A Forbidden Love

by Kerry Postle

  The war, the war she’d longed for, was waiting at the gates, about to march into her life. A sudden feeling of nausea overwhelmed her. She ran to the washstand.

  Two hours later, tyres – of cars, trucks and motorbikes – threw up clouds of yellow, gritty dust as the military cavalcade the entire village had been anticipating all night drove into Fuentes.

  Maria still hadn’t made it out of bed preferring to read Don Quixote in the hope that she might be able to sleep through it all. But the friction sounds of heavy wheels braking on stony ground shook her wide awake, defeating even her most trusty soporific.

  Her mind flooded with so many thoughts it felt as though she was drowning.

  Where’s Papa? They won’t invade us. Where’s Papa? They won’t hurt us. Where’s Papa? We’re Spanish too. But the stories of what they’d done in other villages flooded her mind still further … Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry. We will be all right. Even de Llano on the radio said we’d be all right. Her mind fluttered around wildly, desperately searching for good news. Richard. He’s safe. Safe now. The mayor has a letter and a white flag. Father says he has several, ready. Stay inside, her father had told her. I must stay inside. I’ll be safe. Where’s Papa?

  Two streets away the doctor had managed to revive his patient paralysed by fear. That the man was called Lazaro made Alvaro chuckle. But not for long, as no sooner had his patient revived than the doctor himself had been struck down.

  Fear. It started in the walls. Caused shelves to rattle. Crockery to shake. The sound of invasion, mechanical, relentless, that had run through the village like electricity all night had finally reached out and connected a wire to him.

  His mind lit up like a lightbulb. What should he do? Run home to his daughter? Make his way to the ‘welcome party’? His thoughts buzzed like red hot filaments, crackling in the air. They rooted him to the spot. But he had to fight the paralysis, heal himself.

  He stumbled outside, made his way in the direction of home. Light and the noise and the sight of the men in uniform and cars still rolling in overwhelmed him. He lurched on. Soldiers were filling the street up ahead. He’d never seen such a throng of people.

  Wait, wait. He made his way to a workshop. Hid inside. He peered through a closed wooden shutter at the military circus unfolding beyond. He and nearly every other citizen of Fuentes, in every house, shop and workshop, looked on with bated breath, waiting. Waiting for the moment when the mayor would hand over the letter of complete capitulation, wave the white flag.

  More brakes screeched. More tyres spun up dust and stones. Doors opened. A slender man wearing a neat uniform with buttons that glinted in the sun, his boots polished to a black mirror, got out of a black car. Whether a captain, commandant or general, Alvaro could not tell.

  The doctor watched, his breath shallow, as the mayor proffered a weathered, fleshy, sweaty hand, in it the letter that would save the village, to the man in the unnaturally shiny boots. Alvaro had helped to pen that letter. Long, pale fingers took it.

  Houses sighed.

  Doctor Alvaro fell back against the wall. His hand searched round desperately in his bag for something to hold on to, take the edge off the anxiety that he was feeling. Maria. She was alone. But she would be fine. He’d told her to stay inside. And the mayor had handed over the letter, waved the white flag. This moment of uncertainty would soon pass.

  His hands stumbled on an old packet of cigarettes. It must have been at the bottom of his bag for years. He didn’t care. He put one in his mouth and lit up. Its smoke curled round the edge of the shutter, disappeared into the already throbbing heat of the day. Nicotine-coated relief filled his lungs. It tasted good. For now.

  He turned to look outside, fearful, fascinated, confused. Still more soldiers jumped down from trucks, kitbags slung over one shoulder, rifles over the other. They flooded the streets in waves. Some were laughing, others leaning against walls and smoking too. Men of all colours, shapes and sizes. The doctor’s eyes flickered at the sight of three Moors. The lascivious tones of General Queipo de Llano sounded in his ear like an annoying fly, conjuring up scenes of brutality that played out in his head. Doctor Alvaro blinked them away. If the Moors were guilty of the crimes he’d heard of, he told himself as he looked at the huge number of Spanish in uniform all around them, they were not alone. The glint of a rifle blinded him momentarily. He rubbed his eyes. By the time he looked back up boys had appeared in his field of vision. Little boys. Very little boys.

