The Poet's Wife (11 page)

I understand that García Lorca is a genius. In fact, as I appreciate poetry more and more, I can share Father’s sense of pride that García Lorca comes from our own city. Yet Father takes his admiration a step further and at every opportunity tells people the story of how the poet once asked him a question during one of his readings. Mother never says a word, but I know the story. She once told me that Father, despite having dreamt of that moment for months, clammed up and was so nervous that he never actually answered García Lorca’s question. But of course he never mentions
that
, does he.

That being said, the night my parents open up to me is one of the nights in all the years I’ve lived at Carmen de las Estrellas I treasure the most. I know his words are nothing extraordinary, but what Father says to me about all of us being human suddenly makes so much sense. That underneath all the anger and confusion and layers we’ve piled on ourselves, we are all just vulnerable souls, trying to find our place in the world. And that both sides, the left and the right and all the parties in the middle, are struggling for ideals with such a passion that it sometimes spills over into a violence I dearly wish I never knew.

A
s a young child
, I was taken to a bullfight by my grandparents for my birthday. To say this expedition was a calamity would be an understatement, for so horrified was I by the suffering of the bull that I had a severe screaming fit, finally resulting in my grandpapa dragging me from the
plaza de toros
and delivering a sharp slap across my face. A combination of shock and pain terminated my screams, but never, ever have I forgotten the sight of the slow, inevitable, agonised death of the bull. Why was not a soul doing anything to save this proud beast? Why were people clapping and cheering and smiling when there was an animal bleeding to death down in the ring?

When the Republic begins its slow demise, the memory of the bull’s death surfaces time and again. For it lingers painfully and, like the bull, staggers to its feet once more and gives me hope, only to be overcome by its inevitable ruin. The votes are rounded up and counted. Then they are counted for a second time and a right-wing Catholic party is declared victorious, just as Eduardo and I feared.

‘Intolerable,’ Eduardo mutters under his breath at breakfast as he scrutinises the papers. And then, as though really just comprehending the news, he says the word again, this time shouting. ‘Intolerable!’ I look at all the anxious faces of the children and try to smile cheerfully.

‘Children, the election did not go the way we hoped it would. But I do not want you to worry, is that understood? Now, we must get organised for school.’

They all file nervously past me into the courtyard, Isabel passing me last. As she does so, she pauses and looks me directly in the eye. I grasp her hand and kiss her on the cheek, pausing for a moment to smell the scent of youth that still hangs freshly upon her skin. I know that my eldest is suffering terribly; for all her bravado, Isabel is a sensitive soul, more like her father than she realises. With the children out of the house, I hurry back to the kitchen where Eduardo is standing at the head of the table,
El Defensor
spread out in front of him as he hunches over it, hands digging into both corners of the table.

‘Edu
, cariño
,’ I implore. ‘We must make an effort to not agitate ourselves in front of the children. I do not want them to worry unnecessarily.’

‘But have you seen the figures for these results, Luisa?’ Eduardo cries. ‘You know why this has happened, don’t you? It is because of those tactics of intimidation they’ve been using in rural areas, not letting people vote. It’s bullying, that’s what it is. No, it’s more than that, it’s illegal and outrageous and…intolerable!’ He slams the paper shut and starts to pace the length of the room. ‘What are we going to do? We have to do something. What can we do?’

I catch hold of his arm and hold onto it tightly. ‘To begin with, we stay calm. That is what we do.’

‘But Luisa—’

‘Listen to me, Eduardo Torres. I am equally disgusted by these results. But we must calmly think of our next move. We and every other person in this city that loves the Republic.’

Eduardo sighs deeply and slumps into his seat. ‘You’re right.’ He kicks at the table leg. ‘But,
por Dios
, it makes me mad.’

The members of the winning party stand on every stage available and shout loud and clear about how the Republic has failed them. About promises made that have not seen fruition and laws that have enraged the military and the respectable God-fearing populace. In response to this, and to the appalling election results that we have a great deal of difficulty in believing are legitimate, a huge protest meeting is held in the Cármenes sports stadium in the city which we decide we cannot miss, even taking the children with us. A great number of people are there, voicing their fury in a manner I have never before witnessed and demanding a re-election. I question several times whether Edu and I have made a prudent decision in allowing the children to witness this, but for all the anger, there is also a sense of fierce determination and hopefulness. We buy piping hot
croquetas
from a street vendor and as we listen to the speeches, and then march along the main thoroughfares of the city, I truly believe that with this many voices of dissent, we can change things. At the end of the march, a protest note is handed over to the civil governor of Granada, calling for new elections. It is an exhausting, emotionally charged but peaceful day. Demands are made, but nobody is hurt. So how it leads from this to the event that occurs two days later, I struggle to comprehend. Perhaps I have been naïve to hope that human decency would prevail and that all this can be settled by sitting down together and talking.

