Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  There it was; a flicker. Luna’s hand moved in his. He looked up in a panic, to see her long black eyelashes move a little. Cayetano stood up over her and watched as she attempted to open her eyes. Every time she got her eyelids open, her pupils rolled back in her head. Cayetano knew he should call for the doctor, but he didn’t want to just yet. He watched her try to open her mouth, and her jaw dropped as if she couldn’t hold it in closed. Her bottom lip sunk into her mouth, enough to hold her tongue in place. He brought his hand to her chin and closed her mouth for her, and he saw her eyes flick to him. She could see.

  “Preciosa, can you hear me?” he asked without letting go of her chin. “Can you move your hand for me?” He felt her little hand in hers clutch on to him and shake it a little. She could hear him. It meant so much to Cayetano that he thought his heart might burst in his chest. What to ask? “Luna, do you know who I am?” She squeezed his hand again, and he beamed. The doctor had discussed all sorts of brain damage, short-term memory loss, long-term memory loss… anything could have been lost in her head.

  “Luna, darling,” he said. “You’re in the hospital. Do you know what happened?” He watched her bloodshot eyes look around her as they widened. “No, no, it’s all right,” he tried to reassure her. “Stay still, sweetheart. Don’t move.”

  Luna’s eyes searched his face, looking for something, but he had no idea what she was thinking. Cayetano was afraid of what he would learn when she woke up. But she was responsive and able to make a fist, which was more than first expected. He watched her try to open her mouth again, and again it dropped open. He put his hand to her chin to help her, and it hurt him. She couldn’t even open her own mouth. Her lips were dry and cracked from being forced open with the ventilator, which added to the cuts and bruises all over her beautiful face. She must have been trying to say something, but nothing more than a raspy dry sound came out. “Luna, you don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Yes and no is more than enough.”

  “I…” she managed to slur. “I…”

  “I?”

  “W… w… we…wif…wif…”

  “With?”

  “Y… y… yo…” Luna stopped as she became breathless.

  “I’m with you?” he asked, and she tightened her hand in his. “I’m with you? Luna, you… you could hear me?” Tears sprung to his eyes as she squeezed his hand again. He leaned over and rested his cheek against hers, and just sobbed. She had come back to him at last; she could respond and move a hand. That was all they needed for now. “Oh, Luna,” he whispered in her ear, “I love you so much, I’m so sorry this happened.” She held his hand so tight as he tried to pull himself together.

  He sat up again, and she opened and closed her sore eyes. She frowned, but he couldn’t work out what was wrong. Maybe her eyes were adjusting to light in the room. Maybe she was in pain. She shook his hand a little. “What?”

  “K… k…”

  “Kids?” Another squeeze. “The children are fine, I promise. Everyone is looking after them, my whole family came from Madrid to help out. I know you like to do it yourself, but you had a fall, la chispa. At Escondrijo, you hit your head, so you have to stay still. Do you remember?”

  He watched her ice-blue eyes dart back and forward as she struggled to communicate.

  Cayetano wiped his tears and leaned over and pressed the buzzer for the nurse. The doctor wanted to know straight away if she woke up. He had an impulse to tell Luna about the baby, but it wasn’t the right time. She was conscious and responsive, but only just. Her eyes kept rolling back as she tried to stay awake. He brought his hand to her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. Luna stared back at Cayetano whenever she managed to focus on him. It struck him how much he missed her voice. He just wanted to her talk to him, about anything.

  The silence in the room broke when the nurse came in, and her face lit up when she saw Luna awake. “Let me get Doctor Roig,” she said and scurried from the room again.

  “You have a good doctor, preciosa,” Cayetano said. “He has been taking excellent care of you. He will be very happy to see you awake.”

  Luna took a deep shuddering breath. “Pa… pies… push…”

  “Push?”

  Luna squeezed his hand tight and took a deep breath. “Push.”

  “Push what, sweetheart?”

