The Poet's Wife (19 page)

When I wasn’t studying, cleaning or chatting, I used every available moment to write letters home. I knew they might take a long time to reach Granada, if they ever got there at all. But that was even more reason to keep sending them. I filled these letters with cheer, going into great detail about my new friends and everything I was learning. I missed my family terribly, but I didn’t miss my old life. Instead, I felt liberated and the fact that I seemed to be absorbing everything so readily gave me a new sense of confidence I’d never experienced before.

As for easing a man’s passage from this world to the next, it’s the last thing I imagined I’d have a gift for. But it isn’t long before it becomes apparent to those working alongside me: the other nurses, the medical personnel, volunteers who work night and day. And so very slowly, but in a direction that gathers a deliberate momentum, my tasks begin to change and I stop being a nurse in the normal sense of the word, but rather someone who can be called upon to sit with a dying man and talk to him. Get him to talk to me. Help him.

My heart breaks a little more each time I see a man hovering on the verge of death. During those first few seconds that I’m called to his bedside, I long to be beside somebody who has a hope of survival – anywhere but there. But something gives me strength – a sense of purpose and drive – and all of a sudden I know precisely what I must do and how I must act though I don’t how I know it or where it comes from.

I surprise myself with how cool-headed I can be. Here I am living in a hospital twenty-four hours a day, doing something I never thought I’d do and, more to the point, doing it well. I know it’s an unusual talent, but I hold it close to me like a mother nurtures her newborn child. I’m afraid that if I abuse my gift, it might vanish as suddenly as it has become a part of my life.

Sara, of course, immediately picks up on my new self-confidence after our ten-month separation. Our only opportunity to talk is late at night because during the day we can only snatch the briefest of conversations as we hurry past one another. I lose count of the number of nights we lie next to each another in our narrow beds as she sobs, whilst I try desperately to cheer her up. She nearly always says the same thing: that she doesn’t know how much more she can take of it and that she is a useless nurse.

‘I sometimes wish the bloody fascists would just win and then this god-forsaken war would at least be over.’

‘You don’t mean that!’

She sighs heavily as she wipes away the tears streaming down her beautiful face, which has grown thin and pale. ‘I do. I miss my family. I miss Granada. I want to go home.’

At the mention of family, I am lost in my own thoughts. It has only been a year since I left Granada, but it feels like a great deal longer. So much has happened to me in these months that I almost feel I’ll have to get to know each member of my family again on my return. I owe them all so much time; I want to know all about them, all the inconsequential but suddenly significant things I’m not aware of: What is Alejandro’s favourite colour? What do Pablo’s hands look like – those hands that create small miracles? When Father laughs, what happens to his eyes?

I miss each one of them. I miss Joaquín and the way he gazes at his guitar as though it is the most beautiful thing in the world. I miss Mother, her grace and her good-natured smile. I even miss Juan and his allergies and his enormous blue eyes, so often close to brimming with tears. The letters from home continue to reach me every now and again, making me question how many never arrive.

C
armen
de las Estrellas

May 30th, 1937

D
earest Isabel
,

This shall be a very short letter, for I should like to catch the afternoon post. I am sitting at the writing table in the conservatory, the window is open and I can hear the most glorious trill of birdsong from outside. I must find out what it is. I suspect it is a shrike of some sort, though I cannot be sure. I can also hear Fernando laughing from somewhere in the house. You shall be pleased to hear that he still laughs a great deal; as mischievous as he can be, his laugh brings me great comfort.

Did you receive my last letter,
cariño
, in which I was telling you about how miserable Joaquín has been? He never coped well with being confined to the house, but of late it’s been even worse, particularly now that María has gone. But I am relieved to say that he has snapped out of his black mood somewhat since he discovered Inés is a wonderful flamenco dancer. They have cleared a space in the conservatory where the two of them play and dance to their hearts content.

Father is alright. Perhaps a little distracted. But he sends his love and says that he will write a poem for you when I next write.

Now
cariño
, I should have shared this news with you some time ago, but the truth is I was being cowardly for I knew how it should upset you. Your orange tree,
mi amor
, has come down in a storm. We are all terribly sorry about it. I do hope this news shan’t affect you too much and we can plant a new one in the same place once you are home.

I send you all my love. I am so proud of you. You are such a courageous girl,
cariño
.

