Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Luna would relax if you were home to care for the children. But Lulu doesn’t rest, she can’t.”

  Cayetano clenched his fists but didn’t raise his voice to Darren. “Stop painting me as the villain. The life that Luna and I live is by mutual decision and won’t get changed by the opinions of outsiders. But all I’ve heard about lately is Sofía and her position in this new left-wing party she has joined. None of Sofía’s ideas help Luna to adjust to her Madrid life.”

  “Stop using Lulu’s welfare as an excuse to control her, Cayetano. I’m not stupid, and neither is she. The political movement Sofía joined; if they get a seat in the European parliamentary elections, it could be the start of something great. If Sofía wants to enter politics, I won’t stop her. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Cayetano! Your sister wants a better future for her country. Our country. Eighteen months from now, the party could form the new government.”

  “And Luna, she has been talking about the desahucios, the evictions of families in Valencia, kicked out of their homes by the banks when they foreclose on the apartments. Luna wants to help out with occupations of the apartments to prevent the police dragging families from their homes. Those escraches, the humiliation protests Luna and Sofía attend, publicly flaming politicians; these things can get heated. It can get ugly. I don’t want to bail my wife or sister out of prison.”

  “We can’t stop our wives. They are the faces of the new Spain. People who care about the future. We’re just husbands. What bothers you most, Cayetano? Facing the fact you won’t be the number one bullfighter anymore, or not being the number one priority in the family? So what if Luna wants to identify dead bodies for the living, or run cycling teams, or protest evictions of families. Why can’t you support that?”

  “I support Luna! But the woman I love, I married, has four children. They come first.”

  “So you want your wife and sister in the kitchen, not causing trouble.”

  “No!” Cayetano growled. “I have four children to love and care for, and I want my wife safe. I want my children to have the best of everything, which includes having their mother with them at home. I want everyone safe and well.”

  “This from a man who cheats death in the bullring week-in, week-out, February to October.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? An angry police baton at a protest versus an angry bull in the ring? What’s the difference?”

  “This conversation is going around in circles.”

  “Fine, whatever. Just remember that retirement means life won’t all be delicately balanced to placate your needs.”

  “Thanks, Papá.” The sarcasm sounded so thick it almost clogged Cayetano’s throat. “Same to you.”

  “When are you away killing more bulls?”

  “Thursday in Cordoba. Luna will be back in Valencia. When are you playing on your bike again?”

  “Next week.”

  Cayetano took a deep breath and watched the younger twins throwing sand at one another, their curly black hair full of the mess. Whatever the future held for his children, it wouldn’t be the bullfighting cocoon he had always imagined. The life of privilege and prosperity Cayetano grew up in no longer existed. Cayetano just didn’t fit in anywhere anymore. The glory days were done.

  12

  Valencia, España ~ Mayo de 2014

  Another weekend in Valencia, another without her husband. Luna got used to not having Cayetano around, so once he retired, things would be weird. But for now, the status quo remained. Luna’s apartment, a large modern place on the top floor of Valencia’s tallest building, was empty for a change. Since she had moved to Madrid and rented it out to holidaymakers, the place was full most of the time. This was a rare weekend empty, and Luna got to stay in her own place.

  Luna stood out on the balcony, the coastal summer air swirling high above the roaring traffic below her. Luna and Fabrizio had bought the place to make a home for their two baby sons and letting go of the place after Fabrizio died had been impossible. But now, four years after Luna had moved out, the apartment had lost its soul. Now filled with just the basics for the guests, the Montgomery-Merlini family treasures were at home in La Moraleja. It wasn’t the home Luna had made with Fabrizio; the apartment was just an investment now. Luna felt a mixture of relief and resentment – she was over Fabrizio’s death, but sometimes that acceptance felt like a betrayal to the good man he had been.

  The doorbell rang, and Luna turned away from her view of the Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències, the space-age arts and sciences complex, and returned to the cool tiled floor of the living room. Paquito and Scarlett pounded at playdough on the short wooden coffee table while Giacomo and Enzo fiddled with their iPad. “The doorbell rang,” Enzo mumbled as Luna passed them on the huge blue couch.

  “Really?” she teased. “I’m surprised you heard it through your gaming haze.”

  Luna pulled the large wooden front door open, and there was Jorge Arias from the historical memory association. He kissed Luna’s cheeks, and she ushered him into the living room where he placed his briefcase on the glass dining table. Jorge looked hot and uncomfortable in his dark suit.

  “Please excuse the children’s noise,” Luna said as the pair sat down at the table.

  “Nonsense, children must be allowed to make as much noise as they like,” Jorge replied and brought his hands together. “We are in Valencia after all. Noise is the number one aspect of the city. Peace doesn’t exist here.”

  Luna nodded, but surrounded by noise 24 hours a day didn’t bother her. Luna barely noticed it day or night; it was the rush of life. “We can walk into the old town and drop the kids with my sister-in-law. Sofía and her husband are always happy to take them even if I don’t always like leaving them.”

