Blood in the Valencian Soil (Secrets of Spain) (3 page)

“Sí.”

“Is there someone I can call for you? Perhaps your husband? He would like to know his wife is well after being hit in the face like that.”

Luna brought her little hand to her face for a moment and looked up at the concerned man across the table. “This is my husband’s watch.”

Cayetano nodded. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“I suppose not,” she replied, and tucked it into her large handbag that was on the spare chair against the wall. “He died almost three years ago.”

“Oh,” Cayetano stumbled. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The conversation was stalled by Cayetano’s friend behind the bar, who had come and put two small glasses of red wine on their table. “Cayetano,” his friend said in a cocky tone
, “ésta es hermosa.” He gestured at Luna.

“She can speak Spanish,” Cayetano replied.

“Perdón, Señora,” he said and excused himself from the table.

“I’m sorry,” Cayetano said to Luna. He leaned forward over the small square table. “Please pay no attention to him.”

“There are worse things than someone saying that I’m beautiful,” Luna smiled. She picked up her wine and sipped it. She needed it today. “This is his bar?”

“Sí,
he is an old friend of my father. My father helped him to decorate it years ago.”

Luna looked around, the walls adorned with bullfighting memorabilia, photos, posters, the customary mounted black bull head over the bar. “He’s a big fan of
corrida de toros.”

“He is.
So am I. Do you like bullfighting?”

“I have been a few times.”

“How well do you know the bullfighters?”

“Not well,” she confessed. “I only know Pablo Ortez Cantera, who is famous in Valencia where I live.”

“I know him!” Cayetano said. “He’s a terrific fighter. I have worked with him a few times.”

“Doing what?”

Cayetano frowned for a moment. “I work at the Las Ventas bullring.”

“You don’t need to work today? Isn’t there a giant fight on?”

“My day off. Tomorrow and Sunday are the main fights.”

“Do you have to deal with all the tourists?”

“I… I work with the bulls. My father, he breeds bulls for fights.”

“I would rather work with bulls than tourists,” Luna quipped.

A smile spread over Cayetano’s face as he sniggered, and she returned it. “Excuse me, preciosa, but wouldn’t you be one of those tourists?”

“Me? I am just a
guiri.”

“A dirty foreigner you are not,” Cayetano said. “Where are you from?”

“New Zealand, but I have lived in Valencia for ten years. But I will always be a foreigner. I work as a tour guide, showing mostly Northern Europeans around the Turia park in Valencia by bicycle.”

“A bicycle tour guide?” he asked. “Unusual job.”

“It’s a very, very long story.” She twisted the platinum ring on her finger. It felt gratifying to be out for a change.

Cayetano watched her fiddle with her wedding band, and decided not to ask any more. “So why are you in Madrid?”

Luna groaned and placed one hand on her jumbled folder of paperwork. “That is an even longer story. I need to take on the Spanish bureaucratic system.”

“I fe
ar you never leave the city.”

“I have been at the
Registro Civil this morning. I thought there was no worse hell than the Valencia office, but Madrid is all new misery and laziness rolled together.”

“My sister works at the
Registro Civil.” He watched Luna’s pretty face cringe, and he chuckled. “My sister has also long been known as lazy, so she is perfect there. Did you get what you needed?”

“No, I need a birth certificate, and it seems
that the Madrid office doesn’t have what I need, which is a big problem.” She watched him take a sip of his wine. His dark eyes looked over the rim of the glass at her. His fingers that held the glass looked so scarred, but tanned and strong. She watched him lick his lips to take a single drop of wine from them, and rubbed them together. This scruffy stranger sent a spike of something through her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. It’s okay to admire a handsome man, Luna. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.

“Would you like me to walk you back to your hotel?”

“You mean in the interest of my personal safety?”

“I can’t save the damsel and then send her on her way, without knowing that she’s safe.”

“How do I know that you are any good for me?”

“I’m not good, Luna,” he said. “People who are good, they are usually that way out of fear of some kind. I have no fear of anything. I have an immense respect for many things, but I don’t choose to conform. That way I don’t need to be good, and instead can be open to experience life.”

“Sounds like a bachelor’s excuse to misbehave.”

“It could also be that,” he nodded with a smile. “What you were supposed to say was that you were astounded by my bravery with the guy who took your bag.”

“Oh, I see.” It was rather impressive how he had shoved the guy. It was clear that Cayetano was a strong and agile man. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him, because she was attracted to someone, for the first time in a long time. “That bastard hit me in the face!”

