“Men to rule over women.”
“For protection. All Papí ever wanted to do was protect them, so let Paco do that for him.”
“Whatever you want.”
Cayetano stopped as tears rolled down his face. “I’m a horrible person,” he mumbled.
Luna pulled him into her embrace, blood be damned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because José is dead, and all I can think is that I’m glad he died in his accident, instead of you in your accident.”
They stood in the summer heat, on the dusty earth of Rebelión and didn’t speak another word. The coming minutes would be filled with tears and agony, confusion and grief, with the same wails of pain all bullrings heard in their halls during moments of loss.
47
Madrid, España ~ Julio de 2010
Luna shivered and pretended it was because they were deep in the belly of the chapel at Almudena cemetery. Despite the potency of the Madrid sun outside, it was chilly inside the small domed chapel, but not enough to shiver. Luna looked at up at the gold altar before her and shivered because of the creepy fascists in the back rows.
The place filled to the brim with people José touched throughout his life, most elderly like himself. The first rows filled with the large Morales family and Luna felt out of place. Consuela sat dressed all in black, with a traditional black veil over her face. She had looked ready to perish of a broken heart from the moment Paco informed her of the accident. Her distraught daughter sat next to her, dressed almost identical as she wept for her father. Paco sat with Inés, and attempted to soothe her pain, but he looked far from upset himself. Cayetano also couldn’t bring himself to shed a tear; he still felt shocked by the whole scenario. Luna sat on the end with Sofía, uncomfortable under her long black wig while Giacomo and Enzo sat at her feet. If there was a God, and Luna didn’t suspect there was, they would be quiet throughout the epic speeches and religious hymns. Fabrizio had a Catholic funeral back in Sicily, but this took the cake. The only thing more oppressive than the Catholic rituals was the fascist salutes. José’s old friends made a fascist-salute guard of honour along the aisle as the casket came into the dark, solemn chapel.
Cayetano touched Luna’s arm, and she snapped from her daydream. She did try to listen, she did; after all, José had been a husband, a father, a grandfather, despite his chequered history. He loved Cayetano and had given him time and care. But the heavy religious droll and blatant political hatred spewed by friends and colleagues marred the entire event.
“Are you all right on your own again?” Cayetano whispered.
“Of course,” Luna replied. “You need to go and do your part.”
Cayetano had already given a speech as heartfelt as any man could give to a grandfather who had nurtured and trusted him. He stood at the altar as he spoke next to the priest. Cayetano spoke of all those things that no one else could experience with José. A young boy given time and patience, of a young man given guidance, and of a grown and successful torero given the confidence to go out into the world. As with all funerals, what a person meant to an individual could only be understood when tragedy struck.
Luna stood up and smoothed her plain black dress. The chapel had fallen into silence again. She watched Cayetano lift the casket from its resting place, Paco across of him. Behind them, José’s sons, Pedro, Jaime and Luis took up their places, along with grandson Miguel, who had always been so fond of José. The coffin moved past José’s tearful wife and daughter, daughters-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and through the cluster of old men, who gave a fascist salute. Consuela stepped out behind her husband’s coffin, held by Inés and Sofía and Luna took her sons by the hand and followed, alongside the litany of family members. She caught the gaze of the old men, who responded with a polite nod. The whole thing seemed wrong in 2010.
They stepped out into the sun, which stung the eyes of many tearful mourners. Luna stood to one side with Giacomo and Enzo, sweating in their suits as José’s body got loaded into the hearse. Almudena cemetery was the resting place of over five million people, so walking to the burial spot was nigh impossible. Cayetano mentioned that José had brought a grave for him and Consuela when they were young so they could secure a place among ‘their’ people. That translated to fascists, away from the poor filth of anyone who wasn’t as pious as themselves.
As the family and friends all drifted away in search of their air-conditioned cars to take them to the wake, Cayetano dodged the other guests to stand with Luna. He looked hot in his perfect black suit. “Has the whole charade got the better of you yet? If it has, I can say you’re not well, and we can leave.”
“Don’t use my head injury as an excuse to skip out on your grandfather’s funeral.”
“I loved my grandfather as I knew him. I don’t love everything celebrated here today.”
“My mother’s brother, he was a freemason. He died when I was 15. My father and I went to the funeral, and it was all very brotherhood-like. I understand weird.”
“Freemasonry? Jesus Christ, don’t say that too loud around here. The old guys may set up a firing squad.”
“They can dump me with the Republicans in the modest graves. I’m the grand-daughter of a man who was a Republican soldier, himself a bastard child of the King. My mother’s family were freemasons. I could give these old guys a heart attack.”
“Imagine if they knew of Papá’s secret left-wing ideals,” Cayetano muttered under his breath. “Is nothing sacred? I can’t mourn my grandfather because of all this nut-job ideology.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“No, I don’t mean you. You’ve been nothing but patient. I mean, fascist salutes? Franco has been dead since 1975 – get over it.”
“I’m surprised José didn’t want to be buried with Franco in Valle de los Caídos.”
