Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “I can’t bear to be apart from my children, Darren. I miss Giacomo and Enzo when they’re at school. Paquito and Scarlett are with me 24 hours a day. I’m their mother. I’m giving them all of my time, since I became so torn when Giacomo and Enzo were born, and Fabrizio and I juggled them along with careers. The children have my undivided attention.”

  “You wouldn’t be a bad mother for taking three weeks off that full-time care. Let yourself rest, Lulu. Besides, a three-week trip might be what you need to come home refreshed to appreciate and enjoy your life here.”

  “What does Sofía says about all this?”

  “She doesn’t know yet.”

  “About your retirement? Are you serious? You told me before you told your wife?”

  “It’s not an easy decision to make. You would know that since Cayetano is retiring at the end of his season.”

  “I also know he sat down with me, and we discussed it in-depth before he came to any decisions.”

  “Sofía doesn’t care whether I’m riding or not. We are happy; we’ve been married a year; and we don’t need bikes to be happy. Sofía will support me either way.”

  “But then neither of you will be working. Sofía’s volunteering at the homeless shelter is noble, but not profitable.”

  “I’ve received an offer to be the manager of a new cycling team. I can hand-pick new riders and build an all-new line-up for 2015.”

  “Holy shit, your own team?”

  “I know, it’s great. Instead of riding until my legs want to burst, I can yell out the car window at other riders.”

  “We should have a big dinner, at Rebelión, to celebrate your success.”

  “Sofía wouldn’t like that. Maybe just a small party in Valencia.”

  “I like that idea. I guess I will act all surprised when you announce the deal.”

  “Please do. Team managers need staff.”

  “They do.”

  “Want to work for me?”

  “As what?”

  “Assistant? Advisor? We’ll figure it out. Let’s run a cycling team.”

  “It’s not that easy, Darren.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Luna paused as Scarlett came running into the kitchen in search of her mother. Luna scooped up her daughter, and the little girl giggled, her ice-blue eyes shining like her smile. Her curly black hair had fallen from her little green hair clip. Sofía followed a moment later, with Paquito in her arms. “Master Alejandro demands a drink,” Sofía joked.

  “I’ll go get the boys, and we can have lunch,” Darren said and kissed his wife’s cheek on the way out of the room towards the yard.

  Luna smiled as she watched Sofía pull silly faces at Paquito, who laughed, along with his sister. Darren’s offer could change everything, and Luna was ready for change.

  5

  Valencia, España ~ Septiembre de 1975

  It was the hats. Of all the fashion hints that gave away a person’s age, the hats did it the most for Jaime. As he stood at the barrera around Valencia’s bullring, and watched the spectators in the audience, headwear told him a lot about Valencians. The older gentlemen still wore hats, their suits older and of a very stiff design. The younger men had gone casual in the last of the summer heat – jeans with shirts not buttoned all the way to the collar. The older women, not that many came along, wore hats too; their simple-coloured dresses with their hems below the knee reminded Jaime of his mother, Consuela. But the brightly-dressed younger women were what his eye caught the most, but almost none of them appeared at the ring.

  The fans at the Valencia plaza de toros managed to stay seated when Paco needed calm on the sand, but when it came time to applaud him for a kill, they jumped and rattled the whole damn place. People hung over the barriers in an attempt to get a closer look at their idol. Jaime had even spotted a few brave individuals up on the roofs above the fifth-tier seats. As the scorching sun set, Paco killed two bulls, and won four ears for his efforts. As the crowd did the indulto, the waving of white handkerchiefs, in request for the fight president to award the ears, Jaime almost felt as if he would go deaf from all the cheering. Likewise, when he and Pedro carried Paco on their shoulders from the ring and out to meet his gracious and yet pushy fans. All the pushing and shoving – Jaime worried for Pedro’s nerves.

  “What are you thinking about?” Paco asked.

  “Nothing,” Jaime shook his head. The caramel swirl of the brandy in his glass had gone to his head. “I was thinking about the fight tonight.”

  “Bullshit,” Pedro said next to Paco. “You were thinking about the waitress’ ass.”

