Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Of course, Papá, not that you’re going anywhere,” Cayetano said. “What about Miguel, Hector, Alonso and Eduardo? How do we tell them the news?”

  “It’s different for them; their fathers were adopted; they were not. Your cousins are products of happy lives and happy marriages. But still, the Beltráns and Morales’ aren’t related by blood. It’s you, Caya, who will have to continue to foster the relationships with the Morales’, so the family stays intact.”

  “Are you planning to go somewhere?” Luna joked to Paco.

  “No, no, just reminding my son of what I expect.”

  “Look Mamá,” Enzo interrupted. “The ceremony is starting.”

  The screen showed Felipe make his way onto the stage before the semi-circular Cortes parliament building. Everyone in the place gave the royal family a standing ovation as Felipe, his wife Letizia and their two daughters, stood before the parliament. The applause dragged on and on, Felipe grateful, looking resplendent in his navy suit, red sash around his waist, given to him by his father just moments earlier in another ceremony, to symbolise his new role as head of the military. Felipe now wore the blue sash across his chest, ready to become the King.

  “Caya, your mother would have loved this,” Paco said to his son. “The new Queen’s white dress, the princesses little matching outfits, all the pomp and ceremony, your mother was a big fan.”

  “I’m sure she would have loved it,” Cayetano agreed.

  “It looks much the same as his father’s coronation,” Paco said as the official swearing in began. “The tapestries on the floor and walls, the lecherous hangers-on, the crown, the official words...”

  They sat in silence as Prince Felipe swore the oath to become the King. For such a momentous occasion, the whole thing took just a minute. As the words ‘Viva el Rey, Viva España,’ echoed, the Cortes roared with the double call of ‘Viva!’ before another standing ovation. Underneath the high semi-circular ceiling painted in a design worthy of the Vatican, Spain had a new King, just like that. The Cortes also paid tribute to Queen Sofía, there to see her son sworn in, though Juan Carlos had symbolically remained outside the room. On the high stage, Felipe took the chance to make a speech to the parliament and the world, just as his father had 39 years before him.

  “You will find in me a loyal head of State who is ready to listen and understand, warn and advise, as well as to defend the public interest at all times,” the voice of the new King rang out over the parliament.

  “Felipe has work to do, then,” Paco quipped and leaned forward in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Felipe the Sixth sounds cool,” Giacomo remarked. “Felipe sailed at the Olympics.”

  “Lucky him,” Luna murmured, trying to listen to the speech. “The King promises always to take care of Spain’s interests. Fire half the people on the stage behind you, then!”

  “It’s kind of him to pay tribute to his father,” Paco added.

  “Yes, Papá, I will dedicate my final fight to you. I can’t get a live television speech, but I’ll do my best,” Cayetano sighed.

  “I’m glad you took the hint.”

  “Okay, it’s done, let’s go!” Enzo said to his brother, and the pair raced off without a word, through the kitchen and outside into the yard.

  “Good to see they care so much about the history of the day,” Luna sighed and sat back as the Cortes continued to applaud the new King.

  “It says something about either tradition, or stubbornness, that the coronation is identical to his father’s,” Paco said. “I sat here, in a wooden chair, and watched this same ceremony 39 years ago. The red and gold carpets haven’t moved. The golden decorations of the crown and sceptre no one touches are the same. Where Reina Sofía stands now, Franco’s wife Carmen stood in 1975, and she got a standing ovation, something Juan Carlos did not receive. That was an awkward moment. Things were shaky back then; I know things are bad in Spain now, but the scenarios are different. We felt scared that Juan Carlos was just another Franco; different to look at, identical inside his soul. If there was a God, I would thank him for ensuring those fears never came to pass. Inés and I were to race to Madrid and see the procession through the streets, the new King and Queen in an open top car, but that was the day Jaime got arrested.”

