Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Padre, Padre,” Jaime choked. “¿Por qué?”

  “I never suspected I would receive a phone call that suggested my son is a terrorist!” José spat at his son. “Explain yourself!”

  “Padre,” Jaime said, but began to feel dizzy. “Padre, por favor…”

  José let go of Jaime, and he slumped to the ground as air made its way into his lungs. He held his throat with delicate hands, relieved to be alive. José leaned over him and Jaime prepared to get struck again.

  “A suitcase was found at the scene of a raid on a terrorist safe-house. Inside was a train ticket, one way from Madrid to Valencia, in the name of Jaime Morales Pena. What the fuck have you done!” he screamed, his face red, the veins in his neck exposed as they throbbed.

  Jaime scrambled for an answer as he tried to calm his breathing. The train ticket. Of course. He hadn’t put it in his wallet, rather in the suitcase when he sat in his first-class seat. Jaime had told no one he went to Valencia. Paco knew and hadn’t breathed a word to anyone on the subject. “My case got stolen…”

  “When did you go to Valencia?”

  “I had to go…”

  “To be caught associating with GRAPO terrorists?”

  “I’m not a terrorist,” Jaime muttered.

  “That’s not what my friends in the force are saying!”

  “Your friends in the secret police raided a man’s home and murdered him. They just left his beaten and bullet-ridden body on the ground! Were you once one of those men, Padre?”

  “So you were there?” Spit dripped onto his son’s face as José seethed, his temper unrestrained.

  “I went to Valencia, to help Alazne.”

  “Oh, I know all about your little bitch.” José took a step back from Jaime. “She has been wanted for months after inciting violence in Madrid, Valencia and Hoy de Manzanares. I also found out she got released from jail into the care of José Morales Ruiz. I was never in Valencia! I will never go to Valencia, much less to bail a whore from jail!”

  “She is the daughter of your friend.”

  “I could never call Fermín Belasco my friend. You don’t understand what happened to us in Valencia. Alazne is nothing but the wicked spawn of a wicked man.”

  “She is pregnant,” Jaime cried. “Pregnant. I went to help her with an abortion…”

  José took a few shuddered breaths, a moment taken to digest the whole situation. “Mary, Mother of God, what have you done?”

  “She is pregnant, to me, Padre.” Jaime surged in confidence. “I just went to help the girl, and she got caught up with a man who wanted to bomb the Town Hall.”

  “Alazne is one of them!” José screamed. He grabbed the shovel from the ground and pointed it right at Jaime’s face. “She is one of the putrid, stinking rojos, those who hurt people like us! She is scum, and you have made the devil’s mistake! You are to marry well. Alazne has to disappear, and yet you bring her here, into our home? Now I shall have to bury her in our soil!”

  “We had nowhere to go after what we saw in Valencia!” Jaime grabbed the sharp end of the shovel, and blood ran through his fingers. José threw the weapon to the ground and grabbed Jaime by the throat again. “I will not marry Isadora. Luis loves her.”

  “Luis?”

  “Luis loves Isadora the way Inés loves Paco. You don’t approve of Pedro and Jovana, but you can’t force me to marry someone who loves my brother. Luis can give you what you want; a good, obedient son married to the daughter of the Núñez family.”

  “You are not my son,” José foamed from the mouth.

  Both men fell silent for a second; both stunned by the confrontation. Jaime could feel José’s hands around his neck, the pressure burned in agony. Of course José felt angry; why wouldn’t he be? Jaime and Luis had used their father’s reputation to get Alazne from prison, and the latest incident in Valencia was a shocker. Jaime should have told his father immediately, even if only for the protection José could provide during the Apolinar investigation.

  Footsteps peppered the silence between the towering father and cowering son. Inés appeared in the doorway to the barn. She stopped in the dust and called to her family. “Papá, Jaime, you have to come to the house!”

  “Go away, Inés,” José yelled, his eyes still on Jaime, his hands now away from Jaime’s neck.

  “No, Papá, please come. Mamá has flicked on the television. There is an announcement about Franco.”

