by Wayne Price
Just beyond the bend with the oak tree she found herself emerging onto a clear rise overlooking Eratzu. To the left of the road a neat graveyard lay ahead, fenced off by spindly iron railings. Opposite the gates, three blocky stone crosses stood waist-high, tilted and half smothered by bracken, on the side of the track. They looked very old, their edges rounded by weathering. Maybe something to do with the pilgrim way, she guessed. Underfoot, between the ridges left by tyre tracks, the dust was thick enough to cushion her sandals and sift hot between her toes.
At the heart of the village a triple-arched bridge straddled the Baztan. On its far side the bell tower of the church rose up to a tiled witch’s hat whilst at the near side a heavy plank door led Laura down into a cool, dim cellar bar. A knot of locals and the tall young bartender were clustered together, staring and muttering at a soundless television mounted high in the corner. Laura glanced up in time to see footage of some kind of police operation with dog handlers and vans, then the screen cut to a newsreader’s bland, mouthing face. The bartender detached himself from the group and moved along the counter to face her. He was irritated by something, she could see, and could hardly bring himself to listen to her. She ordered a small beer and four of the stale looking pintxos almost hidden in the shadows behind the bar. As soon as hed served her he returned to the huddle of men beneath the screen. Some of them were bickering quietly now in Basque. Others darted sidelong, unreadable glances at her. The slices of chorizo were curled and tough as bark on the dry bread but with the help of the beer she steadily chewed each portion down.
As soon as she was done she paid and quickly climbed the staircase back into the sunshine. Walking the few steps onto the bridge she looked down at the Baztan. The water was low but dazzlingly swift and clear. Some evenings at the apartment, passing the time while Nerea was tutoring, she had stood on the balcony to watch the river at Elizondo. Sometimes Mikel had joined her and wordlessly flicked pieces of crust down for the ducks and trout. The water was much slower and darker down the valley at the weir pool. This didn’t seem the same river at all. She turned away and crossed the empty street, heading back the way she’d come.
The graveyard gate was unlocked, just a heavy iron latch keeping it shut. Inside, she picked her way around the small family crypts that stood here and there amongst the graves like gardeners’ huts of stone and marble. There were no caskets to be seen beyond the barred entrances but each tiny house contained a low altar at the back with a brightly painted, doll-sized plaster Christ crucified above it. On her way back to the gate she realized that almost all the graves, however simple, had stone panels at their feet and brass handles as if the tombs could slide open like drawers. She crouched to examine one of them, trying the handles, but the approaching rumble of a car leaving the village made her spring upright again, embarrassed at herself. Once the car had passed she hurried back out to the road, dropping the iron latch with a bell-like clang behind her.
There was space to sit comfortably on the embankment opposite the oak but not for her to sleep, as she’d planned. Instead, she pushed a little deeper into the bracken and found a clear patch long and wide enough to unroll her groundsheet. Returning to the side of the road she managed to collect an untidy fistful of wildflowers, intending to leave them alongside the wreaths already there. But when she brought them to the small heap of offerings and had to face the photograph again she suddenly lost heart. In the picture, the girl’s dark, uncomplicated hair fell smoothly to her shoulders. Above the white teeth the wide-awake eyes were deep brown and warm, though the skin around them hadn’t creased in keeping with the broad, confident smile. Shyness? Laura wondered. Or some other kind of falseness? Anyway, she was beautiful. Taking the flowers back into the undergrowth she scattered them furtively, filled with a strange sense of indecency and clumsiness. The half-thought of both Calum and the girl watching her movements from some other place, some other reality, teased at her imagination and she found herself having to thrust it fiercely away before it led her into terror.
As soon as it grew dark she crawled into her sleeping bag, feeling foolish and almost unbearably alone. There’d been no point in her vigil, she saw that clearly now. There was no more connection to be found with him here than anywhere else; she’d been crazy to think there might be. What was there to connect to? She felt sadness, almost overwhelmingly, but knew that it was much more for her own confusion than for Calum’s death. Then, slowly and despite herself, she found her imagination turning to the girl, to the mild brown eyes she knew were fixed through the dark on her sleeping place. She turned her body away from the road and listened as an owl called from somewhere deep in the dry oak woods. Feeling tears welling up she wrenched herself onto her back, resisting them, gasping deep, fierce breaths.