  Doctor Roig rushed in with great pace and went straight to the bedside. “Great timing,” he said to Cayetano. “I was just about to head into emergency surgery.” He leaned right over Luna and checked her eyes, which looked back at the unfamiliar face. “Hello, Luna,” he said loud and clear. “I’m your doctor. Can you see me?”

  Cayetano felt her squeeze his hand. “I think she is using her hand to answer.”

  “It’s marvellous that her brain is making that connection. Luna, can you try to move Cayetano’s hand for me?”

  Cayetano grinned as Luna shook his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was there. “Excellent,” the doctor continued. He held his finger up to her face. “Can you look at my hand?” He moved back and forward through her line of sight, and her eyes followed him with a slight stagger in her pupils. “Her eyes are bloodshot, but that is to be expected. There is no sense in getting her to do anything now. She will continue to drift in and out of consciousness for at least two to three more days before we can keep her awake. Plus she needs to be told what’s going on in small stages. For now, it’s about keeping her calm and still. I know how hard that is. Don’t worry, progress will be made.”

  “I will do anything.”

  “It could take days before she is fully conscious. Calm, relaxed, still. Let’s not stress her at this stage. Little steps.”

  “But she’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “She is awake and alert, and that is an excellent sign. Sorry, but I have to go. If she loses consciousness again, don’t be alarmed. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Cayetano waited for the doctor and nurse to leave and looked at Luna, who squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be fine, preciosa. You have a bang on your head and a broken arm. You have to stay still.”

  “Push,” she managed to say with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t know what you are trying to say.”

  “Me… push… me… hill…”

  “Pushed you? Someone pushed you? On the mountain?”

  Luna shook his hand again and closed her eyes. “Boys…” she uttered. “Need boys.”

  “Yes, I will get the boys to come and visit you today, I promise.”

  Cayetano watched Luna fade back into her depths of sleep. Someone pushed her? She remembered being pushed. Shit. Cayetano remembered José’s words earlier that morning. When you think maybe the worst is over, it never is.

  39

  Valencia, España ~ Octobre de 1957

  José cried out, but no one could hear him, not over the sound of the water. His sore hands clung to the head of a statue, and he sobbed like a newborn, scared and alone. Death was close now. Rational decisions couldn’t be made. As the waters rose on Puente de la Trinidad, José had no choice but to let go and grab a passing log as it floated over the bridge itself. No sooner had he grabbed it, it spun and became caught in debris piling its way over the edge of the river and onto the Valencian streets. The water had delivered him onto his side of the riverbed. The log smashed against a pole and José got knocked off his saviour and into the rapids. He grabbed the only thing he could feel in the darkness; the statue of Valencian artist José Ribera, and clambered against the 16th century painter. The statue stood tall above the waterline and José felt safe, safe enough to burst into tears.

  A few deep breaths and José began to realise where he was. José Ribera stood in a familiar place, in Plaza Poeta Llorente, next to the government building he so often waited outside and watched the dry river spread out before him. He and Fermín had stood on the corner right here the day they hatched the baby stealing plan. None of the buildings in the plaza had lights. The trees that lined the r
iver whipped in the breeze and the river roared just across the street. José felt dark water rushing past his feet; he and his namesake would both be underwater if the flood continued to rise. José wanted to cry for help, but his voice had gone. Fermín. Fermín was dead. What if his body, the body of his friend, whom he drowned, floated past? No, it must have floated downstream, hopefully far away. He thought for a second; all those people living in a single level homes by the beach; this was all heading in their direction. No one would be saved. No one on the other side of the river would be saved.

  José felt a drop of water and glanced up; the rain was back. The heavens opened in a cruel tirade. As if there wasn’t enough water. Good old José Ribera’s shiny metal head became more slippery to grasp as it began to rain, so much so the drops hurt José’s already beaten body. He couldn’t hold Ribera’s neck for very long.

