by Tommy Dakar
But Ricardo's team was convinced that it had located a mass grave near a forest path not far from the original spot. Preliminary tests suggested at maybe four or five corpses, though only a thorough examination would reveal the truth. And for that official permission had to be obtained.
Procuring official documents in Spain is an enriching spiritual exercise in which both faith and patience are put to the test. Finally, after more than two years of bureaucratic pilgrimage, of application forms, photocopies and originals, certificates, endorsements, refusals, appeals, and administrative silence, the initial stages were drawing to a close. He who resists, wins.
‘Sr. Gámez, pase por favor.’
The under secretary was a short, stout woman in her early fifties, with keen eyes and cautious movements. She quickly scanned Ricardo for outward signs, but he was an old hand at this, and his dress sense, his hairstyle, even his choice of watch, gave nothing away. She waved at the chair and Ricardo did as he was bade.
He had to tread carefully now, at least until the stamped and signed documents were in his possession. Theoretically Teresa Del Valle had no choice but to approve his request, but experience told him that it was best not to ruffle any feathers. The last thing they needed now was a hitch. His team had tried to find out as much as possible about Señora. Del Valle, but had come up with nothing. By all accounts she was simply a very competent, intelligent and diligent civil servant.
From the beginning he realised he was under suspicion. It was a game he had played often, and the idea was to be ambiguous, not to fall on one side or the other, to leave them guessing. What was his purpose? Was he neutral, or biased, and if so, to which side did he lean? Why did he insist on stirring up passions that had been left to cool? Was his driving force a desire for historical truth, or some form of revenge? He knew this woman was trying to answer these questions, was looking for the slightest clue. So far she was unsure. Now she would try a few baited questions.
‘Sr. Gámez, I have here a very important document, a document that will empower you to search an extensive area of the pine woods in Alfacar. All it requires is my signature.’
She looked up sharply, but Ricardo did not move a muscle.
‘Have you been in touch with the family?’
‘I am acting on their behalf, at their request.’
‘The Lorca family?’
They both knew the Lorca family was not in favour of exhumation.
‘No, the Galeno family.’
The poet had not died alone. Teodoro Galeno, a republican schoolteacher, had been one of at least three others killed that same night. It was his grandchildren, led by Elena, that had contracted his services.
‘I see.’
As she turned the pages she stole glances of Ricardo from time to time, but he remained passive, his arms folded over his briefcase.
‘You do realise that the area has been thoroughly searched before?’
'Thoroughly' was the word to avoid, it was a trap. The 2009 investigation had been hasty, limited, and heavily criticised. However, it would be unwise to mention any of this, as passing the buck is a national sport in Spain, and even the slightest hint that responsibility had been shirked would be taken as an insult.
‘My colleagues were given the opportunity to search for the remains of Sr. Galeno in an area previously agreed upon by all those involved. The result of this search was negative.’
‘Yet you believe you will be more successful.’
From her tone it was difficult to say if she was being ironic or not.
‘Preliminary data suggests that there is a possibility of success, and the Galeno family is keen to push ahead on this issue.’
He pictured Elena's round, benevolent face as she had said 'it is not about revenge, as some think, it was not our war, that is all over now. Quite simply we want to put the dead to rest. It is a promise I made to my mother, and one that she also made to hers. Only when we have achieved that can we all rest easy.'
‘Not so the Lorca family.’
There was speculation as to why the Lorca family were against searching for their relative's remains. In the absence of fact, rumour had filled the gap, and there was talk of secret pacts with the Franco regime, of black cars from Madrid, metal boxes with suspicious contents. The area around the olive tree had been turned into a park, and many believed that Lorca's remains had been unearthed during this process and reburied in a place where they would never be found.
‘I am in no position to comment on their viewpoint, which I fully respect. My work is purely technical.’
Teresa smiled. She understood his strategy. He preferred to hide behind his professional status and avoid any type of political comment. Time to change tack. She sat back in her chair and adopted a grave tone.
‘You realise there will be international repercussion? That Spain as a whole will be held up for inspection?’
‘I understand that this is a huge responsibility, not only for my team, but for Spanish institutions as a whole. I am sure that if we follow your department's guidelines and advice we will all be able to bring this to a satisfactory close.’
Teresa ran her fingers over her beads and for a second seemed lost in thought.
‘A lot of people believe that you are opening old wounds.’
Thrown at him like a dart.
‘The Galeno family wish to finally heal their personal wound by giving their relative a decent burial. They believe that then they can all rest in peace.’
‘But if you find Sr. Galeno's remains, you also find Lorca's, correct?’
‘That is not our mission, but yes, it is a possibility.’
‘And that will upset a lot of people.’
Ricardo chose not to answer.