The night was perfectly clear and finally, staring upwards at layer beyond layer of sharp, bright stars she found herself growing calmer and remembering the last time her mother had been in love. It had been at least ten years ago – just after the divorce, when she was still willing to date and Laura was still young enough to be sent to bed early. He’d been a married man, and all Laura could recall of the relationship now were the awful days of her mother’s deflation and loneliness following the occasional late nights he spent at the house. She wasn’t sure if they’d ever been lovers, though for years in her early teens she’d burned with curiosity about it, and sometimes found herself secretly ashamed of her occasional eavesdropping and imaginings. Now she couldn’t even remember his name, nor his face or voice, though he’d always been kind and natural with her. What had happened to end it? Did her mother ever think of him now? She saw an image of her mother suddenly, not with a man and not ten years ago but poring over her map of Spain, its place-names and symbols, tracing where Laura had been and was supposed to be. Then, for a time, she succeeded in clearing her mind of everything except the small sounds of the night around her and the stars and the brilliant white disc of the moon rising over the black hills. But sleep was impossible and as her mind grew tired it seemed to slide beyond her control, betraying her with image after image of Calum, happy and triumphant, driving the radiant girl in the picture. Maybe he’d been driving the way he’d once driven with her, Laura, when he took her out of Granada high up into the cold, snow-capped Sierra: one hand lazily on the wheel, the other toying with the wet tangles of hair between her legs… And then she was lost – spasmed into a foetal curl, biting on the flesh of her arm to stifle the sobs and howls that surged like storm waves through her body.
She woke at dawn, exhausted and paralysed with cold, and it took her almost twice as long to walk back as it had to climb up through the valley. There was no reply when she rang the apartment bell though she knew both Nerea and Mikel were normally awake and smoking by now – it was nearly eleven. Suddenly angry, she shrugged off her heavy pack and trudged stiffly round the back to shout up at the balcony.
Eventually one of the other apartment doors burst open and Laura recognised Nerea’s neighbour, a stocky, sullen old widow who was also the caretaker of the block, glaring down at her over the balcony rail. Wait! she commanded and disappeared back inside. Soon she bustled through the side gate into the garden. Gone, she announced before Laura had time to speak. Both gone.
Laura stared stupidly at the widow’s broad, faintly triumphant face, almost too weary to reply. Where? she managed at last.
Mikel – Guardia. Nerea, who knows? She shrugged her big, rounded shoulders.
Guardia? Why? She thought instantly of the hash and felt a wave of relief at having escaped.
Again the caretaker shrugged. They question him. Very often. Always they release him. She raised her dark eyebrows and sniffed. They are pigs and fools. She regarded Laura intently, rolling her tongue around her gums. He is Batasuna, she added, as if as an afterthought, and snorted. La política, she said then, slowly and carefully, as if teaching a child.
Oh, Laura heard herself say, wrong-footed again. She recovered herself slowly, conscious
of the old woman’s heavy, impassive scrutiny. Will they let him go today? She felt dizzy and longed to sit down safely on the grass.
Today, tomorrow, two days – who can tell?
I have some things in the flat, Laura croaked, close to desperation. Some clothes and money. I’m very tired. Could you let me in for the night, or until Mikel comes back? We are good friends. He would trust me.
The caretaker seemed to ponder for a while, pursing her thin lips.
I’ve been staying with them all week, Laura added when the silence grew too much to bear. I’ve passed by you on the stairs, she added, almost pleading. You remember?
The old woman grunted, then gestured for Laura to follow her back into the building. She disappeared for a while into her own apartment before emerging to show Laura a spare key. One day, one night, she said, holding up a short, thick forefinger. No more.
Yes, Laura agreed. One night. Thank you.
