Homeland

by Fernando Aramburu

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s what gets me down. What would you do?”

  Joxian scratched his neck before answering: “I’m clueless.”

  They were in the shadow of the fig tree, smoking. The weather was fine, and on a rock a lizard was sunning itself. The truck in the middle of the garden with its wheels half sunk into the soft earth. From the other side of the river came the constant clack-clack-clack of some machine or other in the Arrizabalaga brothers’ workshop.

  “Think they pay too?”

  “Who?”

  “The Arrizabalagas.”

  Joxian shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ve only got three options. Pay, move the company, or take my chances. What I can’t wrap my mind around is why they’ve got it in for me after I paid them what they demanded and didn’t make them wait.”

  “I don’t understand these things, but it still seems to me there’s been a mistake.”

  “I already told you they talk about Nerea.”

  “Maybe they sent you the letter they’d send you next year without realizing it.”

  Clack, clack. Txato, after tossing his cigarette butt to the ground and stepping on it: “Could I ask you to do me a favor?”

  “Of course, name it.”

  “Look, I’ve been thinking. I have to talk to them, with one of the chiefs or with the person responsible for finances, and explain my situation. The priest I met with is just an intermediary. Maybe they’d take less or let me pay them in installments, get me?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Clack, clack. They could hear birds and the noise of cars and trucks crossing the nearby bridge.

  “I need to talk to Joxe Mari. That’s the favor I’m asking from you.”

  Joxian, an expression of surprise on his face: “Joxe Mari’s not in ETA! Can’t be! Besides, he’s gone away. Where? We just don’t know. Joxe Mari is a dope and a lazy dope at that. He left his job, and Miren says he’s taken off to see the world with his friends. He might be in America now for all we know.”

  Clack, clack, clack.

  13

  THE RAMP, THE BATHROOM, THE CAREGIVER

  From the start, Miren saw it all clearly. If they hadn’t been living on a low floor they’d have had to move. Why? Damn, because we couldn’t be getting Arantxa up and down the stairs every day on our own. Can you imagine that? There were only three steps separating the entryway from their landing and front door. Not a great distance, but even so, over the long term it’s going to be impossible.

  “You’re out of the house, I don’t have the strength or—just suppose—I get sick on the street. What am I supposed to do? Ask for help? Leave Arantxa all alone in the entryway?”

  She told him he had to figure out some solution, and Joxian didn’t hesitate for a second. He clapped on his beret, went to the Pagoeta, and there the advice of his pals sent him to a carpenter’s shop, where he ordered a ramp. The carpenter, after taking the measurements, built it, tested it, and set it up. One morning the neighbors discovered that three-fourths of the small stairway was taken up by that wooden structure, which also extended about one and a half feet beyond the lowest stair onto the entryway’s tile floor, the idea being to make the incline less steep. Joxian and Miren tested rolling the wheelchair up and down, first without Arantxa, then with her in it, and no doubt about it, from that day on, the three steps would no longer be an obstacle to getting their daughter out to take the air.

  For the neighbors, on the other hand, there barely remained eight inches of stair from the entryway up unless, like the children, they went up and down on the ramp, which is exactly what Miren suggested to one neighbor who complained because the whole project was carried out without consulting the neighbors.

  “Listen, just go up the ramp. What’s the problem?”

  A double problem. For them: if someone slips and breaks something. For us: every time someone walks up or down the ramp you can hear their footsteps in the house, which means we’ll never get a night’s sleep. In the bar, Joxian picked up the idea of covering the wooden surface with carpeting. Miren, delighted. Carpeting—why didn’t we think of that before? It will simultaneously silence the footsteps and keep people from slipping. So they had it installed. Someone they knew did the work; carpenter’s glue, reinforced with nails.

  Joxian, reading the future: “People will use the carpet as a doormat. I don’t even want to think about how it will look when it rains.”

