The Songs of Manolo Escobar

by Carlos Alba

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ she asked in an angry stage whisper.

  ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you. I was trying to clean his head, but he wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘I don’t mean after the fall – I mean before. You know how ill he is. What are you doing letting him change a car battery in this weather?’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ I protested. ‘He insisted on doing it himself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you take hold of the battery and do it yourself?’

  I stood facing her, my mind a blank. It was a reasonable question to which I didn’t have an answer, or at least an answer that didn’t make me sound as though I was an errant five-year-old.

  ‘Or better still, why didn’t you get a taxi?’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me.’

  Her shoulders dropped and she looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘He’s eighty-three years old, Antonio.’

  ‘I know, but he’s my father.’

  14

  It was five years since Franco had died, and Papa was sufficiently confident of the flourishing of democracy in Spain – or at least of its failure to revert to dictatorship – that he and Mama were talking openly about the possibility of returning there. Every public utterance by King Juan Carlos, every magazine article charting the modernity of the new Spain, every tribute from returning holidaymakers contributed to his growing belief that things had changed, genuinely and irrevocably, for the better.

  Mama saw this as an opportunity to complete the circle of their lives. Circumstance had forced them to move from Spain to Morocco to Scotland, and now they had the chance to return, to live out the remainder of their days close to her family and in familiar surroundings.

  Things came to a head shortly into my second term at university, when we received news from Tia Teresa, Mama’s sister in Malaga, that Abuela’s health was failing. Now in her late eighties, she had suffered a stroke, and the prognosis was poor. Mama wanted to be with her mother for the last months of her life. She discussed the matter with Papa, and it was decided. One evening they told us that they were leaving to start a new life in the old country.

  Papa asked me if I wanted to go with them, though there was little conviction in his request, and he agreed it was sensible for me to stay in Scotland to complete my degree. I had no inclination to follow them, and there was the dividend of being able to move out of the family home and into university halls of residence, where I felt I’d have the freedom to grow and to become myself. It was Papa who’d insisted I continue to live at home after I left school because that’s how they did it in Spain, but I was in the minority among my friends, most of whom lived in the halls of residence or in digs.

  Pablito had just started a new job, and he was planning to get married to Linda, his fiancée, whom he’d met at a late-night bus stop and whom he’d subsequently got pregnant – on the top deck of the bus, he’d confided to me. So he too would be staying in Scotland, though he went through the motions of suggesting he might join Mama and Papa in Spain at a later date.

  Although Mama and Papa had talked in abstract terms about the possibility of returning to Spain for so long, now that it was actually happening it seemed unreal. Although I didn’t want to move with them, I certainly didn’t want them to go – not yet, at least. I was afraid I’d miss them, that I’d feel insecure without the anchor of my family. But there was something more elemental: I didn’t speak Spanish, I knew little about the country, its culture or its history – all I really had was my Spanish parents and my name. And now, surprisingly and against all my expectations, I found that I wanted to feel Spanish. For the first time in my life my Spanishness had become an asset, a source of fascination to an attractive and desirable woman. Mama and Papa’s intended departure could not have been less timely.

  I had yet to raise with Papa Cheryl’s request to meet him so that she could question him about the war. Introducing him to a friend, particularly a female friend, was fraught with danger. There was of course the very real prospect of him mortally embarrassing me with his imperfect English, his eccentricities, his chauvinism or his short temper. But there was something more potent, which, I’d come to suspect, was among the issues at the centre of my troubled relationship with my father: a conviction that, with his uncompromising maleness, his confident masculine deportment, any girl I brought home would find him more attractive than me. I’d seen it often enough with Pablito’s girlfriends, who would enter the house smiling coyly, gripping Pablito’s hand tightly, seeking reassurance. Yet within the flutter of an eyelash after meeting Papa, they’d move further from Pablito and edge ever closer to Papa, seduced by his charm.

