Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “They’re murderers, like you said.”

  “The cities will be a shit fight,” Jaime warned, and watched Cayetano poke the earth with a stick he found. “You are better off staying at Rebelión full time, or at the new home being built out in La Moraleja. The place is twenty kilometres from inner Madrid. Nothing for miles around, so you will be safe there.”

  “Paco says one day there will be homes all around La Moraleja. It will become the Beverly Hills of Spain.”

  “It will be, for sure.”

  “Papá say that perhaps the European Economic Community will freeze trade resolutions with Spain over the executions.”

  “Look at you, big sis, studying up on the Spanish economy. Don’t you have bottles to clean and tiny clothes to fold?”

  “I’m a mother, I’m not stupid,” Inés cried and playfully slapped her brother’s arm. “There will be protests in the streets, strikes, riots even.”

  “Are you keen to wield a placard against the death penalty?” Jaime teased.

  “No, I just don’t like the whole mess.”

  “That’s because you have a kind soul.”

  Inés smiled, but it lasted just a moment. Something caught her eye behind her little brother. “Who is that?” she pointed over Jaime’s broad shoulder.

  Jaime turned to see someone walking along the long winding driveway to the house, which curled through the paddocks, green for the bulls, mixed with dusty, unused land. The person carried a small bag, and the blonde hair made them stand out. No one who worked or lived at Rebelión had light coloured hair. “Maybe someone from the village,” Jaime muttered. “Padre ordered extra labourers for the new calves coming in from Seville.”

  Inés dismissed Jaime’s words and held out her hand to Cayetano. “Come on, Caya, let’s go inside and help abuela prepare the lunch, shall we?”

  Cayetano skipped off with his mother, swallowed up by the cool refuge of the house. Jaime went back to digging the post holes for the yard, ignoring the wanderer on the driveway. Pedro was out at the front of the house so he could open the front gates at the entrance. With his head down, beads of sweat ran past Jaime’s eyes while the beating sun made the task rather uncomfortable.

  “Jaime-boy.”

  Jaime spun on the spot, twirling the dust beneath his feet. There stood Alazne, the sun reflecting off her short blonde hair. His glance shot back to the driveway; it had been her walking to Rebelión. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Alazne shrugged and put down her dirty green backpack. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

  “Nothing is in this neighbourhood,” Jaime chided the stupid woman. “How… How did you even find me?”

  “You mentioned your home was outside of a town called Corpa. I hitchhiked from Madrid and got a ride east as far as a place called Mejorada del Campo, a new-looking town along the Río Jarama. A little walking and I found my way along the roads towards Corpa. I got lucky; a couple driving to a town called Loeches stopped, hey, they have a bullring there…”

  “I’m well aware,” Jaime deadpanned.

  “Anyway, I walked north of Loeches and a truck stopped for me. Friendly people out here! The driver was heading to Corpa, right where I needed to go. Then helpful Corpa locals directed me to the famous farm of Rebelión. The huge gates out on the main road were a big help, thanks.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in Hoy de Manzanares, raising hell? Those three FRAP guys got shot this morning.”

  “I feel sick,” Alazne spat. “I feel sick and I feel angry. Last night I was in Hoy de Manzanares and heard of the stays of execution. I thought the regime had come to its senses, stepped back from the insanity. But no, just six commuted. But I got in trouble with the police and had to flee the town, so I stayed the night in Madrid last night. It’s a tough town to find a bridge to sleep under; there are people down on their luck everywhere.”

  “Six commuted from the death sentence is better than none, isn’t it?”

  “Five men are dead today, Jaime-boy, men barely older than you and me.”

  “So why aren’t you screaming at the prison gates?”

  “I got banned from going near the prison a few days ago, for inciting violence.”

  “Already in trouble? I’m not surprised. But why are you here of all places? I expected to see your name on the news, storming Franco’s headquarters in central Madrid.”

  “I have to lie low again. But never fear, I plan to go back into Madrid in the coming days. Plus, Valencia needs more help with protests. Apolinar, my friend, is out of jail, so we can carry on the offensive there.”