  There, leant up against the whitewashed wall on the other side of the street, watching the troops as they walked by in their heavy dusty boots, were the Redondo brothers. All three of them. Salva, Lolo and Ignacio. The oldest, Salva, couldn’t be any older than ten.

  Stories of slaughtered children entered Alvaro’s mind. He had to get them off the street.

  He threw open the shutters. ‘Kids! Kids!’ he shouted above the pounding of military boots on bone dry earth. ‘Quick. Over here!’ The children could not hear him. Passing soldiers could. Their eyes wandered towards him then moved on again. Alvaro would have to go and fetch the children.

  He tried to step outside. Rifles were pointed, rough hands shoved him back in. It was impossible. He was not going to be able to swim across the tide of men blocking his path.

  He scanned the windows on the other side of the street anxiously. He gesticulated to closed shutters, pointing to the children now crouching below, secure in the knowledge that peering eyes would be watching out.

  But no one dared put a hand out to pull the annoying monkeys in off the street.

  Alvaro thought he saw a shadowy face at an upstairs window but no sooner seen than it quickly withdrew from sight. The doctor looked back at the boys, his eyes casting a protective net around them.

  But the boys were starting to look frightened. From the expression on his face it was clear that the youngest, Ignacio, was crying, although no one could hear him over the noise of boots and voices.

  Alvaro had no choice but to go out again and drag them in.

  His foot had not crossed the threshold before he was pushed back inside again with one forceful thrust to the chest. A soldier had spotted him. In less than a second another soldier, eager for action, lurched forwards, his face leering, mouth slobbering, his head on his countryman’s shoulder, waiting for the word attack. But it didn’t come. The same hand that had pushed Alvaro back inside shoved the bloodthirsty soldier back into the sea of men. He floated on by, his head bobbing up and down as waves of men carried him away into the distance.

  Alvaro’s heart pounded, the pulse in his temple thumped, his stomach clenched as the soldier who’d defended him now followed him in. Instinct told Alvaro this could be it. Reason assured him it wasn’t.

  ‘Lock the door when I leave. Open up when I knock,’ the soldier commanded. Then he turned and left, slamming the door as he went. Alvaro’s fingers fumbled at the lock with fear. Turning first one way, then, in response to the knock, turning the other.

  Moments later the three boys were sprawled on the workroom floor yelping and climbing over each other like puppies. ‘Keep the children safe, Seňor’, the soldier said, his voice deep, clear and young. ‘You were brave boys,’ he added, bending forwards to ruffle the hair of the youngest, Ignacio, still crying, ‘but stay with your family, inside, while the army is here.’ He growled at them. ‘I don’t want to catch you outside again!’ Doctor Alvaro looked gratefully at their saviour, now silhouetted in the doorway, the sunlight radiating around him like a halo. There was something unusual about the young man’s eyes though try as he might he couldn’t make out what it was. And then he was gone, bobbing along with the rest of the men.

  ‘Oh boys!’ Alvaro the doctor scolded them. Alvaro the father comforted them. Poor, poor boys. ‘You’ll be safe at home soon,’ he said. But for how long? he wondered.

  Chapter 13

  That people can adjust to change is testament to their will to survive – but embrace it too h
astily and they can look like fools.

  Within hours of arriving, a man with a black moustache and slicked back hair had stood up, flanked by the mayor (purple-faced with anxiety) on one side and Don Felipe (calm, confident and collected) on the other. He had proceeded to address the welcome party.

  Life would carry on ‘as normal’, he decreed without a trace of irony. Labourers would still work the land, shops would be opened up as usual and he anticipated only a change for the better with the arrival of his troops. The true order of things would be restored and Spain would be great again. However, all guns and objects considered to be weapons would have to be handed in by the end of the day. He’d paused deliberately after this. Applause started half-heartedly. He cast his cold eyes over the assembled crowd. It ended rapturously. As he’d known it would.

  He had then turned to the mayor standing to his left and given the now only pink-faced man a hearty slap on the back. He’d then turned to the right and held out his arms generously all the better to embrace a seigneurial Don Felipe.

