Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “You have to go with Luna,” Darren said. “I’ll take the boys home with me.”

  “No, Luna hates you!”

  “Then you take them and I’ll go with her!”

  “No, she hates you!”

  “Cayetano!” one of paramedics called to him. “We have to go.”

  Cayetano stood helpless as they loaded Luna in the back of the ambulance, and he watched Darren race over to Luna’s car. Giacomo fell into his uncle’s embrace, Enzo clambering after his brother. Darren looked over at Cayetano and nodded and Cayetano just nodded back. The boys made the choice for everyone.

  Sitting in the ambulance, Cayetano reached out and held Luna’s hand that lay limp on the white sheet that covered her. They had put an IV line into her good arm and taped an oxygen mask to her face. Cayetano’s stomach sank as the ambulance pulled away from the house. It now seemed very real. They were leaving Escondrijo. This was happening.

  Cayetano peered out the window and saw the boys with Darren, their hands shielding their tearful eyes from the afternoon sun as they watched the ambulance take their parents away. The pine trees on one side of the house shook wildly in the wind. As he turned to face Luna again, he caught a glance of Miguel, at the end of the rocky driveway.

  They pulled onto the sealed road back towards Serra and onto Valencia, and Cayetano realised just how far it was from the graves to the house to the city. Luna loved this mountain, but without her it had no soul.

  He looked back to Luna. She was unrecognisable. The two medical staff spoke to each other, checking her blood pressure again. He listened to them discuss arrival time to Hospital Nisa 9 de Octubre in Valencia with the driver. “I’m with you,” Cayetano whispered to her. “I’m with you.”

  “Cayetano?”

  He turned to one of the paramedics who sat next to him. “We need to give her pain relief. Is she allergic to anything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And is there a chance she could be pregnant?”

  “Um… I don’t think so. I guess anything is possible, she has been unwell… but not as far as I know.”

  “Okay,” the paramedic replied, his mind far beyond the garbled conversation. “Is she on any medication?”

  “I don’t know.” Why didn’t he know that simple detail?

  The paramedic turned and nodded to his colleague, who turned to a huge medical kit. “Cayetano, I suspect Luna has swelling in her brain. We need to relieve the pressure. As soon as we arrive, she will be put under anesthesia, to put her in a coma. Then they can assess what they are going to do.”

  “A coma?” Cayetano choked. “How bad is this? Do you think she’s brain damaged?”

  “We have to assume for now, and be careful with Luna. Cayetano, I have to say, Luna is very lucky right now. The damage is extensive. They will check all this with CAT and a MRI scans as soon as we arrive. It is possible her spine and neck have been damaged. She has taken a huge blow to the head.”

  “Did I hurt Luna when I moved her?”

  “I’m sorry, Cayetano. It’s too early to say, with so much swelling. The fact Luna remained breathing on her own as long as she did shows us how strong she is.”

  “But she will be all right… won’t she?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  33

  Valencia, España ~ Octobre de 1957

  Noise. José sat with his face in his hands, in an attempt to block out the noise. He sat at his new dining table by the living room window and listened to the rain bang against the glass. Though it rained a little less than last night, the city had been drenched. He felt seconds from exploding with rage and frustration.

  “My darling, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

  José looked up as he felt the gentle hand of his wife on his shoulder. She stood there with an expression of pure concern. “Nothing, Consuela. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Is it the noise of the children?”

  José glanced around his wife and watched his daughter on the rug. Pedro and Jaime sat with her, and they squealed with delight as Inés showed them her new toys. Baby Luis was asleep in the bedroom, bundled up on the first warm bed he had ever experienced.

  “The children are noisy,” José said with a sigh. “But nothing can be done about that.”

  “What happened last night?” Consuela asked. “You came home covered in mud and didn’t say a word.”

