Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Why does the world have to be so full and heavy with lies and misery?” Sofía sighed.

  “It will remain that way until we figure out a way to change it,” Luna shrugged.

  The sound of a knife on crystal rang out, and Cayetano stood there with a hearty grin, wishing to make a speech. He gestured Luna through into the wide open living space, and all the partygoers gathered around the guest of honour. Cayetano put an arm around Luna’s waist as the guests all hushed their conversations to listen.

  “First I would like to say, you’re welcome for the wonderful evening,” Cayetano said in his deep, smooth voice, to the laughter of the guests. “No, seriously,” he added, “Thank you for coming out here to Rebelión tonight, I know it’s not an easy party location. I’m sure the bulls will find you asleep in their grass tomorrow morning.” Cayetano paused as everyone laughed again. “I’ve spoken to most of you tonight, praising myself most of the time, so I don’t need to make anything in the way of an impassioned speech. But I need to say I have never been happier than I have been this year. I have Luna, my four children, my family, my friends, the bulls, the ganadería, and the passion of all those people that help me be Cayetano Beltrán every day. It’s hard work being this fantastic.”

  “And modest,” Luna interrupted as the guests laughed.

  “I would like to take a moment to remember my mother, Inés, who couldn’t be here today. Mamá was a wonderful person, a kind spirit. She devoted her life to her family, to her husband, to the cause of bullfighting, even though she couldn’t bear to watch a single performance. To Inés,” he added with a raised glass.

  As everyone raised their glasses, Luna glanced to Paco, who stood just a few steps away, dressed in his finest, his grey hair combed back. “One more toast,” Cayetano said. “You all know I will retire from the ring this year. Who knows, perhaps I’ll be back in the ring for special one-off exhibitions, but my full-time career will end in October. When a bullfighter retires, his ponytail, even though it’s a hairpiece these days, needs to be ceremoniously cut from his head in the ring. When I was just 15, I stepped onto the sand and cut my father’s ponytail for him. I remember weeping as I did it, even though I could understand just a fraction of the emotion my father experienced that day. We cried together that day, on the sand. I would like to ask my father, Paco, to be the man to cut my ponytail for me, at Las Ventas in October.”

  Luna stood back as Paco embraced to his son to a round of applause and murmurings from the guests. She didn’t know the first thing about the cutting of a torero’s ponytail, but it was a huge moment, an honour, a marking of a symbolic moment. Cayetano wanted to share it with his father, as he had once done for Paco, thirty years ago.

  Everyone gathered around, the Morales men, old and young, aunts, cousins, children, a solid unit, as they had always been, together during every up and down moment. Maybe Darren’s reasoning was correct; perhaps the truth wasn’t a matter of DNA, but of family ties that formed over years. Once the bodies of Luna and Paco’s pasts got buried, perhaps the answer would become clear. Clear as the love between Cayetano and Paco, no matter the impetuousness of the relationship. Family bound everyone together, the family they created for themselves.

  34

  Madrid, España ~ Junio de 2014

  A marble angel sat atop the grave of Luna Beltrán Caño. When she died in 1960 after a fight with pneumonia, her son Paco had commissioned a grand plot for her; Paco bought a triple width plot and an enormous headstone to commemorate the 40-year-old. Luna’s husband, a man named Ignacio, whom she married for their mutual safety - she a disgraced Republican, he a gay fascist Falangist – got buried far away. Ignacio’s death in 1944 had been a blessing for poor Luna and the, then, five-year-old Paco; Ignacio’s wealth meant Luna could care for her adopted son and not be trapped in a marriage any longer. After resting on her own until 2012, when Inés Morales was buried alongside her, Luna would now have her whole family, and the man she loved, by her side.

  The day was the ultimate in conflicting situations – Luna Beltrán had been deeply religious throughout her life, and Paco had been raised Catholic, though he did not consider himself one. Paco’s wife Inés was Catholic, so his children were raised Catholic. But his roots, from the Beltrán family, his biological father, Alejandro, and his wife Sofía; they were not religious. The group had turned away from the suffocating grasp of the church, as did their dear friends, Cayetano Ortega and Scarlett Montgomery. But still, Paco decided that a priest would attend the burials of Alejandro, Sofía and Cayetano at the grave site, to humour his mother and wife. Luna Beltrán Caño had her whole family with her now, and the man she wished to marry, Cayetano Ortega Medina. The ashes of those long-awaited members were carefully placed in the grave with words from the priest that Inés had confessed to each week.

