Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  Jaime leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. He noticed a little dust on his sleeve, which had rubbed against the ancient stone wall next to him. Without thinking, he brushed the dust and white paint chips from the dry-cleaned navy fabric, and adjusted his dark tie.

  “See?” the woman laughed. “Rich boy doesn’t want to get his fancy clothes dirty in a working class bar.”

  “As if an insult from some poor girl with an attitude problem will bother me.”

  “Don’t you care about the state of our country? Police beating innocent people, the media silenced, workers’ rights non-existent, women’s rights in line with those of animals. Is life comfortable for you, rich boy?”

  “You assume I’m rich and care about no one because my clothes are clean? Because I combed my hair? Should I resemble a street dog, just to appear more sympathetic to the cause of the working man, like you?” The woman before Jaime was a pretty young girl but seemed to hide the fact. Alazne had short hair, bleached blonde, harsh like her thin features. Her clothes looked wrinkled, worn for several days non-stop. Her nails looked chipped and worn; blisters on her thumbs spoke of hard labour. A bruise on her left wrist was doing its best to heal. She had the top few buttons of her blouse undone. Beads of sweat ran down her young skin towards curves that her clothes didn’t hide in the sticky summer heat.

  “Mujer, you’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t care what you’re talking about with your friends. Can’t I have peace and a drink after a long day in this bloody city?”

  “You from out of town?”

  “Madrid.”

  “What brings you to Valencia?”

  “Business.”

  “Ah, so you are a rich city boy.”

  “And you’re an annoying Basque woman with a chip on her shoulder.”

  “Why do you hate Basques so much?”

  “I don’t, I was in San Sebastian just a month ago.”

  “What for?”

  “Work. Why do you care?”

  “What work takes you all over the country? Are you with the police?”

  Jaime saw fear run through the woman’s features. He could see it now; Alazne had become consumed with the worry she had harassed an undercover Guardia Civil. Though he would never say so, Jaime quite liked the look on her face; his father had spent years eliciting fear in people the same way. But Jaime also felt a tinge of guilt for scaring the girl; he had no desire for her light brown eyes to fill with dread. “I’m not in the police.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I work in bullfighting.”

  “You’re a torero?”

  “No, mozo de espadas.”

  “Ah, like an assistant to the torero?”

  “I’m a sword handler. I handle the torero equipment, swords, capes, anything he needs. I travel with him, discuss the bulls before the fight, encourage him, make sure he feels prepared.”

  “Like an assistant.”

  “An expert opinion and who takes care of all essential needs.”

  “Like an assistant.”

  Jaime sighed. “Whatever you say. Why are you asking?”

  “I find you interesting.”

  “You thought me threatening seconds ago.”

  “That why I’m interested.”

  Jaime frowned; the girl had softened a little. “Alazne, was it?”

  “Alazne Mariñelarena.”

  “One surname?”

  “Yes, the one of my mother. My father remains a mystery. His surname was Belasco, but I don’t use it, my father was a pig. My mother raised me alone, in Segovia.”

  “That’s a long way from the Basque Country.”

  “It’s a long story. What’s your name?”

  “Jaime Morales Pena.”

  “And what brings Jaime-boy to this little bar in the poor part of the city?”

  “Like I said, a little peace.”

  “Where is the torero?”

  “At the hotel, I assume.”

  “I thought perhaps he was giving a quick fuck to some girl nearby and you’re waiting. Rich boys love to come and take advantage in dodgy parts of town.”

  “Is that a fact?” Jaime sighed. “No, Paco is married to my sister, who has given him two children, so he had better be fast asleep at the hotel.”

  “Paco? Like that famous torero guy? The one on the posters all over town?”

  “Paco ‘El Potente’ Beltrán Caño? Yes, that is my brother-in-law.”

  “Rich boy has a famous family.”

  “You despise me without even knowing me.”

  “Jaime-boy, you are no different. You heard my words to my new friends, and I saw you look at me with contempt.”

