Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “En un minuto,” Cayetano called back.

  “Pfft, a minute,” Giacomo muttered as the boys went to resume their game. “That’s a Cayetano minute, which is like an hour.”

  “Hey, I heard that!” Cayetano called to the boys, who forgot the conversation as they chased after the ball. As they ran together on the grass of Valencia’s Turia riverbed park, behind them sat the enormous Museo de Bellas Artes de Valencia; a 17th century former palace, just one of the immense beauties that lined the long park. But beneath road level, in the Turia, as it always did, life was able to stand still for all those in need of a rest.

  Cayetano brushed Luna’s hair over her shoulder, this thumb against the scar which ran up into her hairline, a reminder of her accident. It had been four years since he had accidentally pushed her on the hillside behind her country home in the Valencian hills. Luna had fallen further than anyone should be able to deal with, let alone come out unscathed. After almost a year of therapy, both her broken arm and damaged skull made a full recovery. But still, Cayetano worried. The poor guy had been through a tough ride in recent years, after years of success. It had been just over five years since he ended his first marriage, and then met Luna. After their somewhat chaotic courting and her head injury, they married after a year, but not before the dramatic death of José Morales, Cayetano’s grandfather. Just three months later, as 2010 came to an end, Cayetano’s grandmother, José’s beloved Consuela, died of pneumonia, but more likely from a broken heart. But 2011 had been more favourable as Cayetano’s bullfighting career resumed its usual brilliance. Luna played housewife in the swanky Madrid suburb of La Moraleja with Giacomo and Enzo. But that wasn’t all they had dealt with in the past few years.

  The boys’ football rolled towards the couple and bumped the wheel next to Luna’s hand on the grass. “Be careful, please,” she warned her sons. “You wake a baby; you care for a baby.”

  “But I like babies,” Enzo said with a shrug. “If the babies wake, they can play with us.”

  “I will hold you to that,” Cayetano said as he kicked the ball to the smiling child. Enzo ran off to re-join his identical brother.

  Despite the bump with the football, neither of the babies in the pram stirred from their afternoon slumber. They weren’t babies anymore; Paquito and Scarlett had just turned two. Mid-2011 came the big shock; after adopting Luna’s two sons and her miscarriage a year earlier, Cayetano had accepted he wouldn’t have children of his own. But then it happened, and twins again for Luna. It had been a trying time, with Luna incapacitated for eight months with illness, and fear after the near-tragic birth of her first sons. At eight months pregnant, Luna went into labour at home, and Cayetano, Giacomo and Enzo, along with Cayetano’s mother Inés, delivered the babies before the ambulance even arrived. The sole daughter of the family was named Scarlett, after her great-grandmother from New Zealand. Her brother, Alejandro, was nicknamed Paquito, little Paco, after his grandfather.

  Everything seemed fine until a few months later, when Inés suffered a stroke and died at Rebelión, the Morales family bull-breeding farm, Paco at her side. Inés Morales was dead at 60. Paco, her husband of 45 years, was bereft, and almost two years on, had made little recovery from the loss. Cayetano suffered the loss of his mother, such a force in his life, three months after becoming a father. The world they all knew five years ago when Luna first met the Beltrán Morales family no longer existed.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Luna muttered, watching her son and daughter sleep side-by-side in their huge double pram.

  “You’re welcome, of course I would take you for your brain scan,” Cayetano shrugged.

  “No, I mean for letting us have two weeks in Valencia for Easter. Minus your quick sojourn to Alicante to perform.”

  “Enjoy my presence while it lasts, I’m off to Seville on Friday.”

  “The last time you’ll ever perform there.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Cayetano’s imminent retirement as a bullfighter weighed on his mind at every moment. This year was to be his swan-song; a glorious season of bullfighting by the greatest torero of his generation. So far, twelve fights into a schedule of forty events, all was going well. But each town or the city visited was bittersweet as it would be the last time he would be in the ring as a torero in each location. But at 45, Cayetano knew his time had come.

  “You know, Valencia is a great place to raise children…”

  Cayetano chuckled as he brushed his short wavy hair from his forehead. “Here we go again…”

  “Once you aren’t a bullfighter anymore, we don’t need to live in Madrid.”

