Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Oh yes she would,” Cayetano snorted. He turned to José. “Ignacio was gay.”

  José cocked one eyebrow. “That explains why he isn’t your father then, Paco.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t just dragged from his home in the night by his fascist comrades and shot for his sexuality? Being gay was seriously out of step with the perilous conservative stronghold of the time.”

  José gave his grandson a stern look. “Caya, that’s enough.”

  “I call it as I see it.”

  “Not on something so sensitive you don’t. Don’t speak so ill of Falange members.”

  “I’m sorry, what? Are we defending fascists now?”

  “Just ignore him, Caya,” Paco interrupted.

  “It seems like all people do is lie to suit themselves! My opinions don’t need to be censored! I never agreed to any pact of forgetting.”

  “You shouldn’t judge what you don’t understand,” José sighed. “I was only a child during the war. Life was hard, I hid all the time amongst the Republicans who held the city. Madrid was surrounded on three sides by Nationalist troops, who tried to rescue the city, and we were trapped for years, and had to live amongst so much hate. Hate was the only survivor in those times.”

  “And yet you prospered under the following dictatorship, didn’t you, Papí?” Cayetano watched his grandfather shift uncomfortably in his seat. “You were always safe, weren’t you? Deeply religious your whole life, and you support Spain as one nation – none of that autonomy rubbish would agree with you, would it? You had Rebelión, which made you a landowner, something many only would have dreamed of. There were no years of hunger for your family, were there? People who only thought of themselves flourished under the regime. Like Papá here, fighting in the ring, loved by Franco himself.”

  “Cayetano, you have lived your life in this family, why is any of this news to you?” José asked.

  “Our family has never denied who we are,” Paco said.

  “Yes, but it’s the Morales family who believe all these things, isn’t it, Papá? I have never seen you force your opinions on me, not political opinions anyway. Please tell me, why is that?”

  “Caya, you are dragging up remarkably old issues. Grievances long lost.”

  “Not that old. This happened all in my lifetime.”

  “What’s the point here? I thought this was about the girl,” José said. “Did she find her family?”

  “Her grandmother was a member of the International Brigade, and her grandfather was an anarchist.”

  José raised his eyebrows. “I see. You shouldn’t need to worry about that. It’s old news now.”

  “I’m not put off Luna because of the beliefs of her family. She was raised in New Zealand, free of hate and the shackles of old ideas.”

  “I’m still lost on where all this is going.”

  “You see, Papá’s mother, Luna, had an affair with a man named Cayetano.”

  José watched his grandson sit back in his seat. “The fact you have the same name as the man worries me.”

  “It should, Papí. This other Cayetano was her lover.”

  José’s eyes flicked to Paco. “Boys will be boys. We have all had lovers.”

  “True,” Cayetano continued. “But the problem for Paco is that the Beltrán family were anarchists, as was this Cayetano. Papá seems ashamed of this.”

  “I’m not ashamed that the Beltrán’s were Republican supporters,” Paco said. “But I have nothing to do with it. My mother was not an anarchist, her family was, but in her heart she was conservative. She happily left her family and moved to Madrid to live in a fascist family.”

  “Is that so?” José asked. “How fascinating. She had extraordinary courage. Let me guess, you’re the bastard child of your mother and this rojo bastard that she slept with?”

  Paco nodded. “I’m not proud of it, but that’s the case. She married Ignacio, but he died. I can assure you that my mother was right-wing in her political and religious beliefs.”

  “She turned her back on the whole family?” Cayetano asked.

  “She told me that she did. The trouble is that this girl of Caya’s, this Luna, is also the grandchild of Cayetano Ortega. Luna’s father is my half-brother.”

  José looked between the two men. “Jesucristo. The rojo bastard was obviously trouble. I hope he got a bullet.”

  “He did, in a concentration camp after the war,” Cayetano said.

  “Good.”

  “How do you know?” Paco asked his son, while he watched the indignant look Cayetano gave José.

  “Luna told me,” Cayetano said without a look at his father. “Papí, how can you be so callous? You were a child during the war. You were poisoned by the misguided opinions fed to you.”

  “I know what I believe,” José said. “Call me Falangist, conservative, Carlist, monarchist, I don’t care. I know what I wanted for Spain, and we won the war. We prospered as a result of the dictatorship. You are, as a result, rich and successful. You are who you are, Cayetano, because of what I have done. My hard work was handed to your father, and now to you.”

  “You mean by breeding bulls and horses?”

  “Where do you think I earned the money to buy Rebelión?”

  Cayetano swallowed hard. Did he want the answer?

  “José, I have asked you all of Cayetano’s life not to tell him what you used to do for a living,” Paco said.

  “Maybe it’s time he knew,” José replied. “And it wasn’t just a job, it was something I believed in. It was my contribution to our country.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Cayetano said. “What was it that you did?”

  “I started out as a member of Guardia Civil, but then was asked to join a special brigade. Franco wanted to flush out all those who had defied him. So many bastards thought that they could defy the regime, even long after Franco took power. They were enemies of the State. We were paid well to find these people.”

  “And do what with them?” Murder, torture, rape? Fuck, this was about to go down as the worst Christmas in history.