  Paco watched the priest head away from the grave site, the dust around the gravel footpath clinging to the black fabric of his vestment. The religious words spurred moments from his young life, passages his mother loved. Luna had died so long ago, but her loss was always so felt. At least now she could rest with the ones she loved. “I’ll be buried here before too long,” Paco muttered.

  “Don’t say such things, Papá!” Sofía put a protective arm around him, careful not to wrinkle his pale grey suit.

  “I’m old, my darling,” he replied and kissed his only daughter’s forehead. Sofía felt clammy in the intense summer heat. “Let’s not worry about the new headstone right now; it has Mamá and Inés marked for now. Get the others a headstone when I die and get cremated. You might get a discount ordering all at once.”

  “Papá,” Cayetano chastised Paco. “Please, no more sad words. Haven’t we had enough today?”

  The funeral party was a tiny one; Paco didn’t want everyone to come, so just his children and Luna came, with her four little ones, all hot and uncomfortable. Cayetano held his youngest son in his arms to keep him happy while Luna held little Scarlett. Giacomo and Enzo dressed in suits and tried their best to be quiet throughout the small ceremony. At least the enrichment of flowers over the grave made it seem happier; the family seemed surrounded by a sea of thousands of grey graves. Luna spotted several graves along with the way with Falangist symbols on the headstones; just like José and Consuela’s graves, which were a short stroll away. Even in death, attitudes were evident. Paco had already given Luna his blessing to add a small Republican flag at the grave site. Its purple, gold and red stripes coloured the grave of her grandfather, who died after trying to save his countrymen.

  “Fans will flock here for you when you die, Papá,” Cayetano said. “One day, long from now, when you have passed, there will be a cape here to cover you and fans will pay their respects. We will take wonderful care. However, you won’t be dead for a long time.”

  “Yeah,” Enzo spoke up to the adults. “You get to teach new bullfighters at Rebelión, remember, abuelo?”

  Paco chuckled as he let go of his daughter. “Thank you, little one. Yes, your Papá’s crazy idea to teach another generation of toreros is coming along at a fast rate.”

  Giacomo fanned himself with his hand. “It’s sad when people die, but they are together and that’s wonderful.”

  “The clarity of a child’s mind,” Paco said, and Cayetano nodded. “I feel as if this is the end now. The Beltrán-Ortega-Montgomery puzzle is complete, even if Scarlett got buried on the other side of the world.”

  Paco gazed up to the tree behind the grave. Dark green leaves were trimmed to make the foliage symmetrical and sculpted. It provided precious shade where his family lay at rest; the Madrid sky, an eloquent glowing blue, didn’t suffer the marks of a single cloud. The breeze blew just a touch, and he said, “What I’m feeling at this moment is genuine peace.”

  “There comes a time when you can say goodbye,” Luna commented. “There comes a moment when you can let go. Memories won’t leave us; they protect us from the hurt of losing people. But there comes a day when you can beat
the load life puts on our hearts.”

