Homeland

by Fernando Aramburu

  Txato took a while to come out to the street. What was he waiting for? Did he think maybe it might stop raining? Joxe Mari was getting soaked. He hugged the wall at the corner of the building to keep as much out of the rain as he could. He knew there was no back door to the garage, so sooner or later Txato had to come out to the street to walk home. And he did come out, without an umbrella. There he was, filling his lungs with the last oxygen he’d ever breathe, ten steps away. Looking at him in profile, as he turned the key in the lock, you could see a slight tremor in his lips like someone talking to himself or singing softly. As soon as he started to walk he saw me. The Browning in my hand inside my pocket and Txato, what’s he doing?, what the hell is he doing?, comes over to this side of the street and walks straight toward me. That scene was not part of the script.

  “Joxe Mari of all people. You’re back? I’m happy.”

  Those eyes, those enormous ears, that friendly expression. His father’s friend who bought him ice cream when he was a boy. The church bell rang one o’clock. That familiar, metallic, peremptory sound to him was the same as the word “no.” Don’t do it. Don’t kill him. The two of them stood speechless face to face. And it was clear that Txato expected an answer to his friendly words. I’m a member of ETA and I’ve come to execute you. But he didn’t say that. He couldn’t say it. The bell had rung out a “no” from on high. It’s that it was Txato, what the hell. His eyes, his ears, his smile. And Joxe Mari turned and went away, not running, no, but at a quick pace.

  He got into the car, slammed the door.

  “It wasn’t possible. There was a neighbor between us. Get going, let’s eat.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We can try again when he goes to work. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A lot of days have gone by and we haven’t struck.”

  “Right, but next time you get in the phone booth and I’ll wait in the car. I got wet enough today.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Miren was signaled that her time was ending, ma’am. And she did not bother to look at the officer who spoke to her. She got out of her chair, began to say goodbye to her son.

  “Well, then, maitia, courage, right? I’ll be back in a month or less if your sister doesn’t have a relapse.”

  “Don’t talk to the crazy woman, ama. Promise me. Not a word. If she wants to find out she can consult the documents in the national court.”

  “She’s made it her business to barge into our lives. She’s a sticky one.”

  “Pay no attention. She’ll unstick.”

  93

  THE LAND OF THE SILENT

  It happens that Ramuntxo heard the news at home on the radio while Gorka, who hadn’t the slightest idea of what happened, was at the radio station, busy recording first an interview with a publisher and then another with a Bilbao bookseller.

  Midafternoon of a typical workday. Two workmates were talking in the office next door. One of them, just arrived from the street, said, among other things: it won’t stop raining, there was an attack, when does Ramuntxo get in? Gorka gave those words not the slightest importance.

  So what if it was raining when his workday wouldn’t end for several hours? As far as the attack, he was so used to ETA’s committing violent acts that one more would hardly surprise him. Over the years, he’d developed a crust of conformity. Am I the only one? It isn’t that the murders they committed left him indifferent but that they’d become a routine that numbed his organs to indignation and sorrow. So unless the attack had increased the number of victims, like the one at the Barcelona Hipercor, which really did embitter his day, or that among the dead there might be children, he limited himself to being informed about what happened and kept his opinions to himself.

  It was just the opposite of how he felt whenever he heard about the arrest of a cell: his heart would beat faster and he would run to see if his brother was among the prisoners. Gorka wanted him removed from the armed struggle. He’d told Ramuntxo (and no one else) on several occasions.

  “The day they capture him I’ll be happy. For his sake, but also for the sake of my family. He’s destroyed my parents’ lives.”

  A little before seven, Ramuntxo reached the station. The shoulders of his raincoat were splattered with moist spots.

  “Did you hear about the attack this afternoon?”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “A businessman from your village was shot to death.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t remember the name, but if you like, we can find out right away.”

  “No, forget about it, leave it.”

  Which was the same as his saying: I’ll find out on my own, when no one’s near me checking my reaction. And even though, no matter how hard he reviewed names and faces, he had no idea who the victim might be, he still sensed that when he did learn his identity, he was going to suffer a disagreeable, sad? surprise.

  He thought about factory and shop owners, about businessmen, about people in the village who might have a business. He recalled a few, without exception declared nationalists, aside from being euskaldunes, people ETA might pressure a bit, as they’d done so many times, especially to get cash out of them, but without taking their lives, since in that case the organization would have to deal with the PNV. So since he couldn’t figure it out on his own, and since his curiosity was aroused more than it would normally be, at a certain moment, without saying goodbye to his workmates, he went down to the corner bar.

  Txato. On the bar was the cup with the decaf coffee he’d just been served. He didn’t taste it. Txato. His picture in black-and-white on the TV screen. What a shock. Txato. Back at the station, in the elevator, he felt a painful sensation of sadness in his throat when he remembered that Txato was the man who taught him to ride a bicycle when he was little. His father helped, too, but the one who really gave him good advice and explained the right way to pedal without falling was Txato. And he ran alongside me in the parking lot of his business, holding on to and then letting go of the seat of Xabier’s bike, always ready to grab me whenever I leaned over too far to one side. He promised him that if he learned to ride he’d give him a bike and he did, the first bike I ever had, and now he’s dead, murdered.

