The Wind From the East (17 page)
Read The Wind From the East Online
Authors: Almudena Grandes
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women
Arcadio Gómez Gómez thought he wasn’t interested in politics, but the first time he heard talk of class-consciousness, he realized there was a name for his anger. The discovery changed his life. His father, who believed in God and in the eternal division between rich and poor, told him not to talk nonsense. His fiancée, who seemed resigned to a poverty he could never accept, asked him not to get into trouble now they were so close to the wedding. But Arcadio didn’t lose heart. He loved his father, who had worked like a beast of burden to provide his family with its modest standard of living, and he was very much in love with Sebastiana, but he felt that there was plenty of room in his heart for others, and the more he thought about it, the more clearly he understood that he had a duty towards them too, towards this vast universal family of those who had nothing. So he joined the union and attended all its meetings. Eventually, he realized how he could make himself more useful, and he signed up for the literacy course organized by Don Mario, a young schoolmaster who, after a whole day spent struggling with children, taught workers to read and write in his own home for free. Sebastiana burst into tears the first time her husband was able to read the sign in a shop window. For that alone, and also because her future husband looked so handsome when he was trying to convince others he was right, she began to have sympathy for the cause. In just a few years, this man, who had been working since the age of seven and had never had time to go to school, was more eloquent than a priest, using strange words that his wife, stuck at home all day washing nappies, could not understand.Arcadio explained them to her slowly, just as Don Mario explained them to him when they went for a glass of wine together after class.There was only one term he avoided, the obstacle upon which Arcadio had stumbled time and time again, the weak point in this essential theory that Sebastiana was assimilating so quickly and so vehemently. When Arcadio asked Don Mario what exactly was meant by the term “proletarian internationalism,” the schoolmaster looked at him with surprise. Arcadio explained quickly that he understood the word “internationalism” but not the other bit. Don Mario smiled and said that the word “proletarian” came from “proletariat,” and talked of the position of the workers, whose only valuable possessions were their children. Arcadio raised his eyebrows. He and Sebastiana had been married for just over three years and already had two kids, and so far they were poorer than they had ever been. “I don’t understand, Don Mario,” he said after a moment, “children are extra mouths to feed, they need new clothes all the time because they’re always growing, and medicines because they fall ill every five minutes.” “No, no, Arcadio,” insisted Don Mario,“think about it. Children are the only wealth the poor have.” “If you say so,” conceded Arcadio, but he didn’t change his mind. In secret he thought,“What rubbish.”
Doña Sara was thinking of a white dress, in a short modern style, the same color as the evening dress she had worn at her own coming-out ball. She’d always known that her god-daughter would never have such a ball, but when all was said and done, the birthday party that she so desperately wanted was the first social event of any importance arranged in her honor. Had Sara been aware of her godmother’s musings, she would have burst out laughing. It had never occurred to her or any of her friends that they might have any kind of “coming out” ceremony. In 1963 there was nothing more ridiculous, old-fashioned or tacky as the idea of a “debut” in society. So when the mellifluous manageress of the large, luxurious shop began showing her dresses, Sara chose an Italian design with a loud, multicolored and radically modern print. At a strategic moment when the saleswoman and her assistants had left them alone in one of the little rooms reserved for their best clients, Doña Sara made one plea for the white dress, while Sara defended her first choice. For once, their disagreement didn’t lead to a real argument; instead they hurriedly compromised on a yellow raw silk dress which was as far from the dull, home-grown standard of elegance as it was from the suspect, imported extravagance. Sara was very moved by her godmother’s generosity. Doña Sara had had to embark upon a complicated operation to keep her husband in the dark about her plans. His friend, Don César, had volunteered to join in the scheme, but moving Don Antonio anywhere was complicated, even though the estate in Toledo where he got together with his cronies was less than an hour and a half away by car. Doña Sara, for her part, had decided that she would do everything she could to make sure that Sara enjoyed this special birthday. She didn’t waver from this decision, even when the manageress of the shop took it for granted that they would be ordering shoes made of the same fabric as the dress, even though she knew that Sara would get much more wear out of a good pair of black leather dress shoes and pointed this out. But before the corners of Sara’s mouth drooped with disappointment, she added quickly: “Well, if you want shoes in the same fabric, you shall have them, darling, and that’s that.”
