Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  Luna stood with Paquito on her hip as Cayetano showed Hugo through the yard and down the path to the nearby bullring. She saw dust coming from above the whitewashed concrete walls, where no doubt someone was attempting to be a hero for a few minutes. Luna wandered over to Scarlett and set her twin brother down next to her game. Luna wiggled her bare toes on the soft grass as she watched her children play. The gates around the shimmering swimming pool nearby beckoned with incitement.

  “Oh, Luna, you’re finished.”

  Luna turned to see Cayetano’s aunt, Isadora, up on the wide wooden balcony. She wandered over the grass in her house slippers. “I have been preparing lunch for everyone.”

  “You don’t have to cook for us, Isadora,” Luna said. “You do so much and let us stay in your home whenever it suits, and I feel guilty.”

  “Rebelión belongs to everyone whose surname is Morales or Beltrán, by blood or marriage. Besides, we have four journalists here. We will cook for them, so I will show off how great Rebelión is, in every respect. It’s the way I contribute to the ganadería.”

  Luna didn’t need to argue with the 55-year-old woman. Isadora was a petite lady, just five-foot-two, with short, grey, hair. Luna loved the looks she saw between Isadora and her husband, Luis. They looked at each other like playful teenagers.

  “I will admit, Jovana and Alysa have done most of the cooking today,” Isadora continued. “I have been on the phone for almost an hour.”

  “It’s lovely that three sisters-in-law can get along so well and live together here.”

  “This is my whole life,” Isadora replied. “I lived at the next property over with my father before he died, and the place became part of Rebelión. Ever since I was born, I remember being told I would be a wife at Rebelión. It’s all I wanted. Who wouldn’t want this peaceful life?”

  “It is beautiful here.”

  “But my children wanted to leave the nest. It’s fine; Paco is the patriarch of the family, and now Cayetano, when he retires, making you lady of the ganadería.”

  “I’ll need help with that role,” Luna joked.

  “My daughter Sara, who runs the restaurant in Alicante with Benita and Carmina. What a mess. Sara’s husband has lost his job driving tourists around Alicante. The restaurant is doing well, but I still have to send them money to survive.”

  “But supporting three daughters and their families can’t be easy.”

  “They’re all in their thirties, when does it end?”

  “In Spain? Never.”

  Isadora laughed. “Already I have Hector to care for, and he’s depressed he can’t remain Cayetano’s personal assistant after he retires…”

  “Lucky we have a big bull breeding farm to cope with everyone when they need a job or a place to stay!”

  “I’m sure you had no idea how many relatives you were inheriting when you met Caya.”

  “That man is a handful on his own,” Luna mumbled as she watched her children play.

  “Your phone has been ringing,” Isadora continued. “I didn’t want to interrupt your interviews.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Luna knew it would be Darren. She hadn’t given him an answer about attending the Tour de France in July. She followed Isadora inside and grabbed her phone from the library. Back out on the balcony, she scrolled through her phone. Three calls from Jorge Arias at the historical memory association. There was an opportunity to talk about more than just being some famous, handsome man’s wife.

  “Sí,” Jorge snapped as he answered the call.

  “Jorge, Luna Montgomery.”

  “Oh, good morning, Luna!”

  Luna glanced at Fabrizio’s huge silver watch on her arm. Almost two. Even after fifteen years, Luna considered it afternoon, though the Spanish assumed the afternoon started after lunch. “Sorry, I missed your calls.”

  “No matter. Look, this is awkward. The association is in dire straits, so there’s no point in me sugar-coating the issue. We lack serious funding.”

  “What can I do?”

  “We need to clear the unidentified bodies. For so many, that is impossible, though we can’t afford to buy them, and fund more digs.”

  “So you want the Escondrijo bodies out of the storage lab?”

  “We need to make sure Aná Munoz’s family is given her body.”

  “Let’s speed up that process, and send the costs to me,” Luna instructed.