  “The dissidents needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “Dissidents? You mean anyone with left-wing views?”

  “I think this discussion has gone too far off-course,” Paco said.

  “No, I want to hear more,” Cayetano said. “Please, Papí, tell me.”

  “No.” Paco’s voice showed his anger.

  “I have a right to know if my grandfather is a murderer.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything I have done,” José said. “Yes, Caya, I did have to kill people. It was part of the job. These rojos are so disgusting that even now, the ground that we dumped them in, it rejects them. And now, people have the nerve to think they can dig these pigs up.”

  “They are people. Husbands, fathers, children, siblings, lovers,” Cayetano said. “Other people cared about those you hurt.”

  “Lovely little wives may have wanted to see their husbands while they were in prison, but we taught those girls a lesson. You should have heard them cry when we stripped them and…”

  “That’s enough,” Cayetano butted in, and jumped from his seat. The thought of his grandfather raping girls was too much to bear. He could have gone his whole life without knowing the truth. Now it was too late. The ghosts of the past had woken up. “What about Alejandro Beltrán?” He was riled up enough to tell them some truths of his own now. “Would you round up innocent men like him?”

  “Who?” José asked.

  “Luna Beltrán’s brother. Papá, do you know what happened to your uncle Alejandro?”

  “No. Mamá never knew what happened to him. She said it was his decision to disappear from her life,” Paco said.

  “She kept photos of him, didn’t she? Photos, letters, little bits and pieces. He was the one who loved bullfighting, the one who prompted her to push you into the art of bullfighting.”

  “Caya, I don’t care. Yes, m
y family were left-wingers. I have lived my life not believing in the same things that my family did. I have had a happy life with the people I surrounded myself with. I met your mother, and yes, the Morales family are a strong conservative family, and I didn’t care. It’s as your abuelo told you, it’s all old grievances. None of this matters.”

  “The bitterness in Papí’s voice is still there when says that he thinks the rojos all deserved to be shot.”

  “And I won’t change my opinion!” José cried. “History only favours the winner, Caya. Stick with the winners, it’s who we are.”

  “Alejandro Beltrán is still alive,” Cayetano said lightheartedly, and looked out the window. “He lives just outside Valencia. He and Luna have been spending quite a lot of time together.”

  Paco had gone pale. Very pale. “How can you be sure?”

  “They have been chatting. Alejandro has taken quite a shine to her. Cayetano Ortega and Scarlett Montgomery were his best friends. The man has lived a terribly lonely life, far from home, and his son.”

  “Who is his son?” José asked.

  “He sits at the desk here. Paco Beltrán is the son of Alejandro Beltrán, an anarchist supporter from Cuenca, and Sofía Perez, a young nurse. They were married in a revolutionary wedding, not even a marriage sanctioned by the church or the State, but instead by the unions. And you thought my civil wedding to María was a slap in the face of Catholicism!”

  “Paco?” José asked. “Is that true?”

  “No, Luna was my mother.”

  “You know Alejandro and Sofía had a child. You said the baby died,” Cayetano said.

  “Mamá told me that the baby died.”

  “You are the baby,” Cayetano told his father. “Alejandro named you Paco. He has been reading about you in the paper ever since, he watched you in favour with the political parties that tried to kill him, who killed his father, and who murdered his best friend, Cayetano Ortega. Whether we like it or not, there is a political hangover in this country. Those with crazy right-wing opinions still make their presence known.” Cayetano looked at his grandfather. “I have a feeling one of them is sitting across the room.”

  “Franco saved us,” José said. “I will never apologise for my support to the man. Socialist ideals won’t be forced on me by some downtrodden, working class fanatics.” He stood up from his seat and left the office, not another word said.

  Cayetano and Paco sat eye to eye for a moment. “What I don’t understand, is that for the last 40 years, we never had these conversations. I have never considered us political,” Cayetano said.

  “We’re Spanish; were all political.”

  “But we live with a Francoist.”

  “José can believe whatever he wants.”

  “What do you believe, Papá?”

  “I believe there are no innocent or honest parties where politics are concerned.”

  “That we can all agree on,” Cayetano scoffed.

  “Caya, I left all this behind when my mother died. She left me a lot of money, money she had got from Ignacio. Having money allowed me to make decisions for myself. It gave me choices. Many here were starving, but I was able to pursue a career in fighting bulls. This put me in the path of the conservatives, the wealthy right-wingers who controlled the country. The middle classes and the rich were happy. It was easy to blend in and get by. I had no allegiance to anyone; it was only when I met your mother that I was considered right-wing also. But all I have ever done is get by. I won’t form a political opinion based on a war that happened before my time. I make my own decisions, just like my mother did.”

  “Your life hasn’t been as cozy as you claim, has it?”

  “I grew up watching unrestrained vengeances being carried out. I decided that I wouldn’t take sides.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “No. But I loved your mother, and that drove most of my life’s decisions. I make no apologies for that.”

  “I want my life’s decisions to be based on being able to be with Luna, Papá. You and I aren’t that different.”

