Blood Wedding

Blood Wedding

To the memory of Dr Jacqueline Frances Roddick O’Brien, an inspired writer, who, had she lived, would have made a fine novelist.

P J Brooke

CONSTABLE • LONDON

The lines from ‘Lord of the Dance’ by Sydney Carter are reproduced by kind permission of Stainer and Bell Ltd, London, England. They were first published in
Greenprint for Song,
Stainer and Bell, 1974, and then in
Lord of the Dance, and other Songs and Poems,
Stainer and Bell, 2003.

Excerpts of Spanish-language works by Federico García Lorca © Herederos de Federico García Lorca from Obras Completas (Galaxia/Gutenberg, 1996 edition). English-language translations © Translators and Herederos de Federico García Lorca. All rights reserved. For information regarding rights and permissions, please contact [email protected] or William Peter Kosmas, 8 Franklin Square, London W14 9UU.

Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008

First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2008

Soho Press, Inc., 853 Broadway, New York, NY 10003
www.sohopress.com

Copyright © Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien, 2008

The right of Jane Brooke and Philip O’Brien to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors’ imagination. With the exception of major historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental. Some localities actually exist, but our presentation of them is fictional. Our presentation of Federico García Lorca and of the Lorca family is with the approval of the Lorca Estate.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-741-1
US ISBN: 978-1-84901-629-2
US Library of Congress number: 2008019894

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. The town was hungry, rationing enforced. The people, silent, bought what they could afford. They looked at no one. Carmelo, the young herdsman, eyes alert for danger, crossed the street. No Guardias, Franco’s fascist police. His buying done, he walked down the Río Sierra path, and turned right along the track towards El Fugón. He checked he was alone, hid his sack of food in the hollow trunk of an olive tree, looked around again, and continued down the track.

The guerrilla leader, Manuel Paz, El Gato, stepped lightly across the field of red poppies towards the olive tree. He sniffed the air: there was a faint smell of the harsh black-tobacco Gitanes. He reached for his gun.

‘Fire,’ shouted the officer. A volley rang out. The force knocked El Gato back. He fell among the flowers. Capitán Vicente González stepped up to the body, blood still seeping from the wounds, and kicked it hard.

‘That’s another Red bandit dead.
Gracias a Dios.’

It was the feast of San Juan de Dios, 1947.

Leila smiled as she saved and closed the file on her computer. ‘That’s better. More fun than the thesis,’ she said to herself.

It was Thursday, market day in Diva. A breeze from the Sierra Nevada tempered the burning Spanish sun. Leila quickly crossed the square in search of shade. She had arranged with Hassan to take the bus up the mountain. A crowd, shopping bags full, lined the street outside the bus office. Hassan came round the corner. They smiled at each other. The bus from Granada pulled in and a mob of elderly ladies surged forward to grab the available seats. Leila and Hassan just managed to find two seats together. Crowded, noisy and overloaded, the bus took off up the steep, winding road.

‘You’re looking good,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘How’s the thesis going?’

‘Great. Some fantastic interviews. Loads of new material. Did you know, this place really was in the front line of resistance to Franco?’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. There were guerrillas holding out for ages . . . in the hills just over there.’

Tentatively she put her hand on his. He moved it away gently. She looked out of the window, across the valley, and then upward: scraps of snow still sparkled in the highest valleys.

‘Will you be at the “Stop the War” demo next week?’ he asked.

‘Sure. Dad’s on the platform again.’

They got off the bus, and took a path that climbed steeply. The old mule track crossed a few streams, winding its way round the mountain. The air was sweet with wild thyme and rosemary, cooking in the midday sun. Olive trees lined the path. They passed a mulberry tree.

‘Hey, look what the Moors left us!’

‘Huh?’

‘They planted them to feed the silkworms – this was one of the world’s most important silk-producing areas. The Granada weavers once exported to Damascus.’

‘Yes, Leila . . . but that’s ancient history. Muslims are suffering today. In Palestine. In Iraq.’

‘But if you don’t understand what’s gone before, you won’t get things right now. Will you?’

‘Okay. Point taken.’

The mulberries were ripe. Hassan scrambled down the gorge to the mulberry tree.

‘Careful. Don’t fall.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve been working out.’

He reached up to the lower branches, and began to gather the mulberries. The sun glinted on the hair of his forearms. ‘Here.’Leila smiled. ‘These are so good.’

The juice from the berries stained their hands purple. She glanced at Hassan’s lips, smudged with rich juice.