  “Okay. But the other body…”

  “I need to tell Cayetano’s uncles they are adopted, and move ahead with a burial for Carmelita, if that is her real name.” All Luna had to go on, with the body’s identity, was a mumbled discussion with José one night years ago. What a shit-storm that would be, telling everyone at Rebelión the truth. “Cayetano is heading to Valladolid tonight, for fights there and Burgos this week. Are you free to come to Valencia next week? We can arrange the transfer of the money I wish to donate to you, Jorge.”

  “I have four burial sites open and little money to finish the work. So many families, none financially capable of burying loved ones. What the hell has this country come to, with shit like this happening?”

  “Let’s meet in Valencia. There has to be a future for these civil war bodies and their families.”

  16

  Madrid, España ~ Mayo de 2014

  “Two. Hundred. Thousand. Euros.”

  Each word stuttered from Paco’s mouth. Luna sat across from him in the library at Rebelión, her back straight, a perky smile on her face. Compared to the not-so perky faces in the family photos dotted around the dimly-lit room, Luna looked as if she had won the lottery.

  “When you sit like that, it highlights the spilled sauce all over your blouse,” Cayetano said next to her.

  Luna dabbed at the dried salsa on her pink shirt. Scarlett had put her fist in a bowl at dinner, splattering the sauce. “I don’t care. I’m a mother so it’s a badge of honour.”

  Paco chuckled as he adjusted his position on the brown Chesterfield across the coffee table, where three glasses of wine sat, two red and one white. After a decade and a half in Spain, Luna still hated red wine. “I have to admire your tenacity, Luna. That’s a lot of money to give away.”

  “To a worthy cause.”

  “I agree.”

  “There’s no point in me arguing,” Cayetano said, slouched against the high arm of the couch.

  “Nope,” Luna chirped. “Anyway, it’s half of what Caya makes at a bullfight.”

  Cayetano almost choked. “Yeah, at the main fights each year, only three or four times a season. The rest are far less lucrative.”

  “And you’ve been a professional for over twenty years.”

  “And for fifteen of those, I wasn’t earning huge money.”

  “Caya forgets that making a mere €10,000 for a fight is still a lot of money. Caya started to make €400,000 a fight and lost perspective,” Paco added.

  “That’s not true, Papá. I’m grateful to earn so much, but I earned the money.”

  “No one is saying otherwise,” Luna reassured him. “I won’t give out a penny of Caya’s money. The cash comes from me.”

  “Look, I don’t care where the money comes from,” Cayetano sighed. “Everything belongs to everyone.”

  “The donation pays for three more years of digging work, and sorely need wages and equipment,” Luna said. “I won’t apologise for aiding those in the association that have been so good to us with those bodies at Escondrijo. Technically they didn’t need to help us at all.”

  “Some good needs to come out of the bodies at Escondrijo.” Paco’s face spoke of weariness. He, Cayetano and the others had been back in Madrid a few hours after the drive from Burgos, 260 kilometres north of Rebelión. “I have thought in recent years if there are any bodies near Rebelión. The ganadería is near Guadalajara, 35 or 40 kilometres north of here. Those war battles were legendary.”

  “The land was dirt cheap when Papí bought here in 1965,” Cayetano reasoned. “You mentioned the prop
erty was abandoned. The last owners were a mystery. Rebelión is a huge piece of land, 100,000 hectares with a big, beautiful, neglected house. As it is now, we utilise little of the Rebelión land.”

  “Rebelión is a property worthy of the headquarters for a feudal landowner in the old days,” Luna commented.

  “How would we go about deciding if there are war bodies here?” Paco asked.

  “Battles are well documented,” Luna replied. “A little research and bang - results. Most of Guadalajara’s battles got fought north of the city with thousands killed. But the battle of Jarama in early 1937, the tens of thousands got killed. Arganda del Rey is how far from here?”

  “About twenty kilometres south,” Paco said.

  “Much happened in the battle to cross the Río Jarama. As they said at the time, even the olives bled.”

  “This place seemed covered in olive trees when Papí bought the place, still is in places,” Cayetano added.

  “How far is the Jarama River from here?” Luna asked.