  “We don’t have a home in Valencia anymore; you rent out the apartment.”

  “We have Escondrijo.”

  “You mean the giant stone shack in the hills? Luna, it’s been five years since you inherited the place, and it’s still not liveable, even after the mass grave got removed.”

  “Hey, it has access to water and electricity now. Let’s finish the house.”

  “Or we could continue to live in La Moraleja, in my family manor, and the children can continue to thrive at private school.”

  Luna sighed and said no more. She had bowed to pressure and moved to Madrid after their wedding, but there weren’t too many more days where she could continue the life there. Madrid was Cayetano’s home; Valencia still held Luna’s heart.

  “Besides, what about Papá? He barely leaves Rebelión these days. If we moved to Valencia, Papá would be isolated.”

  “Isolated? Paco has your uncles, Pedro, Jaime and Luis all living there with their wives. Paco has Isadora, Jovana and Alysa all fussing over him. Paco is well-supported.”

  “Papí José built a bull breeding business on Rebelión, and Paco was the star in the bullring. Then I took on the bullring. Soon, I will need to take on Rebelión. But my own son is just two, so Paquito can’t carry the bullfighting torch, and Giacomo and Enzo have no interest in being toreros.”

  “We can’t make children follow the path we wish for them. Giacomo wants to be a pro-cyclist like his natural father, and we can’t deny him that connection.”

  “At least Enzo is interested in bullfighting, but I think he shows interest to appease me.”

  “Nonsense, Caya. Enzo is interested because he adores you. So does Giacomo, that’s why they call you Papá.”

  “Can I just get through this last season before you pick my life up and shake it again, preciosa?”

  “Hey, I’m good at shaking you from your complacency, that’s what I do.”

  “Is Spain not shaken enough already right now? Not to mention you and my sister at all those riots…”

  “Riots? Peaceful protests against the government. Both Sofía and I think the Prime Minister is a right-wing, cock-sucking, douchebag.”

  “As do so many, la chispa. We all want change. Perhaps you should call your cousin, King Juan Carlos.”

  “He was my father’s cousin, not mine. Don’t begrudge your sister; Sofía is letting us stay in her glorious apartment by Mercado Colón while she and Darren are in Italy.”

  “Anytime I don’t have to see Sofía’s husband, the better. There’s a douchebag for you.”

  “Darren James, my closest friend, the godfather of our children, husband of your sister?”

  “The man wanted to marry you, and then took on my sister as his second choice…”

  “Stop looking at it that way. Darren and me…. Yeah, it’s been weird, but we’ve made up after the whole ‘drug-taking in front of the kids’ incident. He’s considering retiring from pro-cycling this year, so you and he have much in common, Caya. You could find common ground with Darren since you are both going through the final stages in your careers.”

  “I can promise to fake smile the next time he comes near me, is that enough?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “What would you like to do on this splendid Valencian afternoon?”

  “Can we go to Escondrijo?” Luna asked as she watch
ed the children, darting between small trees with their football, near the huge stone 16th century Pont del Real bridge ferrying cars over the park.

  “We were there yesterday.”

  “So?”

  “It’s our last day before we go back to Madrid; let’s just enjoy Valencia city, please. I’m tired.”

  “Of course you’re tired, you have four kids.”

  “But they make me so happy I could stay awake forever.”

  “You’re going soft in your old age.” Luna glanced back over her shoulder, up at the beautiful building that poked its top over the stone parapet of the riverbed, just within her line of sight.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Cayetano said.

  “A quick walk and I will be at the home of Montserrat Lugo Sueño. One day, I will knock on this woman’s door, and tell her that I found the bodies of her parents buried in a mass grave at Escondrijo. We can’t hide the fact forever. We found those four bodies, and we can identify three of them. Instead, they sit in a plastic storage box in Madrid, in a lab. Doctor Adán Lugo Gil and Rosalía Sueño Agron’s disappearance got put down to the 1957 flood, when they died by José’s hand!”

  “Shh,” Cayetano hushed his wife. “We can’t prove that.”