  José swallowed, and it all flashed before his eyes. He remembered dumping Carmelita’s soaked body in the back of Fermín’s new car, and they drove for miles in the torrential rain. José had no idea where they were, the villages of Náquera and little Serra provided nothing more than a brief respite from the loneliness and isolation of the Valencian mountains. Rain cascaded along the dirt roads, like miniature rivers, and José feared for his safety. Several times he asked Fermín to stop, to toss the body anywhere, but the angry Basque wanted to be as isolated as possible when they buried Carmelita.

  When Fermín seemed satisfied, they pulled Carmelita’s body from the car and hiked up a mountain with the lame excuse for a woman. The rain felt heavier than José had ever witnessed and the extreme dark made the hike so much harder. Fermín had a single torch to help them guide the way, but José felt lost. When they couldn’t walk any more, Fermín made the signal to dump Carmelita. With all the rain, no shovel was necessary; they stood on Carmelita until she sank into the mud. José remembered holding the torch; a lone hand stuck through the mud, with a cheap ring on her finger. He pressed his heavy boot down, and the final sign of life sank in the mud.

  “Nothing happened last night,” José said to Consuela. “Fermín and I… we… you know I can’t talk about what I do. You’re too good a woman to hear about what goes on in Valencia on a Saturday night.”

  “Where were you?” Consuela asked. “You couldn’t pick up mud in the El Carmen.”

  “No, I was over by the river,” José lied. “The water level is rising.”

  “I know, I listened to Radio Valencia while you were sleeping,” Consuela said as she turned her attention to the children. “They are saying many towns got much more rain than us. Lliria, Segorbe, Chelva, Requena and Buñol have received rainfall of 500 millimetres in the last two days.”

  “We may be all right here in Valencia,” José said to try to soothe his wife. “Perhaps the rainfall will flow into the rivers north and south of the city. But they did say, this morning when I left the station, we have to be on alert, in case any flooding threatens the city.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “We live on the fourth floor, so we’ll be fine. Besides, the river isn’t across the street, it would have to be a flood of epic proportions to come anywhere near here.”

  “When will the church call for the children?” Consuela asked.

  José looked down; in his absence, Consuela had bathed the children in the bucket Inés washed in, and put them in some of Inés’ less feminine clothes. Consuela had combed their jet-black hair, and they looked a far cry from the urchins who watched their mother get strangled last night. But they weren’t stupid; they watched José with caution. “I haven’t arranged all that, my dear. The truth is, things were out of hand last night, with all the rain. I rescued the children but didn’t make any plans to have them sent to the church.”

  “What if their mother is looking for them? Are you sure they’ve been abandoned?”

  José paused, to choose his words; the lie would stay with him for the rest of his life. “I’m afraid that Fermín and I found the body of their mother. There’s no one else to take these children; the woman had no family.”

  Consuela reached out and hugged her husband. “My poor darling, no wonder you’re so upset today. I wish I could help you.”

  José closed his eyes and rested his head on Consuela’s shoulder. He hated how often he lied to his wife. He heard Consuela sniff and he leaned away to face her. José watched her wipe a tear from her face. “What’s wrong
?”

  “They’re so precious,” Consuela said with another sniff. “To have no family… it’s so unfair. Why would God do this to them?”

  “The world is a cruel place.”

  “What you said last night, about keeping the children. Is that possible?”

  José raised his eyebrows. “Do you want three sons, Consuela? These three boys?”

  “Maybe it’s a sign, maybe they are meant to be our boys.”

  “We’ve had them just 24 hours, how can you be so sure you want them?”

  “I was sure I loved you in less time than that.” José could hear the pain his Consuela’s voice. She really wanted the children. “You said people fake birth certificates?”

  “They do, when they re-house children with new families. That way, their unfortunate beginning in life is hidden from the children as they grow. Their terrible beginnings can’t hurt them if they don’t know they’re adopted. But it’s a lie parents need to live with forever.”

  “I want to live with a lie.”