“Trust me, if that had been possible, José would have tried.”
“I don’t even think Franco was a fascist. He was just a short-ass dude who clung on to whatever and whoever would keep him in power.”
“José isn’t in the ground yet, and already you could make him turn in his grave.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Trust me, if there had been a way to change that afternoon in the ring, I would have saved José.”
“Is it wrong to mourn part of a man?”
“Not at all, Caya. Of course you can mourn José for who he was to you, and to your parents, as well. He loved you all very much. I’m sorry that I made the last year you had together so difficult.”
Cayetano just shook his head as he pulled a hand of the pocket of his suit trousers. He placed his hand on her back and leaned close, so no one overheard the conversation. “The moment José died, he looked at you. He knew what you would find at Escondrijo, and when you promised not to tell the secret, he died happy. Now we have to keep that secret.”
“Or José will come back to haunt us.”
“Exactly,” Cayetano said and smiled despite his sad demeanour.
“I don’t want to do anything that could hurt another person. If José gets away with something evil, so be it. I’m done with digging up lives.”
“Liar.” Cayetano kissed Luna’s cheek and wandered in the direction of his beckoning father.
Luna turned and smoothed Enzo’s tie for him. “Mummy, it’s so hot,” he moaned.
“I know, darling, I know. Only a few people are going to the gravesite while José is buried. We can go to the car and cool down, and wait for Caya to come back.”
“You should call him Papá now,” Giacomo said.
“My apologies, young sir, you’re correct,” Luna said, and they both smiled in return.
“Luna?”
Luna found Consuela and Sofía behind her. “I’m sorry, do I need to do something?”
“No, my dear, but I would like to talk to you,” Consuela said.
“I’ll take the boys to the car in the shade if you like, Luna,” S
ofía offered.
“Thank you, they’re getting tired.”
“Come and play with all other cousins, boys,” Sofía said, and the pair went with their almost-aunt. “Let’s add some happiness to the afternoon.”
Luna’s watchful eye saw her boys skip off with Sofía as Consuela pulled her veil up, to reveal her expression full of grief. “I want to thank you,” Consuela said. “You were there with my husband at the final moment. I could not have faced such a prospect.”
“I understand; in hindsight, I’m grateful I didn’t see my first husband pass away.”
“The grief is distressing enough, even without the image. José died with Paco and Caya with him, at Rebelión, the home of his dreams.”
“If there is anything I can do…” Luna had heard the phrase so many times, and hated herself for repeating it. It was always a hollow promise.
“There is one thing,” Consuela said. The old woman glanced over her shoulder, to see the crowd had thinned. “I’m going to bury my husband now, with my daughter, my sons, and Paco and Caya by my side. José loved his whole family, but there was a bond between him and Inés. She was our daughter, and she meant the world to José. We had three sons, which I have loved since the moment I laid my eyes on them. José worried, his whole life that he couldn’t be a devoted father to Pedro, Jaime and Luis. He worried they wouldn’t love him, respect him. They do, of course, but José feared otherwise. Whatever you find at Escondrijo, and I’m not quite sure what you will find, but please don’t destroy our family.”
“José said the same time as he was dying.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I promised him that I would protect everyone.”
“Since the day my children came to me in Valencia, I knew there was a secret that José never told me. I couldn’t bear to uncover the truth. I have my darling daughter, and God saw it fit to give me three sons. Some details in the process are irrelevant. José was the love of my life, for better or worse. I felt prepared to live with a lie for more than fifty years, and José agreed to live with it beside me. If you love Caya, and if you value the love a man can give to children who aren’t his own, you’ll learn to live with my lie.”
Luna nodded, and Consuela turned in the direction of Inés and Paco, who waited nearby. Luna shook her head in disbelief, unable to understand why Consuela wanted her to lie. The story was far from solved.
As Cayetano joined his family to head over to the burial site, Luna noticed Miguel leave his father Pedro and head in the direction of the cars. “Miguel!”
Miguel turned and looked back at Luna with a worried face. He dabbed a few beads of sweat from his forehead and came back.
“Do you need help?” he asked. “Everyone is talking about how you should be in your wheelchair.”
“I should be, but I don’t really want to use it today. Yes, I would appreciate someone walking with me, in case I fall.”
“How are you? You look terrific. Your wig looks very realistic.”
“I’m still bald, and my brain is so busy healing that I sleep twelve hours a day. But, when required, I can cope on my own.”
“I’ll walk you to the car if you need some help.”
“I need to ask you something first. I’ve wanted to ask you something for a while, but you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I can answer your question right now. I don’t know why I kissed you that day. I became confused; I had a lot of emotions and I mixed them up with signals I got from a beautiful woman… It’s all my fault, and I shouldn’t have done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.”
“Thank you, but that wasn’t the question. Did you push me off the mountain eight weeks ago?”
Miguel’s eyes bulged. “What?”
“I didn’t fall at Escondrijo, I didn’t slip. Someone pushed me. The only people at Escondrijo were the dig team, who had no motive to hurt me. My two beautiful children were there, and are now so traumatised that they slide into bed with me each night because they’re scared I’m going to die. Caya was there, and I hope he didn’t push me. That leaves you and Darren James.”