On July 19, 1939, Sebastiana Morales Pereira paused for a moment between the pair of marble lions at the front door to the Ochoa household. She took from her bag a dark scarf with which she covered her head, knotting it firmly beneath her chin. She normally never wore scarves, but she wanted to look as similar as possible to the way Señora Ochoa had looked when she rang at the door of the attic room on the Corredera Alta, three years and four days ago, on 15 July 1936. In those days, the rich would never have dared to wander about the working-class neighborhoods of Madrid without disguising their wealth, so at first Sebastiana didn’t recognize the woman dressed in a worn grey coat, her face half-hidden beneath a black scarf.“We’re leaving for San Sebastián this afternoon,” Doña Sara told her as she accepted the coffee that Sebastiana offered her, her head now held high.“My parents have been there for the last six weeks, since the beginning of June.They go there every year, but Antonio insisted on staying here until the situation is resolved. He didn’t want to just drop everything and go. Everything we own is here, our house, our possessions, everything, but now, after the business with Calvo Sotelo . . . I don’t know, to tell you the truth I’m scared. I don’t think things are going to get any better, they’re just going to get worse.Anyway, we’re leaving Madrid today, so I wanted you to know, and I also wanted to ask you a favor . . .” There was a different concierge now. Sebastiana didn’t know the strange man who rushed up to ask what floor she was going to and sent her to the tradesmen’s entrance. She obeyed meekly. As she went up the steps she wondered what had happened to the previous concierge, a friendly man from Asturias who always chatted to her when she went to check on her employer’s apartment, to make sure that the document that she herself had nailed to the front door was having the desired effect—keeping the apartment safe. This piece of paper had caused a tremendous row with her husband. She could still remember Arcadio’s every word:“You’ll never learn, will you, Sebastiana? No, you’re still at their beck and call, you don’t know how to live without a master.” And the contempt with which he threw into her lap a typed sheet bearing the words
These premises have been seized by the Metalworkers’ Union of Madrid
,
General Union of Workers
—two lines with no signature followed by a stamp in red ink, large and clear, with the three powerful capital letters symbolizing the General Union of Workers beneath it: UGT. But that humble piece of paper had now become the life insurance of Arcadio Gómez Gómez, sentenced by a military court to be executed at dawn. At least, this was what his wife hoped as she rang the bell on the fourth floor, though it didn’t prevent her from feeling a thick, anarchic rage that made her want to tear down the door with her bare hands.When a maid answered, however, she simply said that her name was Sebastiana Morales and that she needed to see the lady of the house. Doña Sara received her and listened in silence right to the end.“Help me, Sara.You can help me now. He’s a good man, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He doesn’t deserve to die. Remember, when our side was winning, you asked for my help and I helped you. Now you can help me, Sara. Please save him. He’s a trade unionist and a revolutionary, but he’s not a murderer. He never went about waving a gun at people, he was only interested in politics. He doesn’t deserve to die, he’s never killed anyone, he hasn’t done anything.” “Now, now,” said Señora Ochoa, after a while.“He did do something—he fought.” Then Sebastiana Morales Pereira stood up and raised her voice.“It was the same war your husband fought in, Sara,” she said, with her fists clenched.“In war, people kill and people die. Arcadio didn’t do anything your husband didn’t do.” Señora Ochoa looked at the woman and stubbed out her cigarette with a sharp tinkling of gold bracelets. There was a silence. Her soul on tenterhooks, Sebastiana counted five, ten, fifteen, twenty seconds, until the bracelets tinkled again as Señora Ochoa picked up the phone. Nine days later, a guard fetched Arcadio Gómez Gómez from his cell and took him to an officer. The officer didn’t ask him to sit down.“A notification has arrived for you,” he said simply.“I’m going to read it to you.”This was how Arcadio found out that his death sentence had been commuted to thirty years in prison, with a possible reduction in the sentence if he undertook hard labor. He was so scared that he didn’t dare tell the lieutenant that he could have read the document himself.
These premises have been seized by the Metalworkers’ Union of Madrid
,
General Union of Workers
—two lines with no signature followed by a stamp in red ink, large and clear, with the three powerful capital letters symbolizing the General Union of Workers beneath it: UGT. But that humble piece of paper had now become the life insurance of Arcadio Gómez Gómez, sentenced by a military court to be executed at dawn. At least, this was what his wife hoped as she rang the bell on the fourth floor, though it didn’t prevent her from feeling a thick, anarchic rage that made her want to tear down the door with her bare hands.When a maid answered, however, she simply said that her name was Sebastiana Morales and that she needed to see the lady of the house. Doña Sara received her and listened in silence right to the end.“Help me, Sara.You can help me now. He’s a good man, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He doesn’t deserve to die. Remember, when our side was winning, you asked for my help and I helped you. Now you can help me, Sara. Please save him. He’s a trade unionist and a revolutionary, but he’s not a murderer. He never went about waving a gun at people, he was only interested in politics. He doesn’t deserve to die, he’s never killed anyone, he hasn’t done anything.” “Now, now,” said Señora Ochoa, after a while.“He did do something—he fought.” Then Sebastiana Morales Pereira stood up and raised her voice.“It was the same war your husband fought in, Sara,” she said, with her fists clenched.“In war, people kill and people die. Arcadio didn’t do anything your husband didn’t do.” Señora Ochoa looked at the woman and stubbed out her cigarette with a sharp tinkling of gold bracelets. There was a silence. Her soul on tenterhooks, Sebastiana counted five, ten, fifteen, twenty seconds, until the bracelets tinkled again as Señora Ochoa picked up the phone. Nine days later, a guard fetched Arcadio Gómez Gómez from his cell and took him to an officer. The officer didn’t ask him to sit down.“A notification has arrived for you,” he said simply.“I’m going to read it to you.”This was how Arcadio found out that his death sentence had been commuted to thirty years in prison, with a possible reduction in the sentence if he undertook hard labor. He was so scared that he didn’t dare tell the lieutenant that he could have read the document himself.
