She got up. On the spot where she’d sat for ten, fifteen minutes there was a stain of moisture. It was cold in the church. And Miren suddenly got a chill. Oh Lord, now I’m going to get sick. She went out to the street and it was raining. Blackish sky, minimal light, and deserted streets. Miren used the trees as umbrellas, but they were practically useless. By chance she looked over at the trash basket. There was the plastic bag with the cold cuts. She picked it up and brought it home, because it’s not like we’re the kind of people who throw food away.
125
SUNDAY MORNING
It’s been many, too many, weeks since she’s seen her. The previous afternoon, Bittori made a decision. If she got up in the morning and found the bowls she’d left on the balcony at the end of the afternoon untouched, with water in one and cat food in the other, then she’d resign herself to thinking that Ikatza was gone forever. The consequences? Well, even if her heart was broken, she’d toss not only the bowls but the scratching pole, the kitty litter, the brush, and, in sum, all of the animal’s utensils into the garbage. She got up rather earlier than usual. The first thing she did was to walk out on the balcony. Wearing only underclothes, she contemplated the clear sky, a wide stretch of sea, Santa Clara Island, Mount Urgull, knowing she was privileged to be living there, with box-seat views of the bay, even if there is a building that blocks her view of the beach. Then she looked over to the corner and confirmed that the bowls were just as she’d left them the previous evening.
Just before seven in the morning, Miren heard Joxian putting his bicycle in the kitchen. Sunday. His dumbass mania for cleaning it up and oiling it in the house. One day, he asked her, joking?, if she was jealous of the bike. Maybe, because you know, when was the last time he’d caressed her? Jesus, not even when he got her pregnant! He reserves his tenderness for his bicycle, the jug in the bar, and the garden. Miren didn’t want to get out of bed so she wouldn’t have to share the kitchen with him. She was in no mood for conversation. She’d slept terribly. Why? Because of the music and the firecrackers and the partiers the whole damn night making a racket in the street. Once upon a time, she’d liked the village festivals. Now less and less. Bam. She heard the noise of the front door. Joxian had gone out. Where did he say he was going? No idea. Miren waited five minutes, huddled under the sheets, just in case Joxian forgot something and came back. Later, unhurriedly, she got up.
Bittori found some coffee left over from the previous day at the bottom of the pot. She told herself that with some milk and a splash of tap water it would be enough for a cup. Reheated coffee and a few crumbs of stale bread, that was her breakfast. After straightening up the room and fixing herself up, she went to work on Ikatza’s things, which she stuffed into a plastic bag. She couldn’t carry it all downstairs at once. First she tossed a few things into the bin, then others. And then she went back up to get her purse and a food container. She put a portion of cooked meat and potatoes, peppers and tomato sauce into it: her intention was to have lunch at her house in the village. Walking down the street, she felt a bit odd. Without pain, but fatigued, and constantly out of breath, so before she reached the bus stop, she stopped several times to take a deep breath and gather strength.
Celeste entered the apartment at nine. She’s got a key. That way she doesn’t have to ring the buzzer. Over the years, she’s become like a family member. She arrives, says hello, scatters joy, and immediately sets about her chores as caregiver. The first thing, give Arantxa a shower. Now that she can stand up, even if she has to hold on to the grip with her good hand, it’s easier. Miren and Celeste are extremely careful. One holds Arantxa, the other soaps her up and rinses her off. They have experience. The operation doesn’t last more than five minutes. And then the two of them dry her. As they were drying her pale, paunchy body, it happened that Arantxa suddenly said: ama. Miren instantly turned off the hair dryer. She seemed to hear something. But of course, she couldn’t be sure because of the dryer’s noise. Arantxa repeated the word. It was and wasn’t her voice from old times. Celeste praised her with a jovial waving of arms. Miren remembered that when she was a baby, the first word Arantxa spoke was ama, before aita.
It was just after ten when Bittori got out of the bus. Music, where?, nearby. And paper garlands hung from facade to facade. Normal, no?, that people should live their lives. First of all, she walked toward her house. More than anything, to get rid of the food container. She ran into the band at the corner, its members gathered in the very place where, on a distant day, her husband was hit with four bullets. Boom, boom. Green shirts, white trousers. And the bass drummer, his face bright red with alcoholic happiness, seemed intent on drowning out the notes played by his comrades by pounding out a storm. That went on until the song was over. There was no way to pass through them, so Bittori stepped down onto the street. Out of the blathering group, a jolly voice arose: Hey, Bittori! She waved without stopping. She turned her head for an instant, but she couldn’t know who’d shouted to her.