  “About fifteen kilometres north-west and you cross the river and reach Alcala de Henares,” Paco said. “I’ve never enquired about what came before Rebelión. It was just an abandoned stone home and a huge plot of land no one wanted. I mean, blood hides everywhere in Spain’s soil, but we had to move on, move forward, as a family, as a country. Well, you knew José, he wouldn’t have cared if rojos or their foreign helpers were dead beneath his feet, in fact, José would have found it soothing.”

  “But we’ve found no evidence of battles here since José bought place in ‘65,” Cayetano argued. “If there were something to find, we would have found it by now.”

  “Perhaps you’re lucky, living in an innocent pocket of the wilderness. But I doubt it,” Luna said.

  “Since the day I met you, you’ve been fighting the whole country,” Cayetano joked to his wife.

  “Someone has to,” she replied, dead serious.

  “I’m 75 years old,” Paco sighed. “Caya, you need to take over as leader at Rebelión. I’m done.”

  “What?” Cayetano squinted. “Papá, come on...”

  “No, you ‘come on’. You always knew this day would come. You are retiring so it’s time for you to take over the business here. If Luna wants to run her hands over the dirt and look for war history, you need to let her.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Cayetano laughed.

  “Mine!” Paco mocked his voice. “Please, Caya, take over Rebelión. It’s time.”

  Cayetano glanced at his wife who said nothing. The day would always come.

  “Finish the season, of course,” Paco said. “I will take care of everything until then. You have your three uncles all living here, so business will carry on as usual, whether you or I are in charge.”

  “Do you want me to live here?” Cayetano asked. “The owner of Rebelión has always lived on site.”

  “Not always. We spent years living at La Moraleja and handling business from there,” Paco reasoned. “You have children in school in outer Madrid. Don’t uproot them. In saying that, you all can live here. But it might not be practical for young children. That’s why I built La Moraleja in the mid-seventies, so you and Sofía could go to a private school in Madrid.”

  “I want to live in Valencia,” Luna blurted out. “I’ve always wanted to go home to Valencia. I bowed to pressure and moved to Madrid years ago, but I assumed that was temporary.”

  “I would always inherit Rebelión,” Cayetano replied. “It’s the family business; it keeps everyone employed and housed. Valencia isn’t practical. What will I do? Drive to work from Valencia to Rebelión? That’s 350 kilometres, a three and a half hour drive each way.”

  “But you wouldn’t have to come every day, Caya,” Paco said. “We are all here already. You could drive here, stay a few nights, work and then go home to Valencia for a week or two.”

  “Everything important is in Madrid.”

  “Bullshit,” Luna scoffed. “The only time we ever go to into Madrid is for those vacuous parties and premieres for movies or bars or fashion shows. Once you retire, the celebrity scene will drop you like hot turd.”

  Paco guffawed with laughter. “This girl,” he snorted. “Talk about realistic.”

  “Thanks, la chispa, for that summarisation of my life,” Cayetano cut in over his father’s sniggering. “We made our home at La Moraleja. The children are at school.”

  “I built La Moraleja to live in the city, but always for my vanity,” Paco admitted. “I was nearing the end of my career, had money to burn and wanted to live somewhere new and exclusive. Keep the house, but you don’t need to live there all the time.”

  “As for school,” Luna added, “the kids are happy and well-adjusted, but they would drop their friends and move without a second thought! The children of celebrities, sports stars, politicians and diplomats at that school - it’s all for show. A good school doesn’t need to be in the luxury part of Madrid. We don’t even see much of the real Madrid, out there in the leafy exclusive suburbs. La Moraleja is a world away from your apartment in Madrid.”

  “Is everyone against me?” Cayetano asked.

  “No one is against you, Caya,” Luna said. “I just thought I would speak my mind.”

  “Get a time-share helicopter and fly between Rebelión and Valencia. Now that’s easy,” Paco suggested.

  “I forgot we had won the El Gordo lottery at Christmas,” Cayetano shot back at his father.

  “Hey, just the money we’ll save on gas for the cars, driving you to fights all over Spain, will cover the cost of a weekly helicopter ride. It would make your wife happy.”

  “Helicopters terrify me,” Luna said.

  “Can we talk about something else?” Cayetano sighed.

  “I want to move my grandfather’s body away from Escondrijo,” Luna replied.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he replied.

