by Diana Rosie
The bus chugged wearily up the hill. When it reached the top, Alberto and Tino looked over the rolling country side, covered with bottle-green trees. In front of them, the road snaked through the hills into the distance. As the bus eased downwards, Alberto saw a break in the trees and a large terracotta roof.
A little further on, a wide turn-off appeared on the side of the road and the bus slowed, then stopped. Alberto saw a small wooden sign that read, HACIENDA LOS ZORROS.
‘Señor!’ called the bus driver to his only passengers. ‘Your stop.’
As Alberto stood and ushered the boy in front of him, the driver turned to them and explained, ‘Los Zorros is the name of this mountain. There used to be many foxes in these hills. They say it was all you could hear at night – like an orchestra of screams. But in the war . . .’ He looked at the child and then up to Alberto. ‘Well, in the war, it got too busy round here, so the foxes took their orchestra elsewhere,’ he smiled, chuckling.
Tino didn’t really understand the joke but smiled at the driver as he climbed off the bus.
‘Thank you,’ said Alberto to the driver, and they nodded knowingly at each other.
As the bus rattled off, the old man and the boy stood at the end of a long dirt road. It disappeared into the tall trees’ dark arches.
‘Apu?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember this?’
‘Yes.’
As they walked out of the bright sun and into the mottled light of the pathway, the boy took his grandfather’s hand. The old man found the shaded path unnerving – it was as if memories lurked in the shadows. Holding the child’s hand reassured them both.
Birds squawked and cawed high above them, and occasionally they heard a small rustle in the bushes nearby. Although Alberto recalled this wood, it was different now. When he was a child, any bird or rabbit was a meal. The hunting had been intense until the woods were eerily silent, bereft of wildlife – even foxes.
The path bent round to the right, and suddenly they came across a large metal gate locked with an enormous padlock. Alberto stopped and looked at the gate, then at the boy.
‘I think someone is telling us not to come in,’ he said.
Tino scowled. ‘We can’t give up already, Apu. We’ve come such a long way.’
Alberto shrugged and was considering climbing over it when the child suddenly slipped past him to the end of the gate, where he slid easily between the metal post and a gorse bush.
‘Come on, Apu – it’s easy,’ Tino said to him from the other side of the gate.
Alberto sighed and eased himself round the edge of the gate, scratching his trousers on the prickly gorse.
On the other side of the gate, they walked further, and the light grew dimmer as the trees overhead became more dense. But after a while, they saw the path open out ahead, bathed in sunlight. As they walked out, they blinked up at the imposing white building in front of them. The high walls reached up to a roof covered in burnt-orange tiles. Bright red geraniums sat on small windowsills, creating splashes of colour against the clean white walls. A solid-oak door sported iron studs, and a black grille lay open against the wall to the left of the door.
They stepped out onto the driveway, which swept in a circle at the front of the house. In the centre, on a carpet of bright green grass, stood an old stone fountain, water trickling lazily from a nymph’s mouth.
On the edge of the drive, and on either side of the house, lay carefully manicured gardens featuring red and yellow flowers.
As Alberto looked at the healthy plants with approval, a man carrying a hoe appeared from the side of the house. Looking up with surprise, he crossed the gravel drive towards the old man and small boy.
‘Good afternoon, señor,’ he said respectfully. ‘Can I help you?’
Alberto looked up at the imposing house again, staring for some time.
‘Sir?’ asked the man.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alberto. ‘I haven’t been here for many years. Can I ask about the owner?’
‘Yes, yes. Don García still lives here,’ replied the man enthusiastically. ‘Of course he is very elderly now, but he has so few visitors, I’m sure he will be delighted to see you both.’
Their footsteps echoed on the terracotta-tiled floor as they followed the housekeeper through the house. The gardener had introduced them to his wife, who looked after the house and the elderly gentleman owner. She did not seem to share her husband’s enthusiasm for the don’s visitors, but agreed to take them to him.
Her rubber-soled shoes were silent as she led them through high-ceilinged rooms filled with heavy oak furniture and antique rugs.
The señora stopped in front of two large panelled doors and spoke quietly to Alberto. ‘Don García does not hear very well these days, so speak loudly and clearly. He is also not comfortable with children, so I’d ask your grandson only to speak when spoken to, which is unlikely. And I suggest you do not detain the señor for too long – for all our sakes.’
Alberto did not understand her last comment, but nodded to the woman, who turned the handle and slowly swung the giant doors open.
The boy grabbed Alberto’s hand as they stepped into the dark room. Heavy curtains, which blocked out most of the sunlight, hung partially closed at the long windows. The housekeeper gently pulled the doors shut behind her and they stood still in the musty-smelling room.
Muskets and pistols hung on the walls, and the chimneybreast was decorated with a selection of sabres and swords. On the opposite wall hung an enormous, elaborately framed painting of Christ on the cross, weeping women at his feet, his wounds bleeding profusely and his pain palpable.