  Ramuntxo saw him walk in and instantly read in his face where he was coming from and what he’d found out.

  “So you knew him.”

  “They must have done it by mistake. The must have gone looking for someone else and killed someone they shouldn’t have.”

  “He must have been one of the people who refused to pay the revolutionary tax.”

  “He and my father were mus partners, lifelong friends, although my sister told me over the phone that something happened between them recently and they weren’t speaking.”

  “Well, somehow he got involved politically.”

  “I don’t think so. He was apolitical and a good man, too. He created jobs for others, took an active part in village life, and was of course euskaldun.”

  “Good or not, he must have done something. ETA doesn’t kill people for no reason. And I’m not defending the armed struggle. Don’t misunderstand me.”

  “I just don’t know. I haven’t been over there in a long time and for sure I’m ignorant about a few things.”

  “Would you like to go this weekend and take Amaia with us?”

  “No, better not.”

  Later on, Ramuntxo went into the studio to do his program about current music in Euskal Herria. Gorka used that opportunity to call home using the radio-station phone.

  “Ama’s not home. She went to the plaza for a demonstration to ask for amnesty.”

  “Just a few hours after someone from the village was killed?”

  “I said to her you’ve got a screw
loose. And the way it’s pouring. But she’s got abertzale fever. No one can stop her.”

  Joxian sounded drained, fearful, vacillating. He said he didn’t want to go out of the house. So he wouldn’t hear the details of what happened? It’s that the rain never lets up. And his rheumatism. And perhaps, finally, sincere:

  “Besides, I just don’t want to see anybody.”

  Their conversation, already disjointed, entered into stagnant silence, which Gorka broke after a few seconds:

  “Where was he killed?”

  He mentioned no names. Neither the father nor the son even spoke the name or nickname of the victim.

  “Just by his house. You could see they were waiting for him.”

  “So you two were no longer together.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Aita, every once in a while I talk with one of my friends from the village.”

  “And with Arantxa?”

  “With her, too.”

  Joxian thought about his deceased friend. Despite everything. Here in my heart. They didn’t speak, one because of what people would say, the other because of Miren, who couldn’t stand him. Don’t even think of hanging around with that guy, she would say to him. Don’t you realize someone could see you? It has to be about Joxe Mari, for sure. It’s driven her crazy. Or about the death of the butcher’s son, too. That death brought a lot of resentment to the village. Around here no one believes he took his own life. And as far as Joxian is concerned, he would express his sympathy to Bittori, because that’s what proper people do after so many years of friendship, but he just can’t do it. Joxian did not feel strong enough to leave the house. And going in secret, how else?, and looking her in the eye. Aside from what the poor woman must be suffering and that he recognizes that he doesn’t know how to handle things like this. Since he couldn’t go, maybe Gorka could write her from Bilbao, a postcard with a black border.

  “You sign ‘Gorka and family.’ ”

  “Why don’t you do it? You wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. You could sign ‘Joxian and family,’ that would work.”

  “Son, is it asking too much for you to write a couple of lines? How often do I ask you for favors?”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it.”

  That night, Gorka was giving Ramuntxo a massage on a folding table they’d bought for that purpose. They covered it with towels so they wouldn’t dirty it since they usually covered each other with oil. As he rubbed Ramuntxo’s back, Gorka recited all the details related to his conversation with Joxian.

  “Are you going to write the widow?”

  “Of course not. If there’s no way out, I’ll tell my aita that I did. How’s he going to find out otherwise? Why do I act this way?”

  “Out of cowardice.”

  “Exactly. Because I’m just as big a coward as he and so many others are these days. In my village people are probably saying in low voices so no one hears them that this is savagery, useless bloodshed, you don’t build a nation that way. But no one will lift a finger. By now they’ve already hosed down the street so there won’t be a trace of the crime. And tomorrow there will be whispering in the air, but deep down it will be business as usual. People will turn out for the next demonstration in favor of ETA, knowing that they’d better be seen with the rest of the herd. That’s the price you pay to live in peace in the land of the silent.”

  “Okay, but don’t get all bent out of shape about this.”

  “You’re right. What right do I have to reproach anyone? I’m just like them. Can you imagine us on the radio tomorrow condemning today’s murder? Before noon, we’d have our funding cut or they’d fire us outright. It’s the same with books. If you step over the line, you become a pariah, even an enemy. If you write in Spanish, then you do have possibilities. They publish you in Madrid or Barcelona and maybe if you’re lucky and talented you get ahead. It’s not that way for those of us who write in Basque. They’d close all doors to you, invite you to nothing, you cease to exist. I see clearly that I’ll spend my life writing for children even though I’m fed up with witches, dragons, and pirates.”

  “What about that novel you were planning?”