  “And yet you are sitting here, trying to learn my life story.”

  “Maybe I am. Tell me something about yourself. Why are you so against what I stand for?”

  “What do you stand for, Señorita Alazne?”

  “Political amnesty, trade union freedom, freedom to strike, freedom to legalise political parties, the freedom of the press, for a judiciary independent of the government and its ruling families.”

  “You don’t ask for much.”

  “I ask for the world, and I’m prepared to work to gain all of it.”

  “By hurting people, Basque style?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Cafetería Rolando,” Jaime snapped. “One year ago. ETA terrorists planted a bomb in the café, knowing many police would go there for lunch, just around the corner from their headquarters in central Madrid. My father José and my older brother Pedro, they were both there that day.”

  “Is your family in the police?”

  “My father was a member of Franco’s Brigada Especial once, but long retired to manage our family farm. He was there to visit a friend, and Pedro went along, too. They got trapped when the ceiling collapsed on them. My father suffered a broken leg. My brother had a huge gash on his face. They and seventy others got hurt, and another twelve were dead by the time they got pulled from the chaos. The stress of it all put my sister into early labour with her daughter. My brother is just 20 now and scarred for life. How does that help Spain’s freedom?”

  “ETA never took responsibility for that bombing,” Alazne argued. “There were reports the police, or rightist forces themselves did it, as a set-up, to frame ETA, or to smear leftist interests.”

  “Oh please, you’ve been killing people for years.”

  “I’m not even a member of ETA,” Alazne sneered as she stood up from her seat. “But I support Euskadi Ta Askatasuna and their fight to gain control of their region, to defend their language and freedoms. I’m sorry your brother got hurt, but he is a small piece in a large puzzle. Spain is changing; Franco will die, and revolution is coming. You Franco-loving rich folk may not like it, but it’s true. Being Basque doesn’t mean I’m part of ETA, but I am an anarchist.”

  Jaime didn’t have to listen to this irrational woman. He stood up and grabbed his cigar from the ashtray. He went straight out the door and walked, no idea where he was, or how to get back to the hotel. His two brothers, Pedro and Luis, and his brother-in-law, the famous bullfighter Paco, would be waiting. Jaime so often felt out of place within his family but seemed no closer to fitting in anywhere else either. He would be better off just marrying Isadora, the daughter of a family friend, and moving away. Jaime had been betrothed to Isadora for two years, and she was about to turn 16. She had been the legal age for marriage for almost two years already, but she was still a child. A nice girl, but just a kid. Jaime wasn’t long out of childhood himself. A visit to the Fería Sevilla three years ago obliterated childhood and started adulthood, when Jaime met a lovely woman, and they shared a few minutes together while his father José had turned his back. Compared to the Sevillian goddess, Isadora was just a kid.

  Valencia was a city filled with confusion. The buildings got jammed together to create a bewildering inner city; old pressed against the new, a city attempting to revitalize its image. Jaime was b
orn here 19 years ago, when his father was a Guardia Civil officer, before becoming a hero and moving home to Madrid. Now, José never went near the place. So as the Morales family moved Paco from city to city for his bullfights, and the whole family entourage surrounded the talented man himself, José always refused to visit Valencia. He never said why, and no one ever asked. Jaime’s mother, Consuela, said José got deeply affected by a flood when Jaime was just a baby, and couldn’t face the city.

  Walking in circles. Jaime didn’t know where he was as he dropped his cigar in the dusty gutter, littered with more of its kind. On the clear and quiet September night, Jaime found himself alone in a construction site – Plaza de la Virgin said the street sign. The Basilica and Cathedral lay beyond the square filled with concrete lumps fenced off to the public. Last year the plaza had a fountain but was in need of an upgrade. The hotel was nearby, and good thing too; the city was devoid of its usual post-midnight crowds to provide entertainment.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  Jaime turned to see Alazne just a few metres away. “Come to admire the devastation, have you?” He gestured at the carved up mess of the plaza.