  A single light burst through the darkness and José looked up in its direction, it too bright for his eyes. He could make out the high stone wall of the former temple, now part of the 400-year-old government building. In the single small window, a light shone straight at him. With all his strength, José lifted his arm and hoped they would hear his voice over the water. The light spun away from him, and in the little window, José could see two men, both in uniform like himself. One held the light, the other a rope. He was 10 metres from the wall of the building, but they were about five metres up, though the water must have been at least half that height already. José paused and thought of the little girl hauled in by the rope on the other side of the river. If she could do that, then José could save himself.

  He watched one officer throw the rope, but he didn’t see the end and it floated off in the torrent between them. He watched against the light in the tiny window as they pulled it to start again. This time, perhaps by the hand of God, the rope slapped José in the face. The moment he felt the hard vicious slap, he grabbed the thick rope. This was it. No sooner than he had the bravery to put both hands around the rope, he fell off the statue and into the gush of muddy water. He felt the officers pull of the other end, and he was back above the surface. They pulled with big disorganised jerks, and José slammed his face against the stone wall and cried out. Today is not the day to die. He slapped the soles of his boots against the wall and pulled the rope, to climb the sheer wet bricks. He glanced up through the pouring rain and saw three men now in the window, a fourth holding the light. As he got closer, José slapped one hand out at the window frame, and another man grabbed it. Through the rain and the shock, José felt an army of hands against him. When his legs followed his body through the window and he fell onto the floor head first, the world went black.

  José took a few deep breaths and wondered if he had died. The sound of the water didn’t fill his mind anymore, instead a sharp pain burst through his senses as he tried to open his eyes. The sound of the water had disappeared. Yes, death had come.

  “Morales,” a voice said through the fog, and José opened his eyes to a familiar face standing over him. José put one hand out and felt the cold granite floor beneath him. He coughed and his throat burned; nothing made any sense.

  “Don’t move too much,” said Teniente López, his friend from the station, the man who introduced José to Doctor Lugo. “You’ve been out cold for hours.”

  José pulled himself up and leaned against the stone wall. It all came back; rescue came through the tiny side window of the Valencian government building that lined the river. The river. “What’s happening?” his tired voice managed to croak.

  “It’s daylight. The river has receded.”

  José tried to stumble to his feet, but his head pounded and all he could manage was to lean against the wall, one hand against the shoulder of his comrade. “I have to get to my wife.”

  “Everyone wants to get out there and see what is happening and check on the population. The water has been going down; soon we may be able to get out on foot.”

  “How dreadful is it out there?” José stumbled away from his colleague towards the nearest window. He squinted as the sun rose over the sea in the far distance. He made out Puente de la Trinidad, which now had water rushing under it, rather than gushing over the edge and into the streets. The trees that lined the river looked broken; several cars sat with just the roofs poking out of the filthy water. Across the Turia, the Cinderella-like Ripalda castle seemed surrounded by water and the nearby Jardines del Real gardens were indistinguishable under the water. The grandiose Bellas Artes museum also sat submerged across the riverbed.

  “It’s bad,” López said behind him, and José turned. Around the room sat tired officers, all wet and despondent. No doubt everyone had somewhere they would rather be, but at least they were safe above the flood waters.

  “All the phone lines are destroyed. The radio says that the areas by the port, El Grau, Las Arenas and Malvarrosa, and the town of Nazaret were all washed away. Campanar over the river is gone.”

  “That’s where I was,” José mumbled. “I got washed across the river. My partner, Teniente Belasco… he… he got swept away from me.”

  “I’m sorry.” López looked at his muddy boots for a moment. “Perhaps we can locate him. We need everyone we can get, so when the waters recede we can patrol the streets. We’ve already called Castellon, on the last phone line left working, so they can contact Madrid. They’re saying we’re going to need military intervention. There is talk of getting army helicopters in the sky soon, to survey how awful the damage is, and who needs help.”

  “I have to get out there,” José said and pushed himself away from the window. There had to be a way out of the building.

  “We haven’t coordinated any rescue or clean-up operations yet,” López replied.

  “I don’t care!” José cried, and all the others around the room stopped and listened to the desperate man. “I’m going to my place, by Plaza de la Virgen, to survey the damage. If you want to sit by the radio, that’s your choice!”

