen. The wife of a valiant officer in the USSR’s air force... ‘what you call here a real lady’.
Papa didn’t pay much attention to this speech, but asked Pepa if her family knew anything about all this. She told him she only had one brother, and that she would write to him that afternoon to tell him about her journey.
Papa signed the paper written in Russian that he was told gave his authorization for Pepa to leave the country. It also had to be signed by the mayor, the town’s military commander and I don’t know who else. The Russians then bade papa and mama farewell, having agreed that Nicolás would come to fetch La Pepa two hours later, because at seven that evening the squadron would be taking off for its destination in Russia. La Pepa would be flying in the twin-engined plane that Nicolás piloted.
News got round, and people began arriving to say goodbye to Pepa. She was ready very quickly; the only luggage she took was a small painted cardboard suitcase. La Sagrario wept disconsolately.
‘Ay, my Pepa!... my Pepa... in an aeroplane... To Russia!... How awful!... Ay, my Pepa, what good luck!’
That was how poor Sagrario went from lamentation to envy, with an inconsistency that was as infantile as it was amusing.
The silent Requinto, visibly upset, was smoking furiously.
‘What luck, Pepa! The wife of a commissioned military.’
Pepe Requinto had not been called up because he wasn’t tall enough. When he heard this he gave Sagrario a look of fury.
With a flower in her hair, La Pepa was smiling, still clutching her small suitcase.
Everybody had something to say, and they all congratulated her, although sometimes they added a word of warning.
‘Russia! That must be further than France.’
‘Be careful, my child,’ Sister Mariana told her. ‘They’re all heretics there.’
‘Who would have thought it, from grape-picker to pilot!’
Mama gave her a pair of antique ear-rings, and granddad and Lillo came with a big bouquet of flowers. La Pepa stroked our heads and said she would write.
It wasn’t long before a car drew up outside our door. In came Nicolás wearing a leather overall and a balaclava. The music master was with him.
‘My, my,’ he said to La Pepa. ‘You’ve become a real tovarich.’
Nicolás had a purple gabardine over his arm and was holding a little hat of the same colour. He offered them to La Pepa for the aeroplane. She tried them on at once.
‘Ay, Pepa, aren’t you beautiful!’ said La Sagrario, stroking the fabric.
Requinto was staring at the ground, seething with indignation.
When she tried the clothes on, La Pepa was transformed. She looked like a real young lady. Nicolás gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Then he shook hands with everyone, smiling all the time and muttering a few words in Russian and Spanish. All we understood was ‘adiós... adiós’.
La Pepa allowed everyone to embrace her, and gave mama lots and lots of kisses.
The music master presented her with a lined piece of paper he said was a pasadoble he had composed for the two of them, entitled ‘The Russian Bride’.
Nicolás eventually took La Pepa in his arms, and led her out to the car.
There were more waved goodbyes as the car started up. Behind everyone else, granddad said:
‘Damn it, damn it, who would have thought it...?’
Very early the next morning, we saw the extremely unusual sight of granddad sitting in our courtyard talking to mama. He looked indignant. He had his arms folded across his chest and was nodding his head a lot, lips pursed.
‘That blasted girl.’
‘I blame Requinto,’ said mama.
I eventually gathered that earlier that morning there had been no sign of La Sagrario; her bed had not been slept in, and her clothes and suitcase were not in her room.
Granddad had reported her as missing, and it seemed enquiries were underway, although what had happened was plain for all to see. Granddad was livid:
‘After all we’ve done for that girl... Where can she have got to?’
After listening to him for a long while without saying a word, mama said, almost smiling:
‘Requinto has eloped with her. No doubt about it.’
&nb
sp; ‘The devil he has... so he’s eloped with her. Why? Was anyone against them getting married?’
‘He was jealous of the Russian.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I’ll see about that.’
And granddad shot off to heaven knows where.
By mid-day everything had been cleared up. Some soldiers known as ‘scouts’ based here during the war had discovered Sagrario and Pepito Requinto at the inn in Argamasilla de Alba, six kilometres from our town. That was where the petrol in Requinto’s battered Ford had run out.
They came home three days later, but didn’t dare come to see my family. Granddad had to go and find them and take them in front of the judge to marry them.
Later he told his friends:
‘Requinto’s Ford was the only vehicle those damned militiamen should have requisitioned.’
He added:
‘And that idiot Requinto is pleased as Punch with his adventure. As if he had taken her into the stratosphere.’
The story ended with a commentary by doña Nati about Sagrario and La Pepa:
‘It was God’s will that their lives ran in parallel.’
Francisco García Pavón was born in 1919 in Tomelloso, a small town in the province of Ciudad Real in La Mancha. Pavón spent the war in his home town, a Republican stronghold. His stories of the period are collected in Los Liberales (1965) and Los Nacionales (1977), which shine an acerbic, ironic light on both sides. García Pavón is best known for his novels set in Tomelloso that feature Plinio, the local head of police, who is equally at home solving a murder as the theft of a ham. A Spanish Maigret, Plinio was made into a very popular television series. Plinio’s fame was a mixed blessing for Pavón, who failed to get for his literary fiction the success it deserved; he was always known as the man who invented Plinio and the founder of the crime novel in Spain. He died in Madrid in 1989. This story from Los Liberales is included in the excellent anthology of Civil War stories Partes de Guerra, edited by Ignacio Martínez de Pisón.