  “Well, please, if you wish to bring them to Montserrat Lugo’s apartment, don’t feel as if you can’t. But the conversation….”

  Luna dismissed Jorge with a wave of her hand. She couldn’t turn up at stranger’s home with four young children and then tell the women she uncovered the bodies of her murdered parents.

  “How are things going with the association’s digs?” Luna asked.

  “It never ends. As soon as we have a mass grave dug up, the call comes in for another. The association has one grave in Málaga, with a suspected 1700 bodies. We have a team working on victims in León, but with funding cuts, their research is limited. The UN expected Spain to have made reparations and paid for digs by November this year, but I doubt anything will get resolved. But we carry on; what else can we do?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Luna, you’ve helped us. You paid for your dig; that doesn’t often happen, even when councils are arranging the exhumations. You mention us in fancy magazine articles and interviews and you attend our protests and rallies.”

  “But there must be more I can do, something substantial.”

  “People help in different ways. We get older women who cook for us while we are digging up their relatives from the war; some people give us petrol for the transportation. Some offer us free places to stay when out on digs. We are talking about people who don’t have a lot to go around as it is, but they still help. Meanwhile, those at the top of the food chain ignore our needs and desires for justice and don’t hand out any governmental assistance.”

  “When did the government stop helping the association?”

  “In 2011 when the fucking P.P got into government, though the government were only funding for four years prior. We can’t expect right-wing fascists to help out, can we?”

  Luna sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re attacked from all sides.”

  “We sure are. We have families who oppose digging, because bodies of their loved ones are dug up and left in storage. It can take years with large digs and all the identification tests needed, and they all depend on money. The association has lab workers sleeping in relatives’ cellars because they can’t earn while working for the association. Then they need
time off to attend other work if they can find any. The association has received donations big and small over the years, but this is the end; we will shut the lab, even if the university in León lets us work there for free.”

  “What does that mean for the unidentified, the yet to be dug up, or even located?”

  “We can rush through as many bodies as we can, find resting places for them. As for those still trapped in the soil…” Jorge’s voice faded to nothing as his eye glazed, damp with emotion.

  “How much money do you need?”

  “How many drops are there in the sea? How long is a piece of string?”

  “What about €200,000?”

  “Who will give us that kind of money?”

  “I will,” Luna said, loud and clear. “I can make a donation, right?”

  “But you gave €60,000 in 2010!”

  “I covered the costs of you helping me at Escondrijo. Plus, you helped to save my life, you and your team. Jorge, you cared for my children when I fell down that mountain; you called the ambulance. You helped carry my body when I got injured.”

  “But we helped you because it was the right thing to do.”

  “The world lacks kindness. Basic kindness. Jorge, you provide kindness every day. Time is not something I have much of right now, but I have other tools to help the association.”

  “No,” José shook his head and stiffened his stance in the leather chair. “I cannot take your money, especially that much from a mother of four children. My girlfriend and I can’t even afford to have one child, not even marry. You need that money, for the children.”

  Luna watched her children playing across the long room. The older two were helping the younger two with their playdough creations. All were chatting and laughing together, as they always did. “Over the last eight years or so some awful things have happened, Jorge. My husband got killed, and punishment for his killer was hard to grasp. I spent a year recovering from that fall at Escondrijo. I got pregnant and lost a baby. I’ve watched Cayetano struggle with death in his family. But I have had good moments too; my first husband provided well for his sons. Cayetano can support his family. The children won’t want for anything. I have this apartment and Escondrijo if I had to liquidate in a hurry.”

  “This place perhaps; who would want Escondrijo?” Jorge joked, a smile on his serious face.

  “I want Escondrijo; that land is all mine,” Luna returned the smile. “Cayetano has a Madrid apartment, and the La Moraleja plot, if any Russian oil billionaires get bored and want a manor in Madrid. Rebelión, plus the homes I own in Cuenca… I have plenty of options. I can afford to make a donation to your association. Give me the bank details, and the money will be yours.”

  “But €200,000 is huge.”

  “How long could the money last?”

  “The association could continue to dig and identify for another three years, maybe even pay staff some of the time.”

  “Then what are we waiting for, Jorge? Let me help.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” Luna could feel her pulse beating ever quicker. She believed every word she said to the man before her. Jorge scratched his two-day old beard as he stared at her, his light brown eyes nervous to contemplate a future with Luna’s money. “Look, Jorge, I can help. I want to help. I love my children, I love my family. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get involved in things other than housecleaning and breaking up arguments and ironing uniforms, does it? Let me help you. I’ll help fundraise, organise protests, anything you need. But let’s face it; money is the primary issue for the organisation.”

  “Yes, money is the main issue. Money always interferes with the real work at hand. Luna, your help is welcomed, unequivocally welcomed. But take time to think on it. What about Cayetano?”

  “Cayetano is performing in Cordoba. I’m not his little woman; I don’t need to consult my husband.”

  Jorge guffawed with laughter. “I never suspected so! But Cayetano always had issues around digging.”