Miren hurried things along. She was expecting Joxe Mari’s Sunday call. She likes to be alone when she talks with her son. To Celeste, would you please dry Arantxa off. A blue morning, festival in the streets. Come on, come on, let’s have fun. Finally, the phone rang. Five minutes: that’s all the time allotted to the prisoner. If only she could telephone, but calls from outside were not allowed. She didn’t hide her joy from Joxe Mari: Arantxa said ama. You could understand her perfectly, so she’s learning to talk. And she got excited, and Joxe Mari, at the other end of the line, did as well, though he was, as always, serious. News? Nothing. Well, one thing. After talking to the doctor, he’d decided to have his hemorrhoid operated on. He can’t stand it anymore. And now that the heat has come back down here, his suffering was unspeakable. Miren mentioned the village festival, but didn’t want to go into too much detail so her son wouldn’t be tormented by melancholy thoughts. Instead, she repeated that Arantxa had said, after her shower, ama. And the five minutes were up.
Bittori had no microwave at her village house. She poured the contents of the container into a saucepan as old as the hills, but still useful, and said to herself: I’m going outside, and when I come back, I’ll heat up the food. She also decided to buy half a loaf at the bakery.
Meanwhile, Miren, thinking about saving time, spread out the fried ground beef on the platter, poured in the béchamel sauce, and sprinkled bits of cooked cauliflower on top. And when I get back from mass, I’ll throw on the grated cheese and turn on the oven. And as for the bicyclist, if he comes home late, he can eat cold food.
Festival, Sunday, nice weather: the plaza was overflowing with people. Children running around, groups talking, and bordering the square, the outdoor tables of the bars packed. The leafy lime trees spread their agreeable shade over the asphalt. And Bittori found Arantxa and her faithful caregiver in their usual corner. She leaned over to kiss her friend. Nearby, the bell in the steeple summoned the faithful to noon mass. Celeste immediately told Bittori that Arantxa had said a word that morning. They both turned toward Arantxa with the clear desire to get her to repeat her feat. Arantxa, not without effort, satisfied them. Bittori, moved, took her by the hand. She told her she’d do it, that she herself wished it with all her heart, and that she should never give up. Arantxa, with her twisted smile, nodded her head several times affirmatively.
For two months, Miren hadn’t been at mass seated in her usual place. Angry with the saint from Loyola, she passed along the right flank of the church, but today she’s back in her place near the statue. Don Serapio delivered his solemn, tedious, repetitive sermon in an old man’s voice. All masses are the same, you can’t fool me. In the pews, there were only a few of the faithful. Youth? In front, two girls and that was it. Miren, in her thoughts, gave thanks, but she was severe, almost taking an admonitory tone. It’s a good start, Ignatius, but you just have to understand, saying a single word and speaking, I mean really speaking, are two different things,
right? We expect something more. And as far as the other one is concerned, fix up his hemorrhoid. That’s all I ask, because I can see you don’t want to get him out of jail for me. The end of mass interrupted her mental chat.
Bittori said goodbye to Arantxa and Celeste at the corner of the plaza. Miren emerged from the church. The one intended to get to the bakery quickly because they would be closing; the other intended to join up with her daughter, maybe have an aperitif with her and Celeste, and go home after to attend to dinner. The two women spotted each other at a distance of about fifteen feet. At that moment, the sun was shining into Bittori’s face; she placed her hand over her eyes like a visor and she must have realized I saw her; well, I’m not changing my route. Miren approached walking with Sunday-slow steps, unconcerned, in the shadow of the lime trees and that woman is looking at me, but she’s not too clever if she thinks I’m going to swerve away. They moved forward in a straight line, the one toward the other. And lots of people in the plaza saw it all. The children didn’t. The children went on dashing to and fro and shouting. Among the adults, a rapid ball of whispers took shape. Look, look. And what friends they were before.
The encounter took place at the music kiosk. It was a brief embrace. They looked each other in the eye for an instant before separating. Did they say anything? Nothing. They said nothing.
GLOSSARY
This glossary contains Basque terms that appear in the novel. Its only purpose is to help readers unfamiliar with the Basque language.