Conchi and I are making fortune cookies in the kitchen; some of the children are in the garden and the others scattered around at friends’ houses, when Eduardo comes bursting through the door, causing such a loud bang that I hurry out, hands covered in flour.

‘Where are the children?’ he pants, gripping at his chest.

‘Some of them are here, some went to friends’ houses after school, but
por qué
? What? What is it?’

‘
Bueno
, first,’ he says, straightening up and trying to control his breathing, ‘we need to get the children back to the house immediately. I’ve just been in the Café Alameda, waiting to see if Federico would turn up, and some extreme right-wingers, Falangists I think they were, opened fire on a peaceful demonstration of workers and their families in the Plaza del Campillo.’

I hear a gasp from behind me and turn to see Conchi, as pale as her white apron, with her huge hand covering her mouth. ‘What happened?’ she asks in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

‘Nobody dead, I don’t think, but at least a few women and children were injured.’

‘My brother and sister-in-law went to that demonstration,’ Conchi says quietly, untying her apron strings as she speaks. ‘Señor, Señora, if you permit me, I should go to my family.’

‘
Claro que sí
,’ I say.

‘Will you manage without me, Señora?’

‘Of course we shall.’ I look at Conchi’s face, visibly shaken. It occurs to me that in all the time I have known her, I have never seen that expression on Conchi’s face before. Irritation, certainly, and disapproval on many an occasion, yet never this countenance of fear. As Conchi readies herself to leave, my mind is pulled back to the children.

‘Edu,’ I say firmly. ‘We must go now.’

Eduardo is nodding vigorously and he marches back towards the door. ‘You stay here, Luisa. Now tell me who is where and I shall fetch them all and bring them back until everything calms.’

But calm it does not, not that day at any rate. A twenty-four-hour strike is called for by the trade unions and more burning and looting takes place in Granada during this period than at any other time we have known in our normally tranquil city. From right-wing newspaper headquarters to the premises of the Falange party to Café Royal where we have spent each of our children’s fifth birthday parties, workers systematically torch every building symbolic of right-wing bourgeoisie they can think of. They then turn their attention to churches as the unthinkable comes to Granada. A convent and church not two hundred metres from our home burns as we hug our children to us, grateful at least to have them all home safely. Despite the terrible incident in Plaza del Campillo, we know that this kind of destruction is provocative and I find myself praying in earnest for the first time in years, imploring the violence to cease. Eduardo is convinced that all of this is the work of right-wing infiltrators, intent on stirring up hatred and violence against the left. I do not know what I think, and I do not care. All I know is that I want it to stop and, until it does, I want my children by my side.

An uneasy tranquillity eventually settles around us. Conchi’s family lives in a small village outside Granada; whilst she seldom mentions them, we know that they support the Anarchist cause, looking towards a complete working-class revolution. Her family were not injured that day of the demonstration and Conchi returns to the house shortly after, but she is particularly skittish during the days that follow as we hear more and more about the Anarchist uprisings taking place in villages across Andalucía.

‘Conchi,
por favor
, you ought to go home to your family for a while. Just a few days.’

‘No, Señora. There is work to be done here.’ She juts out her bottom jaw and grimaces, her face strained and tired.

‘There may be work to be done,’ I implore. ‘But we shall manage.’ I know that Conchi takes great pride in her work and, as much as I appreciate her loyalty, her face is as long as a mid-summer’s day and I know she is worried about her brothers’ and father’s involvement in the uprisings.