  “That’s a separate issue. Come on, let me donate. I’ll write it off as a charitable donation, get the tax back, and in three years, we’ll talk again. It could be the start of a beautiful thing between us.”

  “Perhaps, Luna. Wow, this could change everything for us. No need to rush work before closing down the lab. Not to say we’re not doing a thorough job…”

  “Jorge, you’ve done so much for me, so much for so many. The association removed those bodies at Escondrijo, and I wanted to ask about having my grandfather and Cayetano’s grandmother moved from the site as well.”

  “Wow, a big step.”

  “We found their bodies five years ago; even by Spanish standards, I’ve taken a long time to bury them in the Beltrán plot in Madrid. I know they aren’t exactly civil war murder bodies…”

  “They were, in their own way,” Jorge replied. “The association can handle the dig and remove them for you if you want.”

  “I can’t trust anyone else.”

  “Damn right! But don’t think you need to give us money for your needs. Everyone killed in Spain during the civil war and dictatorship deserves equal respect.”

  “Please let me donate. Help me to help Spain.”

  Jorge shook his head with wide eyes. “Okay! Let’s do it.”

  Luna jumped out of her chair and Jorge followed to give her a hug, as if they were best friends. “You do something great with your work, Jorge. With everything going wrong in Spain these days, everyone needs to help make life better here.”

  “Who knows, perhaps the government will collapse, and we can claim the Third Spanish Republic, marching in the streets with freedom,” Jorge joked. Half joked.

  “Let’s not get our hopes up yet. We should probably get moving and deliver the news to Montserrat Lugo.”

  “It’s never easy,” Jorge warned, “to tell people we’ve found their loved ones.”

  13

  Valencia, España ~ Mayo de 2014

  Shade kept Carrer del Sagrari de la Companyia cool. The street was more an alley to a tiny plaza which heralded the back entrance to the Jesuits church, just an arch bronze-coloured door below the bell tower. Hastily constructed buildings leaned against the old walls of the centuries-old church. Number four was a five storey building, repainted a pale yellow. Each floor had a balcony surrounded by black iron railings. Each level owned a small window cut out of the stone, iron bars over them for safety. The bottom floor apartment had a wooden door; spaces, where glass must have once been, were boarded over and flanked by iron bars. Similar bars covered the two small windows, which had their wooden shutters closed. The building which had once stood against number four had gone, just a mess of dust and leftover building materials. Sagrari de la Companyia was just a few metres wide, with more modern buildings on the other side of the street; whatever liquid dribbled along the cobbles didn’t smell great. Luna pressed the silver door buzzer and glanced at the brick patchwork of the building as they waited.

  One of the wooden doors swung open and there stood a tired woman in her late sixties. She wore all black, her grey hair pulled tight back, pulling her sharp, blunt features back with it. “Señora Lugo Sueño?” Jorge asked.

  “¿Sí?” she answered, her voice as cautious as her gaze.

  “I am Jorge Arias, of the historical memory association. This is my friend, Luna Montgomery.”

  “You’re the woman in the papers,” the old woman said. “The bullfighter’s wife. I saw you on a magazine cover.”

  Luna nodded hello, unimpressed to be known as the wife of someone notable.

  “Could we talk to you about your parents…?” Jorge began.

  “I’ve been waiting for this knock on the door my whole life,” the old woman said, and half-smiled. “Were my parents murdered?”

  Both Luna and Jorge felt taken aback by the comment. The pair expected to upset the woman with the news of her parents’ discovery. “What makes you say murder?” Luna quizzed.

 
“Well, you better come inside to talk.” The old woman had already turned away as Jorge stepped inside, followed by Luna.

  The first room in the house was dark, the only light available from the front window, which had its wooden shutters closed. It seemed to be a simple sitting room; an old couch, television, a large crucifix on the wall. Luna shivered at the sight.

  “This was my parents’ room. Padre would read in here mostly.”

  “Señora Lugo…” Jorge started.

  “Call me Montserrat,” she dismissed him with a wave of her crone-like hand. Time had not been kind to the short woman. “Come with me, this room is terrible. Now used by my granddaughters for watching stupid TV shows.”

  The pair followed Montserrat down the hall, and they stopped at another room across the hall, a windowless room filled with two single beds and a single set of drawers. “That’s my grandchildren’s room, always a mess,” Montserrat sniffed. “The girls are out today with their parents, my daughter and her husband, who also live here. I inherited the place from my parents when they died, so it’s a cheap place to live. None of us have work, and I have a small pension. This room used to be my father’s office, where he would see patients, in private, outside of his hospital hours. Padre snuck many people in here in his time. Now my granddaughters can’t even tidy the place.”

  “This was a house that flooded,” Luna commented.

  “You know about the flood, ¿no?” Montserrat asked. “Yes, the house got flooded. I have nothing of my family; the ‘57 flood ruined everything. The place flooded, and my parents’ bodies never got found. The years passed, and I realised they hadn’t drowned, at least not my father. My mother was more of a mystery. Madre had nothing to do with Padre’s acts of stealing drugs from the hospital to sell on the black market.”