Alberto was mesmerized by the painting until he felt a sharp tug at his hand. He glanced down at the boy, who was biting his lip and staring. Alberto followed his gaze. A man so ancient he was barely more than a skeleton sat in a wheelchair in the gloomiest corner of the room. What was left of his white hair was parted sharply, and he had a patchy but precisely trimmed moustache. He was dressed in a dark, tailored suit, too large for his shrunken frame, and his shoes were brightly polished. Medals adorned his jacket, glinting as he reached down and with great effort began to wheel himself towards them.
When he was a few feet from Alberto, he stopped and, breathing deeply, said in a sharp, rasping voice, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Don García’ – Alberto bowed his head slightly – ‘my name is Alberto Romero, and this is my grandson.’
The old man nodded graciously at Alberto, ignoring Tino. ‘And why are you here?’
‘Señor, many years ago, I lived in this house. My grandson and I have come in search of some information about those times.’
‘You lived in this house before me?’
‘Yes, señor. It was during the time of the war.’
‘The war?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Many say that was a bad time for Spain, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Alberto.
‘And you? What is your opinion of the war?’
Alberto paused for a moment but answered, ‘I was just a boy. Those times have passed. I believe it is better to look forward.’
‘Hmm. You say you lived here before I moved here?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Don García sucked audibly on his teeth and ran his thumb and forefinger over his moustache before pointing an emaciated finger at Alberto. ‘So you were an orphan?’
Alberto nodded slowly.
‘A child of Rojos, no doubt.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Alberto carefully. ‘I don’t remember my parents.’
‘Mmm,’ said the old man, sceptically.
‘So, señor, you didn’t visit the house during the war years?’
‘No. I was too busy ridding the country of red filth,’ sneered the man.
Alberto winced.
Pausing for a moment, he persisted, ‘Could I ask when you moved here?’
‘Franco himself bequeathed
me this house. For my services in the war,’ said the old man, tapping his medals. ‘Those were the days,’ he continued. ‘The Franco years. Spain was blooming. Since he’s been gone, the country has gone to the dogs – don’t you agree?’
Alberto stood silent.
‘Eh? Don’t you agree?’
‘I like being able to choose my government,’ said Alberto deliberately.
At this, the ancient man started to laugh a wheezing laugh, but quickly began to gasp for breath. His wheezing soon turned to coughing that shook his entire bony body.
Alberto took a step towards him, but the old man lifted his papery face and scorned, ‘Socialist rubbish!’
Alberto heard the boy gasp quietly, and squeezed his hand reassuringly.
‘The country’s run by snivelling, weak populists. And do you know who is to blame for this country’s fall? Do you know who is the traitor?’ He paused to take a breath, his watery eyes on Alberto. ‘The king!’
With this, Don García began to cough again. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from his top pocket and coughed violently into it, crumpling in his chair.
Alberto began walking towards the door, pulling the riveted child with him.
‘I think we will leave you now, señor,’ he said firmly.
But as he reached for the door handle, the venomous voice rasped, ‘He betrayed Franco – the hero who saved this country from godlessness. He prepared the king to take the reins. And how was he repaid? With treachery. The king turned his back on Franco and all that he stood for.’
Alberto turned to look at the ancient man.
‘If the king were to walk into this house right now, do you know what I would do?’ García paused, gulping small mouthfuls of air. ‘I would spit in his face,’ he hissed.
Alberto blinked at the wheezing body in the wheelchair, a wisp of a memory flickering in front of him, gone before he could grasp it. Then, turning quickly, he yanked the door open, grabbed Tino’s arm and steered him out of the room. Without speaking, he marched through the house, the boy scampering to keep up.
When they reached the main door, Alberto stepped out into the sunshine and took a deep breath. He turned his face up to the sun and, still breathing deeply, rubbed his chest.
Suddenly, he folded over with a soft groan.
‘Apu!’ cried Tino, grabbing hold of his leg.
‘Señor,’ shouted the gardener. He dropped his hoe and dashed towards him.
Alberto lifted his hand to calm him and slowly stood up straight. His face was ashen and he let the gardener take his arm and lead him to a garden bench, where he sat down heavily.
The gardener called into an open window. When his wife’s face appeared, he asked her to bring some water.
‘Thank you,’ said Alberto when he had his breath back. Looking into the gardener’s worried face, he smiled and said, ‘I’m fine. I just had a shock.’
He turned to the boy, who was on the verge of tears. Alberto reached out and touched his cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Tino. It will take more than a wicked old man to finish me off.’
Not for the first time, Alberto wondered if he’d done the right thing bringing the boy on this journey.
‘Ah. Don García is on ferocious form today, is he?’ asked the gardener. ‘I’m sorry. I should have warned you. My wife calls me a fool, but it is in my blood to respect my elders, no matter how terrible they are.’
‘He is a fool,’ huffed the housekeeper as she approached with a large glass of water. ‘He can’t see that the old man is a snake, through and through. It’s no wonder he’s on his own – and has been all these years.’
Alberto thanked her for the water and gulped it down.
‘My husband is only grateful to him,’ continued the housekeeper, ‘because he kept his father in employment after the war. His father was a cripple and Don García was cruel to him all his life. But in a time when work was scarce, it was a job, and Papá Jorge could feed his children.’