‘Hey, wait. Just like that,’ said Hassan. He took out his camera, and photographed her laughing at her mulberry-stained hands.

‘Let’s eat.’ Leila sat down, took off the small rucksack, pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, poured mineral water into the cup, and handed it to Hassan.

‘Go easy on the water. We may need it later on.’

She took out olives, cheese and bread. Silently they ate, looking across the valley to the mountains beyond. Leila stretched out on the bank, and gazed up at the silver leaves of the olive tree. Now and again a bird chirped. ‘Cool, eh? A bit of paradise.’

She sat up and smiled at him. Hassan’s gaze became more intense. Leila glanced at him again. The sun, filtered by the leaves of the olive tree, streaked across his face and lit up the mulberry juice around his mouth. All she could see were his eyes, luminous. She stroked his cheek. Her fingers ran round the outside of his eyes and along his lips. He froze.

‘Leila, don’t tease. You know I can’t get involved – I’ve got really important things to do at the Centre.’

Leila laughed. ‘More board reports to write then?’

‘No, but it’s important.’

‘Oh? So what is it then?’

‘It’s . . .’ Hassan faltered, and quickly added, ‘We’d better go. I can’t be late for my lift back.’

They set off down the path. She brushed his hand, but he pulled away.

‘Will you be at prayers tomorrow?’ she asked, more upset than she cared to admit.

‘Maybe.’

They reached the Café Paraíso, its large ‘Stop the War’ banner covering half the front wall. Javeed was waiting. The car horn tooted.

‘Need a lift?’ Hassan asked.

‘No, that’s all right. It’s not far. But thanks all the same.’

Javeed made Leila uncomfortable: there was something taut and hard about him.

She waved as Hassan got into the car, then she walked slowly back to her father’s house.

‘Dad, it’s me.’ She entered his study.

‘Hello, dear. Had a good day?’

‘So-so. Went for a walk with Hassan. He’s really sweet. But . . . he does go on and on about how important his work is at the Centre. Then when I ask him about it, he just clams up.’

‘Leila, I’m sure Javeed is doing excellent work. A European Training Centre for young Muslim entrepreneurs is quite a breakthrough.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Give him time. Zaida thinks he’s really keen on you.’

‘Hmm. Okay, dad. What are you doing?’

‘Making a few notes for my talk tomorrow. The graffiti by the mosque has upset some of our people.’

‘But we’re okay here, aren’t we? Remember when you came back from your first visit. You couldn’t stop talking about this valley – a little bit of paradise, you said.’

‘Maybe less so now. Sub-Inspector Max Romero wants to see me. He’s coming on Saturday for a chat.’

‘That’s nice. He’s cute.’

‘Cute? Leila, he’s a police officer. It’s not respectful.’

‘Dad, please! What time is he coming?’

‘About five. He asked after you. He said his grandmother is enjoying your interviews.’

‘Me too – she’s a gold mine! She even knew Lorca.’

The next day, Friday, was prayer day. Just before one, the muezzin gave the traditional call:
‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
God is great! God is great! Come to prayers. Come to prayers. I testify that God is the divinity. That there is no other God but God, and that Muhammad is his messenger.
La ilhaha illa Laah!
There is no God but God!’

Leila found the simplicity of the call comforting. She hurried to the mosque, slipped off her sandals, placed them in the rack, and padded into the small female washroom. It smelled of bleach and floor soap. At the one cold tap, she washed her hands three times, then face, mouth and nostrils. Feet last, according to ritual. Refreshed, she climbed the staircase to the women’s balcony, overlooking the prayer hall. She used to resent this separation of male and female, but now accepted it. She looked down at the prayer hall with its plain, whitewashed walls and the arch facing Mecca, a small wooden platform and a plain chair placed within it. To the left was a framed print with the ninety-nine names of God written in classical Arabic, and to the right a row of brown pots on the shelf around the prayer niche. The hall was filling up now. But still no sign of Hassan.

Leila glanced down at her father, Ahmed. He stood up, and began the
khutabah:
‘We created human beings in order to test them with suffering. Do people think that no one has power over them? They boast, “We are so rich that we can afford to waste riches.” Do they think that no one observes them?’

The door opened and Hassan slid in, late. He made no effort to glance up at the balcony. After prayers, Leila joined the women and children for their communal meal of rice, small fish and spiced lentils, while the men ate in the other dining room. She wanted to talk to Hassan, but couldn’t go next door before the meal was over. The meal ended, she slipped next door. Hassan was alone in the corner.