Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  La Moraleja was an open house, and many made the trek to the leafy and barricaded suburb for the wake. From the manor, guests spilled into both the front yard and the back; hordes of children played together on the tennis court, their laughter there to brighten up an excruciating day. Cayetano stood king of the court as everyone touched by Paco sought the prodigal son to pay their respects. Day faded into night and the tributes cascaded, the conversation continued, the tears flowed. There was a steady stream of guests to the bathrooms to splash water on their faces after crying over the great Paco.

  Luna sat on a chair in the back yard, the air still hot after the Madrid day. She sat with Jaime and Alysa, both as tired as Luna. The trio sat, barefoot, their toes tickled by the short grass which fought back against the dusty earth.

  “I feel as I’m in a dream,” Jaime said and sipped his red wine.

  Alysa took her husband’s hand. “A nightmare. How will we live without Paco? We are still learning to live without Inés.”

  “In the last four years, I’ve lost my father, then mother, then sister, and now Paco, who was more than just a brother-in-law. All he did for me… I wouldn’t have had a career without Paco. He saved me; he trusted me. Paco backed me up, no matter the scenario. I wouldn’t have a wife or family without Paco.”

  “Why is that?” Luna asked.

  Jaime glanced over his shoulder; the guests were starting dwindle in the moonlight. “When I got arrested back in ‘75, it was my father’s name which got me out of a cell. But that didn’t save Alysa from her fate. Two years in jail for crimes against public order. It was a bullshit, arbitrary, charge used on anyone who argued with the State. But as Spain changed, and the new King appointed a new government and laws changed, political prisoners got released in stages. Under La Transición, charges got quashed, and those who had committed criminal acts gained amnesty, Alysa got let out of prison.”

  Luna held her tongue as Jaime spoke. Paco had known all along that it was José who ensured Alysa’s time in jail and Jaime’s initial arrest and release. Paco had never told Jaime that, but from the way Jaime spoke, he suspected his father had gotten him arrested.

  “For the two years I was in prison,” Alysa continued and brushed her short blonde hair from her face, “Jaime would come and visit me as often as permitted. Twice a year, then monthly as laws relaxed. José was furious, and Jaime lived here, at La Moraleja, with Paco and Inés.”

  “Cayetano mentioned Jaime lived here with him when he was young,” Luna said.

  “I lived here and could travel to Valencia for visits. We married in Valencia right after Alysa, or Alazne then, got released from jail. We bought an apartment in Madrid and lived there in peace. The whole time, Paco kept me employed, taking me around the country for fights. My father disowned me, yet Paco sat in the middle, making sure Alysa and I were taken care of, for many years.”

  “Why change your name?” Luna asked Alysa. “After all, your conviction got wiped.”

  “I needed a new start,” Alysa explained. “I changed my name from Alazne Mariñelarena Belasco to Alysa Mariñelarena de Morales. But I still gave the children the Mariñelarena name; I wanted some of my past to carry on in them. Alonso was born a year after I got out of prison, and Eduardo a year later. A few years later came Mirabel and then Rosa. We had a new life and family. I continued my beliefs but without the anger and violent ideals of my youth. Sometimes change comes in quieter ways. After Paco retired from fighting in 1984, José and Consuela reconciled with us and met their grandchildren. It was hard, complicated, resentful. Time healed the wounds between us all. I lost my first Morales baby when I was in prison. I got shoved from behind on a set of metal stairs. It was a cruel time; I still carry the scars of the beatings. Now, the country is a better place, in some ways at least. Life isn’t perfect in Spain, but we are making slow progress. Sometimes the progress can be hard to see.”

  “And now, José and Consuela weren’t even my real parents,” Jaime shrugged. “I spent the last weeks of Paco’s life not speaking to him, needing space. I’ll never get that time back, and after all he has done for me...”

  “If it helps,” Luna said, and leaned forward in her chair, “Paco wasn’t angry with you at all. It was an oppressive secret for him to keep, the truth about José and Consuela. Do Pedro and Luis know the truth yet?”

  “No, and I can’t tell them. My brothers had a good relationship with our parents, so for their sake, I will say nothing. Miguel understands my desire to say nothing. I want the past to go away. It was Paco who held us together; what happened with José is irrelevant now.”