“Yes, he did,” Cayetano replied with a half-smile at her delayed reaction.

“Gracias. Did I say that? Thank you for getting my bag back.”

“
De nada. Are you sure you don’t need me to walk you back to your hotel?”

“I wasn’t going back to the hotel. I was going to go to the Prado.”

“It will be busy this time of day. Perhaps you would enjoy a walk in El Retiro with me instead.”

“You’re persistent,” Luna replied, and sh
e watched him shrug. “Okay, a walk in the park.”

It was busy in Buen Retiro Park on the August afternoon. Locals looked for shade from the heat, and mingled with sunburned tourists, who wandered around in wonder of the city oasis. Cayetano seemed to want to walk away from the main paths and people, so they walked from one shaded spot to another beneath the lush trees. The cool grass that tickled Luna’s feet between her sandal straps was such a contrast to the heat.

“What’s in the folder that you hold so tight?” Cayetano asked. “I saw something about the
guerra civil.”

“I’m interested in the Spanish civil war.”

“That can’t make you popular.”

“Why do you say that?”

Cayetano shrugged. “I was raised to never talk about it. I was born just before Franco’s dictatorship ended, and my Papá, he wanted me to never talk about anything Franco related.”

“I’m a foreigner, so I don’t even get an opinion on politics in Spain.”

“You can have an opinion.” Cayetano smiled. “Whether anyone listens is another thing. So, what interests you about the war?”

“A mystery.”

“Interesting.”

“It is. A mystery and a mighty l
ong, sad story. One I had hoped to clear up today at the Registro Civil.”

“What do you need? Maybe I could ask my sister to help you.”

“I have to come back to Madrid one day and try again,” Luna said. “But thank you. I needed my grandfather’s birth and death certificates. But he died in the war, and the records are not complete.”

Cayetano nodded. She was clearly a foreigner, because she
had just spoken of the civil war in public. It was better, and far more polite, not to talk about the war. That was the case in the family he had been brought up in. “You’re Spanish?”

“So the rumour says,” she half-smiled and looked over at him. His expression was hidden under his sunglasses. “My grandmother was a nurse during the war. She got pregnant to some Spanish guy, and I only have his name and
nothing more. My grandmother went home to New Zealand, and my father was born three months later.”

“And you want to find out who your grandfather is?”

“I need to prove I have a Spanish grandparent, so I can be granted permanent citizenship in Spain. My work visa is about to expire, so it’s time to become permanent here.”

“You don’t want to go home?” Cayetano asked. They turned on to Paseo de
la Argentina, a beautiful tree-lined pedestrian avenue, adorned with white marble statues that glistened the sun in the clear sky over them.

“I have nothing to go home to.”

“No family?”

“No.” Luna took a deep breath. The pain of that fact followed her around.

“You are the opposite of me,” Cayetano replied, and placed his hand over his heart. “I love my family very much, but they are around me all the time.”

“A bit smothering, is it?”

“You have no idea.”

Luna looked around; it seemed as they walked, everyone took a second glance at them, and it seemed strange. She turned and looked to Cayetano who walked with his head down. “Do
you get the impression that we’re being watched?”

“Maybe they’
re thinking, ‘why is the beautiful woman hanging around with that revoltijo? That will be it.”

“You’re not a mess.” Not at all. He may have been unshaven, with messy hair, but the clothes he wore were an expensive kind of casua
l. The sunglasses on his face were not a cheap pair.

“We are walking the right way to your hotel
, ¿no?”

“Sí.
I’m staying on Plaza de la Lealtad, at the Ritz.”

“I’m not sure I’m classy enough to walk the lady to the Ritz.”

“But you are my acompañante, my chaperone, here to keep me safe on the mean streets of Madrid,” she joked.

“I couldn’t leave a lady on her own. By the way, Madrid is the greatest city in the world.”

“After Valencia, yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry, but if you believe that, we can’t be friends. Valencia greater than Madrid? Never.”

“Spain is like sand, it slips through your fingers when you try and hold onto it. It changes in the blink of an eye. While Madrid is busy feeling smug, Valencia could easily be bypassing Madrid as it continuously evolves.”

“No chance; never going to happen,” Cayetano said as they stopped to cross the street that separated the park from the street to the hotel. They started across the street with the crowds, and were relieved to be back in the shade between the buildings of the narrow street a minute later. The small curved street that the Ritz dominated was quiet. They came to a stop outside the hotel, and Cayetano nodded hello to the doorman who stood very a
stute in his black suit.