  “I know who I am now,” Paco said. “We must give that right to Pedro, Jaime and Luis. Not today; my poor heart has had enough pain for one day. But we need to tell them the truth. The men have all suspected something. The three didn’t look like José and Consuela, or Inés. All three have passed on so they cannot get hurt with the truth. All the Beltrán souls are now at rest. Let’s put all the secrets to bed for good. I want to tell the Morales’ the truth.”

  ~~~

  With Darren away at a cycling training camp, Sofía had stayed at La Moraleja for a few days with Luna. But when the group all arrived back inside the gated compound of the luxurious manor, it was Jaime and Alysa’s car which sat in the driveway. The moment Cayetano cut the engine of the Mercedes, he glanced at Luna. “I didn’t ask tío to come into the city today. We are meeting tomorrow.”

  “They are welcome anytime,” Luna said and unclipped her seatbelt, the older boys already clambering out the back doors. “Maybe they just want to know if Paco is okay after today.”

  “I hope that’s all, the last thing we need are problems today. All the drama with sponsoring the Cuenca bullring needs to stay quiet, though it’s Pedro dealing with the lawyers on my behalf. And it’s Hector making the initial business plan for the proposed Rebelión training camps. What could Jaime need?”

  “Oh, you worry too much,” Luna replied as she got out of the car and opened the door to unbuckle Paquito.

  “I should look on the bright side,” Cayetano said over the roof of the car as he unclipped Scarlett. “At least all the bodies are safe and buried. Now we can rebuild Escondrijo properly.”

  “Really?” Luna asked. “But you said Escondrijo was a big money pit, and you never wanted to live there.”

  “Ignore me; I will just live to make you happy.”

  The happy feeling couldn’t last; the moment Luna stepped into the air-conditioned entranceway, she heard raised voices. She picked up Giacomo and Enzo’s good shoes from the marble floor and tossed them to one side as Cayetano took the little ones through into the living room. Luna went in search of Paco’s raised voice and found him in the kitchen with Sofía. Jaime and Alysa stood across the wide island counter, four pairs of eyes a mixture of confusion and anger.

  “What’s going on?” Luna asked as she kicked off her flat black shoes. “This is my home now; don’t yell where you can upset my children.”

  “I’m sorry, Luna,” Jaime apologised, and ran a hand through his grey hair. Alysa patted his shoulder, a calming gesture. “It’s just… Rebelión is a fifty kilometre drive, a long way when you have important questions to ask.”

  Paco turned to Luna as Sofía sighed with resignation. “There’s a problem.”

  “Then please, Paco, straighten it out for me,” Jaime said as Cayetano came into the kitchen, without his suit jacket. He pulled at his black tie and took in the situation. “There was a phone call at Rebelión,” Jaime continued. “It was for you, Luna, a guy name Jorge Arias, from the historical memory association. Jorge couldn’t get hold of you and tried the Rebelión number. He said the information you found on a woman called Carmelita Flores was helpful. Now Escondrijo body four officially has a name. If they could get another DNA sample from one of the Morales brothers, that would be the final piece of the puzzle needed to solve the case.”

  Luna shared a look with Sofía. Poor Paco looked exhausted. Cayetano stepped in to help everyone. “Jaime, there was a problem with the DNA test at Escondrijo. Miguel had a test done, to eliminate him from the site, and it came back as a match for one of the bodies. We thought it must be a screw-up, how else would you describe the situation? Luna and Sofía have been trying to find the identity of the body.”

  “So why the need for more blood tests from Pedro or Luis or me?” Jaime asked.

  “To see if you are related to the woman who died,” Paco said with a sigh. “Miguel was a match for a second-tier relative, like grandchild or cousin. A test from you, or Pedro or Luis, could give a better result.”

  “But who is Carmelita Flores? Is she related to my parents?”

  “She wasn’t,” Paco deadpanned. “I’m sorry, Jaime, this is one big mess.”

  “A mess I started,” Luna began.

  “No, a mess José Morales started,” Cayetano added behind her. “A young gypsy woman named Carmelita, who lived in Valencia, had three sons. She got reported missing in October 1957, as were her children. Her husband had died eight months earlier. Carmelita was never found until Luna found bodies at Escondrijo.”

  “And you think my father had something to do with her death?” Jaime frowned.

  “José seems connected to all four of the people who were at Escondrijo. The couple who died, they had regular Guardia Civil visits,” Luna said. “The other woman who died, Aná Munoz, she lived in the same building as José and Consuela in ‘57.”

  “And this Carmelita woman?” Jaime asked with total innocence, but Alysa’s face said it all. Alysa had already put the pieces together.