  “Gee, aren’t you funny, Jaime-boy. Are you lost?”

  “No.” Completely lost.

  “I’ve been here a month; I can help you if you’re lost. You have a famous torero to assist.”

  “Why are you in Valencia?” he asked as he put his hands in the pockets of his well-cut beige trousers. Jaime noticed how hot he felt under his tie. “Are you not brave enough to bomb Madrid?”

  “I don’t bomb people. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

  “You assume I’m a Franco lover because I’m not poor, and yet you say I’m judging.”

  “Based on what you said about your father, you have friends in high places.”

  “Yes, but I am not my father.”

  “Nor am I mine… If I ever find him.”

  “Are you looking?”

  “I’m trying, though the police are not my friends, so I can’t ask for their help.”

  Jaime just shook his head with a sarcastic smile.

  “Yes, Valencia is a good place to hang out, when you need the heat to die down.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” It was after midnight and stifling hot in the still night air.

  “I got into trouble.”

  “Good luck with that.” Jaime turned away from the woman; he had no interest in talking with her.

  “You’re heading back towards Plaza del Angel.”

  Jaime paused and sighed. “I need Calle de Barcas, off Plaza del Caudillo.”

  Alazne pointed across the plaza next to the cathedral. “Around the cathedral through Plaza de la Reina, down Calle de San Vicente Martír, and you’re in the Plaza del Caudillo. The big pompous statue of Franco on horseback will guide the way.”

  “Yes, I know pompous Franco.”

  “Not personally, I hope.”

  “My brother-in-law met him once, and my father many times, he even got a medal from him. Padre said Franco hates the smell of cigarette smoke.” Jaime could smell cheap cigarettes on Alazne, much different to his smooth cigar.

  “Franco can have people tortured, raped, killed over nothing, but hates smoke?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “My mother once told me that my father received an award from Franco. A bravery award.”

  “My father received a medal for bravery, here in Valencia.”

  “Weird.”

  “You should check police records; Franco isn’t rewarding too often. That’s if you’re not too busy trying to recruit people to your freedom-fighting cause. Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “Apolinar? He isn’t my boyfriend, just a friend.”

  Jaime looked Alazne up and down, and she smiled. Padre would hate Alazne. José had married off Inés, his only daughter, to Paco, to avoid the scandal of his 15-year-old daughter pregnant to a 30-year-old bullfighter. It had done his bull-breeding business wonders when aligned with ‘El Potente’ Beltrán. But José’s three sons needed to marry well too. However, Pedro had just got married, to his gypsy girlfriend, Jovana, who helped nurse him after the bombing. Luis was 18, but José would find him a good wife. Jaime already had Miss Wealthy Isadora.

  “Do you ever do things because you know you shouldn’t?” Alazne asked, and took a few steps closer.

  “No.” Alazne was the opposite of everyone he knew. She was working class, a bastard child, a voice for the oppressed in a rapidly changing world. He was a rich kid, in her eyes, aligned to all the values she despised. She wanted something, but he couldn’t be sure what. Perhaps she was toying with him. The teenager in him hoped she was considering sex. “Do you know where to find Calle de Reloj Viejo?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Alazne pointed over his shoulder and Jaime turned. “Right there.”

  “That’s where I was born, so my parents told me.”

  “Let’s go and take a look. Do you know which number?”

  Jaime had no interest in looking up the family home with a stranger. “Don’t come with me.”

  “But poor Jaime-boy, you might get lost. Come with me.”

  The pair left the broken and forgotten plaza and headed down a tiny alleyway of a street, Alazne ahead of Jaime. “Number nine, fourth floor.” His voice echoed in the night. The faint scent of fish came from the closed restaurant on the corner, reminding Jaime how hungry he felt.

  “Wow, nice,” Alazne muttered as they stopped outside a tall wooden double door at number nine. They both looked up, the four storey building in darkness. It wasn’t much, but that was where Jaime had started his life in 1956.

  “It wasn’t nice back then, so Padre told me,” Jaime said.

