“I don’t know what happiness is. I suppose it’s a subject you know all about. You seem to have become an expert. I limit myself to breathing, to doing my job, and to looking after ama. That gives me more than enough to do.”
“You talk about ama all the time.”
“I think she’s in a bad way, in the hole you mentioned. It worries me.”
“You’re a good son. I on the other hand don’t seem to worry. Is that what you’re suggesting? That everything just slips off me? That I only worry about my own things?”
“No one is making demands on you or accusing you of anything. You can be calm on that score. Aita’s business has been sold off. Economically speaking we’re not in bad shape. You’re young, take advantage of it while you can.”
They agreed to change the subject. They had just entered Navarra. Sun, plains, dry landscapes. Suddenly Nerea:
“Have you heard anything about Aránzazu?”
“I haven’t heard anything about her for a long time. The last thing I was told is that she’d gone to Ghana as an aid worker, but don’t hold me to that because I’m not really sure. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I liked her.”
At that point they stopped talking. Later, when they’d left Tudela behind, Nerea turned on the radio.
69
THE BREAK
The graffiti against Txato ruined Joxian’s appetite. And deprived him of his best friend. If this happens in a city, it’s okay, but in a small town where we all know one another, you can’t keep up a relationship with someone who’s been marked. That Sunday he was thinking about all those things along the road from Zumaya to his house. He’d set out with Txato, he was returning without him. Who’s going to be my mus partner now? After lunch, which didn’t appeal to him, which he couldn’t finish, he walked out of the bar with the others; but on the first hill, he pretended his strength was fading and fell behind. Then, before reaching Guetaria, he decided to get off his bike, sit down on a boulder, face the sea, and gather his thoughts. The sea is huge. The sea is like God, who is both near and distant, which reminds us just how small we are, damn it to hell, and could, if it wanted, destroy us. It was harder than ever for him to reach the village. In Orio he was on the verge of taking the bus. What about the bike? He could leave it locked up somewhere. And if someone robs it? That’s right, because around here there are lots of outsiders. Dispirited, he went on pedaling, paying no attention to the traffic, absorbed in somber cogitation.
When he walked into the apartment, Miren, from the kitchen, wearing her apron, looked him in the eye. Not severe, not frowning: questioning. He expected a row because he was late. She said nothing more than:
“Go on, take a shower.”
And that almost sounded like the tenderness of past times. She didn’t even speak to him in the hard tones she’d used on other occasions or as when she softly tells him something normal and ordinary, but because of her voice and the expression on her face he realizes the lightning will strike any time now.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, sit down and watch how I eat.”
And they spoke, seriously, gulping their soup, chewing little lamb chops, the two of them seated at the table without the company of their children.
“You do know, right?”
“First the Joxe Mari business and now this.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Disgrace on top of disgrace.”
“She called. Must have been at around ten. I hung up on her.”
“And just yesterday the two of you were in the café.”
“Yesterday was yesterday, today is another day. Our friendship is over. Get used to it.”
“So many years. Aren’t you sorry about it?”
“What makes me sorry is Euskal Herria, the fact that they don’t let her be free.”
“I’m not going to get used to it. Txato is my friend.”
“He was. And be very careful about being seen with him. The best thing would be for them to get out. With all the money they have, what would it matter to them to buy a house somewhere else? What they want to do is provoke.”
“They won’t go. Txato is stubborn.”
“The struggle forgives no one. They’ll leave or they’ll be thrown out. Let them choose.”
Just before ten in the morning, the phone rang. Miren hadn’t the slightest doubt: it’s she. An hour and a half earlier she received another call that got her out of bed. Juani: did she know, that she wasn’t surprised, that for a long time now.
And she concluded:
“They got rich by exploiting the working class and now the bill has come due. I’m not the only one saying it. The townspeople are saying it. I’m telling you because we all know that you and she are good friends.”
Miren, her freshly washed hair still not dry, went out to the street with a handkerchief on her head and wearing slippers. She didn’t have to go far. There were graffiti on the walls of the church: Txato stool pigeon, oppressor, alde hemendik, Herriak ez du barkatuko. All in that style. It wasn’t one tag or two; there were twelve, fifteen, twenty, and they went on down the street and up the street. Many hands had been busy. This is a big, well-planned thing. She had a presentiment: is she calling me to find out if I know and to ask me to go with her and talk and that we save the day for her? They’re always taking advantage of others.
And in fact, Bittori did call. The church bells had yet to ring out ten. Miren, who was in the bathroom putting rollers in her hair, ran to the telephone intent on breaking off the relationship.
“Hello.”
“Miren, it’s me. Did you…?”
As soon as she recognized the voice, she hung up. What nerve. My son risking his life for Euskal Herria and this scum never stops exploiting the people. Well, they know how to dish it out, now they can learn to take it. And muttering to herself she went back to the bathroom to finish putting in the rollers.