All right, she said, and gave up the key.
The flat was as the Guardia had left it. The cushions were intact but ripped from their covers and strewn about the floor. The mattresses in both bedrooms were stripped and stood on end, sagging against the walls. On an impulse she righted the larger, double mattress in their bedroom rather than her own, flung herself down on it and slept dreamlessly through the afternoon.
By early evening the humid morning had given way to cool, driving showers. From the balcony during a break in the rain Laura saw a small stray cat, yellowish and painfully thin, crouching at the riverside border of the back garden, hunting water voles or frogs, she guessed. In the kitchen she found a tin of sardines lying on the floor where it had been swept from one of the ransacked cupboards. She emptied the tin onto a plate, forced her feet into Nerea’s abandoned slippers and hobbled down into the wet garden. The cat had a blunt, ugly face, its mouth extending downwards in open sores at each corner. Its expression reminded her vaguely of the cowardly lion and even its skin was like a costume, sagging loosely off the bones. It was easy to lure. She scooped it up deftly to her chest, its breathing making a faint rough sound and giving off a whiff of decay. It was shockingly light to lift and hold. Indoors, it sniffed the sardines but would eat nothing except a few licks of milk from a different saucer.
Just before dark the rain closed in again. She was staring down at the weir pool from the balcony, watching for any sign of life, though nothing in the river was stirring. As the first big drops fell the cat writhed out of her arms and darted into the flat. Laura watched it flash away, faintly glad to be free of it, then turned back to the river. It was somehow disconcerting to think that the slow, dark water below had followed her all the way down the valley from Eratzu. The dusty streets, the bridge and the graveyard that had looked so much like a strange village all to itself seemed to belong to another world altogether now. And the river came from somewhere further back again, she thought, feeling the rain begin to soak her hair and seep through the shoulders of Mikel’s heavy, musty bathrobe; came from somewhere in the empty Basque hills she’d seen from the road and watched from her camping place while the big red sun fell slowly behind them. She began to wonder how far, but it was impossible to guess and tiring to think about. And Nerea and Mikel. Who could say if they’d ever come back now? And who knew where anyone ever really was, anyway? Even when they were right beside you. Even inside you. Even that.
A PIECE OF THE MOON
The Wednesday of the funeral I get woken by the doorbell. By the time I reach the door in my pants the doorstep’s empty and all I can see is this big old white van parked a little way up the street. It looks like a busted up ambulance, but there aren’t any signs. The driver’s knocking at a door on the other side of the road from me. He’s a fat man without much hair and he doesn’t look too clean. He waits a while at the Protheroes’ door, then pushes a slip of paper through it and moves up one. I look down and sure enough there’s a yellow leaflet on the mat, blank side up. I close the door softly in case he hears and comes back.
It’s too hot to get dressed so I pull all the curtains shut and go through to the kitchen. Everyone’s already out to work or school, but there’s a note left on the table. Wear this tie with your blazer, it says, and next to it there’s one of my old man’s black ties rolled up like a party horn. I get myself a glass of milk and take it through to the living room. I put the TV on and run through the stupid learning programmes like I do when I’m off school sick. I end up watching a guy at a table with a telescope, magnifying glass and microscope all in a row. He starts talking and touching them.
I go over to the window and put my head between the curtains. The light’s dazzling. I look up the street, squinting, but the van’s long gone. By now it’s about nine.
On the TV the guy and the table have gone. Instead there’s these big rough scale things, like slabs. You can tell it’s through a microscope. There’s no voice, just violin music. I keep looking and the slabs get smaller and you get to see these tree trunks which you could guess are just hairs. The camera moves through them for a while, like they’re a forest. Then, which is meant to be a surprise, you see this massive fly. It’s in the middle of a bunch of hairs, stood over them like a dinosaur, except with its sucker going. It’s putting me off my milk, but I keep watching. Then the view gets bigger again, zooming out, and you get to see the fly sitting on a patch of skin. Then, next thing you know, the skin is part of some kid’s wrist, who’s sitting in a boat on the sea. It’s a sunny day there, too, wherever that is. Anyway, it carries on and soon you can hardly see him, just the white boat he’s in, this little dot on the blue sea. Then not even the boat. Then it goes up and you’re in space, looking at the whole ocean he was on, in fact all the earth and everything, and further out past the moon and other planets and stars. It’s all bullshit, but there I am, still watching.