“I shall leave the lady for the rest of her day,” Cayetano said formally, and Luna giggled. “But
in all seriousness, I hope you’re all right, Luna.”

“Gracias,
Cayetano. I will treat myself to a walk through the Prado museum to see my favourite painting, and forget the whole incident.”

“Which is your favourite painting?”

“ ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ by Hieronymus Bosch.”

“Ah, ‘El Bosco’, I know his work. It’s the one full of naked figures to depict sexual freedom? That big triptych,
¿no?”

“Yes,” Luna said with raised eyebrows. She was impressed that he knew that.

“It has the lovers in the glass ball. Pleasure is as fragile as glass, is that the expression?”

“Yes it is.”

“Would you like to go out for dinner with me?” Cayetano asked. The words practically fell from his mouth. “The Goya restaurant here in the hotel is excellent.”

“The Goya restaurant here is phenomenal. A little too fancy for me.”

“Nonsense, I can get us a table, I promise… unless you need an excuse not to have dinner with a humble bull-minder?”

A smile spread over Luna’s smile as she sniggered. The humble bull-minder was an intriguing man. A handsome man.
Live a little. “All right, dinner.”

“Good. How about I meet you at midnight? Is that convenient for you? I’ll me
et you in the lobby, by the staircase.”

“Tha
t would be good. Are you sure midnight is not too early?”

“Maybe, but
I can try and show up on time. It’s a date, as they say.” He placed his hand on her arm. “See you soon, Señora.”

“Hasta luego.”
Luna couldn’t contain her smile as the doorman opened the glided main entrance to the lavish hotel, and she left her new friend. Hang on, a date?

3

Madrid, España ~ agosto de 2009

Cayetano stood full of impatience in the lobby of the hotel under the soft lights dotted around the room. In one moment, this woman had bewitched him, just there on the path in a daze. He had gone home and tidied himself up, and then he realised that was a mistake. Dressed casual and unkempt made it easy to fit in, and Luna had  taken to that look, which surprised him. But now he looked like himself – the ‘himself’ that everyone knew. Dressed in his finest black suit, with his hair combed back, and his face smooth, he had become recognisable now. He was about to dine in a restaurant that was a place ‘to be seen’. Once Luna knew who he was, the whole thing could go rather different to what he hoped for. The unassuming way he had met Luna was a breath of fresh air. She hadn’t heard of him, didn’t know what he did, she didn’t know who his family was. Imagine if his wife knew where he was.

Luna walked into the lobby of the hotel, her purse held tight in her hand. She had spent the rest of the afternoon in the air-conditioned halls of the Prado art gallery in peace. She was never alone, not with two five-year-olds, so this was new for her. She missed her boys and had called them before their bedtime. They were in
Darren’s safe hands, but after she spoke to each of them, she did wonder why she hadn’t just gone back to Valencia on the train. Just because Darren thought she needed a night off – her first in five years – didn’t mean it was a bright idea, fancy hotel room or not. She had stood at the mirror in her ornate 100-year-old room, and wondered what the hell she was doing. She hadn’t come prepared for a date. In fact, all she had to wear was the outfit she had packed for the following day, a simple ice-blue dress. With luck, it would make the grade for the Goya Restaurant.

She stood on the spot in the lobby, and twirled one of her long black ringlets in her fingers and tried to spot Cayetano. Maybe he ha
d changed his mind. While her mind told her that would be a good thing, it hurt to think she wouldn’t see the engaging man again. Her eyes spotted him across the room by the staircase, just like he had said. The man she met on the street was gone. Stood before her was an impeccable gentleman. She watched him take swift steps towards her with a smile on his face. Did this man want dinner with her? He was the man that all women had in mind when they imagined a tall, dark and handsome Latin man who could whisk them away. She had that fantasy a few times herself, as cheesy and predictable as it was.

“Buenas noches, preciosa,”
he purred.

“Good evening. I almost didn’t recognise you.”

“In that case, let me re-introduce myself,” he said, and put his hand out. “I am Cayetano Morales. I’m pleased to meet you.”

It occurred to Luna that she hadn’t even got his surname earlier. “Luna Montgomery,” she said and shook his hand.

“Shall we, Señora?” he said with a tempting smile and offered his arm. She tucked her hand into his elbow, and they set off toward the restaurant. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for us already. The degustation menu, so we can try a little of everything.”