  “You’re a fucking terrorist; you can’t be here. Rebelión is not a hide-out; it’s one of Spain’s best ganaderías. It’s home to Paco Beltrán, Spain’s greatest torero.”

  “I thought Paco lived in Madrid.”

  “He does, sometimes. But this is his official home.”

  “Jaime!”

  Jaime turned to the angry sound of his father’s voice. There stood José about fifty metres away, coming in his direction. Even at that distance, Jaime could see his father’s irritation.

  “Jaime, you don’t get days off to stand around talking!” José bellowed as he strode towards his nervous son. “Who is this? Why do you have a girl at Rebelión?”

  Jaime swallowed hard and wiped his sweaty face. José didn’t even look at Alazne; his eyes fixed on Jaime. José wasn’t a kind, soft, man. Not even with his sons. “Well, what do you have to say? What would Don Núñez say if you had girls at Rebelión? Jaime, you are engaged to his daughter!”

  “I didn’t know you were getting married,” Alazne said, her arms folded. She grinned and rocked back and forward on her heels. “Quite the surprise.”

  “Who are you? Why are you distracting my son? Rebelión isn’t a public place.” José spoke to Alazne without even looking at her. He stood stiff, his dark trousers and white shirt coated in a mixture of sand, dust and sweat. José’s angry face, with dark eyes and dirty scowl blocked the sun over Jaime, his father’s height unmatchable.

  “Your son busted me out of jail in Valencia,” Alazne goaded the irate middle-aged man. “I was just passing and decided to say thanks.”

  José’s body softened a little, but he still only looked at Alazne through the corner of this eye. “This is the girl who helped Pedro?” he asked Jaime.

  Jaime paused; José had confused Alazne with Inmaculada, who was safe at home in Valencia after her ordeal in prison. “Ah, sure,” Jaime stumbled. He and Luis had given José only a small sample of the facts in regards to the visit to Valencia prison. They worried the prison, or someone in the police, may call José to confirm the details, so Jaime had decided to give his father a brief version of the truth as a safety net.

  José turned and took Alazne’s hand. “I don’t know your name, Señorita, but thank you for helping my son. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone the story of Pedro being afraid during the fire in Valencia. Pedro is shocked over the bombing in Madrid last year. The doctors say privacy and time will help his recovery.”

  Alazne shook José’s hand, a slow gesture as she took in the information, judging how to play along with the connection José assumed with her. “It was my pleasure,” she bluffed. “I have heard much about you, Don Morales. You have quite a reputation.”

  “Are you interested in breeding bulls?” José said with scepticism.

  “Padre,” Jaime tried to intervene.

  “No, when you were in the Guardia Civil and the Brigada Especial,” Alazne continued, not interested in Jaime. “My father was in the Guardia Civil, in the Valencia division.”

  “Really?” José’s face lit up with surprise. He smiled and looked up and down at Alazne. “What is your name?”

  “Alazne Mariñelarena.”

  “Basque, you’re a long way from home.”

  “My mother was Basque but born in Segovia. Mamá spent time in Valencia before my father died.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?
”

  “The Valencia floods of 1957, so my mother told me. I was two years old. We had already moved back to Segovia during the time of the flood.”

  José made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingers, lost in thought for a moment. “You poor girl. The flood was traumatic.”

  “Padre was the hero of the flood,” Jaime explained. “Got a medal from Franco for his bravery.”

  “What was your father’s name?” José’s eyes sparkled as he spoke to Alazne.

  “Fermín Belasco Ibarra, so my mother said. I won’t lie; his name wasn’t on the birth certificate, they weren’t married.”

  José stumbled back a few steps, one hand over his mouth. His complexion seemed to drain of its colour. Jaime saw something in his father’s eyes, something he had never seen; fear. José looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Never,” he mumbled through his hand. “Fermín never had children.”

  “You recognise the name?” Alazne asked with a squint. “What a coincidence. I know nothing of him, or where he is buried, just a name.”