The guy’s voice comes back and I walk over and switch it off. I feel like I should be thinking about Hooper, seeing as I was meant to be one of his best friends and it’s his funeral in a few hours. But the trouble with thinking about Hooper is that he stuffed himself with pills, so they cut him open, and whenever I try to think about him that’s all that comes into my head – Hooper all opened up like a fat white fish, on some cold slab. All his guts out and everything. So for the past few days I’ve stopped thinking about him at all. But Jesus, I’m thinking, you should think about him now it’s his funeral.
I go through to the kitchen and empty out what’s left of the milk. My school trousers are over the back of the chair like always, but the blazer’s been hung up. I get the trousers on, then pick up the tie and pocket it. When I find the blazer I nearly pop a ball: my mother’s scrubbed the armpits especially for the funeral and she’s left these big white tidemarks where she didn’t rinse the soap out properly. It looks like sweat-salt, for Christ’s sake. I go over to the basin and soak the stuff with the dishcloth. The rings darken down okay, but when I get the blazer on I can feel the cold wet, right up there.
Outside, the light’s so bright it hurts. I walk down to the bus-stop at the bottom of the street. It’s so hot there’s sweat prickling my head just from walking the twenty yards to the corner. I stand there, sweating and itching. I don’t know when the buses are due, so I just wait and stare up the long empty road, watching all the heat waves ripple up into the air. I can smell the tarmac getting soft and behind the window I’m standing at a phone starts ringing. A red car turns the corner at the top of the street and rolls down towards me, shimmering like a mirage.
At first I think it’s slowing just to turn the corner I’m stood at, so I don’t take much notice until it pulls up right in front of me. I recognise the driver but she’s older than me and I don’t know her name or anything. Anyway, it’s obvious she recognises me. She gives me this big soft smile through the open window. I smile back, but I can tell it’s all wrong. I can feel it.
You know me? she says, and just then the phone inside the house stops. Her voice comes out slow and goofy, like a little ki
d’s. It suits the weird smile which keeps coming off and on the long, white face she’s got, but it doesn’t suit anything else about her. The rest of her is pretty good.
Oh, hi, I say. How’s it going?
She laughs, pleased for some reason and nods while she looks me up and down. I like your long hair.
Oh, I say. Jesus! I’m thinking.
You remember that horse? That horse I used to ride? She nods again, like she’s encouraging me.
Maybe she’s pissed or stoned, I think. But really I know it’s not that. Anyway, I nod back. I saw her plenty of times riding up our street, past our window on the way to the waste-ground, Sundays and plenty of evenings after school. I’ve never spoken to her but so what, I think, I am now, and I’m thinking that and thinking about her on her big brown horse, jigging up and down.
The smile keeps coming and going and for what feels like a long time she just sits there, inspecting me. In the end she says: I haven’t seen you around for, oh I don’t know, ages. It’s funny how the words sound. It’s like her jaw’s had some of its strings cut. Then there’s the smile again, wandering onto her face like it’s separate from the rest of her. Do you know what happened to me? she says suddenly. As suddenly as she can with her mouth the way it is.
No, I say. What?
She shifts her weight a little in the car seat and leans closer to me. I came off it, she says, and her smile gets fixed for a second.
Oh.
Backwards, she says.
I look up the road.
I really like your hair, she says. Are you waiting for the bus?
I turn back to her and take a good look. One of her eyes, the left one, is sort of milky looking. Apart from the milkiness, they’re green. I notice her hair too. It’s bunched up in little heaps over her ears and forehead, short and coppery. It’s the same colour Hooper’s was, which feels worrying for some reason, even in that sunlight. But she’s got this nice little chin, under those wriggly lips.