  José just looked his wife, who sat between his open legs, her hands on his knees. Consuela never lied, never cheated or stole. Yet she seemed so desperate; Consuela wanted to join the ranks of the child stealers. “Darling…”

  “Please, José. You said you could do anything for me. Do this for me.”

  José nodded. After all he had done last night, procuring the paperwork from Doctor Lugo wouldn’t be that hard. All he needed was the pre-signed paperwork backdated and the children would be Consuela’s. It seemed remarkable how easy it was to cheat the system. The paperwork would be handed into the Registro Civil, and the children would be theirs forever. José couldn’t despise the corrupt system that turned a blind eye when he made such a healthy profit from its injustice.

  “I need to make a phone call.”

  José left Consuela with the children, and ran downstairs to the phone that hung on the wall on the entrance of their building. He picked up the heavy black handle and punched in the number for the Guardia Civil barracks. He listened to the static ring in his ear and looked at the steps leading upstairs. The entrance way sat in almost darkness, paint peeling off the wooden stairs. Their days in Valencia had to be numbered.

  “Guardia Civil Casa-Cuartel,” a stern voice answered.

  “This is Teniente José Morales Ruiz, I need to speak with my partner, Teniente Fermín Belasco Ibarra, in room 212.”

  The officer didn’t say another word and José waited. He imagined Fermín being dragged from bed, the lazy son-of-a-bitch that he was. Minutes passed and José sighed with frustration.

  “Teniente Belasco.”

  “Fermín, it’s me.”

  “So polite of you to call. I see you still respect me in the morning,” he joked.

  “I need your help; I need you to get to Doctor Lugo’s office.”

  “Another baby to steal? Excellent.”

  “No, I need three birth certificates, already signed and approved by the church and doctor. It’s for those children from last night.”

  “You sold all three? Nice work!”

  “I didn’t sell them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my house.”

  “Your house?”

  “Why can’t I take three children for my wife? We have stolen plenty of babies who could have come home with me. Consuela wants these three, so I need the paperwork.”

  “Why do I need to do it?”

  “Because Lugo’s place is closer to you. Please, do me this favour.”

  “I gave you a favour last night when I helped you bury that whore. My car is a mess. I only got to fuck her once.”

  José closed his eyes. After they had dumped Carmelita on the back seat, Fermín clambered on top of her and José kept watch, as his fellow officer fucked a dead girl in his car. It was impossible to sink any lower now.

  “I watched you have sex with a dead prostitute and said nothing. I think we’re even. Please, Fermín…”

  “Okay, okay. But the doctor hates me. I may need to be mean, or at least threaten to grope his wife.”

  “Whatever, do whatever you need to do, but I need the paperwork today.”’

  “Why so urgent?”

  So I can get the fuck out of this city tonight. “To make my wife happy.”

  “Wives are so much work,” Fermín muttered. “I will go now and bring it to your place. See you soon.”

  José hung up the phone and turned around. Outside her door stood Aná, Consuela’s nosey friend who lived in the ground floor apartment. “Teniente Morales,” she said. “How are you?”

  “How long did you stand there and listen to me talk about official business?”

  “Long enough. I thought I heard crying from up the stairwell earlier. You stole three children?”

  “No,” José said and shook his large hands in the air. Shit. “No, no, Aná. You misunderstood.”

  “I heard a story, when I was in hospital with my last baby, of a woman who woke up and her son had gone. They said the baby died, but she thought the nuns had stolen him.”

  “That’s bullshit. That doesn’t happen. It’s 1957, and we live in a fair society.” Fucking liar.

  “You watched someone have … relations… with a dead woman?” Aná pressed him. “What have you been doing? What would Consuela say?”

  José had reached boiling point. Someone needed to hurt; someone had to take the pain away. He felt his skin grow cold and sweaty under his plain brown suit. His chest wouldn’t take a deep breath. Every time he blinked, he saw Carmelita’s hand sticking out of the mud. He saw the way her fingers broke as his boot crushed the last remaining sign of life into the mud. The feeling of the cold heavy rain poured over him long after he reached shelter. This vile slut, Aná, the woman who couldn’t keep her legs closed, had heard the whole conversation.