Yours,

Mother

I
cry
for an entire night when I read about my orange tree. I go round in circles, reminding myself that it is only a tree and I must pull myself together because there are men dying every day and here I am crying over a tree. But that only makes me sob even more because that orange tree has always been a part of me; something I have barely noticed until it was gone. It was an old, intimate friend, particularly in the long, hot summer months when I spent countless hours in its shade reading, sleeping and dreaming. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that my orange tree has come down not long after Granada falls to the nationalists and, as the weeks pass, my comrades and I hear that Spain is being slowly swallowed by the fascists.

I am seventeen years old and I still believe passionately that honour and goodness will prevail. But when I think of my birthplace, I acknowledge that it was one of the first places to fall to the fascists. With all its conservative traditions and ruthless local governance, it won’t revert easily to Republicanism again.

My life continues in a stream of faces and tormented souls; a flow that seems so endless that the memory of these spirits begin to blur. News filters through to us of Guernica, a town in the Basque country that was bombed on market day, and I wonder when it will all end.
If
it will all end. As the end of the year approaches, I am both mentally and physically exhausted. Snow continues to fall thick and fast around the hospital and the bitter temperatures, which often drop well below zero, bring with them more cases of frostbite and hypothermia than we know how to deal with.

Perhaps if we force ourselves to stop running around, trying to find something with which to sterilise filthy needles or look for clean bandages, we will be more honest with one another. And with ourselves. We might say ‘This isn’t working, is it?’ And yet I can never admit defeat or give up hoping; our cause is too noble to fail.

Each morning, even if it is only for five minutes, I like to leave the hospital and walk around outside. It helps to clear my head and better prepare me for whatever lies ahead. On one particular day in December, the small number of patients in the ward encourages me to stay outside for longer than normal. My coat is pulled up around my ears and I gaze out across the white valley, absent of movement and noise but coated in such pure tones of cream and silver that I wonder how so much violence can possibly be taking place beyond those quiet hills.

As I pace briskly around the courtyard, I rub my hands together vigorously and watch the vapour of my breath crystallising. I find myself at the edge of the quad, the point at which I can either turn back towards the hospital, or step into the thick, snowy abyss that covers the thicket and follow the tracks that have been left by wild animals. I stand at the bordered edge, where the paved stones are separated from the wilderness and rock my numb feet over and back, absently humming a tune to myself. Suddenly, I imagine what it would be like for blood to gently seep into the whiteness; for its purity to be slowly stained as, like ink to blotting paper, the blood creeps outwards until each hill and valley is bathed crimson. It is a gruesome image and for the first time in many months, just the thought of it makes me feel giddy. I find that my rocking has stopped, as have my icy breaths as I suck air into my lungs and keep it there, shivering with cold and fear.

‘Excuse me, Señorita…’

I have immersed myself so fully in these horrific images that the words I hear are a terrifying intrusion on my thoughts. To my embarrassment, I let out a high-pitched scream. The owner of the voice jumps back. He is clearly as alarmed as I am and he unsteadily lifts a hand up to let me know that he isn’t going to approach me. He is on crutches and I realise that he’s probably been leaning against the side of the wall the entire time I’ve been walking around, watching me. I feel colour rushing into my cheeks as he awkwardly teeters about on one leg, steadying himself as a cough rattles through his chest. I rush forward to help him and as I do so, he begins speaking to me in broken Spanish. ‘
Lo siento mucho
, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘No,
por favor
. It wasn’t your fault. I was a little lost in my thoughts, you know…’

My voice breaks off as I look directly at him and see an expression of something between curiosity and amusement on his face. Who is this man? I can’t remember having seen him before and realise he must be a member of the International Brigades, the foreigners who have come from around the world to fight alongside us. He has scruffy blond hair that stands up at strange angles on his head, and stubble peppered across his chin. I can feel my cheeks burning and silently curse myself at how easily I’ve always blushed. I feel uncomfortable, not to mention chilled to the bone, and I tell him that we should go inside before we both freeze to death.

‘Wait!’ He grasps my arm. ‘Your name’s Isabel, isn’t it?’

I stare at him in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

He grins and shrugs his shoulders as best he can whilst leaning his weight against his crutches. ‘Well, one just knows these things.’

I understand what he is trying to say but his Spanish is fairly muddled and before I can stop myself I have started to laugh. It is his turn to blush and he clears his throat. ‘My Spanish is terrible. You must forgive me.’

Worried that I’ve offended him, I assure him that he speaks very well but as a frosty gust of wind whips up around our faces, I remind him that we really should be getting inside. As I walk towards the door and start to push it open, I am startled to find that he has rapidly hopped around the side of me and as he stands in the doorway he insists that
he
should be holding it open for me. I find myself laughing again that he is being chivalrous at such a time. As I walk through the door, he brings a crutch up so that I am blocked from going any further. I look at him questioningly.