‘My father used to bring me here to help him when his walking became very bad,’ continued the gardener. ‘And when my father passed away, Don García let me carry on his work. I’ve worked here all my life. The old man is very particular about the garden, but I think his attention to detail shows.’
Alberto nodded. ‘I admired your work when we arrived. The flowers are beautiful.’
‘This was all vegetable gardens when my father was here. He had to feed over a hundred orphans during the war. He worked very hard in those years.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Alberto quietly.
‘Oh!’ cried the gardener. ‘You were an orphan here?’
Alberto nodded.
‘Do you remember my father?’
‘A little,’ replied Alberto, squinting. ‘We weren’t allowed to spend time with anyone like that, but I remember a man with a limp working outside. And a kind woman who prepared our meals – I can’t recall her name.’
‘Isabel!’ stated the gardener proudly.
‘Yes,’ said Alberto, pleased. ‘Señorita Isabel.’
‘She left here at the end of the war. She married and went to live in her husband’s town. I believe she still runs the restaurant there.’
‘Oh,’ gasped the boy. ‘Apu, maybe Señora Isabel will remember you.’
Alberto looked at Tino, then back to the gardener. ‘Is it far from here?’
‘It’s a few hours’ drive. It used to take most of a day to get there, but the new autopista makes it a much faster journey. There’s a bus that leaves in the morning.’
‘In the morning?’ repeated Alberto.
‘Yes. And if you have nowhere to stay tonight, we would be honoured if you would stay with us.’
‘Oh no,’ said Alberto quickly, ‘we could not impose. If you could direct us to a hostería—’
‘Nonsense,’ replied the gardener’s wife sternly. ‘You have both had a shock, thanks to that nasty old man. This boy looks quite exhausted. My husband will take you home with him now, while I see to Don García. He has a nurse here during the night, but I’ll give him something to make him sleep before I go. He’s upset enough people today.’
Taking the glass from Alberto, she patted the boy’s head before returning into the house.
‘Right,’ said the gardener, ‘I’ll just tidy up my tools.’
As the gardener walked away, Tino turned to his grandfather.
Alberto smiled at him. ‘Perhaps Isabel will know something, eh?’
His grandson grinned as he threw his arms around his apu and hugged him tightly.
Chapter Six
MICHAEL
6 March 1937
I carefully fold the thin pages and slide them into the envelope. Sniffing the envelope, I remember how it smelt of June’s perfume when it first arrived. Now, it smells of dirt. I tuck it into my top pocket and lean back against the ditch, looking up at the inky twilight sky. A short distance away, some of the men are singing softly.
What will she be doing now? Helping her mum wash up after tea, perhaps. Listening to the wireless with her brother. Maybe she’s sitting at her father’s desk, pushing that glorious auburn hair off her face as she writes me another letter.
I have no idea how many letters have gone astray, but each one that makes it to me is precious. I’ve read all of them so many times I know every word, every scratch of her pen, every smile or tear that accompanies the words. Half of the Spaniards I’m fighting with are illiterate, but they understand love, and they wink at me when they see me with June’s letters.
‘And I say thank you to the Señor for the women. Yes, the women and the wine . . .’ sings a smooth, heavily accented Spanish voice, and I see Ramón stroll towards me in the gloom.
‘Amigo,’ I say, ‘what’s happening?’
‘Nothing yet,’ replies Ramón as he eases himself down beside me. ‘We’ll leave once it’s dark.’
‘Righto,’ I say in English.
‘Rrrighto,’ mimics Ramón with his rolling tongue.
‘Shut up,’ I tell him in Spanish as he chuckles deeply.
‘Rubio,’ says Ramón, ‘life does not always need to be so serious.’
‘Ramón,’ I reply sternly, ‘there are many serious issues I am concerned about.’
At this, Ramón sighs deeply, waiting for me to begin one of our long political and ideological discussions.
‘Serious issues,’ I continue, ‘such as how much you need a bath.’
‘Ha!’ roars Ramón, throwing an arm around me. ‘This is the serious issue: where will I find the next bottle of wine and beautiful pair of eyes?’
Laughing, we both look up and observe the blanket of stars that has appeared above us. I imagine that Ramón is thinking of the dark-haired señoritas he will woo with tales of fighting the Fascists and life on the road.
Not for the first time, I am struck by how different we are and how even so we are such good friends. Ramón is from the Basque Country. His family have been farmers there for as long as anyone can remember. Ramón has a wife, four children and a farm full of pigs, which I truly believe he adores more than the children. He is a devout, if selective, Catholic. A naturally happy man, he finds the good in every situation.
When the Fascists launched their revolt across Spain last summer, Ramón joined a peasants’ militia to defend the government. He tells me the fighting had been hard around his homeland for many months, but the Republicans had held the enemy at bay. Word of his courage and inspirational leadership had quickly spread, and he had been called to Madrid by central command. At first, he refused, stating that he fought for the autonomous Basque government. But when Franco proclaimed himself generalísimo at the end of September, Ramón had realized he was fighting for freedom from fascism. We met in Madrid last November, when I’d first arrived.