  “The notes are there. I’ll probably write it. If I do, I’ll have half the story take place in Canada and the other half on some remote island.”

  “My boy, this just isn’t your day. Finish the massage and let’s go to bed.”

  94

  AMAIA

  Ramuntxo had custody of Amaia every other weekend. Taking care of his daughter, whom he adored, meant forty-eight hours of fear, insecurity, stress, and disappointments. He was convinced: he was no good as a father, that he did everything wrong. And the little girl, well, she didn’t contribute even an ounce of goodwill to ease the difficulties. Gorka had no doubts: that little animal had some kind of personality disorder. As soon as he heard her arrive he was on guard. Let’s see what she breaks this time.

  After the divorce, the mother had gone with the girl to live in Vitoria, which forced Ramuntxo, every other weekend, to make two car trips, first on Friday afternoon when he drove to pick his daughter up, and then on Sunday when he brought her back, almost always angry with himself. The pattern, with few exceptions, invariably repeated itself. On Friday, he traveled full of expectations that the child later destroyed. Ramuntxo was extremely permissive, spoiled her, and obeyed all her caprices without Amaia’s paying him back with even an expression of happiness, not to say enthusiasm. How can such a young child contain so much coldness? The only answer Ramuntxo could come up with was that the mother spoke ill of him at all times.

  When Gorka met her, Amaia was eight. Even then she was an inexplicable being, with only one expression on her face: dead serious. At any moment, she would play some mischievous prank on you, give you a nasty answer with a kind of calm malice, find the exact spot that would drive you insane. Out of nowhere she would do or say something appropriate for a mentally challenged child; a minute later she would show signs of a superior intelligence. Time did not make things better. The older she got, the more complicated she became, more unforeseeable, and, above all, more difficult to satisfy. A kind of blackmail in Gorka’s opinion.

  Ramuntxo:

  “Don’t say things like that, you’ll depress me.”

  She was pretty. A little doll with curls, the blackest of eyes, and long, fine lips that gave her charming face a prematurely adult look. There were days when she spoke little. Hours in silence, absorbed, indolent. On other days, it took patience and effort to make her shut up. If you spoke to her in Basque she would answer in Spanish; if you continued the conversation in Spanish, she’d switch to Basque. At dinnertime you just never knew what would happen. One day she’d devour two helpings of spaghetti with tomato sauce and cheese; on the next visit she’d reject what she seemed to have liked so much the previous weekend. And it was that way with everything: with games, with the places where father and daughter went to have fun, with the stories Ramuntxo told her at night in bed before turning out the light. Today yes, tomorrow no, and vice versa. And sometimes she’d burst into tears for no apparent reason. It was then Ramuntxo would panic. What do I do? What do I do? Even his eyes would fill with tears. Crushed and sad, he would confess to Gorka that he just didn’t know how to manage the child and that if things go on like this, I’ll lose her.

  “Did you ever try to shake her up with a good slap?”

  “No, and I’ll never try that. She’d tell her mother and then I’ll be left with a court order forbidding me to see my daughter.”

  “Well, maybe, in her way, Amaia is asking you to do it. Aita, give me a slap, get me out of this labyrinth.”

  “It’s easy to see you aren’t a father. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  The arrival of the girl at the flat every two weeks also had direct consequences for Gorka. What? Well, to beg
in with, he had to sleep in his office on a thin, fold-up mattress. As long as the child was around there would be no massages, no intimacy for the two inhabitants of the apartment. Ramuntxo did not have a second bed except the one used by his daughter. Gorka tried to stay out of the house as much as possible. He often spent the entire day at the station, reading books, writing stories and poems, and taking care of the next week’s work; or he would go on a movie binge in different theaters; or, weather permitting, he’d hike along the bank of the estuary all the way to Erandio or even farther, to Algorta. He’d come back by bus. He even visited his sister in Rentería, without telling his parents. He barely ever went to the village. Only when it was impossible not to go. At Christmas and other holidays. To avoid the rainstorm of maternal reproaches. So he wouldn’t run into anyone on the street.

  “Kaixo, Kartujo. It’s been a while.”

  He would rather put up with the girl’s outbursts, even though he suffered for Ramuntxo. A typical bit of mischief: there they were at home, calm, cool, and collected, the girl seated in front of the TV, and suddenly they’d be startled by the noise of a glass or pottery object smashing. The two adults instantly investigated. A picture all too familiar to them materialized: Amaia, her face expressionless and the floor around her covered with shards. Ramuntxo wouldn’t dare reprimand her in case she told her ama. He would explain, implore, dismiss the event as unimportant, pick up the scattered pieces or discreetly ask Gorka to clear them away while he diverted the child’s attention elsewhere. The same thing happened when she destroyed Gorka’s alarm clock. Ramuntxo immediately bought him a new one, pretending nothing had happened.

  Neither man thought Amaia threw things on the floor out of malice. But neither thought they fell by accident. And of course trying to find any sign of intention in her face was useless.