  I’d have to put my reservations aside, though. Now, with their intention to return to Spain confirmed, time was against me. Because of Abuela’s illness there could be no delay, no long-term planning, and they planned to leave within a few weeks. I had been prepared to be patient in winning Cheryl over. I had known it would take time, planning, discretion, changing perceptions and orthodoxies and not a little deviousness, but it was a campaign I was willing to embark upon and to see through to the end. However, my plan hinged on Cheryl meeting Papa. I had to act quickly. And though I was still unsure of the wisdom of exposing one of my friends to Papa, especially one whom I held in such high regard, I felt as though I had little choice. My love life depended on it.

  I planned in meticulous detail when to make the breezy, impromptu suggestion to Cheryl that she come round for dinner. I’d decided that it would be best to catch her before the start of our lecture on Monday morning, yet when the moment came I began jabbering.

  ‘You know how we were talking about the Spanish Civil War and all that and how you were dead interested in it and all that?’ I began.

  ‘What?’ asked Cheryl distractedly as she leaned against a wall, engrossed in a copy of Marxism Today.

  ‘I was just saying that you know how you’re into the Civil War and all that and how my old man fought in it . . . well I’m pretty sure he fought in it, although he’s never said as much . . . but you know how you were talking about it and you were saying that . . .’

  She looked up from her magazine and stared at me.

  ‘Well, you know how you were saying you’d be interested in talking to my old man? Christ, why anyone would want to talk to him I don’t know, but anyway, you know how you were saying . . .’

  She sighed deeply and failed to stop her eyes rolling backwards.

  ‘Anyway, just say if you think it’s a non-starter, ’cause Christ, sitting in a room for any length of time with my old man is enough to make anyone lose the will to live, but I’ll say one thing about my ma, she’s a good cook, if you like that sort of thing that is, and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but . . .’

  ‘Antonio.’

  ‘But she makes lots of typical Spanish dishes, and to be honest I’m not a huge fan of Spanish food, but I’ll say one thing . . .’

  ‘Antonio,’ she said, loud enough to turn the heads of several of the students standing around us. ‘I’d love to come.’

  That night I told Mama and Papa about the visit. I’d thought carefully about whether I should tell them that Cheryl was fascinated by the Civil War and that she wanted to interrogate Papa about his anarchist past, but I decided against it, reasoning that if he were to object now, he might veto the whole enterprise. If it were sprung on him as a surprise, he’d be forced to co-operate. It was a risky strategy, but better than having to cancel on Cheryl.

  He beamed with delight at the news that I was bringing a girl back to the house for the first time. ‘This is good,’ he said slapping me heartily on the back. ‘You should dae this more. You ashame a your family or something?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Mama was excited too, and she promised to cook a special Spanish meal to impress her, oxtail with prunes – a speciality from her native Andalusia. She also agreed to banish Pablito from the house
for the evening. Things were coming together nicely, and I was confident I might actually be able to carry this off without any disasters.

  During the bus journey to my parents’ house I tried to warn Cheryl about Papa, but I found it difficult to put what I felt into words – that was the problem with him: meeting him a hundred times would still fail to provide a full picture of what he was really like. You had to live with him to learn that.

  ‘Don’t be so anxious. I’m sure he’ll be enchanting,’ she said, squeezing my hand.

  As I opened the front door to the house, there was an unnerving quietness and none of the warm, inviting cooking smells I’d expected. We took off our coats in the darkened hallway, and I led Cheryl into the living-room. Papa was in his usual seat, still dressed in his airport overalls, rocking gently on his seat, sucking determinedly on a cigarette. He didn’t look up. Mama and Pablito were on the sofa, both white, and Mama appeared close to tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  No one answered.

  ‘What’s happened? Has Abuela died?’

  Papa looked at his wrist, but his watch, which he never wore to work in case it was damaged by a suitcase, was missing. ‘¿Qué hora?’ he demanded anxiously. ‘What is the time?’