  The trio sat at the back of Casa Balanza, a popular restaurant which had lobbied to have the great ‘El Potente’ Beltrán Caño come for a drink after the fight. Paco had stood at the granite bar and posed for photos with the owner and the staff, who regularly had a selection of celebrities in their establishment. They had a table for the whole Beltrán entourage, but only Paco, Jaime and Pedro remained, the rest back at the private and more ostentatious bar at the hotel. They sat around the wide circular table, glasses abound, along with empty plates and burdened ashtrays. They had mixed multiple drinks and Jaime didn’t recognise his own glass anymore. Neither he nor Pedro had Paco’s restraint when celebrating – despite Paco’s powerful masculine exterior, he felt no need to party into the night. Pedro usually never came out after a fight – he slunk back to the hotels immediately, ever since the bombing at Cafetería Rolando. Because of those fucking terrorists, Pedro now felt scared in public. Loud noises made him startle like a newborn kitten. But after the glorious outing by Paco, Pedro had finally agreed to a drink. It was great to see Pedro out and relaxed. He had grown a thick black moustache, which covered half of the scar on his face, which ran from just below his nose and across his left cheek. Still, Jaime’s older brother now constantly looked down, not the tall man he used to be.

  “You are jealous, Pedro,” Paco said with a satisfied grin as he blew a lungful of cigar smoke. The noxious delight twirled around him, curling as it floated above his jet-black wavy hair. “You want the waitress for yourself.”

  Pedro shook his head with a smile as he rested his elbows on the table, his beige shirt sleeves rolled up. “I’m a married man now.”

  “But you’re also a 20-year-old man,” Paco reminded him. “I remember those days, so many ladies looking for the hero after the bullfight…”

  “Oh, I’m aware,” Pedro replied, and brought his brandy to his lips. “The women are still there now. That’s why we are here, to keep them away from you, Paco.”

  “I’m a gentleman… now.” Paco leaned back on his wooden chair. Just above his head hung an enormous mirror with a golden frame. “I’m 36; I’ve been married six years and have received two children. And if nothing else, I have a 21-year-old wife at home. I don’t need female attention. I’ll leave those benefits to you men.”

  “All to Jaime,” Pedro corrected him, “or Luis if he ever leaves Rebelión. Luis will die a virgin at this rate. What type of 18-year-old wants to stay home on the family farm all the time?”

  “I’m sure Luis has his reasons,” Jaime mumbled.

  “Luis is a late bloomer, that’s all,” Paco said. “You two boys were keen to come along and sample the friendly local ladies when you started working for me. Luis is just different.”

  “We’ve had some wild times,” Pedro said with an inebriated grin.

  “Remember those sisters we met in Santander a few years ago? We were so young we barely knew what to do with them,” Jaime said, enjoying the smile on Pedro’s face. Poor Pedro, so shaken up by the bomb blast in Cafetería Rolando. The dynamite had been packed with nuts and bolts, one of which slashed across his face as he fell to the floor while having lunch. Their father José had a ceiling beam collapse on him, breaking a leg. The only silver lining was as Pedro lay in the hospital, he met Jovana Campos, a young girl who had moved to Madrid from Granada, and was working as an assistant nurse. But even love at f
irst sight hadn’t yet healed all of Pedro’s scars.

  “Hey,” Paco said, and leaned forward in his seat, his muscles pulling against his white shirt. “The waitress, she keeps looking over here.”

  “Of course she does, the hero of the bullring is having a drink in her bar,” Pedro replied. “Time to shine, Jaime.” Pedro beckoned the girl and she trotted over in her thick high heels. Her wide-legged jeans dragged on the grey granite floor, but the high-waited pants clung tightly to a tiny waist which led to the low-cut blouse which garnered most of Jaime’s attention. She flicked her brown ponytail and flashed a smile at the trio as she stopped at the table. “More drinks, Señor Beltrán?”

  “No, we are heading to a nightclub down the street,” Paco said, and shifted in his wooden chair. “Sorry, chica, I don’t know your name.”

  “I’m Inmaculada Concepción,” she announced.

  “Wow, that’s quite a name.”