The problem with Maruchi was that she had always been an envious bitch.When she started to make excuses about the record player, young Sara Gómez Morales could think of a long list of similar offences, going right back to the very beginning of their friendship when they were children. Maruchi couldn’t stand it if anyone was better off than herself. Sara was well aware of this and she was sure that, however much Maruchi promised she’d lend her the record player for the party, she never actually would. Fortunately, a friend of Juan Mari’s had one that was even better, newer, and he was happy to lend it to her in return for an invitation to the party. Sara agreed, delighted. If Maruchi wanted war, then she’d get it. Already the battle of the guest list had been won. Sara would be having at least twenty more people at her party than her friend had had; the Ochoas’ apartment, with its three interconnecting living rooms, the dining room, her godmother’s little sitting room and Don Antonio’s study, was twice as big as Maruchi’s parents’ flat. And then there was the dress, of course. True, Maruchi had worn a lovely outfit at her party, but it wasn’t new. Sara knew this because she’d been invited to Maruchi’s older brother’s wedding, and she’d seen her wear it then. She, on the other hand, was increasingly pleased with her new dress; the color really suited her and the cut flattered her figure. Of course, Sara had a very good figure anyway, while poor Maruchi, although she had a pretty face, had a bottom as big as two soccer balls.As for the food and drinks, there wasn’t much she could do, because Maruchi’s party had been magnificent, but Doña Sara tipped the scales once and for all in her god-daughter’s favor when she ordered a dozen centerpieces of yellow roses and lily of the valley, thus decorating the house with flowers that matched the hostess’s dress and the pearls Doña Sara would be lending her for the occasion. Sara was deeply grateful to her and, for once, she forced herself to admit, aloud, that her godmother definitely had style.
When General Franco led the uprising that began the Civil War,Arcadio Gómez Gómez was a very strong man. Before he became ill, Antonio Ochoa Gorostiza had been too. On more than one occasion, Arcadio’s strength and skill had proved invaluable to the artillery brigade to which he was assigned when he enlisted with the Spanish Republican Army. Antonio’s toughness also became legendary amongst the rebel ranks, though he never had to demonstrate it assembling and dismantling a cannon weighing several tons at top speed.When he enlisted with the rebel forces, only a few days after the early fall of San Sebastián, an uncle, who was a general, immediately made him an officer. Second Lieutenant Ochoa never had to wield a pick or a spade, or drag sandbags, or carry the wounded, but he wasn’t a coward and before long had accumulated as many ribbons on his uniform as Captain Gómez would earn on the other side of the Ebro. Nor did he ever seek to obtain a safer post in the rearguard, and he quickly realized that his daily flirtation with death made him horny. From then on, he made the most of any leave, breaking his own records for sexual exploits, which had already made him famous with the most exclusive whores in Madrid before the war. “Bloody hell, Antoñito, who can keep up with you?” his colonel would say when they bumped into each other leaving one of the improvised bordellos that followed the soldiers from place to place, despite the denunciations of the army chaplains. He always answered with the same thing, “I’m just a Spanish gentleman,” and the sentence became famous. Captain Ochoa took the teasing about his sexual prowess with good humor, not guessing how bitter a memory it would later become. The former Captain Gómez, on the other hand, soon came to regret his own excesses.When the soldiers came for him, Sebastiana was pregnant again, two months gone. The baby was their fourth and Arcadio wondered if he would ever see the child. By the time it was born, Arcadio was in a prison work battalion rebuilding the access roads to Madrid. This was where he ceased to be a strong man.The person in charge of the battalion was not at all happy with his lot. A card-carrying member of the Falangist Party, with several honorable mentions for his conduct in the field and even a medal, he considered this shitty posting (to which his wife had refused to follow him) a humiliation. He was therefore intent on delivering outstanding results at any price, so he saved all he could on the prisoners’ rations and extended their working day, until, after three years in exile, his brilliant management at last earned him a decent office in Madrid. His successor was a good man who took several measures to improve the prisoners’ lot, re-establishing the right of the convicts to send letters to their families even though stamps cost money. Arcadio wrote two identical letters to his wife. He sent one to their old address on the Corredera Alta, even though he thought Sebastiana probably hadn’t been able to go on living there, and the other to the house on the Calle Velázquez where his wife had been employed when he first met her, hoping that someone there would know where she was. She answered by return of post, telling him that in February 1940 she had given birth to another girl, whom she’d called Socorro after her mother, that the older children were well and all going to school, that they’d moved to an attic flat on the Calle Concepción Jerónima, very near the Plaza Mayor, that she’d gone back to work for Doña Sara, spending about nine or ten hours there every day except Sunday, that Doña Sara treated her very well and let her bring her youngest to work, that the poor woman had had very bad luck because her husband had a very strange illness that made his right leg useless, that Arcadio shouldn’t worry about anything, some old friends were helping her as much as they could, that she didn’t need to see him to go on loving him, and that she loved him.
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