  “The body of your biological mother, Carmelita Flores, will be buried in Valencia by the end of the month. I will have her buried with her husband, and a new headstone made.”

  “That is kind, and expensive,” Jaime replied. The lines around his eyes looked profound and laden with misery. “I will visit someday. It can be my secret.”

  “Along with my father buried in Valencia,” Alysa said. “The man I don’t want to know. The Valencian dust buries a lot of secrets.”

  Cayetano wandered over to the group. He had long lost his suit jacket and black tie, and he sat down next to his wife and took her hand. He looked exhausted and hot in his suit shirt and black trousers, his feet bare now. “Will this day ever be over?” he sighed.

  Alysa leaned over and kissed her nephew on both cheeks. “You have done Paco so proud today.”

  “You are the patriarch of the family now, Caya,” Jaime added. “And you the matriarch, Luna.”

  “We’ll never be ready for that,” Luna replied.

  “I am,” Cayetano replied, and kissed Luna’s hand. “We have to be prepared. Paco made me prepared to lead – in the ring, at home, at Rebelión. I’m willing. I will retire soon and make Papá proud.”

  “I need to cancel my time in France next month.” Luna put her empty glass on the grass. “The last thing I want to face is the Tour de France.”

  “No, we will go,” Cayetano said with a frown.

  “What? No way.”

  “Yes, I will cancel my French fights out of respect for Papá and we’ll go to the Tour.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can. I don’t even like fighting in France, anyway. I will do it out of respect for my father, take a month off everything. It’s just four fights, anyway.”

  “I can’t, Caya.”

  “You can. I’ll bring the children to be with you, and we can get away from here for a few weeks. I could use time away from home.”

  “You can’t decide today,” Luna said.

  “Maybe a change of scenery will help with the pain,” Jaime suggested.

  “I hope so; we are moving to Valencia soon enough,” Cayetano told his uncle. “We’ll have Escondrijo restored. I will run Rebelión from there, when I’m not at the ganadería, of course. The Paco Beltrán training school needs the best, and I’m the best. Luna can work on Darren’s cycling team, and the children can spend some time as Valencianos.”

  “Caya,” Luna began.

  “No, I want to be as happy as you looked in Valencia on our last visit. That’s where we’ll go. Don’t tell me I’m being hasty. I feel like this horrific event has set me free.” Cayetano’s face again became stained with tears. “We’ll keep La Moraleja, we’ll keep Rebelión, everyone can have their homes and jobs, and we’ll spend time with Sofía in Valencia. Who cares about adoption; all the Morales’ are my family, and I want everyone together working or living at Rebelión, no matter how financially burdensome bullfighting has become.”

  “Are you sure?” Jaime asked, tears in his eyes. “You are under no obligation to keep us employed, or allow us to live at Rebelión.”

  “It’s your home!” Cayetano exclaimed. “If you are not my uncle because of the adoption, then Giacomo and Enzo are not my sons. Don’t tell me adoption isn’t unique. We are a family so we will tackle the future together. We are the Beltrán Morales family, whether we’re i
n Madrid, Rebelión or Valencia or Cuenca. We’ve fought, figuratively and literally, for everything we have. That is what we will continue to do, every day. Luna and I may have inherited everything, but we are surrounded by family, that’s how the Beltrán Morales family works. Papá always said so.”

  40

  Madrid, España ~ Octobre de 2014

  A bullfight always started with bloodlust and culminated in a moral hangover. That’s how Luna always saw it; the preparation and the hype overshadowed the actual deaths taking place, but after the fight, the spectacle of death weighed on Luna. You let your children grow up around violence? What will they turn out like - killers? Men like Cayetano Beltrán, that’s who, Luna wanted to yell at the critics. A man she felt comfortable with her children emulating.

  But now, five years after meeting Cayetano in a narrow Madrid street, here they were at Las Ventas, for Cayetano’s final afternoon of responsibility. Six bulls to kill, rather than the usual two. Just once a decade did a fighter turn up to kill all six bulls, and today, it was Las Ventas giving its favourite son a chance to retire in the grandest possible style.