  A soldier had made his way from the back of the hall up to a serene Dona Sofίa, a large bouquet of flowers filling his arms. He’d bowed with the greatest of deference, presenting them to her as to a queen. She’d lowered her eyes in gratitude in front of the hand-picked crowd, the Lippi Madonna still in her mind. The restoration of the true order had begun.

  News of the address spread quickly enough. It did not matter that the doctor had been unable to get there in time.

  The day after the arrival of the troops, workers left their homes exhausted after talking late into the night. Most felt like condemned men and women. Ravaged by fatigue and fear, they leaked out, drip by drip, towards the farms and fields, shops and bars. Afraid of what would happen when they stepped outside. Afraid of what would happen when they didn’t.

  The soldiers kept on coming, flowing throughout Fuentes and filling every lonely corner, every empty road. ‘Stay inside’ was whispered behind doors less and less as people acclimatised to their new normal. The steady drip, drip of villagers out on the streets on day one, by day two had turned into a trickle of people eager to get on with their daily business. And after day three, by which time most of them had stopped jumping out of their skins at the sound of boots on gravel and soldiers’ shouts, there was a constant flow.

  Heads emerged at windows. The soldiers were still there. Heads were pulled back tortoise-like into their shell. Families throughout the village whispered, argued, agreed, disagreed. The workers had ventured out. Women at home were next to go forth. One by one, doors opened. A woman with a basket would open her door, assess the danger with a look to the right and the left, then launch herself outside. Her neighbour would see her and quickly do the same, rushing to join her so they could walk along together. And though a cloud of anxiety came down upon them that pulled taut their every sinew and weighed heavy on each of their hearts, they still went about their everyday business. This was their new way of life; they had no choice but to live it.

  Yet while most of the adults of the village went about their business much as before (though now factoring in should they greet a soldier? Look him in the eye? Not look him in the eye? Intervene when a neighbour was being questioned? Pretend you hadn’t noticed it?) most of the children were kept inside. And no matter how grown up Maria thought she was, she was still a child in Doctor Alvaro’s eyes. His child. And although he knew that to keep his daughter inside was not a long-term solution he prayed it would give him time to come up with one.

  Maria was sleeping better – Cervantes had made sure of that – and though her world had been knocked off its orbit she was in the mood to re-align it. Richard had gone. Her father had seen to that. She imagined he must be back in England by now. She’d not seen Paloma for days. And although she could hear and see soldiers outside, she found that the alarm she’d felt when they’d first entered the village could not be sustained. The arguments to stay inside were there but she was getting lonely. She’d even started to believe that perhaps she had loved Richard Johnson after all. She certainly missed him now.

  She slumped over the iron railings at her bedroom window and looked with longing up and down the street. She could see and hear neighbours chatting in the coolness of the morning, catch the laughter of children rippling out from open windows. Even the sight of young men in uniform smoking and joking together as they walked underneath beckoned her down. It all seemed so normal. So familiar. As if it had always been this way.

  She smiled as she watched a barrow boy struggle to wheel a cart weighed down by a precariously loaded mountain of oranges. The boy wobbled on as single oranges rolled away in his wake. A donkey followed slowly behind, baskets loaded with apricots on either side, his hooves squashing the barrow boy’s escaped fruit and releasing the juice and fragrance. Maria breathed it in then ran down to the kitchen.

  She looked at the empty fruit basket. She checked the box where her father kept the money.

  The next moment Maria was out in the street.

  She’d been incarcerated for days and now she was outside, free, she felt conspicuous. But, she reasoned, she only wanted to buy some oranges. There was no crime in that. But she still walked towards the fruit-seller, basket held close to her chest, as though everyone knew that she shouldn’t be out. She pushed at her hair trying to brush the sun away and walked briskly, still clasping the basket tightly and looking to the ground.

  And while she’d been unalarmed at the sight of so many soldiers when looking down on them from the relative safety of her bedroom window, now, on the same level as them, walking along the same roads, she felt their presence as a threat. She would not look up; she refused to allow them in her field of vision.