‘Don’t you want to know what
my
name is?’ he asks playfully, his eyes glinting.

‘If you’d like to tell me, you’re very welcome.’

‘Ah, but I shall only tell you if you
ask
me.’

Hands flying to my hips, I stare at him in frustration as I try, unsuccessfully, to edge past his crutch. ‘You’re letting cold air into the corridor,’ I whisper urgently as I notice a stern-looking sister approaching.

‘Ask me my name.’

‘
Por favor
,’ I hiss.

‘Ask me my name.’

‘Very well. What is your name?’

‘Henry.
Me llamo Henry
.’ And with that, his crutch clatters to the floor and, after we’ve walked inside, I pull the door firmly shut behind us.

A
s the people
of my country continue to murder one another, the fall of the orange tree awakes in my husband a primal anger that now comes cascading out of him, breathing fire like a dragon. Of course, it is not just the tree that suddenly transforms Eduardo into a more political being, it is the death of García Lorca and it is his sense of injustice and I am certain it must also be his love for all of us; to right the wrongs that good people the length and breadth of our country are suffering. He begins to attend rallies, calling for the return of democracy, and though to begin with he only goes once in a while, it is not long before he is attending as many as possible, as though making up for all these years that he has been politically apathetic.

‘This is what Federico would have wanted,’ he tells me, his eyes shining bright with feverish excitement, ‘do you not see that it’s the only way? That if enough of us come together, we can overthrow the fascists?’

I breathe deeply, trying hard not to show him how terrified his words make me. Has he completely forgotten what Miguel said to us? There are eyes and ears all over Granada and people that we love have vanished without trace. But I know how Eduardo feels about Miguel and, in his volatile state, I cannot bear risking his fury by bringing his brother’s words to his attention.

So life continues in this troubling way. I write often to Isabel and María and draw comfort from the letters they both write back to me as often as they are able. How different their lives are from one another. My first-born is witnessing the effects of war at its very worst and yet, despite the suffering of those she is nursing, her letters are growing in maturity and I sense, perhaps in the way only a mother is able, that she has found her path in life. María, on the other hand, could not be further from the horrors of war and I feel nothing but relief for her. Dear Solomon is making her happy and they are living high-society life in Geneva, with weekend trips out to a chalet in the mountains Solomon has bought. I shake my head and smile. My daughters could not be more dissimilar; it is small wonder they have never been close.

Eduardo is no longer able to work. Even had this been otherwise, his income would not be much comfort to us, for the price of food from the market has rocketed. I leave the house twice weekly with one or two others to go to the black market districts. It sickens me that I am forced to purchase basic foodstuffs, the right of every human, for such an extortionate price. Yet this is a time of war and, though it does not feel like it, I know we are one of the lucky families.

One night, long after the clicking of Inés’s heels and castanets has subsided and Joaquín’s guitar has been placed back in its case, I find myself waking with a start. The thin sheet that covers me is soaked in sweat, drying slowly in the slug-like heat of the airless bedroom. Though it is October, the heat has been endless and suffocating this year. Flinging an arm over to Eduardo’s side of the bed, it takes several moments of absently patting my hand over the rumpled sheet before I register he is not there. I heave myself upright, flinging my hair back out of my face and smoothing damp strands away from my eyes.

Throwing back the sheet, I grope in the darkness for a glass of water on the bedside table and without pausing for breath, empty its contents hurriedly down my parched throat. Where on earth could Eduardo be at this time of night? Habitually, he sleeps deeply, the kind of person who cannot be woken for all the howling of dogs or even dropping of bombs.

As I push my feet blindly into my bed slippers, I ponder for the hundredth time how dreadfully I miss Isabel. True, there are numerous other people at Carmen de las Estrellas to worry about, as well as Aurelia’s family who have become as vital to me as my own. Yet since Isabel left, I feel the absence of my first-born as keenly as a throbbing wound. I know Eduardo feels it too, though we scarcely discuss it.

As I feel my way along the dark corridors, steadying myself against the walls with outstretched hands, I turn my head this way and that in search of a clue to Eduardo’s whereabouts. Silently peering around a few of the doors that lead into various bedrooms, everything appears to be in order. Pablo’s heavy, guttural breathing. Graciana’s inaudible mumbling as she writhes around on the bed, kicking out at Inés who lies obliviously by her side. Concluding that he must have gone to the kitchen to fill his water glass, I am about to set foot on the stair when I hear a noise coming from above. It sounds like the rustling or tearing of paper and, frowning, I feel my way up the narrow staircase to the attic.