  The neighbors, indifferent or resigned, perhaps wanting to avoid arguments with the family of an ETA member, swallowed their protests. All but one: Arrondo, on the third floor, right side. Actually, his wife sent him to demand they take the whole thing away immediately. The stairs belong to everyone. His mother, eighty-eight years old, can’t cross over it, et cetera, et cetera. She and Miren had had a nasty encounter coming out of mass, trading tigerish, disdainful glares. And one Saturday, Arrondo, a man of few but strong words, came downstairs with an ultimatum: either they take down the ramp or he would, God damn it!

  It was Miren who opened the door, while Joxian hid in the kitchen.

  “You’re not taking anything down.”

  “Is that right?”

  Arrondo is big and imprudent. He didn’t think, never calculated the consequences, his wife had pushed him into it. Anyway, he took up the ramp and threw it into the corner where the mailboxes were. Man oh man, Arrondo. You’re in a nice mess now. Miren, without taking off her apron and still in her slippers, went over to the Arrano Taberna. It was early, there were few. Didn’t matter. Two were enough. Twenty minutes later, Arrondo had put the ramp back in its place. There were no more complaints, and it remains there: ugly but useful.

  Joxian: this could have been taken care of in another way. How? In another way, he didn’t know how, nicely, by talking.

  “And so why didn’t you come out and talk, since you’ve got so much to say?”

  The ramp wasn’t the only change they introduced to adapt the flat to Arantxa’s needs. They completely redid the bathroom. By the time they were done it looked nothing like its original self. To carry out the reworking they followed the instructions in a prospectus sent them by Rehabilitation Services. Guillermo paid for part. Miren: of course, he wanted to get her out of his sight as soon as he could. Here, here’s the paralytic, I return her to you, I’ve already found another woman to warm up my bed. And he kept the children, and Miren in church to the saint of Loyola: Ignatius, I beg you to punish him, you choose any way you like. And then give me my grandchildren and get Joxe Mari out of jail. If you just give me all that, I’ll never ask you for another thing. I swear.

  Net result: when Arantxa moved in with them, the bathroom looked like it belonged in a hospital, with an unenclosed shower and no step, easy access. What else? With grab bars, mats to prevent slips, lever-style faucets; what the director of Rehabilitation Services in the hospital recommended and had put into the prospectus.

  But to wash her properly it takes two people. Miren on her own can’t manage, because Arantxa, so thin at first, gained weight and is now back to normal. She has to be undressed, she has to be placed on the special chair for the shower, soaped up, dried, and dressed.

  “Okay, okay, don’t explain what I already know.”

  And Joxian, who wanted to take off as soon as possible to play cards in the Pagoeta, was happy to contract the services of an assistant. Because what Miren won’t accept under any condition is that Joxian look at or touch Arantxa naked, even if he’s her father. Never.

  The next day Joxian walks into the house and what does he see? A small woman with the eyes of an Indian and long, straight black hair who receives him with a curtsy, with two rows of smiling teeth, who calls him sir, sir!, and says: “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Celeste, at your service.”

  From Ecuador. Cute, no? And modest.


  Joxian, that night in bed: “Where’d you find her?”

  “By asking. Did you notice how clean and proper she is?”

  “Yeah, but where did you find her?”

  “In the butcher shop, talking. Juani says: listen, I know some people from Ecuador, and the woman cleans houses for very little money. They live in a van. And yesterday I was pushing Arantxa around and I asked for her and here she is. A treasure. I told her that one of my sons lives in Andalucía and that I visit him once a month. Celeste says I shouldn’t worry, that she’ll take care of Arantxa.

  “And how much do you expect to pay her?”

  “Ten euros whenever she comes.”

  “Very little.”

  “They’re poor. She’ll be thankful.”