  “What happened when Jaime reached Valencia?” Luna asked. “Jaime never mentioned that part. The whole adoption news got the better of him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Paco replied. “Jaime got driven to Valencia by the police on the day of the coronation. He got thrown in a cell at the central headquarters and left overnight, no food, no word on the situation. José had arranged the whole thing with an old friend who had become the jefe at the station. There were no real charges; Jaime just needed to be questioned after a train ticket in his name got found in a suitcase near a murder scene. A terrorist, so they say, got killed in a plaza, and Jaime’s bag was nearby. They didn’t suspect Jaime; who would kill someone and leave their belongings behind as evidence? But José wanted to have Jaime scared. I knew José had arranged it because I overheard a phone call. Poor Jaime thought he was up on murder charges, locked away in the dark. The next day, the police pretended José had used his influence to get Jaime released, and after questioning, Jaime got thrown out on the street. Jaime wanted to see Alysa, or Alazne as he called her then. That was his only reason to go to Valencia as far as I know. Jaime came back to Rebelión disgraced, and José said we should disown Jaime for being part of such a disgusting anti-Franco, anti-Spain situation. The police never found the killer of the man in Valencia, and Jaime never spoke a word. But I knew he had witnessed the killing, the way he talked about the man who died, it was evident Jaime had seen the murder. I didn’t ask; if I knew the facts, I would be compelled to tell Inés, and she loved her little brother. I never got the whole story and don’t wish to know. Jaime did nothing wrong, but José used the whole situation to make Jaime feel worthless. That’s when we found out Alysa, Alazne, was pregnant and on the run from the police. José wanted Jaime ashamed for knowing the girl.”

  “How did Jaime marry Alysa then?” Luna asked. “José and Consuela wouldn’t have blessed the marriage.”

  “Jaime and Alysa married in 1977, in Valencia. Jaime had arranged a quick ceremony and just they were present. José and Consuela couldn’t do anything; a priest had married them. That was why Alysa changed her name – to avoid shame to the Morales family. Alazne lost her Basque name for the more castellano Alysa. She had four children who bear the Morales name, while living in Madrid, and time erased the whole prison incident.”

  “Why was Alysa arrested?” Luna asked. “Why was she in jail for two years?”

  “I don’t know, some kind of public disorder,” Paco shrugged.

  “Wait, you don’t know?” Cayetano scoffed. “You’ve known tía Alysa for forty years, Papá.”

  “Yes, but we didn’t talk about it,” Paco sighed. “Maybe you could ask Alysa or Jaime when the time is right. Obviously not at the moment. They are perhaps ready to deal with that, now that José is dead, and the story of Jaime’s real family is out in the open. Jaime didn’t talk to his parents for almost a decade after the arrests. They reconciled in late 1984 during my retirement.”

  “I thought Jaime would have been angrier when he left here last week,” Cayetano admitted.

  “Jaime never loved José like a father, unlike Pedro and Luis. There’s no need for anger; they have good lives.”

  “They got raised by the man who killed their real mother,” Luna reminded Paco.

  “If you write a book about Escondrijo, everyone will know that. The evidence is circumstantial, but damning.”

  “Should I go ahead the Escondrijo book idea?”

  “Please, my dear, do as you please. Just be sure everyone in the family has read it and understands the details before it gets published. Remember when someone tried to write a book about your late husband; you were livid.”

  “I swear I’ll be car
eful.”

  “Check this out,” Cayetano interrupted.

  On the screen showed people waving little Spanish flags in the Puerta del Sol, in front of Madrid’s Town Hall. The stripes of red and gold adorned buildings, fences, and street lamps. Over the Town Hall windows fluttered a three-storey photograph of the new King and Queen. Directly across the plaza was the billboard of Cayetano for the cologne advertisement. “Am I famous enough for you yet, Papá?” Cayetano joked.

  “I’m very proud of you, my son,” Paco said. “I always have been. Don’t worry about Jaime, after our trip to see Sofía in Valencia, I will call him.”