  No one responded.

  ‘¿A qué hora son las noticias en la televisión?’ ‘When is the news on television?’

  ‘En otros quince minutos,’ Mama said quietly. ‘In another fifteen minutes.’

  We continued to stand uncertainly in the doorway.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I repeated.

  Mama stood up and ushered us into the room.

  ‘Come in and sit down. You must be Cheryl,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry, we’re not organised, you must forgive us. Something has happened in Spain that we are worried about.’

  ‘Maybe I should go – I don’t want to intrude,’ Cheryl whispered in my ear.

  ‘What’s happened, Mama?’

  ‘We don’t know yet for sure. We’re waiting to hear the news, it’s something political.’

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, then Mama asked Cheryl if she would like a cup of tea. Cheryl said she would make it and asked me to show her where all the things were kept. I followed her into the kitchen and watched her fill the teapot and put some biscuits on a plate, warmed by the sense of intimacy such a prosaic function created between us.

  We returned to the living-room just as the six o’clock news was starting. The programme opened with some unannounced footage, the way they do when there’s a big, important item, pictures telling the story because they have more impact than words.

  The film was grainy and unfocused. A speaker was addressing a meeting inside a grand, formal building that looked like a conference hall or a political chamber. Then suddenly he was interrupted by a group of soldiers carrying machine-guns who entered from a side door. One of the soldiers strutted purposefully into the centre of the hall and began to shout excitedly in Spanish.

  It was a moment of compelling theatre. The man was short and absurd, a touch effeminate and grossly self-important. He had a large moustache, and he wore a stiff black hat that resembled the shape of an upturned boat. He was like a parody of a baddie from a children’s film. Suddenly and without warning he raised a pistol above his head and fired several shots. Papa twitched violently and Mama threw her hands in front of her mouth.

  ‘iDíos mío!,’ she gasped.

  Inside the chamber there was a series of loud thuds as bodies hit the floor and chunks of masonary fell from the ceiling on to the wooden pews below, and there were screams of anguish and panicked instructions. The camera jerked violently and its focus was trained suddenly away from the action towards the ceiling, then down to the floor, before it fizzed and went blank.

  The sudden, contrasting image of a composed, smartly suited BBC newsreader sitting in a London studio was unnerving. He announced in measured, neutral tones that a group of civil guards, led by a lieutenant-colonel in the Spanish army, had attempted a coup d’état earlier in the day. They had entered the Cortes, the Spanish parliament in Madrid, and fired several shots, before ordering King Juan Carlos, the head of state, to make a statement.

  The coup appeared to have been originated by former supporters of Franco in Valencia, where tanks had been ordered on to the streets and a state of emergency had been declared. The joint chiefs of staff had issued a communiqué declaring that all measures had been taken to put down the rebellion and to restore order.

  ‘Supe que esto sucedería. No es seguro. Nunca será seguro en España, a pesar de que los políticos digan,’ Papa said angrily. ‘I knew this would happen. It’s not safe. Spain will never be safe, despite what the politicians say.’

  ‘Be quiet, Pablo,’ Mama ordered. ‘I want to hear what is happening.’

  Before I’d met Cheryl, the symbolism of what was happening might have been lost on me, but I knew enough about Spain’s past now to realise the events were shockingly similar to those that had foreshadowed the outbreak of the Civil War. At that time Franco, then an army general based in the Canary Islands, had flown to Spanish-occupied Morocco, from where he led a military uprising that was the prelude to three years of fighting and bloodshed, culminating in four decades of unbroken fascist rule. I began to appreciate why Papa should be agitated.

  ‘Llame a su hermana,’ he ordered Mama. ‘Phone your sister.’

  This confirmed the gravity of the situation. Papa never encouraged Mama to make expensive international calls. Mama pointed at the television set, indicating that she was still watching.

  ‘Llame a su hermana,’ he repeated.