  “Everyone just calls me Inmaculada.”

  “We, you are immaculate. Tell me, Inmaculada, mi hermano here is a young single guy, so do you have any suggestions for what a young man could do on his last night in Valencia?”

  Inmaculada rested her elbows on the table, giving Jaime an eyeful of her cleavage. Pedro next to her couldn’t help but gaze himself. “There is much fun to be had, but you need to be careful.”

  “Why is that?” Jaime asked, the smile on his dark face so tight his cheeks hurt.

  “There are many people in the city tonight, and there are rumours of a protest march tomorrow, right here in Plaza del Caudillo.”

  “About those men who are awaiting execution by Franco’s orders?”

  “I heard two of the accused are pregnant women,” Pedro said.

  “Well, they couldn’t be pregnant men, could they?” Inmaculada teased him.

  “But the eleven are all ETA or from FRAP, the Revolutionary Antifascist Patriotic Front,” Jaime said. “They have been murdering people. They were tried in court.”

  Inmaculada stood up straight, her smile gone. “I don’t wish to talk about this. I thought you gentlemen were looking for fun.”

  “We are,” Paco waved her back to the conversation with his cigar. “But my brother here, Pedro, was hurt in an ETA bombing last year.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Inmaculada said, her demeanour changing again to the light-hearted girl they assumed her to be. “You do deserve some fun.”

  “I think my brother Jaime deserves it more,” Pedro said, and flexed his fingers so his gold wedding band caught the light above him.

  “I don’t know the city very well,” Jaime played along. The woman was flirty, so he didn’t feel he was taking advantage. She seemed simple but not gullible. “Maybe once you’ve finished work you could meet us at one of the clubs just down the road here.”

  “Some of those clubs can be cheeky late at night,” Inmaculada said as she leaned against Jaime’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to place a hand around her as he felt her warmth against his arm. “In the clubs, many girls end up wearing not too much at all.”

  “We wouldn’t want to lead you astray, Inmaculada,” Jaime replied.

  “Don’t you worry about me, I could tell you some stories about those nightclubs. There’s one called…”

  The conversation halted by the sound of a vicious, echoing bang. The windows surrounding the semi-circular bar rattled in their white wooden frames. The next few seconds after the explosion, the whole city seemed silent. Jaime turned to a sound – outside there were voices, people yelling, someone crying. In a flash, Inmaculada was gone; she had run to the entrance of the bar with her colleagues to see what had happened. The whole building had plunged into darkness around him.

  “Jaime.”

  Jaime swung to face Paco, and found his brother-in-law on the floor. He fell to his knees beside him, to find Pedro hiding with his head between his knees; he had darted under the table for protection. The explosion had terrified his poor brother; Pedro had huddled, his arms wrapped around his legs, rocking back and forward. It was like Cafetería Rolando all over again for him. “Pedro,” Jaime said, “Pedro, it’s going to be okay.”

  “What was it?” Pedro whimpered. “What happened?”

  Jaime left Pedro with Paco and rushed outside the darkened building onto the street. The narrow Calle de Ruzafa was filled with people. No traffic moved, the neon signs above the stores all bathed in darkness. Near the end of the street, thanks to light shining from Calle de Xativa by the bullring, Jaime could make out smoke emanating for one of the buildings. It must have been one of the cabaret clubs they had planned to visit. Suddenly, the restrained but expensive restaurants Padre suggested they visit after fights seemed like a safe option. The nightlife of Valencia was in chaos. The one lane street filled to the brim with confused people pouring from the buildings, a mish-mash of between four and seven storeys tall on both sides of the street. A sea of concerned faces came towards Jaime in the dark, just as the first flames appeared through the doorway of a club, piercing the night.

  Jaime felt shoved from behind as the first green-attired Guardia Civil officers ran towards the scene, their heavy boots banging against the cobbles. Their whistles were barely audible over the sound of the masses hurrying from the scene. The noise overtook everything. There was the sound of someone shrieking down the narrow road, others were in tears. There were bound to be people hurt.

  A hand appeared on Jaime’s shoulder as he started inching backwards, the crowd against him now. “Where are your friends?” asked Inmaculada.