  “Carmelita had three sons,” Paco repeated.

  “Do you know for certain?” Jaime asked.

  “There are birth certificates,” Luna said. “Carmelita Flores Vargas and Nicolas Albaicín Maya had three children close together, though Nicolas died before their youngest son’s birth.”

  “Are you saying Carmelita is my mother?” Jaime cried. “Ridiculous! I have a mother… Had a mother… And all the paperwork to say I’m a Morales!”

  “The doctor’s signature on the birth certificates states Adán Lugo Gil. Adán was the doctor buried at Escondrijo.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re saying,” Alysa said. “So you think José stole three children and murdered everyone who knew about it?”

  “But my mother was my mother,” Jaime spluttered. “She was always so good to us. Mamá doted on us…” Jaime shook his head with confusion. “Are you saying I’m adopted? I can’t… But you have DNA proof? How long have you known?”

  “We have only ever suspected,” Paco said for Luna. “The DNA match for Miguel was the first clue, but we assumed it was a mistake, an error in testing,” he lied. Half-lied. “Only now, with new evidence...”

  “I’m adopted,” Jaime scoffed. “So who am I?”

  “You’re Jaime Morales Pena,” Luna replied. “As you’ve always been.”

  “But what is my real name? How can I have a birth certificate that says I’m Jaime Morales Pena?”

  “Your real name is Jaime,” Sofía said. “Jaime Albaicín Flores. If you, or Pedro or Luis, do a DNA test, the situation could be cleared up, and Carmelita can be buried back in Valencia.”

  “None of this makes sense,” Alysa said. “Is this a case of baby stealing by the church? I know that was rampant then. But to steal all three of them…”

  “We will never know what happened, but somehow, José and Consuela adopted three boys and had new birth certificates made to cover up the adoption. It was common practice under Franco. It wasn’t that hard to do at the time, especially with José’s influence,” Luna explained.

  “What about Inés?” Jaime cried.

  “Inés is the true daughter of José and Consuela,” Paco said. “José talked about infertility between him and Consuela; it made me wonder at the time… But they went on to have four children. Now, it seems it was just one. Inés suffered fertility problems as do Cayetano and Sofía now.”

  “So José stole three sons,” Alysa mumbled. “Their real father is dead?”

  “Nicolas Albaicín died before Luis was born,” Luna repeated. “Cause of death was head trauma in a fight. There was a police report. Carmelita and her sons vanished in October ‘57; the Valencia flood was a suspect. They assumed Carmelita just ran away and, being a gypsy, no one was too keen to chase her or tell what they knew about the situation.”

  Jaime leaned against the kitchen counter behind him and sighed. “I should be mad. Mamá, I loved her so much. But Padre… I wish I could go ba
ck and tell my teenage self I got adopted. I would have been thrilled back then!”

  “José cared for you for your whole life,” Luna said. “José must have seen you as a son, his son.”

  Jaime shook his head with disgust. “Pedro formed a bond with Padre after the bombing in ‘74. Luis was always close to Padre, the hard working diligent farm-boy son. Me, no, Mamá was kind and urged Padre to let me remain part of the family after I married Alysa, despite the perceived ‘shame’ to the family.”

  “What happened?” Cayetano asked.

  “In 1975, both Alysa and I went to jail in Valencia. Me for one night; Alysa, or Alazne as she was then, for two years.”

  All eyes fell to Alysa. “I never told anyone the story,” Paco said to Alysa and Jaime.

  “It’s a great time to share,” Jaime scoffed. “It’s the incident that made me question even being a Morales. It was the line in the sand of my life – the man I was supposed to be, and the man I wanted to be. Spain was changing in 1975, and I changed my life too, much to Padre’s abject disappointment. That started the rift between me and Rebelión, which lasted a decade.”

  35

  Madrid, España ~ Noviembre de 1975

  Jesus looked emaciated on the cross. The golden adornment over Franco’s coffin spoke of the harsh ending of Jesus’ life, nailed the cross, stripped to nothing, barely flesh. Franco looked much the same. Eight golden candlesticks, each taller than a man, with long white candles dripping wax, stood either side of the dark coffin. Palacio Real de Madrid was cold, bitter and painful to cope with, the grey marble surround pure despondency. Jaime had cried on and off for 24 hours, and no one noticed. Much of Madrid had been in tears, for various reasons, as Franco got laid out like a zoo animal; ready to get leered at by macabre men and women keen to see the body. Jaime had listened to the news with Paco; while José and Consuela wept for their lost leader, street parties raged in the Basque country. Barcelona had run out of champagne. Up and down the Iberian Peninsula, people celebrated, knowing that evil had gone, but peace was not yet certain.