  Paco paused. “You have fallen in love with a foreigner, maybe you are the lucky one.” He watched Cayetano smile. “Don’t ever tell your mother, but the left-wing candidates always get my vote. I like the ideas of freedom and of the State and the church being separate.”

  “Yet you sit in church every week with Mamá and her parents.”

  Paco shrugged. “Women. What can you do?”

  Cayetano nodded in agreement. “I know all of this is irrelevant. I have opened a can of worms, and for nothing, none of this has anything to do with me and Luna.”

  “Well, if she is telling the truth, and I doubt she has a reason to lie, then you are not related to her.”

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “I have nothing against Luna personally, I don’t know her.”

  “I mean, how do you feel about Alejandro being your father, and Sofía being your mother?”

  “Luna Beltrán was my mother as far as I’m concerned. We lived a lonely existence together. None of that can be changed. But I don’t want to know Alejandro Beltrán, if that’s what you’re getting at. The past can stay buried.”

  “How did you keep all this a secret from me all this time?”

  “Do you feel better for knowing the truth?”

  “No!” Cayetano cried.

  “There you have it. It’s ugly. I don’t condone your grandfather’s behaviour, but I can’t change it either. He had already given up that life for country living when I met him.”

  “Does his wife know he’s a rapist? Does Mamá know that her father is a murderer?”

  “No, and it needs to stay that way. Can you see why I tell you to not dig into your family’s history?”

  “It does make sense now.”

  “It wasn’t about Luna, Caya. Never. She wasn’t the problem; she simply woke you up to things that we were lying about.”

  “I’ve done something terrible, Papá.”

  “What? Besides enflaming your psychotic grandfather?”

  “María is pregnant.”

  Paco’s face dropped. “What? When? How?”

  “How? The usual way. Drunk and stupid and miserable.”

  “And Luna knows this?”

  “She does.”

  “And?”

  “And I think she hates me.”

  “So you’re not related, but still can’t be together?”

  “Seems not. But I still want a divorce from María.”

  “Then, if Luna forgives you, then you can be with her?”

  “You support me now? After everything?”

  “This time, I’m not going to let my own defiant attitude influence your choices. It’s not my place to tell you what to you, Caya. Where is Luna? Don’t extranjeros celebrate Christmas on December 25? That’s tomorrow. You should go and see her.”

  “She is in Italy with her dead husband’s family.”

  “That is very kind. When is she back?”

  “This week.”

  “Then fuck Cayetano Ortega and all the drama he has created. We all need to get out of his shadow and be happy. You need to win that girl back. I would do anything for your mother. It’s time you did the same for your girl.”

  “I don’t deserve her.”

  “No, I agree. But that doesn’t mean you need to give up.”

  36

  Palermo, Italia ~ Diciembre de 2009

  Sending an envelope on its way. That was how it felt to let Fabrizio’s ashes go on Max and Paulina Merlini’s Italian olive grove. He had ridden his bike through the grove as a kid, while he dreamed of a life as a cyclist. Now, after passing away at the age of only 37, Fabrizio was buried in the centre of the grove, where a large tree stood. Max and Paulina spent time there, to enjoy the peace of their property, and now their son could rest there. For Fabrizio’s parents, it was a painful and emotional homecoming, with a sense of relief that their son was back with them. For his three younger
sisters, it was upsetting; the shining star of the family had dimmed, and only now were they able to bid farewell to him. For his sons, it was confusing; all the adults in their lives were sad, and they were still not old enough to understand.

  For Luna, it was many things. It was sad; she had kept Fabrizio with her much longer than was probably healthy. But when she curled up the little piece of paper she had written a poem on, and placed the varnished box into the earth, she felt free. Not of her husband, but of the pain that his death had caused. So much had gone through her mind over three years – did he know he would die when the car hit him, did he see the car coming, did he feel any pain, what crossed his mind at his final moment? None of these questions would be answered, but her dreams weren’t haunted by the uncertainty of not knowing, as they used to be. Luna didn’t wish for him to be with her all the time, as she once used to. She didn’t feel helpless, as she once used to. She didn’t feel bound to a ghost, as she once did. Now, the misery of their whole ordeal had let her go. Now, she accepted what had happened.

  Luna had no recollection of her own mother, and to spend time with Fabrizio’s mother was always an experience. She never had a woman she could turn to for advice, love, or comfort. It was hard to know how to interact with Paulina and her husband Max, even when Fabrizio was alive. Christmas Day saw 40 family members in attendance, parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews of the man they had laid to rest. Luna loved to see Giacomo and Enzo so welcomed, and so happy with the other children. While the comfort she gained from her husband was long gone, the Merlini’s still cared for Fabrizio’s boys like they had once cared for their son. That was all Luna needed from them.

  “Qualcosa di sbagliato, Luna?”

  Luna looked up from her full wine glass and looked at her mother-in-law across the living room from her. Paulina and Max had chatted in her direction most of the evening while they sat together near the fireplace, but she hadn’t listened. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

  “You haven’t touched your wine – again.”

  Luna looked back at the drink, a heavy red wine. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that she didn’t like it; it was Fabrizio’s favourite. “I’m just tired.”