  José dashed from the barn, straight past his daughter, who wandered over to Jaime. He sat in a heap, his bloody hands around his neck. “My God, are you all right?” she asked her brother.

  Jaime pulled himself to his feet and towered over his big sister. “I suspect I’m about to get disowned for being the family sinner.”

  “I thought my sex before marriage won me that prize. What happened to your neck, your hands? Did Papá hurt you?” Inés took her brother’s hands in her own with care.

  “Padre does nothing but hurt me.”

  The pair walked back into the house, quiet footsteps. Jaime knew Inés had questions. “Alazne, she’s pregnant,” Jaime answered before Inés could even ask the question. “The baby is mine. Padre knows; he will kill Alazne.”

  “Papá? No.”

  “He said he would now have to bury her in Rebelión soil.”

  “Come, my children!” Consuela cried from the house.

  Inés and Jaime rushed to their mother, to find José right in front of the television with Consuela at his side, baby Sofía on her hip. Paco sat on the couch with young Cayetano next to him, Pedro and Luis in nearby seats. Jovana appeared from the kitchen, but Alazne seemed nowhere to be found.

  The group crowded around the television, oblivious to Jaime’s injuries. The broadcast turned to Prime Minister Carlos Arias Navarro. A black and white image, volume turned right up, showed the sombre bald man at a desk, papers in hand.

  “Spaniards… Franco… Is dead.”

  A second of silence shattered with a cry from Consuela. Inés grabbed her baby daughter from Consuela’s arms as José placed an arm around his wife. Both made the sign of the cross as Consuela continued to cry. Jaime felt pain as he swallowed and listened to the Prime Minister explain that Francisco Franco died after a fifth heart attack; then aggravated by peritonitis. But the 82-year-old had been in a coma for five weeks, suffered years of Parkinson’s disease, and suffered intestinal haemorrhaging. Without life support, Franco would have died weeks ago.

  Both José and Consuela sobbed as the Prime Minister spoke of keeping Spain together at this trying time. Spaniards needed to back Prince Juan Carlos as he would be the new ruler of the country. Jaime glanced to Paco on the couch; awkwardness lined his face. Cayetano seemed confused by the sadness in the room. No one said a word. Movement caught Jaime’s eye, and he watched Alazne slip through the back door through the kitchen.

  “I ask pardon of all my enemies, as I pardon with all my heart, to all those who declared themselves my enemy, although I did not consider them to be so.”

  Jaime frowned as he heard Prime Minster Arias recite those words from Franco. “Does that mean all those political prisoners will get released?”

  “Nonsense,” José spat, his voice thick with emotion. “Today, in light of this news, we need to be more careful than ever about who is our enemy.”

  The Prime Minister read out details that Franco’s body would lie in state in El Pardo, the 600-year-old royal palace where Franco lived, north of Madrid. The public could see Franco’s body in Madrid’s Palacio de Oriente, and Consuela found her voice. “We must go; we must drive to Madrid and pray for Franco’s soul now he is in heaven. In heaven for saving our country. The man is great and has done so much for all of us.”

  Jaime glanced at Paco; his face spoke of relief, not sorrow. Both Pedro and Luis carried reluctant expressions, not in line with their grieving parents.

  “Whatever you say,” Paco replied to Consuela, who clung to José. “We will go to Madrid.”

 
; “Bring the boy,” José replied and looked down to Cayetano. “He must come along. Caya must see our great leader before he is given to God.”

  Jaime bolted from the room, unseen by his parents, who watched the television. He didn’t need to hear about Franco’s burial in the Valle de los Caídos, the monumental crypt in the Madrid mountains, built by Republican slaves. Jaime didn’t need to know about flags at half-mast or when Prince Juan Carlos would become King Juan Carlos. Would Juan Carlos be any better than Franco? Juan Carlos’ father had been in exile in France most of his life, along with King Alfonso, Juan Carlos’ grandfather. Alfonso got ousted by the Second Spanish Republic in 1931 before Franco waged war. But Juan Carlos received an education in Spain, under Franco’s supervision, so wasn’t he just the son Franco never had? Or were the rumours true that Juan Carlos had been secretly meeting with military high command and overseas leaders who looked at Juan Carlos with confidence?