Teresa Del Valle toyed with her pen while she assessed this Sr. Gámez, archaeologist. On what grounds could she refuse to endorse his petition? There had been no mention of public funding, no signs of political interference. He indeed appeared to be acting solely on behalf of the Galeno family. If his team was successful and the poet's remains should come to light, then heaven knows what would happen, but, as far as she was concerned, given the circumstances, she had little choice. His dead pan tone, his lack of passion, his well-mannered appearance, his professional and diplomatic answers had convinced her. She reached for the stamp.
3
Granada is a land of contrasts. In less than fifty kilometres the snowy peaks of Sierra Nevada plunge down to the sub-tropical Mediterranean coast where they dissolve into the sea amid mangoes, kiwis and avocados. Winters are long and cold, with sub-zero temperatures at night and the occasional postcard snowfall in the city centre, whilst the summer sees the city stunned into inactivity under a relentless heat. It is a Moorish town which the Catholics never entirely conquered, as if unable, or unwilling, to rid themselves of something so profoundly beautiful as the Alhambra, or the Albaizin neighbourhood. Instead they left their mark by building the monolithic Carlos V palace inside the Alhambra complex, alongside the delicate patios and fountains of their Islamic predecessors, or by reconverting mosques into churches, often retaining essential architectural elements.
A provincial city, with age-old traditions and local mannerisms, strangely proud of its famed miserable nature, or 'mala follá', though offering a free tapa with every drink. Or cosmopolitan, a beacon for students and visitors from all the corners of the world, who bring their languages and modern gadgets to show to a local population who prefer to feign disinterest. Solemn during the Easter processions, frivolous at the annual fair, hospitable in a taciturn way, often brutish, but with a cultural activity the envy of many larger cities, Granada is a microcosm where black and white live together in harmony without converging into grey.
But it had not always been that way, and the opposing concepts that many took to be complementary, others saw as divisive. In Ricardo's own family, one great uncle had fought for the Republic, another on the side of the Nationalists. He had grown up with this
fact, it was known though never mentioned, and due to a kind of Spanish 'omertá' he had never been able to raise the issue with anyone. It formed part of what was known as the Two Spains, the left and the right, two conflicting visions which were seemingly irreconcilable.
So perhaps it was no surprise that the news that a fresh dig for Lorca was about to take place split Granada into two. For some it was a triumph, another chance to right past wrongs, to put to rest a terrible sense of shame at having been unable to avoid the murder of a poet. To others it was an outrageous attempt to rewrite history, to seek belated revenge, to place the blame at the door of an entire generation of well-meaning, innocent citizens.
The Civil War, the atrocities committed on both sides, the interminably long reign of the winning side, the death of Franco, all these were taboo subjects in general conversations. This was treacherous ground, and could only lead to sterile debate. It was something that belonged to another generation, distant and a little musty, like an old family dispute that everyone had agreed not to bring up again. For day to day living, mute amnesia was the wisest course to take, and it was judged to be for the common good to keep your opinions to your chest.
After forty years of dictatorial rule the Transition had been a gentlemen's pact of mutual non-aggression. The past would not be mentioned so that all positive energy could be focussed on the future. Generals, Bishops, Ministers and Judges had to be appeased, to be won over to the new system, and the best way to achieve that was to simply look the other way. Over the years this had been taken by many to mean that the Franco regime would never again be revised, or criticised, or judged in retrospect.
And maybe that tacit amnesty could have worked, if it were not for the forgotten victims.
4
Ricardo's team had set up headquarters at Aynadamar, the Fountain of Tears, within walking distance of the park dedicated to Lorca and the site of their dig. The media and Authorities had long since gone, leaving them to sweat it out alone under the white marquees they had erected to protect the zone from summer storms and undesired observers. So far they had unearthed about a third of the cordoned off area, with nothing to show for their efforts but animal bones and and a handful of lead pellets from a hunter's shotgun. The late August sun beat down mercilessly, trapping the heat under the canvas, making work slow and difficult. The two Guardia Civil agents assigned to overlook the site idled away the day as best they could, whilst Ricardo's team raised cloud after cloud of dusty soil from beneath the fir trees.
It was one of the young volunteers from Granada University who found the first sign. A bullet shell, but this time fired from no hunter's gun. This was military ammunition. Ricardo thanked the young woman, and quickly disappeared into his tent. So they had been right. If luck was on their side, they would soon uncover the corpses that lay under the pines. Then they could get the forensic boys at the university to check for possible DNA matches. This could be it. But he had to proceed with caution; if word got out too soon the place would be overrun with TV crews and local corporations. He threw a glance at the dozing agents, then quietly called in his companions for a briefing.
The team worked quietly, carrying on like before as best they could, hoping not to raise the suspicion of the two bored Civil Guards. The idea was to get the bone samples to their contact in the forensic department before making any disclosure to the media. Only the Galeno family would be let in on the secret, as Ricardo knew he could always rely on their discretion.