  “Fermín drowned,” José croaked, his throat clogged with words he didn’t wish to utter. “He was my partner in Valencia. Fe… Ferm… Fermín,” he coughed, “…We were saving a young girl, and got swept away. I found him days later, drowned.”

  “Wow, Padre,” Jaime said, amazed by what he heard. Alazne had an association with José, which erased José’s irritation of her, and broke his powerful façade. Even saying Fermín’s name seemed to make José wish to fall to his knees and cry.

  “José?”

  They all turned to see Consuela in the doorway to the kitchen. “José, lunch will be in half an hour, you should shower. Also you, Jaime.”

  “Consuela,” José called out, half turning toward his wife, unable to pull his gaze from Alazne. “Consuela. Look at this woman. She is the daughter of Fermín Belasco.”

  Consuela scurried over, her house slippers coated in dust. “When did Fermín have a child?” she asked as she kissed Alazne’s cheeks, her hands on the young woman’s shoulders. “Well, I never,” she gushed. “What a surprise. You must stay! How did you get here?”

  “Hitchhiked,” Alazne replied, amazed by the reception.

  “You young ones, always risking your lives,” Consuela chided her. “Come inside, you can stay here. You are very welcome.”

  “Who is your mother?” José asked Alazne.

  “Her name was Arrosa Mariñelarena Izuel. She died of liver failure years ago. After all the drinking, I’m not surprised.”

  “You poor girl,” Consuela sighed.

  “The girl was born not long before Fermín passed,” José told his wife.

  “I didn’t realise Fermín had a… a …” Consuela struggled with the concept of sex outside of marriage, “a girlfriend, an intended.”

  “My mother was a prostitute,” Alazne said without batting an eyelid. “Mamá got pregnant by Fermín and then left Valencia to start again in Segovia, where she had family. But I decided on more favourable careers myself.”

  Consuela made the sign of the cross and pulled Alazne into her embrace. “My darling, you must come inside the house. We can care for you; my husband would do anything for Fermín. God forgives all his subjects; it is our duty to bring you into the warmth of God’s love. All souls can be saved.”

  Consuela pulled Alazne in the direction the house and left Jaime bewildered with his father. “I’m so sorry, Padre, a woman like that… of such low standing…”

  “Nonsense,” José dismissed his son. “If she is Fermín’s daughter, we must care for her. I owe that to Fermín, even if he was a ruthless, evil human being. Alazne’s soul needs saving. It may even help us to help her.” José charged inside the house, and Jaime glanced down at his shovel, covered in fine yellow grit. Storm clouds were forming over Spain, and Rebelión, too.

  15

  Madrid, España ~ Mayo de 2014

  Luna sat back on the padded outdoor furniture, the dark red fabric of the cushions warm in the sunshine. She glanced out at the children, all playing in Rebelión’s lush yard area, the olive trees providing a little shade. With their wide-brimmed hats on, Giacomo and Enzo were almost indistinguishable as they played badminton. Scarlett had a string of toys laid out on the grass, chatting to herself as she played alone, Paquito curled up on his father’s lap.

  “Luna?”

  Luna snapped back to attention. The reporter sent to do an interview for a newspaper, a man in his early thirties named Hugo, had dressed for the city and not the open air of Rebelión. He looked sweaty as he fiddled with the gold pen in his hand. “What was the question?” Luna felt hot under the slather of makeup she had on, and wanted to tie her hair back from her neck, rather than being perfect for photos.

  “How do you feel about Cayetano retiring?”

  “Um… I will be happy to have Cayetano at home more often, and I support his decision to retire.” Wow, that was generic and rehearsed. She should have mentioned the name of Cayetano’s suit manufacturer, for their publicity, as requested. What a waste of time.

  “Cayetano, tell me, how does it feel to be almost halfway through your final ever season in the bullring?”

  “Do you want a polite answer or the honest answer?” Cayetano said with a smile.

  “Give me both and I will publish the best one.”

  Cayetano laughed and tried to move in his seat, Paquito unwilling to let go of his Papá. “The polite answer is that my season is going very well, and I am proud of all my work. I have as much vigour and enthusiasm for the plaza del toros as I did as a young man. I believe in going out at the top of my game, and nothing less than perfection will do. I aim to perform and wow crowds all over the country as I have always done, and I will greatly enjoy every moment.”