Eduardo is sitting at one of the desks, surrounded by several boxes he has dragged from the eaves. He has lit a candle and its hazy light casts shadows across his face, accentuating the dark shadows beneath his eyes. It is oppressively hot in here and as I stand in the doorway I watch as a single drop of sweat crawls down my husband’s face like a plump caterpillar. When he sees me, Eduardo looks up, startled. The whites of his eyes shine luminously and he stares through me as though I am a ghost, whilst his fingers continue to agitatedly tear up pieces of paper.

‘Eduardo, what are you
doing
?’ I whisper, closing the trap door behind me.

He is thoroughly absorbed and I watch in horror as it becomes clear what he is destroying. He has dug out several of his prized boxes, filled to bursting with all the things he has collected and treasured over the years since his boyhood and here he is, systematically destroying it all. Bits of decimated feathers and torn-up scraps of paper lie scattered around the desk and on the floor beneath it, and though my first impulse is to stop him, I can see that it is too late for that and most of the damage has already been done. Eduardo does not answer me; rather he continues to dig his hand into the box nearest him and arbitrarily pull out one object or other, look at it, read it or turn it over before destroying it. I walk round to the front of the desk and crouch down beside it so that my face is opposite his.

‘Edu,’ I say gently. ‘
¿Por qué?
Why are you doing this?’

He shakes his head, again and again as he begins to mumble. I feel tears stinging my eyes as I pick up a smooth pebble from the desk and gaze at it in the palm of my hand. It is perfectly round and white and as I hold it closer to the flickering candle I can just see my husband’s childlike initials carved into its surface. At least here is something he is unable to destroy.

‘Do you remember where you got this?’

‘Hmm?’ Eduardo stops what he is doing and looks up sharply. Taking the pebble from my outstretched palm, he turns it over gently in his hand, running his finger over its smooth contours. Upon seeing his initials, he draws it closer towards him, scrutinising it as his memory cogs begin to whir.

‘Playa Dorada,’ he whispers eventually. ‘Aged seven. One of my best summers because it was just me and my grandparents.’ He continues to stare at it for a few more moments before tossing it carelessly to one side and resuming his task of assiduously tearing up bits of paper into miniscule pieces.

I sit and watch him, feeling powerless for the first time in our lives together to be able to help him. The cold-blooded murder of García Lorca followed by the fallen orange tree has sparked an internal riot in Eduardo that no tender words from me can assuage, shaking him to the very core of his beliefs. As he continues to work his way through the boxes, tearing up everything he possibly can and flinging aside what he cannot on the ground, I dig my hand into a still unopened box and pull out a small volume of poetry by Zarate. It is a well-thumbed book, falling lightly open to the touch and the spine has been worn down considerably. On the first page in neat pencil I read ‘Eduardo Torres, 1907’. I smile to myself ruefully as I run my finger over the script of my husband as a fourteen-year-old boy. Those were the days before García Lorca had entered Eduardo’s life and completely altered it; days in which he was a gentle young boy with a head full of dreams.

I sigh deeply. There is no point romanticising the past; Eduardo was not happy as a boy just as I too always felt on the periphery of my own family. No, I think firmly, however dreadful things have become with the war, the fact remains that we love one another and have a large, wonderful family who shall stand by one another, come what may. I read a short verse to myself about the ‘golden arabesque sands of time’ in Egypt. Zarate spent many years living and travelling abroad and I always believed part of his appeal as a poet lay in his ability to transport the reader from their living room to far-flung corners of the globe, simply through one or two evocative turns of phrase. Closing my eyes, I am there. I need not imagine the heat, for the airless room provides that already, but there are flecks of sand being churned up as I walk, gently showering my face like a thin veil as my skirt billows out around me. Eduardo is walking beside me and the children are not far behind, crying out in delight as they pad over the dunes. Opening my eyes with a start, I realise that I have never voiced what I truly want.

‘Eduardo,’ I say in a firm voice. ‘
Por favor
,
let us go away. Let us leave Granada, leave Spain. We shall take the children and Aurelia’s family and go somewhere safe; somewhere we can leave the house and not have to count on your brother for our safety.’

Eduardo’s eyes look hollow and almost frighteningly devoid of emotion as he stares back unblinkingly at me before shaking his head.

‘Eduardo!’ I force one of his hands down upon the desk. ‘Please talk to me!
Por favor
, tell me what you are thinking. Things cannot continue like this. You are not well—’

‘I
am
well. I am perfectly
well. In fact, I have never been so well in my life.’