“I didn’t push you, I swear. After we had the argument, I left Escondrijo. Angry? Yes. Vengeful? No. Why would someone push you?”
“I don’t know. But someone did. You were there to spy on me for José.”
“Spy on you, not hurt you. José didn’t want you to get injured. He saw what it did to Caya. He wouldn’t ask me to hurt you, and even if he did, I wouldn’t do that. I’m my own man.”
“In that case, yes, I will walk with you to the car.”
“I’m glad you believe me,” Miguel remarked as they strolled in the heat outside the brown and white chapel. Large trees swayed in the slight breeze, but the air seemed hot with every movement.
“Life is hard enough without feeling suspicious as well.”
“How are you?”
“I lost a baby three weeks ago. I’m sure everyone is talking about it.”
“They are,” Miguel nodded. “It’s because they care. You and Caya have suffered a significant loss.”
“You were right; you touched me and said I felt pregnant.”
“So you believe my psychic abilities now?”
“I didn’t say that,” Luna replied with a smile.
“Have you found out any more about the bodies at Escondrijo? How did the dig go? Caya mentioned they had finished digging at the site.”
“The four bodies are all here in Madrid now. I’m not sure what will happen to them. It’s too early to say, and there’s a lengthy bureaucratic process to go through, as there always is in Spain.”
“The DNA tests?”
Luna looked at Miguel, and he frowned. “You know something. And don’t joke about psychic abilities; it’s written all over your face.”
“Jorge just said there was a small problem with your sample. You might need to do the swab again.”
“Why?”
“Cross-contamination with the sample.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know the whole story. Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this now. We’re at a funeral.”
Miguel glanced around; they had reached the car-park. Behind the vehicles, the first of millions of graves sat in silence. A few Spanish flags fluttered in the breeze over some of the headstones. “Now is an excellent time to talk about things. At moments like this, people don’t hold anything back, they speak with honesty.”
“Yes, but sometimes, you say things and it takes you down a path that you can’t go back up again. I don’t want to speak out of turn.”
“Can you just tell me what’s going on with my DNA sample?”
Luna sighed. “Jorge said that your DNA sample was a partial match for one of the bodies. That’s why Jorge suggested cross-contamination because a match is an impossibility.”
“No, it’s not. I told you I felt drawn to the bodies. I said they were my people.”
“But they aren’t. All your people are here.”
“Let’s not fuck around with the truth. José knew the identity of those bodies. Why else would he be so damn upset?”
Consuela words rang in Luna’s ears. We have to live with a lie.
“Have you noticed how tía Ines looks like Mamí Consuela?”
“Mother and daughter are a mirror image.”
“Have you noticed how I look like my father, Pedro?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed that neither Pedro, Jaime or Luis look like José or Consuela?”
“It happens. I didn’t look much like either of my parents.”
“And sometimes, it happens because your father isn’t your real father.”
“What? The body in question was a woman, about 20 years old. It’s not as if Pedro’s natural father is in that hole. That’s impossible.”
“My father has often said he feels like he doesn’t belong in the Morales family. He said that tía Inés was the golden daughter, who married the perfect bullfight
er, and they had the perfect son, Caya. The number one grandson, as José always said.”
“What are you trying to say? That Consuela and José aren’t Pedro’s parents?”
Miguel shrugged, and his suit bunched on his tall frame. “My father looks just like his brothers, Jaime and Luis. But they don’t look like their sister, Inés.”
“So what?”
“Perhaps the 20 year-old woman is their mother.”
We have to live with a lie. Luna paused and thought about it; it wasn’t as ludicrous as it first sounded. “We should talk to Caya.”
“Once he’s back from burying José, as the only grandson invited to the private burial…”
Luna and Miguel shared a look as they joined Sofía and the kids by the car. The pair felt the waft of chilled air and polite conversation, but the discussion in the Madrid heat wouldn’t go away.
48
Madrid, España ~ Julio de 2010
A reticence hung inside the halls of Rebelión. Luna sat in her wheelchair, in the library, and looked around at the photos that hung on the walls. The large room had been decorated with family photos, with no room to spare. On a rainy night almost a year ago, she and Cayetano stood and studied the wedding photo of Luna Beltrán to Falangist Ignacio Velez. Luna also had considerable interest in the photo of Paco and Franco. She wheeled herself over to the photo behind the old desk and looked at again. In the grainy black and white image, Paco looked so happy in his bullfighting costume, and Franco looked as much of a miserable shit as ever. Old and miserable. Luna stood up from the wheelchair to study the picture further; the way Paco smiled reminded her so much of Cayetano. Their love of being in the ring wouldn’t be ruined by José’s sad accident.
Luna felt a hand on her back, and she squealed with fright. She put a hand on the wall to hold herself steady and spun around to find Cayetano, with a shocked expression. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was going to put my arms around you, which seems very foolish,” he said and stepped back.
Secrets of Spain Trilogy Page 86