  “Paco, I wondered if Cayetano Ortega could get buried with Luna Beltrán in Madrid. They were lovers, they should be together,” Luna said of her grandfather and Paco’s adoptive mother. “They’re the namesakes of Caya and me. Why shouldn’t they rest together?”

  “It’s a nice thought,” Paco said, pensive. “I thought for years that Cayetano Ortega was my real father; I named my son after him. Now, he’s your grandfather and the lover of my adoptive mother.”

  “But what about your real parents?” Cayetano asked. “Your mother is buried at Escondrijo and your father’s ashes are in a cupboard at La Moraleja. Perhaps Alejandro and Sofía could be buried in that beautiful plot with Luna Beltrán and Mamá. The whole Beltrán family together at last.”

  “Alejandro Beltrán murdered Cayetano Ortega. Should they rest together in eternity?” Paco asked.

  “They didn’t forgive each other, but we can,” Luna reasoned.

  “I want to be buried there, with my mother… Adoptive mother… And my wife. My natural parents and Cayetano Ortega can be there too,” Paco announced.

  “Any other dead people to deal with?” Cayetano said as he picked up his wine.

  “Well, we have the doctor and his wife settled in Valencia now, assuming the DNA test from Montserrat Lugo comes back positive. God, what an awful family tale the Lugo Sueños suffered.”

  Paco nodded; Luna had shared the story with Cayetano over the phone, who had relayed it to the entire Morales family entourage while away in Burgos. “And to think perhaps José murdered that couple,” he said under his breath. The door to the library was wide open so Luna could hear the children in the living room. “What do we do? Do we tell this Montserrat the truth?”

  “We have no proof José killed Montserrat’s parents,” Cayetano said.

  “José had a connection to all the victims,” Luna said. “But what can we do? Montserrat was bitter about the whole thing; already convinced her father was murdered over his dodgy dealings. But given the age of the bodies, she couldn’t go to the police and have a case opened. Perhaps we should say something. But perh
aps José killed that couple on police orders, and we would get harassed for exposing the fact.”

  “A Guardia Civil officer killed four people and hid them. Then he lived a full life, rich and happy and then died in old age. Do you think José is the only man in Spain with that life story?” Paco said. “Nothing can be done, because of the pact in 1977, stating Franco regime crimes cannot be tried and convictions cannot be sought.”

  The trio sat in silence; the conversation still hadn’t mentioned the maternity of Pedro, Jaime and Luis. All four bodies needed to be removed from Jorge’s lab; the truth had to come out.

  “Hey, you know what we could do?” Luna changed the subject. “We could assume ownership of the Cuenca bullring.”

  “See, we need a helicopter,” Paco joked.

  “Cuenca needs people to run it and care for the bullring. The Town Hall is doing a shitty job. Could be a nice family project since we have people looking for new careers. We could name the ring after Alejandro Beltrán and Cayetano Ortega, who loved the place in their day.”

  “You have a flair for grand plans,” Cayetano said and took his wife’s hand.

  “I like that idea,” Paco added. “Let’s look into the Cuenca bullring.”

  “You’re not mad are you, about donating the money to the historical memory association?” Luna asked her husband.

  “Never. Like Papá said, it’s a good idea, a happy end to the whole Escondrijo nightmare,” Cayetano said and kissed the back of her hand. “I just don’t have visions as grand as saving organisations and bullrings, like you. Lead the way, preciosa.”

  17

  Madrid, España ~ Septiembre de 1975

  Jaime listened to the radio for days; the papers told the same stories. Spanish embassies were on fire in Portugal, the Netherlands and Turkey. Thirteen others pulled their ambassadors from Spain. The French were marching on the Champs Elysees. Trade suspensions were on the horizon. The whole world was looking at Spain for what they had done. Five men were executed, two from the ETA terrorist group and three young men from the anti-fascist FRAP organisation. In the late hours of September 26, Franco had commuted the death penalties of another six people, two of them pregnant women. But that did nothing to stop the deaths of five men, killed before firing squads in Barcelona, Hoy de Manzanares and Burgos. The acts also did nothing to quell the turning tide of anger and fear from the people of Spain.