abertzale: a patriot, one who supports an independent Basque homeland
agur: goodbye
aita: father. The final vowel is stressed: aitá
aitona: grandfather
alde hemendik: get away, get lost
ama: mother. The final vowel is stressed: amá
amatxo: an affectionate, diminutive form of ama
amnistia osoa: general amnesty
amona: grandmother
arruntak: a name ETA prisoners use to refer to ordinary prisoners
askatu: to free. Here in its imperative sense: free, set free
aurresku: a Basque dance performed to honor someone
barkatu: the infinitive form of the verb “to forgive” (and its command form): forgive, pardon
bat: one
batzoki: political and social seat of the PNV, the Basque Nationalist Party
belarri: ear
beltza: black; a term applied to the antidisturbance agents of the Ertzaintza because of the color of their uniforms
bertsolari: a kind of minstrel who improvises songs in Basque
bi: two
bibotza: an affectionate form of address; heart
bietan jarrai: to follow the two paths: one, the military forces, symbolized by the ax, the other, intelligence or political cunning, symbolized by the serpent
chistulari: the musicians who play the chistu, a small flute, in traditional Basque music
cipayo: an insulting nickname applied to Ertzaintza agents
dispersiorik ez: No! to the scattering of ETA prisoners around Spain rather than keeping them in Basque Country
egun on: good day
ekintza: action, attack
ene!: wow!, holy cow!
entzun: verb used in command form: listen here
erribera: riverbank
ertzaina: an agent or officer of the Ertzaintza
Ertzaintza: regional police force of Basque Country
ETA: Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, Basque Homeland and Liberty
ETA herria zurekin: ETA, the people are with you
euskaldun: a person who knows Basque
Eusko gudariak: Basque soldiers; title of a popular song used as an anthem by the abertzale left
faxista: fascist
gora ETA: long live ETA
gora Euskadi askatuta: long live free Basque Country
gudari: combatant, soldier, specifically on who fights for the Basque cause
herriak ez du barkatuko: the people will not forgive
herriko taberna: the social seat of the abertzale left; literally “the people’s tavern”
hiru: three
iepa: hi
ikastola: school
ikatza: coal
ikurriña: flag; in practice, the Basque flag
Iparralde: the northern zone; a term used to refer to French Basque Country
izarren hautsa: stardust; a song with lyrics by Xabier Lete and music by Mikel Laboa
jarraitxu: a member of Jarrai, the socialist and independentist youth organization
kaixo: hi
kanpora: beat it, get lost
kartujo: a Carthusian monk, a recluse
kontuz: be careful, watch out
lehendakari: title given to the president of the Autonomous Government of the País Vasco
lorea: flower
maitia: (pronounced my-tee-ah, emphasis on second syllable): dearest, my love
mariskada: an abundant seafood dinner
mendiko ahotsa: the voice of the mountain
mugalari: a person well versed in local terrain who helps others to cross the border between France and Spain
muxu: kiss
neska: girl
ondo pasa: hope things go well for you
ongi etorri: literally, welcome; used as a noun, it means a welcoming homage
osaba: uncle
piraten itsasontzi urdina: the blue pirate ship
pixa: pee, urine
poliki: little by little
polita: feminine adjective: pretty, good-looking
presoak kalera amnistia osoa: prisoners to the street; general amnesty
talde: attack cell
Topo: nickname for the narrow-gauge train linking San Sebastián to Hendaya
txakurra: dog; insulting nickname applied to police officers
txakurrada: dog; used as a collective term for all police officers
txalaparta: a traditional percussion instrument made of planks rhythmically pounded with wooden sticks
txapeo: a prisoner who refuses to go out to the recreation yard and remains in his cell the entire day
txoko: corner
txoria txori: “the bird is a bird” (approximate translation); celebrated song by Mikel Laboa, included on his album Bat-hiru (1974), lyrics by Joxean Artze:
If I’d clipped its wings
it would have been mine,
it would not have flown away.
If I’d clipped its wings
it would have been mine,
it would not have flown away.
But that way
it would have ceased to be a bird.
And I…
I loved the bird.
And I…
I loved the bird.
zure borroka gure eredu: your struggle, our model
Zutabe: the name of ETA’s internal news bulletin
A Note About the Translator
Alfred MacAdam is a professor of Spanish at Barnard College. His area of specialization is twentieth-century Latin American narrative, a subject on which he has published three books and many articles. He has translated novels by Reinaldo Arenas, Alejo Carpentier, Julio Cortázar, José Donoso, Alfredo Bryce Echenique, Carlos Fuentes, Juan Carlos Onetti, Osvaldo Soriano, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Jorge Volpi. From 1984 to 2004, he was the editor of Review: Latin American Literature and Arts, a publication of the Americas Society that presents work by Latin American writers not yet known to English-speaking audiences and unknown texts by established writers.
A Note About the Author
Born in 1959 in San Sebastián, or Donostia, as it is called in Basque, Fe
rnando Aramburu has lived in Germany since 1985. He established himself as a major Spanish novelist with his Antibula trilogy—Fuegos con limón (1996), Bambi sin sombra (2005), and La gran Marivián (2013)—Antibula being an imaginary state that both is and is not the Basque country, bedeviled by terrorism, regionalism, and nationalism. Homeland is his first book translated into English.
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Homeland Page 61