‘How can you say that, Edu? You barely eat, you jump at the slightest sound, it is becoming almost impossible to hold a coherent conversation with you and now I find you up here in the attic in the middle of the night destroying all these things you have loved for so long.’

‘Yes, but don’t you see
why
I’m here?’ he hisses aggressively.

Shocked by my husband’s tone, I numbly shake my head.

‘I’m here, Luisa, because my entire life has been a farce.’ He grasps my hands tightly between his.

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean that my entire life I have been pushed around and patronised by my brothers, my parents – oh poor little Eduardo, he’s not capable of being a lawyer, he’s far too weak and delicate for such a hardy profession; he’s far more interested in poetry. Must be some defective gene—’

‘Edu, you must not talk like that—’

‘But it’s true! That’s what everybody says about me. And then I met you, the most wonderful, beautiful woman in the world and you
accepted
me for who I was…’ he shakes my hands vigorously ‘…but I know that people still say the same things; that they laugh behind my back and call me a failed poet and a dreamer and a pathetic little man and—’

‘That is not true!’

Eduardo stands up forcefully, pushing his chair back. It bangs loudly against the wall. ‘
Sí
, it is true! You know
it is, Luisa, don’t lie to me!’

I jump up and grasp his arm, whispering in a gentle voice, ‘Keep your voice down,
por favor.
You shall wake everyone.’

Exasperated, he slumps back into the chair and runs a hand through his damp, sweaty curls. I watch him as he takes long deep breaths, the irises of his eyes flitting agitatedly about the room as he tries to calm himself. After a few moments, he looks up at me again and speaks in a small, level voice.

‘Something must change,
cariño
. Do you not see that? You of all people must see that.’

With the renewed tenderness in his voice, I reach out and put my arm around Eduardo’s trembling shoulders as he lays his head against my chest.

‘Why do you think I accepted your hand?’ I ask. ‘Because of who you are. Because I would not want you any other way. Edu, how can this can help you – obliterating the past in this way?’

He continues to breathe deeply into my chest, long hot breaths which rattle wearily as he slowly calms. As he searches for the words to try to explain what it is that is driving him to these actions, I hold him tightly. Eventually, he speaks, his voice a quiet warble.

‘I need to be a different person. I don’t want to go on in the same way I’ve lived my life up till now. I know you say that you love me for who I am, but that’s because you’re a good and kind and dear person. I want to be the kind of man my children can be proud of—’

‘They
are
proud of you, Edu.’

‘No. I mean
really
proud. I want them to be able to say to their friends “That’s my father” and swell up when they say it. All these little things I’ve collected over the years and stored away in boxes, why have I done it? I need to be firmer and stand up for what I really believe in.’

I draw Eduardo away from me so I am able to look him in the eye.

‘It is not safe, you know that. You are starting to shout about the greatness of the Republic and it is dangerous. Particularly in Granada. Of course you know that I still believe in it. But things have changed. We must not speak our opinions any longer, we must hold them here,’ I tap my head, ‘and here.’ I hold my hand over my heart as my words become stronger. Reaching a hand up to brush away what I assumed was a fly settling on my cheek, I am surprised to find it wet with tears. I have always tried to be so strong, keeping everything going in these vital matters of living and breathing and eating and helping to calm people and maintain belief in a noble future. And now Eduardo, my kind-hearted, forgetful, loveable husband, is so altered that I am unsure how to deal with it.

It is Eduardo’s turn to comfort me and he puts his arms around me and brushes his lips all over my face, as my tears fall from beneath my closed lids. ‘Luisa, Luisa…’ he murmurs. ‘Please don’t cry,
por favor
, I can’t bear it.’

Everything that has been going on around us since the outbreak of the war has weighed heavily upon me, yet Eduardo’s unpredictable and peculiar behaviour weighs heaviest of all. I can scarcely remember the last time I cried and it is a peculiar sensation. I know that I am not crying only for my husband, but also for the loss of lives and the pain and suffering that has come about as a result of the war. I am a pacifist through and through; I do not believe that death should be the necessary end of any event, no matter how heinous the crime. Yet each day we listen to the stories filtering into our home on the wireless from around the country of not just death but torture, rape and pillage. Innocent people in their thousands on both sides of the conflict have been ruthlessly murdered without trial and thrown into disused mine shafts, quarries, shallow graves or any pit large enough to house a seething mass of mutilated bodies. We have heard horrific stories of entire families being dragged from their homes simply because they have been associated with people with leftist leanings, or because they read left-wing papers or are in possession of a radio.