  “Morales!” López called, but José made a run for the stairs. He felt dizzy with every step, but he didn’t care. He must have spent a solid four or five hours unconscious, and that was time his family could have been in danger. José knew the building had a simple back entrance that led out onto Calle del Almirante and that would make him minutes from home.

  A sight greeted him as José stumbled down the dark stone staircase. The bottom floor of the building was under water. Mud lined the walls, and told him the water level had already decreased. Without hesitation, José kept going and took the last few steps as the freezing water soaked his clothes. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, the water up to his hips. Hours ago it would have been well over his head. The metal door was open; the water must have forced its way inside, with everyone upstairs huddled in safety. Who knew what he was about to find out on the streets.

  José stepped outside, and the silence amazed him. Water continued to power past in the riverbed, but the water in the streets lay still. He began to walk down the water-filled street, and his feet began to sink into what he assumed was mud on the road surface. He waded along, looking at the three story buildings around him. No one could be seen. The tiny balconies on the second floors were wet with mud. The water reached José’s chest, and it had been much worse in the night.

  José put a hand out and rested against the stonework of the Iglesias de San Esteban. The church would be flooded, and no souls stirred there. Here or anywhere. José rested his aching head against the muddy stone wall and wanted to cry. If he hadn’t done all these horrible things, he would have been in the city when the bells rang to warn of the impending deluge. He wouldn’t have been out in the mountains, burying bodies in Fermín’s stupid hiding place. If it wasn’t for the stupid baby plan, none of this would have happened. Carmelita, Aná, Adán, Rosalía and Fermín wouldn’t be dead. All those babies wouldn’t be stolen, and José could have been at home with his wife and daughter when they needed him. They wouldn’t have been alone in the darkness,
scared of the rising waters.

  José opened his tired eyes when he heard a voice. He looked across the narrow street to see a woman up on the third floor balcony. “Officer,” the old woman cried. José could hear the fear in her voice. “Officer, I need help!” she called down to him as she hung over the balcony.

  José took a few deep breaths and waited for his dizziness to clear. “What’s wrong, Señora?” he called up to her.

  “My son,” she wailed, “my son is missing. I haven’t seen him all night! I don’t know where he could be!”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, my family is here, except my precious boy.”

  The woman’s son could be anywhere; he could be full of water by now. “Señora, please stay in your home,” José called out. “Please, wait for the water to recede before you come down here. We’re going to search the city the best we can as the sun rises. Everything is going to be all right.” For the briefest moment, José felt like himself again. An officer, there to help people, like he had wanted to be before life went off the rails.

  “God be with you, my son,” the woman said.

  José started to wade through the water as he pushed himself onto Calle de Almudín towards home. The water seemed a fraction shallower, as if he had headed uphill. Without water against his chest, he could breathe a little easier. José stopped as he passed the tiny Calle de la Farina and saw a car. The muddy water marks indicated it had been submerged during the night. José swore he could see someone sitting in the front seat. Please, God, no. José pushed through the water as fast as he could, and the mud slipped beneath his feet. As he approached the vehicle, his instinct told him a gruesome discovery would be made, and he needed to find it before an innocent member of the public.

  José pulled the car door open against the weight of the knee-high water, and mud spilled off the body in the front seat. Some poor bastard had been trapped when the water spilled into the streets. But even this seemed shocking for José. He recognised the once-white vestment of the priest; it was Padre Nefando, the baby thief. José wiped mud from the dead man’s face, his eyes grey and swollen. The evil priest had drowned in his own car in an alley behind the Archbishops Palace. What the hell was he supposed to do now? José glanced up; all the homes were silent, no doubt filled with residents asleep, the fear of rising water gone. José pushed Padre Nefando, and his body slumped onto the passenger’s seat. He made an awful splat sound when his lifeless face landed in a sea of mud. That would leave him undiscovered until José could get back to him. Right now, all that mattered was Consuela and Inés.