He also knew that the university had obtained DNA samples of Lorca's relatives, and that they would be able to run the test for his remains too. If they came up positive, he wanted to be the first to know, and to have his press release ready well in advance.
There was a legal issue to be borne in mind. The discovery of any human remains should immediately be reported to the police, who in turn inform the judge in charge of the investigation. Only once the area has been fully inspected can the skeletal remains be touched. But Ricardo had a strategy for this. If questioned he would claim that, being unsure whether they were dealing with human or animal remains, he had ordered a forensic study before contacting the local authorities. A bending of the rules which would be convincing enough, and would buy the team enough time to analyse the corpses in depth before, as he was sure would happen should they be successful, they were forced to hand over their discovery to a higher authority.
By the time the national and international press were informed of the find, Ricardo and his colleagues knew they had been successful. They went through the pretence of having to wait for conclusive results, carefully stressing, when quizzed about Lorca, that they were acting solely on behalf of the Galeno family.
Several weeks later confirmation arrived; the poet had returned,
5
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
Novalis
The queue of people wishing to pay homage to the poet ran down the steps of the Cathedral into Plaza de Las Pasiegas, where it zig-zagged between rows of crowd control barriers much like the lines formed at passport control inside busy international airports, before disappearing off into the nearby Plaza de Bib-Rambla. The impressive main doors had been thrown open, and the mourners patiently waited their turn to pay tribute to Lorca before leaving the temple through the Door of Pardon, on Carcel Baja street. Television cameras swung to and fro on hydraulic arms, mounted police patrolled the surrounding area, and street vendors sold roasted chestnuts, sugar coated peanuts and helium balloons of famous cartoon characters.
It was early December, and a fine rain polished the flagstones of the square and the mass of dull coloured umbrellas. After much debate and beating of chests, Lorca's remains had finally been allowed to lie in state in Granada cathedral. Once again it had not been easy. A vicious debate had begun about the merits and demerits of the dead poet, his political leanings, even his sexual preferences. The mud slinging had become intense, bordering on hysteria at times, but common decency had eventually won the day. He was to receive the highest honours, not only of Granada, but of all Spain. Indeed, the whole world was watching now, wondering if this time the nation would be capable of taking that last final step towards reconciliation. Because to the outsider it was difficult to understand how this hospitable, user-friendly country was incapable of making that ultimate gesture. To shine a light into the dark recesses of their recent history, to bury, and above all remember, the dead.
The funeral service was to be held at San José cemetery on the twenty-second of December. This day was traditionally national lottery day, El Gordo, and many had questioned the appropriateness of the date. But as the powers that be had pointed out, the twenty-second of December was the day after the longest night, and would represent a new dawn in Spanish history. From now on El Gordo would have to share its annual glory with The Day of National Reconciliation, otherwise known as Lorca Day.
Fresh winter snow sparkled under a brilliant blue sky as Granada prepared itself for the pilgrimage up to the cemetery on the Alhambra hill. Helicopters droned overhead like mechanical mosquitoes, church bells rang out from every corner of the town, and puffs of smoke from fireworks preceded their ear-splitting bang. The ceremony was to be conducted in two sessions. In the first, the King, the President, the Archbishop of Granada, and the Mayor of the city, in presence of the Lorca family, would unveil the simple monument specially designed for the occasion, a miniature olive tree cast in bronze, set upon a granite block on which was engraved this verse by the poet – Mira a la derecha y a la izquierda del tiempo, y que tu corazón aprenda a estar tranquilo. Look to the right and to the left of time, and may your heart learn to be at rest.
Ricardo had been invited, but had declined the offer, as it had not been extended to the Galeno family or the rest of his team. He preferred to wait until the second session, once the security measures had been lifted, which was when those who wished to pay their respects would be able to do so.
It seemed as if the wh
ole of Granada, the whole of Andalusia, had decided to climb the hill towards the light on that perfect, beautiful morning. Spontaneous crowds gathered in Paseo de los Tristes, coming down from the old Arabic quarter of the Albaizin, and the gypsy caves of Sacromonte, to take the old original route, up the steep Cuesta de los Chinos, through the Alhambra itself and on to the cemetery from there. A little further down the river Darro, in Plaza Nueva, huge numbers from the town centre headed up Cuesta Gomerez into the cool of the Alhambra woods, many bearing flowers to lay on the poet's tomb.
El Camino Nuevo del Cementerio, winding through the cactus-lined Barranco del Abogado, was a river of men, women and children, as if today were a romeria, halfway between a fair and a pilgrimage, both respectful and joyous.
They poured in from Almanjayar, in the north of the city, and El Zaidin, in the south. The access roads were blocked as the inhabitants of the outlying villages attempted to near the area, getting trapped in an enormous traffic jam. From Malaga and Seville they came, by road or rail. There was not a hotel room to be found, and those fortunate tourists who had booked well in advance became unexpected yet grateful spectators to this historical moment.