  14

  LAST SNACKS

  Bittori prefers toast and marmalade and decaf coffee from a machine; Miren likes hot chocolate and churros. Even if they make you fat! Who cares? Did they get along? Very well. They were intimate. One Saturday the two of them were going to a café on the Avenida, the next Saturday to a churrería in the Parte Vieja. Always to San Sebastián. They called it both San Sebastián and Donostia, its Basque name. They weren’t strict. San Sebastián? Okay, San Sebastián. Donostia? Okay, Donostia. They would start speaking in Basque, switch to Spanish, go back to Basque, that way all afternoon.

  “Can you imagine if we had become nuns?”

  They laughed. Sister Bittori, Sister Miren. They had their hair done, they rehashed the village gossip, they understood each other without listening, since they usually spoke both at the same time. They criticized the priest, that skirt chaser; they flayed the neighbor ladies; about house and bed they told everything. Joxian’s hairy back, Txato’s lascivious mischief. They told it all.

  This too:

  “We know he’s in France but not in which town. Finally that bandit wrote us. Poor Joxian’s so mortified he can’t sleep. He wonders what we could have done to deserve this.”

  That afternoon of toast, rain, and wind. The coffee shop full. They had a corner where they could talk without being bothered.

  “I couldn’t bring you the letter. Joxe Mari won’t let us. He said we should destroy it. So, even though it hurt me to do it, believe me, I tore it to pieces. Joxian was hysterical. I don’t see how I can put it all back together. My dear man, just eat it. He took matches and burned the shreds in the sink.

  His girlfriend or whatever she is, because these days you just can’t know, brought the letter to us. Miren’s thesis: they couple like rabbits. Of course, since they have ways of not ending up pregnant. That she affirmed often, and Bittori agreed. They were convinced they’d been born thirty years before their time. Franco, the priests, your precious reputation, how naive they were. That’s how they thought, snacking, one eye on the nearby tables in case some local was listening in.

  The letter: by mail? No, dear. They use their own channels. No return address. So we’re left not knowing where he’s gone to live. Visits are not allowed. Just a few years ago you could cross over to see them, bring them clothes and anything else they might need. Now they have to be careful because the fascists are hunting them down.

  “Aren’t you afraid something terrible will happen to him?”

  “Joxian is. Sometimes he doesn’t go to the bar because Joxe Mari’s picture might be on the newscast. I’m calm. I know my son. He’s clever and strong. He’ll know how to protect himself.”

  Between bites of toast and sips of café con leche, Miren quoted passages from memory. That they weren’t to take rumors seriously. People talk without knowing. And much less the lies in the newspapers. That he understood militancy as a sacrifice for the liberation of our nation and that if anyone came to aita or ama with the tale that he’d joined up with a band of criminals they shouldn’t believe it, that the only thing he was doing was giving his all for Euskal Herria and also for the rights of those who complained and did nothing. There were many gudaris, he affirmed. More and more. The best of Basque youth. He concluded: “I love you both. I’m not forgetting my brothers. A big muxu, and I hope you’re both proud.”

  Ikatza came over warily and leapt into her lap, patiently waiting to be petted. Bittori’s fingers make sure her collar isn’t too tight, they play with her ears, rub eyelids that stay shut for the sheer pleasure of contact. Bittori rubs her hand over her back and as Ikatza purrs, says to the cat that I’m really sorry, Ikatza my darling. Can you imagine? I’m sorry about my best friend’s son, who quit his job, quit the handball team, quit his girlfriend or semigirlfriend, to become a gunman in an organization dedicated to serial murder.

  And Miren? Well, let’s see, Ikatza, now that you ask, I’ll tell you what I think. Deep down, and may Txato forgive me, I understand her. I understand her transformation, even if I don’t approve. Between that snack in the café on the Avenida and the next one in the churrería in the Parte Vieja, my friend Miren changed. Suddenly she was another person. In a word, she’d sided with her son. I haven’t the slightest doubt that she became a fanatic out of maternal instinct. In her place, I might have behaved the same way. How can you turn your back on your own child even when you know he’s doing bad things? Until then, Miren hadn’t taken the slightest interest in politics. I wasn’t interested then or now, and as for Txato, even less. Txato was only concerned with his family, his bicycle on Sunday, and his trucks the rest of the week.