  “Do you ever wonder what it was like back then?” Alazne’s voice seemed soft in the silent alleyway. “Life is considered easier now than back in the 1950’s, and even more than the 1940’s and back in the war-torn 1930’s. We fight for our freedoms now, but back then, you couldn’t fight at all…”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  “From your father?”

  “Never from my father.”

  “Maybe I will find my father’s family in a building like this, and they can tell me what life was like when he met my mother.”

  “You have no family now?”

  “Nope. I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Jaime frowned at Alazne; the woman was almost his height as she stared right back at him. “You’re sorry?”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with that bomb in Madrid. I think it’s sad when innocents get caught up in the struggle for freedom.”

  “You are a terrorist.”

  “I’m not, I’m not. I sympathise with ETA; it’s a good outlet for my desire to help Spain emerge from its pain, that’s all. My mother was Basque but born in Segovia, not far from Madrid. My grandmother had to flee her homeland during the civil war; a single mother got frowned upon and she had to start over, pretending to be a widow where no one knew her. My mother came to Valencia in the fifties but got pregnant to a man she met, a Basque Guardia Civil man stationed away from home. Mamá went home to Segovia and played the same game; pretended to be a widow, and no one knew the truth. My mother became scared the nuns in the hospitals would steal me, and claimed I had died, as they so often do.”

  “You came here alone?”

  “Yes, though the local Communism group has been very welcoming. That’s how I met Apolinar, and I have made many friends. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I won’t.” In the darkness of the alleyway, Alazne seemed a different woman. Gone were the forceful words of the bar; now she was a new person. Jaime still couldn’t figure out why he was even speaking with her.

  Alazne lifted her wrist to the faint orange streetlight overhead and squinted to read her cheap watch. “I need to go. Can you find Calle de Barcas?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

  “Stay away from the nightlife on Calle de Ruzafa. It�
��s a narrow road between your hotel and the bullring.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do.”

  Alazne had gone in a flash. Jaime darted up an alleyway after her, but he stopped on Calle de Miguelete, next to the ominous walls of the domed cathedral, but the intense darkness swallowed the girl. Just do.

  2

  Valencia, España ~ Abril de 2014

  The boys giggling and chatting. Pigeons in the nearby trees. The sound of a bell on a cheap bicycle. The hum of traffic in the distance. Luna ignored all of these things and smiled as the incandescent Valencian sunshine warmed her skin. The grass she laid on seemed warm, as did the dark jeans Cayetano wore as she rested her head on his thigh as a substitute pillow.

  “¿Estás bien?”

  Luna opened her eyes, and her lashes brushed against her sunglasses. She glanced up at her husband as he ran his hand through her shoulder-length black hair. “Yes, I’m fine. You’ve asked me that fifteen times already today. I’m okay.”

  “Then shut up and appreciate my concern, preciosa.”

  Luna chuckled and Cayetano leaned down to give her a kiss. “The neurologist said I was fine just an hour ago, and all my brain scans are clear,” she assured him.

  “What can I say? Being at the same hospital, with Doctor Roig, who treated you for your brain injury, brings back bad memories.”

  “My fall at Escondrijo was four years ago. I have made a complete recovery from my fall, and my recent bike accident had no effect. I’m fine; we’re fine, everything is fine, Caya.”

  “The smell of that hospital disinfectant…”

  “I know. I know.” Luna sat up and took Cayetano’s hand. His dark scarred fingers held her hand tight, and she watched him try to smile. His honey brown eyes didn’t share the same enthusiasm. Luna put her sunglasses on top of her head, caught in her mass of black curls and gave Cayetano another gentle kiss.

  “Stop kissing!”

  Luna turned to the voice and saw her two sons, Giacomo and Enzo, standing nearby with their football. At ten years old, they were still at the ‘kissing is gross’ stage. “What do you care?” she joked.

  “Papá, come play with us,” Enzo said, his curly red hair bouncing as he jumped on the spot in eagerness.