  “José all-but admitted it before he died. Montserrat deserves her parents’ bodies. And the body of that young girl we found, who is the biological mother of Pedro, Jaime and Luis. What of that?”

  “My uncles have lost both their parents and their sister in recent years. Do they need to find out they are adopted now, too? José and Consuela made their choice never to tell their sons the truth.”

  “Because José murdered their natural mother!”

  “It would destroy them. And what about Papá? He knows the truth, but he needs Pedro, Jaime and Luis while he is grieving.”

  “They wouldn’t abandon Paco.”

  “Wouldn’t they? Paco has known the truth for four years since we found those bodies. No one in the Morales family will look favourably on us keeping these secrets from them. Too much time has passed, the wounds of the past need to be left alone now.”

  “And the remains of those poor people?”

  “I don’t know yet, preciosa. But let’s not argue; the present is stressful enough.”

  3

  Sevilla, España ~ Abril de 2014

  The smell of cigar smoke hung in the air. Cayetano’s uncles always broke out the huge stinking cigars after a few drinks. But it wasn’t the same without his father, Paco, by his side. Even though Paco had been so hard on Cayetano since the day of his birth, somehow, Paco’s absence gave out such a sense of loneliness. Cayetano’s fingernails had blood under them, despite receiving a real scrubbing after the performance. As the large group around him chatted, the night air that hung around them in the fería caseta seemed heavy with melancholy, with the air of mistakes made. The caseta, the private tent huddled among many of its type, filled a space inside an enormous outdoor fiesta. Seville came alive for six wild, noisy, colourful days, a place to be seen eating, drinking and dancing. Farolillos, paper lanterns filled the street; girls dressed in their traje de flamencas, polka-dotted dresses with their puffy ruffled sleeves and hemlines. The caseta, the private tent was no basic place; Cayetano’s tent had a dance floor, a kitchen and air-conditioning. The class system was alive and well in fería tents. It was strictly invite only, and the Morales family had a tent for Cayetano, star of the bullring during the fiesta.

  “That was one hell of a bullfight,” Miguel, the oldest of Cayetano’s cousins, said as he slapped him on the shoulder.

  Cayetano glanced up at Miguel, not just a cousin, but a close friend and a member of his team while bullfighting. Miguel’s father, Pedro, smiled in agreement. It was easy to tell when Pedro had genuine delight; the scar above his top lip and across his left cheek would curve in the shape of a smile. It was a faint scar, an old wound.

  “The bulls, they wanted the fight tonight,” Cayetano said and raised his half empty beer in salute to the now-dead beasts.

  “The bullring demands truth.” Jaime sat next to his brother Pedro. In the late night air, Jaime’s once neatly-combed grey hair looked dishevelled, his dapper clothing of a dry-cleaned shirt and trousers, just like Pedro’s, looked wrinkled. “Even if the truth is death. Tonight, death was won with honour.” Jaime had enjoyed more rebujito than Pedro. Their tables were covered in jarras, pitchers of rebujito, either Fino or Manzanilla sherry, mixed with ice and lemonade. Empty plates had hosted a vast array of foods.

  Cayetano smiled but didn’t feel so happy. Yes, the fights had gone well – two bulls, both keen for a match. Cayetano had received an ear from each animal after their demise, the crowd cheering, able to see ‘El Valiente’ Beltrán fight for the last time in Seville. But the finality of the evening, the finality of his career, weighed on his mind. Just like in Alicante, Valencia and all the other fights that had preceded tonight. Cayetano’s career was coming to an end, and the future seemed like a black hole.

  “Caya, you swaggered like a king tonight,” said Alonso, another of Cayetano’s cousins, and Jaime’s son. Alonso worked as one of Cayetano’s banderilleros, one of the fighters who spear the bull before the kill with the bright-coloured banderillas. At 36, Alonso was more concerned with female attention than any task at hand. His ex-wife would agree.

  “We don’t call you ‘the man with four balls’ for nothing,” added Eduardo, Alonso’s younger brother and fellow banderillero. Both men wore simple light shirts and trousers after getting out of their tight bullfighting suits, more casual than their inebriated father.