  Six in the afternoon heralded the start; the bugle played the pasodoble to announce everyone out onto the sand. Cayetano looked composed in his traje de luces of red with golden embroidery, the same colours Paco used to wear. Cayetano had spent July in mourning but fought through August and September, his farewell season a hit. Now, as the summer came to a close, so could Cayetano’s career, without the watchful eyes of his father. Luna had peeked through the doors of the capilla, the chapel where Cayetano prayed to La Macarena before a fight. He shed tears as he placed rosary beads on the delicate fingers of the statue, in honour of his father. His strong dark hands shook with the movement. Today was the death of all Cayetano knew, his whole life coming to a close. The shake of his hands showed fear, a fear which hadn’t gripped the man in his lifetime.

  Luna stood behind the red wooden barrier in the sombre area of the arena, the shaded expensive seats, lined with aficionados. The entire ring, 23,000 seats, filled with people desperate to see ‘El Valiente’ Beltrán go out in style. It wasn’t about the animals; it was about Cayetano versus himself, now the final chance to show the greatness bred into him by Paco. Some seats had sold at €4000 each, as both bullfighting lovers, and those needing to be seen at the event, shoved their way into the circular arena. Even Cayetano’s ex-wife was there, covering the story for her tabloid show. But María Medina wouldn’t get close today. The Morales family lined the barrier for Cayetano, along with Luna. Even Sofía, who hated bullfighting, was there, deep in the halls of the bullring with the children, who would get the chance to see some of the performances.

  Luna wore a deep red dress, her hair curled to perfection. She and Cayetano had fought their way through camera after camera, journalist after journalist to get to Las Ventas that day. But Cayetano was his usual self – silent, proud, concentrated… Ready. Rumours had circulated for weeks that the new King would be there at the ring, along with his father, the fan of the spectacle. But when Cayetano stood at the edge of the ring and gestured to the presidential box high on the balcony, the fight got dedicated to Paco. The ring fell into a minute’s silence for ‘El Potente’ Beltrán, dead for only four months.

  Luna had never seen a bullfight like it; silence was a rare event. Every pass with the cape, every move garnered a cry, a ¡ole! or a gasp of appreciation. The first bull, a massive black beast named Mañoso, upwards of 500 kilograms, had strange horns, crooked on his head, which Jaime referred to as bizco, cross-eyed. He was an aggressive beast, as tricky as his name suggested, with his tongue never hanging from his mouth like lesser creatures. With his cape, emblazoned with the symbol of the Rebelión ganadería and his and Paco’s names, Cayetano dispatched with the bull with relative ease, his sword striking true with the first blow. The animal gave Cayetano a puntazo, a light scratch on the leg, due to the misshapen horns, but he never stood a chance. The crowd waved their panuelos, their white handkerchiefs, pleading so Cayetano could get awarded. All the luxurious seats were generous today. Cayetano got awarded an ear and continued, a quick kiss from Luna and a wave to the children.

  The next beast, a light brown bull from just south Madrid, was what Paco used to call serío, a serious bull with a good set of horns. Cayetano toyed with him, doing the signature serpentina pass with the cape, a swirling movement of the cape in his hands. The spectacle caused great cheering and admiration as Cayetano copied his father’s style to perfection, the 450 kilogram beast of austere breeding outplayed and killed in 15 minutes. Eduardo and Alonso were there as Cayetano’s banderilleros, dressed in royal blue; their black hair slicked back, just like Cayetano’s. After the second kill, a smile appeared on Cayetano’s serious expression. He kissed Luna between animals, and she smelled the blood of the fresh kill on him, the oil from the hair of the bulls on his skin.

  Bull three charged out of the gate of fear with no hesitation. Incendiario, a mammoth 600 kilogram animal from Seville, ran into the ring like a black thundercloud caught in a storm. Cayetano stood motionless, his back to the animal in bravery and it unexpectedly charged at him. Cayetano spun at the last second, to the gasp and adoration of the crowd. The bull was a brocho, a bull with close-curved horns which almost touched one another. Twice Cayetano hid behind the estribo; the wooden barrier that jutted out around the ringside as the animal forced its horns into the wood to try to nail Cayetano and his cape. Cayetano performed the magnificent mariposa pass, where he held the cape behind his back and allowed the bull to pass close; the cape fluttering like butterfly wings behind Cayetano’s suit of lights as the bull passed.