  Alazne sat on the steps through to the laundry room; nearby clothes fluttered in the weak sunshine. She looked up at him and squinted in the glare. “Your hands…”

  “Fuck my hands. I’m surprised you’re not planning to visit Valle de los Caídos to dance on Franco’s grave,” Jaime said.

  “I won’t lie, I’m glad Franco is dead.”

  “My father knows.”

  Alazne’s eyes widened. “About what?”

  “Apolinar… Your time in jail… The warrants for your arrest… The baby…”

  “Did he attack you because of me?”

  “Yes. He wants to kill you, and I’ll be in the ground beside you.”

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “Damn right. You need to take what you need and run. No, I’ll drive you as far as Corpa. From the village, you can go anywhere you want. I’ll give you money.”

  “To kill the baby.”

  “And to disappear. Unless you want José’s hands around your throat, like he had around mine, be ready to leave in five minutes. Padre and Mamá won’t even know I’m missing. Paco will cover for me.”

  “You could come too,” Alazne said. “Run away with me.”

  “Why the hell would I do that? Here is my family! You’re my undoing!”

  “I thought you liked me, Jaime! The world is changing! Franco is dead, 39 years after he took over the country after his vicious three-year war! We are free!”

  “Perhaps the world is changing, but not soon enough for you and me. José is distracted but he won’t be for long. Run or die, Alazne.”

  33

  Madrid, España ~ Junio de 2014

  “It’s nice to relax,” Sofía commented as a waiter refilled her champagne flute. The bubbles in the glass sparkled like the sequins on her short purple dress. “Just being here goes against everything we stand for now.”

  “Life is a series of compromises,” Luna replied. The pair toasted the comment with their champagne and Luna turned to check on her children, outside on Rebelión’s lawn. There were about forty children outside, Paquito and Scarlett the smallest. Their older brothers were doting on them as always. She turned back to her sister-in-law and Luna’s ice-blue gown swished with the movement. “Wow, Caya is 45.”

  “And I’m 40,” Sofía scoffed. “When did we get old?”

  “While we were busy being young and stupid.”

  Rebelión was filled to the brim with several hundred guests dressed in their best for the private birthday event for Cayetano. With the help of caterers and waiters, the whole house was the site for the huge birthday bash. Cayetano stood in the centre of the living room under the shimmering chandelier, holding court with his guests; dressed in a navy suit and ice-blue tie. The air-conditioning cooled the house, with the evening hot outside, the sun still going down over the plains around Rebelión. The party would go all night. Every single member of the Beltrán Morales family was there – all the cousins from around Spain, their spouses and children included. Most of the men who had worked with Cayetano and Paco over the years at Rebelión and in the ring; long time family friends, even some of Cayetano’s old private school friends in Madrid. After successful fights in San Sebastian and Gijon, Cayetano took a moment to relax before heading south to Algeciras and then Badajoz for fights. Cayetano had spent his birthday playing with his children as the party preparation went up around them, though tomorrow would bring interviews and another photo shoot. The circus never stopped.

  “How much did this all cost?” Sofía said as Darren wandered over and joined the women.

  “No idea, but Caya and Paco have accounted for every penny. Rebelión isn’t the money pit it used to be.” Luna turned her attention to Darren. “You are looking dapper there, Darren.”

  “Thank you, my dear,”’ Darren joked and tugged at the lapels of his black suit. “So, tell me, Lulu, will you be riding pillion in this year’s Tour de France? The race is less than a month away.”

  “I want to, very much. Caya is in France most of the month; all his fights will be in Nimes, Arles, Dax… I’ve already told the powers-that-be that I’ll man the leader-board on the motorbike.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realise that.”

  “I did it a month ago and told no one. Barring death, fire, flood, apocalypse, I’ll be there, kids in tow.”

  “We will have so much fun!” Sofía exclaimed, full of champagne.

  “Get your wife something to eat,” Luna said to Darren.

  “But I’m not drunk,” Sofía cried with a grin.