“Been here before, have you?” she asked as they were greeted by the waiter at the entrance.

“Once, with work colleagues, they brought us for dinner.” Slight lie there, it was your wife’s Christmas party last year.

“Just for the record, I would have been just as happy going to a little tapas place, to laugh at Spaniards who toss their little napkins on the floor.”

“What else are we supposed to do with them?”

“Put them in the bin?”

Cayetano scoffed. “Foreigners, you just don’t get it.”

They were seated in the corner, the silver of the cutlery and the sparkle of the crystal wine glasses glistened in the dim light of the candlelit tables around the high-ceiling room. Cayetano felt relieved when the c
ava, a sweet sparkling wine from the Catalonia region, was poured. For the first time in a while, he felt nervous. It had been a while since he had been on a date, and the beautiful creature across the table enchanted him. They sat there through the small courses of their dinner, the meal full of light and relaxed chat about anything that seemed to come up, but Cayetano was so taken with her that he didn’t pay too much attention to the polite conversation. Silence would fall over on the chit-chat at times, but he hadn’t minded. He was comfortable to sit there with her.

“So how did you become a bicycle tour guide?” he asked as the final course was cleared from the table, which left them with the remainder of the second bottle of c
ava.

“It was the only job I c
ould get,” Luna cringed. “I needed a job, and I like bikes and can speak Spanish and English. Plus I know Valencia well. It’s shift work, which is what I need.”

Cayetano frowned
. She seemed ashamed of what she did for a living. “What did you do before this?”

“I was a road-racing bicycle mechanic on the European pro-racing cycling circuit.”

“Wow! That’s new to me. How did you get into that?”

Luna shrugged. “I just always like riding bikes. I used to ride with my father when I was a kid. I got a job after school at the bike store close to home, and it was fun. I like working on bikes. Then, when I was 18, the world changed on me.”

“What happened?”

“There was a professional cycling event on in Australia, and
my father and I decided to fly over and watch. It was the racers from Europe who came to compete. For me, as a kid, it was so exciting, and a chance to see my heroes. When I got there, I happened to meet a guy, Darren. He was my age and had the same job as me.”

“Sounds like a romance.”

“No, no,” she dismissed him. “But Darren had a friend who worked on one of the cycling teams. He managed to get us through to where the riders were and see the bikes that we were in awe of. That is where I met Fabrizio Merlini.”

Cayetano sat back in his plush chair for a moment. That name was familiar.

“You have that look,” Luna sighed. “The one everyone has.  The ‘why do I know the name Fabrizio Merlini?’ look. What did he do to get his name on the television?”

“He died,” Cayetano said as it came to him. Of course, the famous Italian sportsman killed in Spain.  That had been hot news. “A cyclist killed by a drunk driver in Valencia.” In the bar earlier - the watch. It was my husband’s - he died. He looked up at her, and he
r sweet, alluring smile had gone, now just a stiff expression. “You were married to Fabrizio Merlini?”

“Yes,” she said awkwardly. “A few years after we first met, I
managed to get a job on his cycling team, so we got to spend more time together. He was based in Valencia for training so that is why I moved to Spain not long after we got married. When he died I needed to find a new job. I couldn’t face going back to work with his team.”

“I’m sorry. The guy who killed him went to jail, didn’t he?”

“I don’t like to talk about that guy, it’s…. it’s pretty raw for me.”

“Yes, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” Luna replied. Her gentle smile came back. “Perhaps the story of how you work at the bullring is more compelling. What do you do when there are no fights on?”

“Well…” Damn. More lies. “Bulls need to be bred for fights.
We also breed horses, but I don’t have much to do with that side of the business.”

“That is a very unusual job.” Luna leaned forward onto the table as she spoke. “How did you get into that?”

“My father gave me the job. Now I just do whatever he tells me.”

“It’s like a family business?”

“Yes, my father used to do it. But now I am the… bull-minder … of the family.”

“Wow. I guess you like animals then.”

“No, I don’t,” he confessed with a smirk, and watched her laugh. He leaned forward onto the table again. He wanted to get closer to her and her perfect smile. There was something about her, something so captivating, and he was attracted to her in an understated but powerful way. But she had just lost her husband, so whatever carnal male thoughts he had been having earlier about the end of a date with the pretty woman were on hold.

“So, have you had any more ideas on how you will solve the mystery of your grandfa
ther?” Cayetano asked. His hand had drifted from the base of his wine glass in the direction of her delicate fingers that rested on the white linen tablecloth.