  Bull five, Acometida, named after its swift charge, allowed Cayetano to alarde, be a show off and boast with his skills. The dark brown animal was light on his feet, able to change direction in an instant. Cayetano performed what Jaime told Luna was the volapie, the flying feet movement. He ran at the bull, part killer, part ballet dancer as he struck the sword deep into the bull’s neck, killing it in an instant. Luna jumped in panic during the kill with Cayetano in the air, so close to the horns. The feisty animal died such a departure from its dramatic and aloof disposition.

  After five bulls in two hours, and six ears already awarded, the final hora de verdad, moment of truth, had come. Cayetano had tears for himself and his father in his eyes when the last bull charged into the ring. As the last gate opened, calls of ‘a man risks his life here tonight’ rang through the arena, everyone ready for the act. The sun had set; the cold evening air of Madrid whirled around the draft-filled Las Ventas. Cayetano’s suit sparkled as he sank to his knees, his cape laid bare ready to receive the bull.

  The best got saved for last. Premiado, prizewinner, was a 750 kilogram bull, one of the largest Cayetano had ever faced. He looked similar to the animal which Cayetano fought during his alternativa, his fight that made him an official bullfighter over twenty years ago. The first pass made Luna squeal, Cayetano still on his knees for the rodillas pass as the bull charged past him. Its black hair glistened with a mixture of blood and oil, and Luna swore she could smell the animal from a considerable distance. The air had fallen silent in the arena, people anxious to see ‘El Valiente’ dispatch the great beast. The bull got tired by the picadors and their spears on horseback, and Eduardo and Alonso speared the bull with their bright banderillas for the final time in their careers. But as Cayetano made his way across the sand, his cape and sword in hand, people in the crowd had their hands clutched together in speechlessness. Cayetano brought out the classic veronica pass, allowing the beast to pass hard against him, but Cayetano’s feet didn’t move an inch. He performed the famous serpentina swirl again, and well as the mariposa and the rodillas. But when the moment came for the kill, when Cayetano spun and cried out at the exhausted bull, something Luna had never seen. With slow, gentle steps on the sand, toes pointed out again like a ballet dancer, Cayetano approached the beast placed his elbows right on the bull’s forehead, w
hich seemed lulled from its aggression. Miguel whispered that it was the telefono pose, something rarely tried, but Paco had done just this on the night of his retirement at Las Ventas thirty years ago. Cayetano eyed the huge beast, tired from the battle. But Premiado wasn’t ready to lie down, he bucked Cayetano’s elbows from his head and Cayetano reached over the horns in a flash, plunging his sword. The blood of the morillo neck muscle covered Cayetano hand-to-elbows as he held the sword in the bull’s flesh. It took a stumble to the left and fell. Luna screamed in excitement along with the crowd; after five years, the moral hangover had passed. The arguments for and against bullfighting were long lists, and the only thing anyone could be praised for was their determination to fight for their side of the argument. Luna believed in Cayetano Beltrán Morales, loved him, admired him. Not for killing, for being the man bullfighting dedication made him.

  As the white handkerchiefs, whose waves had awarded a prize from every animal, waved for the final time, Cayetano received both ears and the tail of the beast. They got cut from the bull by Alonso and Eduardo, who handed them to Cayetano. Roses fell into the ring from all angles as Cayetano circled the ring to blow kisses to his fans. As he passed Luna, Miguel grabbed her from behind, and she shrieked. “What the hell are you doing?” she cried through her laughter.

  “What Caya asked me to do!” he yelled over the roaring of the crowd. Miguel lifted Luna over the barrier, and she thankfully landed on her feet on the sand dotted with blood.

  “Walk with me,” Cayetano called over the noise. “See what it’s like from this side of the barrier.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You can! Papá can’t be here, you can.”

  The whole family, Eduardo and Alonso all suited up, joined them. Miguel, Pedro and Jaime, the sword handlers, and Hector and his father Luis, all jumped the barrier, and together as a family they walked the sand to the admiration of the crowd. Cayetano got lifted onto the shoulders of his family as the sand filled with those around the barrier and inside the ring. Even Sofía and the children came onto the sand as the crowd chanted Cayetano’s name, and Paco’s too in profound respect. Cayetano sat atop the shoulders of his family, tears in his eyes. It was over. A lifetime of bullfighting was done.