  “Still inside,” Jaime yelled to her over the noise.

  “If there has been a bomb, they need to evacuate the building!”

  Jaime fought the wave of faces coming towards him, and pushed back to the front door of Café Balanza, Inmaculada behind him. Thanks to the lights still on in Plaza del Caudillo, Jaime saw the outline of Paco, still on the floor by the table. Sure enough, Pedro was still hiding, having a horrible panic attack, fear overtaking logic.

  “Pedro.” Jaime had to make sure his voice didn’t betray his façade of confidence. “Hey, Pedro, it’s okay. There has been a fire. They need to evacuate all the buildings. It’s just a fire.”

  Paco watched as the torrent of people from the litany of restaurants, clubs, and above apartments started to file into Plaza del Caudillo, a safe space large enough for everyone. Though with the atmosphere in the city as it was, a large gathering of people could turn sour at any moment, especially with the heavy police presence filling the streets to usher people to safety. Sirens could be heard nearby, and they all hoped it was firefighters, not ambulances. The last thing Pedro needed to see was the injured being pulled from the blaze.

  “It was an explosion,” Pedro wept. “I heard it. Something exploded.”

  “It’s a fire,” Inmaculada said as she sat down next to Pedro. “Who knows, maybe it hit the gas line under the buildings in this block. Please, Pedro, do come out with me. It is perfectly safe for you, but we need to go outside, just in case.”

  Inmaculada pulled at Pedro’s arm and the man slid out from the under his cocoon of protection. Jaime and Paco swung their arms around Pedro and carried him from the abandoned restaurant with Inmaculada’s guidance. Across the street, Plaza del Claudillo filled with people. The lights of the Town Hall building were still lit up, as were the various neon signs on tops of the tall buildings around the massive rectangular space. The trio ignored the crowds, and fought their way along with slippery path in front of Valencia’s grandiose post office and headed to Calle de Barcas nearby. As they turned the corner, the crowds melted away, they realised they had lost Inmaculada in the crowd. But now they could wander to the sophisticated private hotel down the street. With just the orange streetlights overhead, they took a moment to stop and take a deep breath, the sounds of collective voices and sirens still permeating the night air.

  “I’m sorry,” Pedro sobbed as he tried to wipe the tears from his face. They stood outside a bank, it
s strong stone body dark behind its stark pillar entrance. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fucking bastards,” Jaime swore. “What the hell makes people believe they can do this?”

  “I thought you said it was a fire?” Pedro challenged.

  That night. That Alazne. Stay away from Calle de Ruzafa, she said. Just do, she said.

  “Is this all we have left now?” Jaime added as he and Paco led Pedro towards the hotel, along the empty street surrounded by the tall reticent buildings. “Is this is what Spain has come to? Hurting each other?”

  “Our country is changing,” Paco warned as the trio walked in time on the wide footpath. “We need to be ready.”

  “Who is arguing for my rights, my beliefs?” Pedro seemed a little calmer. “I am a Spaniard, and I’m not being represented. These new measures, the executions, the banishment of basic freedoms and truths – the regime doesn’t speak for me. But these bastards who bomb and shoot in retaliation, they don’t represent me either.”

  “You remind me of my mother,” Paco said they walked. “My Mamá, God rest her soul, spoke the same way when I was a teenager. She complained that the vicious acts of the Franco regime didn’t represent her, and those opposing him didn’t represent her either. She was a single mother, caught in a war of displaced ethics.”

  “They keep telling us that things are getting better and the economy is flourishing, and it’s a lie,” Jaime cried. “Our rights are being taken away. People are going to be garrotted, for fuck’s sake! Like that guy Salvador Puig Antich, whom they executed last year. Secret forces are arresting people all over the country. Families go hungry as workers have to strike.”

  “Don’t let Padre hear you say these things,” Pedro warned his brother.

  “I’m not at home. Padre can’t even be brave enough to come to Valencia, and can’t even say why.”

  “We are Madrileños,” Pedro reminded him.

  “What does that even mean anymore?”

  “It’s okay,” Paco said, the calm voice between the pair.