by Peter Kerr
Saleema gave a little laugh. ‘That was after he’d brought a dead hen to the cave for her, wasn’t it?’
Pedrito nodded his head, while returning the smile that Nedi was now panting up at him. Another few moments of silence followed, broken this time by Saleema starting to sniffle.
‘What’s wrong?’ Pedrito asked. ‘Not still feeling sorry for the hen, are you?’
Saleema’s sniffle turned into a weepy giggle. ‘No, no, I was just thinking of what your mother said after you’d told her that Nedi wasn’t a Christian, or anything but a true child of heaven – everybody’s friend.’ A little whimper escaped her lips. ‘And after you’d given Nedi a hug and he’d given your face a big, slobbery kiss, your mother said…’ Saleema stopped to swallow a sob. ‘She, uhm, she said that not even the finest poets in the land could compose a verse to better what Nedi had told you in just that one little show of unquestioning love.’ She tickled Nedi’s ear again. ‘And Farah was right, wasn’t she, boy? Who needs words, hmm?’
With an atmosphere of contentment descending with dusk on the horta, Saleema snuggled her head against Pedrito’s shoulder, while Nedi sat at their feet following their gaze out towards the crimson waters of the bay. After a while, Pedrito, lulled into an ever more mellow mood, started to hum the strains of a simple melody.
‘That’s nice,’ Saleema murmured. ‘What is it?’
‘That? Oh, just an old sailors’ song. A Moorish one. It’s about the winds – the eight winds that roam the seas of Mallorca. Each one has its own name, as well as its own character.’
Then, just as had happened on the day when Nedi’s look had pulled Pedrito from the quicksands of despair, a gentle breeze began to drift in from the sea.
‘So, what do they call that one?’ Saleema asked.
‘That’s the Migjorn – the southerly note of the song. The wind my father said blew the shoals of sardines into the fishermen’s nets. The Migjorn – the wind of hope, he called it.’
‘Hope,’ Saleema mused. ‘Hope … it’s a word that’s cropped up a lot since we sat down here, isn’t it?’
Lost in thought, Pedrito didn’t answer right away. ‘It’s also the name of my little sister,’ he said at length. ‘Esperança … little Esperança with the laughing eyes.’ He stroked Saleema’s hair. ‘Eyes as beautiful as yours.’
Saleema looked up at him in the way she knew made his heart skip a beat.
‘Well, you know – almost as beautiful as yours – in their own way,’ he flustered. ‘Too beautiful, anyway, to be forced to look at the faces of the murderous brutes who came here and took her away.’ Pedrito sighed deeply. ‘I vowed on my parents’ memory that I would find her – some day – somehow. Just as I’ll find your mother and father for you – I promise.’
Sniffling again, Saleema squeezed his hand. ‘They say that where there’s life there’s hope, yet all we can do for now is hope they’re still alive.’
‘And I’ll tell you what,’ said Pedrito, adopting a deliberately optimistic tone, ‘to keep that hope alive, we’ll call this little place the Finca Esperança – Hope Farm. How do you like that?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Saleema chirped. ‘Yes, and it’ll go well with the names of our livestock too! I mean, there’s Tranquilla your placid old horse, Masoud the lucky donkey and little Annam the heaven-blessed goat.’
‘There you are then! Modest beginnings, maybe, but –’
‘Hopeful ones?’ Saleema cut in with a mischievous giggle.
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ Pedrito laughed. ‘Modest beginnings, but hopeful ones.’ He nodded in the direction of the last sliver of crimson disappearing behind the Punta Moragues headland, then leaned back and stretched his arms. ‘Nightfall,’ he yawned, ‘and I honestly can’t remember when I last had good night’s sleep.’
Saleema stood up and pulled him to his feet. ‘Well,’ she said, gesturing towards the house, ‘Senyora Ensenyat said she’d get your old room ready for you this afternoon, so…’
‘So?’
‘So, is a good night’s sleep all you can think of?’
‘What else?’ Pedrito replied with a shrug of feigned indifference.
Saleema started to haul him homeward by the hand. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’
Nedi, meanwhile, had picked up the mood of burgeoning bonhomie, had taken the fingers of Saleema’s free hand in his teeth and had started to pull her towards where he instinctively felt the fun would continue.
‘I hear your angels singing,’ Saleema told him, ‘but tonight, you sleep with them – in the kitchen!’
THE END
APPENDIX:
Remon and Guillen de Muntcada (otherwise Montcada or Moncada), the Catalan noblemen who fought and died at the Battle of Na Burguesa in 1229, have been popularly referred to as siblings – ‘The Brothers Muntcada’.
However, while they can fairly be described as ‘brothers-in-arms’, their family tree shows that they were in fact cousins, and only second cousins at that.
It was Remon’s father and Guillen’s grandfather who were brothers – the sons of Guillen Remon de Muntcada, the Grand Seneschal of Catalonia, who died in 1173.
A memorial to the two brothers-in-arms stands by the roadside near Palma Nova in Mallorca.
For full details of Peter Kerr and his books, visit www.peter-kerr.co.uk