Days went by without Miren seeing her. How many? A good number, at least two weeks. Doesn’t she ever leave the house? She saw him once, at a distance, when he was in his car leaving the street where his garage is.
About her she only knew what Juani told her. What was that? Well, that she had the nerve to come into the shop. She waited her turn, ordered. Juani told her, we’re out of that. She ordered something else, I don’t remember what, and Juani again told her they were out of it. Then, tensing up and putting on ladylike airs, she said fine, cut me a quarter pound of this York ham and she pointed her finger at it and Juani gave her a look that would have put a hole through the wall and said for you we are out of everything.
Miren saw her one morning in the street. Just a bit, two seconds. Miren had run into the priest by chance. Did she have any news about Joxe Mari. We’re still waiting. A lie. As of today, Patxi had passed on two letters, but that’s something that we should keep to ourselves.
They were talking. Don Serapio full of questions as usual. And just then Miren saw her over the priest’s shoulder. She was coming toward them with that old, worn-out handbag she would use on Saturdays in San Sebastián and she had shadows under her eyes. With all the money they make and she uses a handbag a beggar would throw away. She’s a miser. Miren quickly moved to Don Serapio’s side so she could turn her back to Bittori. Miren and the priest were standing in the center of the sidewalk. The other woman, tough crap, had to step into the street to go her way. She said no hellos, and no hellos were said to her. She didn’t look at them, and they didn’t look at her. And immediately, Miren changed position so she was face-to-face with the priest again.
Don Serapio after a few seconds:
“You don’t speak to each other?”
“Me talk to her? Are you joking?”
“For their own good, they should leave town.”
“Go tell them, because it seems to me the
y can’t take a hint.”
On the other hand, Joxian did speak once, in secret, to Txato. He waited for him near the garage. When? One night after dinner, using the pretext that he was taking out the garbage, he went out to meet him. It was weighing on his conscience and he had to clear it. He’d tried before, unsuccessfully, by raising his eyebrows at Txato as he passed him on the street. And finally, he decided to carry the garbage bag down to the street, a chore that usually fell to Gorka.
But Txato came home from work at different times every day. He was taking precautions. And it was only in that dark street where Txato had his garage that Joxian wanted to meet him. Finally, one night he was able to speak to him.
“It’s me.”
“What do you want?”
Joxian’s hands were shaking, his voice was tremulous and he couldn’t stop looking up and down the street, as if he was afraid someone might see him talking to Txato.
“Nothing. Just to say I’m sorry, that I can’t say hello to you because it would cause me problems. But that if I do see you on the street, I want you to know that I’m saying hello with my thoughts.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a coward?”
“I tell myself that all the time. But it doesn’t change anything. Can I give you a hug? No one can see us here.”
“Leave it for when you have the courage to do it in the light of day.”
“If I could help you, I swear…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get along with your mental hellos.”
Txato strolled off calmly, his shadow under the faint light of the street lamp. Joxian waited for his old friend to turn the corner and start walking home. He would never see Txato that close again. Txato was walking with one hand in his trouser pocket. It wasn’t long before he passed the exact spot where, one rainy afternoon that was getting nearer and nearer, an ETA militant would take his life.
70
HOMELANDS AND FOLLIES
It was written in newspapers that a shepherd found him. The shepherd was leading his sheep through some arid fields in the province of Burgos, and there was the corpse, disfigured and half eaten by wild animals.
The shepherd declared to the Guardia Civil that next to the dead man there was a pistol. The minister of the interior considered that such a circumstance was sufficient to confirm the hypothesis that it was suicide. The kind of weapon strongly suggested the dead man was connected to ETA.
In one of the deceased’s pockets, the Guardia Civil found an identification card with a false name. That night, television news showed the photograph. In the village, everyone recognized it.
In private, Patxi told Juani and Josetxo that for a good while the organization had lost track of Jokin.
“You should be prepared for the worst.”
The coffin arrived wrapped in an ikurriña. Rain and umbrellas. Police murderers! hundreds screamed in the street. Jokin’s funeral was a massive event, fists held high, the crowd promised him revenge, and they buried him. And during the summer, a huge picture of him presided over the saint’s day festival from the balcony of the town hall.
His parents were devastated. The butcher shop closed for several days. But while Juani recovered little by little, locking her grief within, finding consolation in prayer, Josetxo fell into a deep depression. Well, that’s what people said. Which people? The neighbors. And Juani as well. During those days, she visited Miren’s house a couple of times to unburden herself. She talked about Josetxo’s interminable silences and the long hours her husband spent in bed during the day, that there was no way to get him up and around.
The two women agreed that Joxian should have a talk with him, keep him company, and maybe, who knows, lift his spirits man-to-man. Joxian, when he got home that night:
“You sent me once and it was horrible.”
He grumbled, swore, cursed. Troublemakers, busybodies, meddlers. And Miren, impassive, went on dipping fish in batter with the window open. She let him talk the way you let a clock wind down.