  37

  Valencia, España ~ Junio de 2014

  As ever, the silence held Escondrijo as tight as a noose. The wind didn’t even stir on the early morning visit. All the children were still in Valencia, still asleep as the sun crept over the sparkling calm Mediterranean and the city of Valencia. Luna, Cayetano and Paco drove up the mountains of the Sierra Calderona early, the sun chasing them along the plains and up the hills as a hot Saturday began. Gone was the bustle of early morning by the time they wound through the small, narrow, streets of the hillside towns of Naquera and then Serra; then found the rough and dusty driveway out to the old stone house of Escondrijo. The pines, which surrounded the property, hung limp in the early summer sun; purple heather flowers dotting the limestone earth. The house, with its sharp grey stone walls and terracotta coloured tiled roof, had its wooden front door locked tight, not that anyone ever went to the house. After the bustle of the opening of Sofía’s new homeless shelter, Escondrijo felt like a haven of their own.

  “I have a real headache,” Paco commented as he got out of the back of Cayetano’s black Mercedes.

  “Do you want to go back to the city?” Luna asked as she shut her driver’s door. Cayetano glanced at his father, who looked exhausted.

  “No, this place will clear my head. What a beautiful place to see at sunrise,” Paco said as they wandered away from the car. “Sunrise has always been my favourite time of day.”

  The group stood away from the house near the edge of the cliff; the sea, sparkling in the far distance as the bittersweet orange sun rose in the clear sky. Back in Valencia, everyone else would just be waking up to the day.

  Cayetano noticed Luna with her phone in her hand. “Sofía will call you if there is anything wrong with the children. Put your phone away,” he chastised his wife.

  “Leave the girl be,” Paco said. “Be grateful you have a wife so attentive.”

  Luna poked her phone in the back pocket of her jeans and brushed her shoulder-length curls back from her face. “This may seem weird, but since all the bodies were moved, this place seems completely different.”

  “No, you don’t sound weird. That sounds reasonable.” Paco pointed down the hillside to the right, through the swarm of pines and houses, which were brave enough to be isolated on the mountain side, away from the villages. “Is that the Porta Coeli monastery?” The top of the ancient pale terracotta-coloured roof poked through the greenery.

  “Sure is,” Luna sighed.

  “Why would my father have lived here, within sight of the concentration camp where he spent 17 years trapped?”

  “Alejandro had no one to turn to; the whole family was dead or gone from Cuenca, and his wife was buried here. He couldn’t go to you or his sister in Madrid; you didn’t even know he was your real father. Alejandro felt obsolete, and Escondrijo is a safe place.”

  “I’m not angry anymore. Alejandro kept those newspapers articles about me, and then Caya, his whole life. He left this place to you in the end. You should put this house together; it will be a great place to live.”

  “We can’t live here, Papá, it wouldn’t work. It’s a beautiful idea but not practical,” Cayetano said.

  “Yes, but it can be a haven for you. It is Luna’s dream. Don’t let the home here rot away; save it, the way we’ll save the family homes in Cuenca.”

  “I’ve had this place almost five years, I can’t wait forever, and now there are no bodies…” Luna began, but paused. “Buying a place out here was Fabrizio’s dream first…”

  “Do you miss Fabrizio?” Paco asked Luna.

  “Fabrizio has been dead for eight years,” Luna sighed and pulled her hands from her pockets. “I miss him sometimes, and I miss what my children could have had with Fabrizio as their father. The ugly bits… I’ve let those go. The pain of his death is over; though my hatred toward the guy who ran Fabrizio over hasn’t faded. Never will. I’ve gained too many good things in the last five years to be sad now. Plus, I can’t play the ‘what-if’ game.”

  “Did you ever wish you had died when Fabrizio died?” Paco asked.

  “Papá,” Cayetano warned.

  “No, it’s okay,” Luna said. “When Fabrizio first died, it was unbearable. But I had to get up every morning, even though I never slept, because Giacomo and Enzo were only three. They had no concept of the situation. If I didn’t have the boys, it would have been different. I don’t how I would have coped without them. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Paco mumbled. Cayetano shared a glance with Luna; Paco was thinking about Inés.

  “As I tell the boys, we need to live a little more, enjoy everything more, for all those who aren’t here,” Luna said.