  “Lulu, you may be right,” Darren said and kissed Sofía’s cheek, and headed towards the food in the dining room. He passed Alysa, who came over in her demure black dress; her short blonde-grey hair curled for the big night.

  “You look beautiful, tía Alysa,” Sofía said and sipped her champagne again.

  “Thank you,” Alysa said with a gentle smile. “Wow, you two ladies appear far different to the photos I saw of you in Valencia a few days ago, protesting outside the Town Hall building for a Third Spanish Republic.”

  “I don’t hate the King,” Luna said. “But I hate a system that doesn’t help homeless families, like the ones who shelter in my Valencian apartment. People deserve better from their country.”

  “The King is your cousin,” Sofía pointed out. “Did you see María Medina Cruz on TV? Going on all about her family connection to the King. If she learned you, Luna, had the same noble connections as she does, she would be furious. What a vile woman, trying to get herself an invite to the crowning of the new King. María was reporting on parliament accepting the abdication and creating a new law to make it legal, as if she is a serious journalist. She’s a tabloid whore. I’m so glad Caya divorced her.”

  “Strong words,” Alysa said. “You’re doing good work with the political party and homeless shelter in Valencia. Just worry about that, Sofía. Don’t let flakes like Cayetano’s first wife concern you.”

  “I am doing good work. We have found homes for eight families this week alone. People with nowhere to go. One was staying in the metro tunnel, another in a mechanic’s garage. There’s just no work, and the government is no help. If we overthrew the monarchy then those at the top could be replaced; new people could come in and reform Spain.”

  “You don’t need to tell me about the ambitions of reform, Sofía. I have done my time trying to change Spain.”

  “What was your trick to deal with José and his radical right-wing agendas?” Luna asked Alysa.

  “Time. José, for all his faults, and there were many, could be beaten. Not necessarily with logic, but with sheer will. That and the fact Jaime and I had married in secret in Valencia before José and Consuela had any idea what had happened. They had to accept me.”

  The three women laughed as Darren reappeared with a tray of food stolen from a waiter. Sofía took the salmon and swallowed the pastry puff in one bite. The moment Alysa headed off in search of her daughter, Darren said, “so, what are you going to do about the Morales brothers’ real mother?”

  “I still
can’t believe you told him,” Luna gestured at Darren, a stern expression at Sofía.

  “Darren’s my husband; I had to tell him. I still can’t believe you took four years to tell me about Carmelita!”

  “The only people that need to know are Pedro, Jaime and Luis,” Luna shot back at her.

  “Do they?” Darren asked. “It’s not my place to say anything, but just glance around you…”

  The trio looked at the party guests all laughing and chatting, dressed in their best. Music played in the background, something obscure that Cayetano liked in his younger days. Family and friends alike mingled; everyone happy, comfortable, welcome. Instagram would get overloaded with photos. “If you tell everyone the truth, you could break up the whole family. No one will know where they stand. Is the world not fractured enough already? Perhaps everyone can just continue to be a family, blood related or not.”

  “But surely Pedro, Jaime and Luis deserve the right to make that decision for themselves. No one else can make that choice.”

  “But you’ve been deciding for them for four years.”

  “They are the children of Carmelita Flores Vargas and her husband, a man named Nicolas Albaicín Maya,” Luna said. “The trio deserve the facts. We all know, Caya, Paco and Miguel too. The secret will spread. The Band-Aid needs to get torn off now. It’s a sad tale; two Spanish gypsies marry by the Valencian seaside, Nicolas 15 and Carmelita just 14. Two years later, baby Pedro comes along, then Jaime a year later, and then Nicolas is killed in the street fight, right before the birth of Luis. Should these people get forgotten? There is no death certificate for Carmelita, even though we know she died at just 19. Carmelita had no siblings, nor did Nicolas, odd for families at the time. They are survived by three sons, who have nine children and twelve grandchildren.”

  “At least José and Consuela kept the babies’ original first names,” Darren commented and pulled his hands from his pockets. He took Sofía’s hand and said, “You should let Paco decide on what to do. Paco knows best; Paco has been through all this himself.”