Later on, in bed:
“Listen here, if you don’t want to go, don’t go. Tomorrow I’ll tell Juani you refuse to do it, and that’s that.”
“You keep your mouth shut, you’ve been a big enough pain in the ass for one day.”
And once again he mumbled to himself along the way. He feared that Josetxo was going to cry his eyes out the way he did the first time, and how am I going to deal with that. It was almost closing time. There were no customers in the butcher shop. The smell of meat, of suet. And Josetxo behind the counter, wearing his white apron spattered with blood, burst into tears, violently shaking his shoulders, with deep, guttural hiccups. Huge, muscular, he threw himself on Joxian, who patted his powerful back, trying to buck him up in his own way:
“Motherfucker, Josetxo, motherfucker.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He tried to find words but only found curses and blasphemies. And he wasn’t even sure he was expressing them properly. Besides, Josetxo was a good guy, but a real friend? No. Txato was a friend. Him for sure, even if they didn’t speak to each other anymore. He wasn’t very sure of the butcher, who never went in for playing cards in the bar or bicycling.
Josetxo decided to lock up a little earlier than usual. He asked Joxian to pull down the metal shutter because he didn’t want anyone passing by to see him in that condition. Then, with his hands on his hips, gazing languidly at the ceiling, he calmed down little by little. He put one of his enormous hands on Joxian’s shoulder, as if to say that beginning now I can converse.
“I kind of figured you’d be coming.”
“It was my wife and yours who thought up the idea. Now I’m here with you again, and I don’t know what to say.”
“Finally, someone who doesn’t lie. Thank you for that.”
He offered Joxian a seat in the back room. He offered a drink (it’ll have to be alcohol free) he kept in the refrigerator. He offered food. Without formalities: if he wanted a bite, he should just look in the display case.
“Take whatever you like. I have no bread.”
Joxian refused everything except the offer of a chair.
“Don’t even think about consoling me. If you’ve got a brain in your head, run to find your son. In France, wherever. You grab him, you slap him across the face, and you bring him home or turn him over to the cops. Pray they arrest him as quickly as they can. They’ll jail him, but at least you won’t lose him the way I lost mine.”
Sitting in the chair, Joxian remained silent but with an expression appropriate to the moment on his face.
“They didn’t even let me take charge of the funeral. They seized my son and used him to put on a patriotic show. For them his death was a great opportunity. To use him for political purposes, see? The way they use everyone. A bunch of jackasses is what they are. Naive. And the same goes for Joxe Mari. They get them all charged up, they give them a gun, and off we go to kill people. In my house we never talked about politics. I have no interest in politics. Are you interested in politics?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Their heads get crammed with bad ideas, and since they’re young, they fall into the trap. Then they think they’re heroes because they’re carrying a pistol. And they don’t realize that they get back nothing at all, because at the end there’s no reward except for jail or the grave, they’ve abandoned their work, their families, their friends. They’ve given up everything just to do what a couple of users order them to do. And to destroy the lives of other people, leaving behind widows and orphans on every corner.”
“Now don’t you go around saying things like that.”
“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.”
“They’ll make your life miserable.”
“I had a son and I lost him. What does life matter to me?”
“Just look at Txato. No one ta
lks to him anymore.”
“You should talk to him, you’re his friend.”
“They’d do the same to me they’re doing to him.”
“A country of lying cowards! Look here, Joxian, listen to me. Stop this nonsense and go find Joxe Mari.”
“That’s not as easy as you think.”
“If I knew where Jokin was I’d have turned him over to the police. I’d still have a son even if he was in jail. And it wouldn’t matter if he stopped talking to me. You can get out of jail. You can’t get out of a grave.”
After almost an hour of talk, Joxian left the butcher shop downcast. He’d planned to play cards at the Pagoeta. How could I concentrate on the cards after everything that guy said? He went straight home with the package of cold cuts and sausage Josetxo had given him.
Miren, surprised:
“You’re back this soon? Were you able to lift his spirits?”
“Not even one inch, but he did lower mine. Never ask me to see him again.”
71
TWISTED DAUGHTER
It was January. A Tuesday morning. A gray, rainy workday. For an event as important as this, which will remain in memory forever, you have to find a spring or summer weekend, for God’s sake!, with a blue sky, nice temperature, and all the relatives dressed up nicely, all clustered together in front of the photographer at the entrance to the church. Of course, what low-class people. Arantxa had called. When? At just after eleven. Miren answered. She didn’t congratulate her. Dry, serious, she said you don’t treat your mother like that. And the mother had no interest in the details of the matter, no interest in anything. She said goodbye, hung up, and refused to cry. Me? Let her live her life.
After two, Joxian came home from the foundry.
“Bad news.”
“They arrested him?”
“She got married.”
“Who?”
“Your daughter.”
“That’s bad news?”
Homeland Page 32