Despite all the unsettling news reaching us and the tense atmosphere we are living in, new elections are called and they are the first elections in my lifetime I am permitted to vote in under the laws of the Republic. This fills me, I must confess, with a new surge of optimism as the bull staggers to its feet once more. I am inflated with pride, an intoxicating nectar that helps me forget, for a short while at least, the realities of drowning Granada. Alongside several friends, we attempt to spread the news as widely as we are able, organising pamphlets and talks and urging women to exercise this new right we have finally been granted.
This
is what the Second Republic
is all about, I think as I walk to the polling station with Eduardo, head held high.
Democracía
, how sweet the word sounds. Thus how can I fail to be disappointed when I witness such a tiny proportion of female voters? Nevertheless, I smile warmly at them and they smile back in complicity.

Despite my best efforts, not enough women have been made aware of their rights. Or they have been kept at home. I think of the wife of Miguel, a perfect example, knowing that Miguel would never permit the poor creature to vote. This bigotry is what my friends and I face, but I know the results of the election run far deeper than just that. The Republic is sinking, and we are powerless to keep her afloat. After another crushing defeat at the polls, so it is that reform programmes that the Republic – that
we
– have worked so hard on begin to fall apart at the seams and slowly grind to a halt. And all the while, newly formed left-wing coalitions rally together to protest the undeniable rise of the political right. These are tense days and I keep hoping with all my heart that the Republic can become more united to stand against the right. My friends and I continue to hold our meetings, but we feel as though we are standing on a political earthquake, though none of us know how to put this fear into words, much less to admit it.

One day, we receive an unexpected visit from Aurelia. I have told her about my home, but never imagine she would be able to find it in the warren of narrow lanes that make up the Albaicín – or
desire
to find it, more to the point. She comes with two of her grandchildren, Pablo and Beatriz, and I know as soon as I return from market to find them in the house that something is wrong. Firstly, she is walking much slower than I remember, almost as though the very effort of placing one foot before the other pains her. And though the map of her wonderful face has been drawn with more than her fair share of worries, I have met her enough times now to read that she is absorbing more cares than before.

Whilst the children remain in the garden, Eduardo and I bring Aurelia into the conservatory. I pull up a chair for her but she chooses to stand and I think, for the hundredth time, how noble and proud she looks standing there, even in these surroundings unfamiliar to her and so different from her own.

‘Luisa, Eduardo, forgive my intrusion—’

‘You couldn’t possibly intrude, Aurelia,’ I reply. ‘We are delighted to see you.’

Aurelia holds her hand up and nods solemnly, bowing slightly.

‘Even so. This is not my will.’ She sighs very deeply. ‘But this is the position I have been forced into. And…’ she falters slightly but looks at me directly, ‘I have nobody else to turn to.’

Eduardo has, until this point, been perching rather absent-mindedly on the side of the armchair but, upon hearing Aurelia speak these last words, he looks up sharply, concern and compassion etched across his face. He has only ever visited the caves on a couple of occasions over the years, really for my sake more than his own, for I have been eager he should meet the friends whom both the children and I hold in such high esteem. And though he is not close to Aurelia and her family, he recognises how important her friendship has become to me.

I instinctively understand that Aurelia does not want me to probe with questions and we wait, patiently, for her to tell us why she has come. She is silent for a while and then takes a deep inhalation before she resumes speaking.

‘I’m afraid I have seen this coming for a long time. But some things one chooses to ignore. Until,’ she coughs, ‘it is impossible to ignore them any more. I shall not beat around the bush any longer. I am here because I need sanctuary in your home. We all need sanctuary, my family and I.’

I glance at Eduardo who is staring at her, eyes wide. ‘
Dios
,’ he breathes. ‘What has happened?’

‘My race has been on the receiving end of prejudice for long enough to know that we’d be the first to be marked out with this new wave of…’ She waves a hand through the air, searching for words.

‘Right-wing fascism,’ I offer.

‘Call it what you will,’ Aurelia sighs and shrugs. ‘What I didn’t realise, however, was quite how soon or how vigorously
we’d be singled out.’

We wait for her to continue.

‘We’ve had to put up with this for years;
ay
, it’s never been more than an irritation till now. A few stupid young
chaboró
, fuelled up at night on alcohol, have walked out from the city and painted racist slogans on all the cave doors in our area.’

‘That’s outrageous!’ Eduardo’s cheeks have turned pink and the vein high on his forehead is starting to pulsate.

‘Outrageous,’ Aurelia murmurs. ‘Not as outrageous as yelling “
gypsy bastard
pigs
”, again and again till every single person in the settlement is awake and the children are crying. Then they smash their empty bottles against the cave walls and they leave.’