  Were those people nationalists? Not even remotely. Or much like election day with that “vote for people from here” stuff. Me, Ikatza maitia, I never heard them express any political opinions. And of course, Arantxa, as an abertzale, just the right amount and perhaps not even that. The younger one, nope, he was a blessing. Really, I don’t think they brought up their children to hate. Friends, their cliques, bad company, they’re the ones who slipped the poisonous doctrine to that rascal, a doctrine that led him to destroy the lives of God knows how many families. And he even thinks he’s a hero. He’s one of the hard men, they say. Hard men or savages. He doesn’t even know how to open a book.

  It was the following Saturday when for the first time she noticed Miren had changed. After churros and chocolate, they walked as usual toward the bus stop, and what do they see? A demonstration, the usual kind, on the Bulevar. The same old song: banners, independence, amnesty, gora ETA. Lots of people. Two or three from the village, rain and umbrellas. And instead of avoiding the crowd, Miren said: come on, girl, let’s go. She took her by the arm, pulled her along, and the two of them walked right into the heart of the mob, not out front but not bringing up the rear, either. Suddenly, Miren starts in and begins to shout at the top of her lungs the slogans the demonstrators were calling out. It’s you fascists who are the terrorists. Bittori was at her side, a bit astonished, but, well, along for the ride.

  She knew nothing. Txato never said a word. That’s the way it was, Ikatza. The pigheaded fool kept it all a secret. To protect us, he said later. Great protection! They could have blown us all to bits with a bomb.

  She found out from Miren, who learned it from Joxian, who heard it straight from the lips of Txato himself when they were in the garden the afternoon he’d brought in the truckload of dirt from Andosilla. Miren couldn’t imagine her friend didn’t know.

  “There’s no way to see him. Because if we could go we’d have said, listen, talk to your bosses, they should do something to leave Txato in peace.”

  Bittori, suddenly suspicious:

  “Leave my husband in peace?”

  “Because of the letters.”

  “Letters? What letters?”

  “Oh dear, the two of you haven’t talked about it?”

  15

  MEETINGS

  Two gobs of white shit, already dry, on the tombstone, and one still bigger dripping down the names on the stone. In denial, she attributed the vandalism to the damned pigeons. A bird: how could it r
elease such a quantity of excrement? Hundreds, thousands, a sea of graves, and the sluts had to come and release their mess on Txato’s headstone.

  “My dear husband, they did a great job on you. Maybe this will bring you luck.”

  Always with her jokes. What was she going to do? Open up the wound again every day? She cleaned off as much as she could with dry leaves and handfuls of grass. What was left she consigned to the next rainfall. She whispered just that as she contemplated the horizon beyond the city, where a solitary cloud was visible in the distance. As usual, she spread out the plastic square and the kerchief.

  “Every day now I go to the village. Sometimes I bring along food I heat up there. Know what? I put a geranium on the balcony. You heard me right. A good big one, red, so they know I’ve come back.”

  She told him she no longer got off the bus at the industrial park. And the day before yesterday—this you won’t believe—she worked up enough courage to go into the Pagoeta. It was eleven a.m. There were few people there. At first sight, no one I knew. The bartender’s son was working behind the bar. Bittori spent several days mortified by the temptation to set foot in that place after so many years. She was neither thirsty nor hungry, and, if pressured, not curious, either, but some more intense craving boiled deep down in her thoughts.

  “Fine. I can understand myself by now.”

  Flowing out to the street, the usual noise of voices punctuated by the odd snort of laughter. Should I go in or not? She went in and silence fell. There were maybe a dozen patrons. She didn’t count them. Silent, they averted their eyes, but to where? Well, to anywhere she wasn’t. And the boy passing a dishcloth between the plates for brochettes didn’t look at her, either. A silence: aggressive? Hostile? No, rather more questioning, of surprise. Wondering if she was sure.