  “That’s nice,” Paco said and looked out over the horizon again. “You’re a good girl. Will you take the boys to Sicily at Christmas to see Fabrizio’s parents?”

  “I can try; the last few years have been hard with Paquito and Scarlett.”

  “Redheaded part - Sicilian boys. Fabrizio must have had a shock!”

  “Well, Fabrizio was blonde like his Milanese mother, not dark like his Sicilian father. I imagined the children would be blonde, but then red like my grandmother, that was a shock. But you know the Sicilians, they love kids, they love family, no matter what.”

  “I hope you know how happy you made me and Inés, in giving us grandchildren, natural and adopted. Inés couldn’t stay away from Giacomo and Enzo, and when you announced you were pregnant with twins… She cried for four days with excitement. Then she insisted we move in with you at La Moraleja…”

  “And it was great you did. I’m glad Inés could spend so much time with Paquito and Scarlett.”

  “Mamá couldn’t have asked for anything more than to be surrounded by children,” Cayetano said with a smile. “Family was all she wanted in life.”

  “Sure was,” Paco said and managed a smile. “But remember, Luna, you don’t have to be the same as Inés. If you want to work with Darren next year, then you do that. Caya, all your grand plans for this training school, the sponsorship of the Cuenca bullring, taking over Rebelión. They can’t dominate all the time. Let the girl do as she pleases, like this motorbike job in the Tour de France this year. You go, Luna.”

  “It’s hard; I feel like a bad mother,” Luna complained.

  “You’re many things, but not a bad mother. Keep on digging up all those bodies too, all over the country if you want. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And write a book about all you’ve found out about our families. Live your dreams, not just Caya’s.”

  Luna kissed Paco’s cheek. “Thank you, Paco. It’s good to know you’re on my side. With that in mind, I will go inside and look at my never-ending project of a house.”

  Cayetano watched his wife wander over to the house and wrestle with the stubborn front door. Luna disappeared inside the house, and Cayetano turned back to his father, who continued to take the view. “What was all that, Papá?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Quizzing Luna about her dead husband?”

  “I can’t ask a question? I was sensitive. Luna is a tough girl.”

  “I know that, Papá. But still…”

  “I just asked. Luna and I… We’ve been through something you don’t understand. You’ve been through a divorce, which is hard, but being widowed is so different. I see nothing wrong with tellin
g her how she completes our family.”

  “Which is broken now, thanks to Carmelita Flores’ body found here.”

  “Jaime hasn’t told Pedro and Luis yet, and maybe he doesn’t need to tell them. It’s your job to keep our family together, Caya.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’re head of the family now, not me. You’re the father, the patriarch. Yes, at 45, that seems hard, but everyone takes on the role eventually. I did, and you will too. So what if Pedro, Jaime and Luis are adopted? You adopted Giacomo and Enzo yet they are our family now.”

  “Yes, Papá, that goes without saying.”

  “So our family is complete, with you as the leader. I’m too old to carry on now; my ideas are old-fashioned, too outdated for the new world we live in, so you have to take charge. In all honesty, Caya, I was ruled by your mother. I didn’t mind in the least. We live in a world still ruled by men, but your mother was tough. Now you’ve married a tough woman yourself.”

  “Maybe we need to become a matriarch-led family.”

  “I think we already are. No matter your dreams or plans for the future, you know it will be Luna who pushes forward and gets everything achieved. That’s no disrespect to you, boy; it’s just the facts. Be a good man and be ready to lead, or at least walk alongside Luna.”

  “I’m ready, Papá, I swear.”

  “I know you are. Caya, I’ve always been so proud of you. I wanted a son who would grow up and take advantage of everything I provided. You did that, not because I pushed you, even though I did, but because you are strong, independent, smart. You’re a master in the ring; proud, austere, full of humility in the ring, but full of confidence outside of it. You’re the greatest, far greater than me. You’re living proof of devotion, hard work and belief. Your mother and I have always been so proud of you. Caya, you’re a unique soul, have been since you were born 45 years ago. I love you very much.”