“No,” she replied, and frowned. “I’ll come back when they find something on him in their records, but I do wonder if the whole thing is pointless.”

“Perhaps you need to marry someone to stay in the country,” he teased.

“Yes, well… that has been suggested.”

“Have a man all lined up, do you?”

“No,” she smiled. “I can get my work permit renewed. But I want to gain my residency here. I want to do this for myself. From what I know, this man, my supposed grandfather, Cayetano Ortega, owes his family something. It seems he wanted nothing to do with my grandmother when she got pregnant.”

“How much do you know?”

“Not much. My mother died when I was young, so I was raised by my father. He lost his own mother when he w
as young, so family was a subject he didn’t want to talk about.”

“It sounds as if your father had a very painful time.”

“He did. He died 10 years ago. My mother had passed away 15 years earlier, and he never got over it. He would talk about her all the time, but I never knew her. He had lost his own mother, and his father was some man named Cayetano from a country he had never seen. We were on our own.”

Cayetano gently ran his thumb over the back of her little hand. She again wore her wedding ring. “I’m sorry, Luna. Family is valuable. It must have been so hard, to leave behind his only child.”

“I had just got married when he died, and my husband had promised my father he would take excellent care of me. I think that helped.”

Cayetano watched Luna take a deep breath. Only the h
usband hadn’t taken care of her. The conversation had become deep again, and it hurt her. There had to be a way to ease it back again. “You’re right. This Cayetano does owe his family something. Do you know where he was from?”

“My grandmother, Scarlett, she worked in Cuenca when she got pregnant. My father thought that Cayetano was from somewhere around there.”

“Perhaps you need to go to Cuenca,” Cayetano suggested. “Have you ever been?”

“No. It’s not that far from Valencia, but I’ve never visited. I came to live in Spain for reasons that had nothing to do with my heritage, so until now I have had no reason to find Cayetano. It seems
that information is hard to find. It seems he just vanished into thin air. That is why my grandmother returned to New Zealand at the end of the war. He just abandoned her.”

“Are you sure he died? I mean… maybe he just ran off?”

“You mean, am I sure that he wasn’t dragged from his bed in the night, murdered and stuffed in a shallow grave?”

“Given the time period, anything could have happened.”

“I guess anything is possible. From the way my father spoke, his mother must have told him that his father was dead. I can only trust what she said. Of course, I have no one I can ask these things.” She watched as his fingers curved along the back of her hand. When he touched her, it had sent a sharp spike through her senses. Far from home, far from reality, it seemed natural to be out with a man.

Cayetano shrugged. “I have both of my parents. I also have my mother’s parents in my life. I’m blessed. Even so, if I asked my grandparents about the war, they would not speak of it.
El pacto del olvido.”

Luna held her tongue for a moment. The pact of forgetting. Nobody wanted to talk about the civil war, or even of the 35 years that the dictator Francisco Franco held on to Spain after his victory. Franco was a subject that was never discussed. She looked at the man across the table. He was probably about 40, so born in the
late sixties, a time where the years of starvation were over in Spain, yet still a time of exceptional difficulty and atrocious crimes were still committed against innocent people. The Spain they sat in today and the Spain that Cayetano would have been born into were very different. Generalissimo Franco had died in 1975, a year before Luna was born. Spaniards born before Franco’s death, and those born after had totally different lives and upbringings. It was not something she had ever discussed with a Spaniard. La Transición, the transition to democracy had been achieved by smothering the past and Luna knew she was up against decades of fear when looking for her grandfather.

“Enchufe,”
Cayetano said.

“
What about it?” Luna asked. “I’m a foreigner, I have no enchufe.” Enchufe, knowing a person who knows someone who knows someone who could get you whatever you want. A little nepotism never hurt anyone. Except those who had no enchufe.

“But I do. My sister, Sofía, she works at the
Registro Civil. I’ll call her, and see if she can help you. You can’t run back and forward between Madrid and Valencia for a piece of paper that may not exist.”

Luna glanced down at her hand again. Now, a
ll of his fingers caressed the back of her hand. His large fingers more or less covered her entire hand. She glanced back up at Cayetano; he had leaned right forward over the table as he looked back at her. His honey brown eyes were soft as they gazed back at her, and flecks of green in his eyes sparkled. Luna became aware of how revealing her low cut dress was. She had brought it to keep her cool in the hot weather, but with the fiery eyes of the Spaniard on her, it turned up the heat. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think Madrid was worth the trip.”