  “When did you ever call me that?” Cayetano laughed along with his family.

  “Paco will be proud of the performance,” Hector, Cayetano’s youngest male cousin and personal assistant, said with a sad expression.

  “Paco will, Caya,” Luis added. Cayetano’s youngest uncle, Hector’s father, was the quiet one, and aware of how Cayetano felt. Luis had worked full-time at Rebelión, the Morales bull-breeding farm, his entire life while his flamboyant son Hector and his three daughters all went in search of city life. Luis had stayed out on the farm with his wife, living in a simple farmhouse near the main estate home. Luis was also the most affected by his sister Inés’ death, and always there to aid Paco in his recovery from grief.

  The uncles, all in their mid-fifties, and Cayetano’s cousins, all in their early to mid-thirties, fell silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the sounds of fería-goers partying in the next tent.

  “Caya, you are free to celebrate tonight.” Jaime had taken over as Cayetano’s manager when Paco fell into his grief-stricken state. “You performed so well for the people of Seville. The aficionados waved their white handkerchiefs for you, and you got carried on our shoulders out into the streets to meet your fans. You succeeded tonight.”

  “I am happy,” Cayetano said to the crowd as the cigar smoke swirled around him, occasionally stinging his eyes. His body seemed tired; the five kilogram traje de luces, his suit of lights, felt heavy during the fight. Perhaps that was a sign of age. “The performance went according to plan. I gave those bulls honour in death. The bulls were unsatisfied by the cape and wanted flesh. I was too quick for them, and I’m proud. The beasts were flighty bulls, but they suffered weak legs. Tonight was an easy performance.”

  “Caya, you had your heart open like a book tonight, mi sobrino,” Pedro said. “What is troubling you?”

  “The art you performed tonight was true grace,” Jaime added.

  “But art is not skill; they are different entities,” Cayetano warned.

  “Don’t suggest you have lost your skill,” Miguel said, his hand on his older cousin’s shoulder. “You are still a true great.”

  “I’m 45 years old,” Cayetano sighed. “I’m about to retire. After this season, the sun will set on me. I’ve been in the sun for 25 years now. Being a bullfighter is all I know, all I’ve ever wanted. No matter what obstacle crossed my path, this is
who I am. If I am no longer a torero, then who am I?”

  “Caya, you are a parent,” Jaime replied. “That outranks anything. As a father of four, I can guarantee this detail.”

  “Amen.” Luis raised his glass to the others.

  “While I have just one child,” Pedro added, “I agree.”

  “Trust me, I would love to have children,” Hector said.

  “Hector, you broke up with your boyfriend,” Cayetano replied. “You must admit it will be difficult. Oh, and being gay doesn’t help.”

  “But I’m surrounded by nieces and nephews, which helps.”

  “My girls are growing up,” Eduardo said. “They’re developing their opinions about bullfighting, even at their tender age. When you stop working, I too will no longer be a banderillero. Alonso and I understand your feelings.”

  “Sorry to complain so much,” Cayetano said.

  “You have always had such a sense of drama about you, Caya,” Alonso said, to the laughter and nodding of the whole group.

  “Bullfighting has always had a harsh candour about it,” Cayetano added as the joking died down again.

  “Retirement is looming, my boy,” Pedro said. “I remember when Paco retired, he was miserable for a while. He needed to find his new life. That’s when Jaime and I retired as members of his team also. Now you need to find your way. Everyone does.”

  “Bullfighters believe they will die in the ring, die with great valour. Instead, I will retire and sit forgotten,” Cayetano muttered.

  “You will never get forgotten,” Luis said, his voice strong. “Over the last century, Spain has been through a blighted journey, and yet greats in bullfighting continued to emerge. Both you and your father have dominated bullfighting for the last fifty years. Forget the Beltrán name? That would be impossible.”

  “But I have no son to pass my career to,” Cayetano sighed. “Giacomo, he has his eye on other prizes. Enzo, the boy is smart and gentle, but has no desire to fight. Enzo is interested in bullfighting but doesn’t want to kill.”