  Her heart pounded furiously throwing itself against the cage of her ribs, demanding to be freed. She walked on, dared to raise her eyes a little. She could make out dark shapes to the left and right, identify uniformed figures up ahead. She kept walking, with each step becoming less fearful. She looked around, still cautious. She saw soldiers. Everywhere. Milling around stalls, wandering down shaded back streets, sitting against walls. Smoking, laughing, chatting. They did nothing to stop her going about her business. Her heart relaxed to a flutter as she unfurled herself open like a flower.

  Her blooming presence in the street soon attracted whistles and shouts of ‘guapa.’ By the time she made it to the orange-seller the sense of menace had transformed into a strangely thrilling tingle. She raised her head high and shook the not altogether unwanted attention off with a flick of her dark hair before stooping down to weigh up the juiciest fruits. Admiring soldiers watched her, their appreciative glances following her as she strode back home. Maria swung her basket confidently by her side.

  In the course of a short stroll the soldiers had become to Maria nothing more than boys in gorillo caps and uniforms, as keen to catch her eye as she was to catch theirs. Many of them had rifles but now that she’d seen how young and fresh-faced most of them were, she doubted they had ever used one, let alone knew how to.

  She was nearly home, on the point of stepping over the threshold, when she realised that she didn’t want to go back inside where she had only her imagination for company. It had shown itself to be darker than anything she’d seen outside. She was gripped by a desire to stay roaming the streets for as long as she could. Fuentes was alive, its people going about their business on its streets in the clear light of day. That was the reality. Not the nightmarish images conjured up by the memories of a lunatic’s words and sounds that came to her in the lonely, shuttered rooms of her house.

  She pulled back, let the sun bathe her in its light, then headed towards Paloma’s.

  As she made her way through the sea of soldiers, a group of them stood back to make space for her to pass. They whistled as she knew they would. She ignored them. Further on down the road, still more soldiers showered her with ‘hola guapa’s. She tutted in mock offence. Her pace quickened in time to her excitement. She couldn’t w
ait to get to Paloma’s to tell her all about it. It was true, strictly speaking nothing had actually happened. But Maria felt alive again. The life force within her was strong. So strong that when an attractive voice called out ‘Buenos dias Seňorita’ as she skipped by Maria couldn’t help but turn to the young soldier who’d said it and smile with a ‘Buenos dias’ in reply.

  She stopped. His eyes. There was something about them that bewitched her. She stared into them. They were brown. No, blue. She pulled herself away, quickly, dragging her reluctant eyes over skin like alabaster and thick, wavy black hair, before dropping them to the stony ground. ‘I would like to carry your basket for you, if you are in agreement,’ he said, offering out his hand. The formality of his words reassured her. She trusted herself to look up at him.

  And he looked magnificent, leaning back against the whitewashed wall, rifle slung over his shoulder, cool in the shade, a broad smile on his handsome face, and a book held in the hand that was hanging down at his side. The soldiers nearby had cigarettes in theirs and they watched and whistled. But Maria was now deaf and blind to them.

  She swung her basket excitedly with one arm, back and forth, back and forth, as rhythmic as a metronome. With her free hand she pushed back her long hair. She stole a look at him. Dared to let her eyes catch his. And there they were, waiting to be caught. Those eyes. They first dazzled then unnerved her, caused her breath to catch. She looked away. Didn’t dare look up again. Instead she picked up time with the swinging of her basket. His hand was still stretched out waiting to carry it for her. ‘Oh, thank you, no!’ Maria said, flustered and suddenly aware that she’d been waving her basket around wildly. ‘Goodbye, Seňor,’ she said, tripping in her hurry to get away.

  ‘My name is Luis,’ he called after her. ‘What’s yours?’ His name rang a bell. But she rushed on, carried forward by the now considerable upswing of her basket. ‘Maria,’ she whispered. ‘What’s that?’ he shouted out. ‘Maria!’ she said, more loudly. ‘Maria! Maria! Maria!’ he called her name out loud and watched her walk away, hair bouncing and looking for all the world as if she was about to take off so great was the arc of the upswing of her basket.