  “And the honest answer?”

  “All of those above things, it’s all honest. But in reality, the end of my career feels like a death. Like a part of me will die. Retirement feels like a terminal illness, and I know my time is coming. Dying in the bullring would be a great, dramatic Spanish death. Retirement feels like death of part of my soul. I got to live my life part ballet dancer, part gunslinger in the bull ring. Now, the future holds no threats of death, no fear of pain or loss. The future holds nothing like what I have experienced. Part of me will die in a few months’ time.”

  Even though Hugo recorded everything with his phone, he kept scribbling down Cayetano’s words. “¡Caray!” Hugo exclaimed as he wrote. “Is that on the record, Maestro?”

  “You bet.”

  “You don’t fear people will think you foolish for saying that?”

  “Hasn’t anyone who ever let go of something special – a lover, a relative, a friend, a job, a home – experienced that sense of loss? They could sympathise,” Luna said.

  “All the aficionados who come to the ring. The toristas, the bull worshippers. The gente clave, the key people who come to the bullring to be seen there, they will all understand,” Cayetano added.

  “You fought in both Cordoba and Jaén last week,” Hugo said. “Were you happy with your performances?”

  “Any time I’m getting ears, and the crowds are cheering my name, I’m a happy man.”

  “Will you fight in Cuenca this year?”

  “I certainly will, in September, as I always do. Cuenca is a special place for my family, and Luna’s family.”

  “The Cuenca bullring is in dire trouble, have you heard?”

  “No,” Luna replied for her husband. “What a shame. Does the Town Hall pay for the fights?”

  “Yes, but with the small town like Cuenca, with so many landmarks to care for, they had to make budget cuts. They say they may not even be able to afford bulls for next year.”

  “How sad.” Luna thought of Cuenca, where she rarely visited since their wedding. She still had the two houses belonging to her grandparents and Cayetano’s grandparents, under her care. She sent money to maintain them under their world heritage listing, but ignored everythin
g else. When had she become so detached from the things that were so important to her only a few years earlier?

  “Tough times,” Cayetano shrugged.

  “Even though, Maestro, you take on the huge afternoons of responsibility throughout the year - the big fights, Madrid in May, Pamplona in July, Bilbao in August, Zaragoza in October. The Seville fería you just went to, you got paid handsomely, as always.”

  “Maybe with me off the market, more money can go to other fighters,” Cayetano mused.

  “And your cuadrilla? Your banderilleros, your managers, what will they do when you retire?”

  “Those who aren’t family will go on to other bullfighters with my blessing. My relatives are all retiring also, to take on new careers.”

  “And what about you, Cayetano? Your soul won’t be dead entirely. I heard you have several modelling contracts with fashion houses.”

  “Yes, those contracts will continue after my retirement. So will my invitations to speak at events.”

  “What else is next for you?”

  Cayetano glanced at Luna, who saw the look of worry in his eyes. The man had genuinely no idea what his life held. “There could be once-a-year comebacks for Cayetano,” Luna teased Hugo, who wrote with gusto. “You never know what might happen. Plus Rebelión has more news in store for the future. It’s an exciting time for the Beltráns.”

  “Luna knows far more than me,” Hugo chuckled. “I look forward to more news. Call me when you’re ready to share.”

  Luna had no idea what Cayetano might do in retirement, but some stranger didn’t have to know that. “Hugo, isn’t it about time you took your turn in the bullring?”

  Amateur hour. When reporters came to Rebelión, they would get a turn in the ring with either Cayetano or Paco at their side, to take on a calf. Three other interviewers were gearing up for a turn after their interview slot, and Hugo also wanted a try. “Yes,” Cayetano agreed and handed Paquito to this mother. “Let’s go and do I what I do best.”

  “Don’t worry, Cayetano,” Hugo said as he switched off his phone. “I won’t let you down in the ring. I’ve been practicing.”