  She dialled, and Teresa answered immediately, launching unsolicited into an account of the day’s events. From the other side of the room we could hear her tinny, animated voice through the receiver. Mama remained calm, repeatedly saying ‘Claro.’ After a few minutes, Papa demanded to speak to Teresa.

  He held the handset tight against his ear, constantly interrupting Teresa, who in turn shouted louder to be heard over him. Eventually he remembered the cost of the call, bade her goodbye and hung up.

  The room descended into a melee of claim and counter-claim, point and rebuttal, all conducted in high-decibel Spanish. Not since the day Franco had died had I felt such an outsider in my home. Even Cheryl, though by no means fluent, had more of a command of the language than I had, and I was forced to suffer the ignominy of relying on her to keep me abreast of what was being said.

  According to Teresa, the streets of the capital had been mobbed with people panic-buying food, and already the shelves of several shops had been emptied. The rebels had taken over local radio and television stations, and while there was no sign of any military presence on the streets where she lived, that wasn’t necessarily the case in the rest of the country.

  The BBC newsreader said the next twenty-four hours would be crucial in determining whether the coup had genuine support or if it was a stunt by a handful of extremists. The king was due to speak on Spanish television soon, and all we could do was to wait for the next main news bulletin at nine o’clock to hear what he had to say.

  I apologised to Cheryl and asked her if she’d rather postpone her visit until another night, but she said she would like to stay. She was clearly intrigued by what was going on, and seemed to appreciate that she was witnessing such an event in the presence of authentic emotion.

  Mama prepared a tortilla, which she laid out on the table with some lettuce leaves, sardines and bread spread with tomato paste and olive oil. We all tucked in – I’d eaten nothing all day in nervous anticipation of this evening, and I was ravenous – but Papa remained in his seat, chain-smoking, staring intently ahead. The room descended into silence, broken only by the sound of chewing and forks clinking on plates.

  Tha’s it, we nae go back tae Spain now,’ Papa said.

  Mama sighed. ‘Let’s wait to see what happens, Pablo, we don’t need to make any immediate judgements.’
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br />   ‘I nae wait, I know wha happen.’

  ‘That general looked like a nutcase to me, Papa,’ Pablito said. ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to take him seriously.’

  ‘This is wha they say about Franco.’

  Hush descended again, but it was broken by Cheryl. ‘If there was a civil war, I’d volunteer to go and fight,’ she said confidently.

  I cringed. Despite what I guessed were her best intentions, the statement sounded naïve and inappropriate. Papa turned and stared at me, but I avoided his gaze and continued to eat, hoping that her comment would go unacknowledged.

  ‘Lots of people from this country joined the International Brigades that fought in the last civil war,’ she continued. ‘It was the last conflict where it was a straight fight between idealism and tyranny. My generation hasn’t had that opportunity. If this develops into a conflict, I would have no hesitation in fighting against fascism.’

  Papa eyed her incredulously. He had a familiar glint in his eye that signalled he was ready for a fight. ‘Wha you talk about?’ he demanded aggressively.

  She tried to respond but he cut her dead.

  ‘You nae know wha you talk, woman.’

  Cheryl bristled. ‘I don’t see what me being a woman has got to do with anything,’ she said defensively.

  Papa’s eyes widened, and his body seemed to contract as though he were a cat sizing up its prey. I tried to intervene. ‘The point she’s making, Papa, is . . .’

  ‘You know nothing about war. You nae talk about wha you nae understand.’

  I felt events slipping out of control. I couldn’t trust Papa to bring the exchange to an end without causing further offence. ‘All she’s saying, Papa, is that . . .’

  ‘I know wha she say, and she talk rubbish. What she know about fight?’

  ‘I just think it’s important to fight for what you believe in and not run away from it,’ Cheryl said, probably more pompously than she’d intended.

  There was silence, like the moment of absolute serenity before a bomb explodes.