  “The trouble with women like you is that you don’t know when to shut up,” José muttered. The last thing he needed was for his voice to echo up the stairwell. While the building sat in silence, people could be at home, eager to hear a fight through the thin walls. “No wonder your husband ran away.”

  “My husband didn’t run away, he had to leave,” Aná said, and stood tall as she could, no match for the officer of six-foot-four.

  “Because he was a thief,” José said with a raised voice.

  “It sounds as if you’re the criminal,” Aná said. “Why do you think you can have sex with dead girls and get away with it?”

  “I did no such thing,” José growled and took a step towards her. Aná stepped back and glanced over the shoulder at the door to her shithole of an apartment, filled with her eight dirty children. The door had shut when she stepped out into the entrance way.

  “Consuela is too good for you,” Aná said and turned back to her door. José watched her turn the handle, but it had locked itself.

  Now or never. José lunged forward and pulled Aná by her long black braid. She fell back against him, and he clapped one hand over her mouth. Aná poked a thin sharp elbow in José’s ribs, but he was too angry to feel the feeble move. With a single twist, he pulled Aná around and threw her down on the concrete, and she slid under the stairs out of sight. Before she could scream for help, José jumped on top of her, his hand back over her mouth. He watched the fear in her dark eyes, and smiled. Carmelita had the same look; the one that made José feel invincible. Women had to be shown their place, and Consuela could never learn the truth about his behaviour.

  “You won’t tell my wife anything, will you?”

  Aná shook her head, no more than a whimper underneath José’s huge hand that covered half the small woman’s face.

  “Yes, you will, you gossiping little whore.”

  “Please,” Aná mumbled under his hand. José took loosened his grip against her face to let her beg for mercy. “Please,” she said again as she gasped for air, “I have eight children. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m sure we could find good Catho
lic homes for them,” José said with a smile. “I grew up in an orphanage. Of course, the beatings you get… the… the abuse…” José paused. The wandering hands of the priests late at night. Even he couldn’t subject a child to such a thing. No boy’s first sensual delight should come courtesy of a priest’s hand.

  “Your daughter could end up there if you go to prison,” Aná hissed. “If you hurt me, you’ll pay for it.”

  José grabbed Aná by the throat and thumped her head hard against the concrete. It seemed to stun her enough that she didn’t make a sound. He sat up and grabbed her shoulders, lifted her and slammed her down again, watching her head bounce like a ball. Bang, bang, bang. He had never felt so strong; the crunching noise he heard inside her body as he thumped her over and over made him more determined. His hands began to hurt and he let go, satisfied with his actions. Aná lay still, her eyes wide open, glassy and lifeless. José noticed a thin dark red trail of blood in her ear. Problem solved.

  José shoved Aná in the corner under the old wooden stairs, folded up and out of sight. He crawled out into the entrance way, and straightened his suit jacket. What had happened to him? Life had come apart in a way never imagined. José opened the large front door to the building and looked out. The street cascaded with water from the torrential downpour. The sky looked dark and menacing; the rain had no intention of letting go of Valencia.

  José stood in the doorway just back from the water and fumbled in his pocket. No cigarettes. He didn’t want to go upstairs and see Consuela; he couldn’t look her in the eye and say everything was all right. Everything was a fucking disaster. His hands continued to ache from smashing Aná against the concrete, just a few metres away from her own front door. The kill had been swift and silent; it appeared no one, not even Aná’s young children through the wall, heard a thing. How as he supposed to cover up this kill? A prostitute was easy to hide and forget, though a single mother of eight hungry children wasn’t on anyone’s high priority list either.

  Though the rain, José saw Fermín, one hand tucked under his jacket as he ran, his face hard as he attempted to get through the rain. He splashed his way through the puddles on the cobbles, and José stepped back so his partner in crime and crime-fighting could come indoors.