Onneca and Alix looked at each other in frustration, though they dared not question the king’s word.
“Is that all? After everything we have endured in defense of his town?” exclaimed Onneca. “Are you sure he won’t send an army to save us?”
García looked at her and then, without a word, gave her a consoling embrace.
“We’ve done the best we can, Cousin,” he murmured. “Kings propose and dispose; it has always been so. We must return to Victoria before more of the residents die. If our monarch swears to retake the town, you may trust his word.”
The return journey was speedier. Alix was anxious to be reunited with her baby daughter, and Onneca was eager to impart the news to the town and return to her daily life alongside her spouse—riding in the hills on Olbia and Altai, skating on the frozen millpond in the early morning.
When a freak storm arose, though, they were forced to circumvent the road up to the South Gate. Although they were only a few leagues away, it was the dead of night, not a good time to seek an audience with King Alfonso. At Bishop García’s direction, they reluctantly took a detour and sought refuge at La Romana Inn.
What happened next is hard for me to recount, but I wish it to be known and not forgotten.
49
JARDÍN DE ETXANOBE
UNAI
October 2019
What does an old man think about before he dies? What thoughts flash through the mind of someone who was born at the turn of the last century? Does he think about the children he has outlived, or the thirty-six thousand dawns he has seen through eyes tired of surveying beauty, destruction, serenity, evil? Perhaps he thinks about his wife, the woman who accompanied him along Villaverde’s stony pathways for half a lifetime.
“What do you enjoy doing most in life, señora?” a female oncologist once asked my grandmother after she had opened her up and scraped seven of her internal organs free of the spreading cancer, as though she was filing nails that had grown too long.
“Working outside in the fields,” she replied, shrugging. The gesture hurt, but she didn’t let her pain show. She was brought up never to complain, even at the gates of death.
“But you’re over seventy. You’re retired. You don’t need to keep working. And you’ve just undergone invasive surgery. You should take it easy, avoid physical exertion. What do you most enjoy doing for fun?” the oncologist insisted.
“Spending the afternoon in the basement preparing seed potatoes for planting.”
This is hard for most people to understand. Preparing seed potatoes involves sitting for hours in an unheated basement slicing the potatoes with a tiny knife, your hands stiff with cold.
“I enjoy it,” my grandmother said resolutely.
The two women fell silent. Because they both knew—operation or not, cancer or not—my grandmother would be in that basement every afternoon.
I know my grandfather would have given the same answer: going down to the basement for the seed potatoes, driving the combine, looking after his granddaughter.
* * *
—
The worst day of my life began with a call to my good friend Iago del Castillo.
“Iago, I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but I need your expertise. Could you come to Vitoria?”
“I’m in Santander today, but I can drive out to you. I’ll meet you outside your apartment block in three hours,” he replied.
“Do you mind coming to the Álava historical archives instead?”
“Okay. We can meet on the campus,” he said.
Several hours later, I was driving along the avenue to the university when my phone vibrated. It was Peña.
“We’ve checked the security footage from the hospital—Ramiro Alvar had help. He was wheeled out of the building by someone in a white coat.”
“Help?” I thought aloud. “Who the hell could Ramiro Alvar have gotten to help him escape?”
“That’s what we’re looking into. The two figures are only visible from behind, but we have a couple of officers working with hospital staff to see if they can identify the one in the white coat. The fact that Ramiro Alvar has no cell phone complicates matters. On a separate topic, we just got the list of entrepreneurs who attended the meeting at Villa Suso the evening Antón Lasaga was poisoned. You must be familiar with one of the names on the list, because you asked me to check him out recently: Ignacio Ortiz de Zárate. He was representing Slow Food Araba, a nonprofit organization focusing on local food. Incidentally, the day you asked me to find him and take photos of the clothes he was wearing, I couldn’t confirm that he was in Vitoria. I didn’t see him enter or leave his residence.”
“Ignacio was at Villa Suso? That has to be a coincidence. But thanks, and keep looking for Ramiro Alvar. I sent a patrol car to Nograro Tower, but there’s no sign of him there. I have to go now,” I said quickly, noticing that Iago del Castillo was walking over to me.
We greeted each other warmly and entered the building that contained the archive.
“I’d almost forgotten that tonight is Halloween,” he said as we walked the hallways. “I’ve already seen several people dressed as the Grim Reaper.”
“Are you not a fan of Halloween?” I asked. The usually easy-going Iago seemed a little tense.
“I’m not normally superstitious, but our family has suffered quite a few tragedies around this time of year, and I’m reminded of it every time I go outside on the eve of All Souls’ Day.”
“Well, I got my little girl an eguzkilore costume to ward off evil spirits,” I told him.
“Good idea, you’re a sensible parent,” he said, his mood lifting.
I’d spoken to the head librarian, who had agreed to give us access to the Nograro family archives.
“What exactly are we looking at, Unai?” Iago asked as we reached the records room.
“A document from 1306 signed by King Ferdinand the Fourth: ‘Privileges and Concessions Granted to the Lords of Nograro.’ I need your help explaining it.”
The librarian brought us the document I’d requested, and Iago spent a long time poring over it.
“This is a classic example of the rule of primogeniture,” he said at last. “Ius succedendi in bonis, ea lege relictis, ut in familia integra perpetuo conservatur, proximoque duque primogenitor ordine succesivo deferantur.”
I stared at him blankly. I don’t think he even realized he was speaking Latin.
“The right of the eldest son to succeed to the estate of his father, with the proviso that said estate remains in the family in perpetuity and is passed on to the next eldest son in the succession,” he translated.
“Okay, now I want you to look at this passage, here,” I said. “ ‘May he be neither convict nor prisoner, to ensure the lineage is confined to men of honor.’ Is that stipulation still in force?”
“Yes, it would be, unless a subsequent law revoked the privileges granted by the king. It’s quite common for provisions like these to be adapted according to later legislation.”
“What do you think happened? What made them surrender and what led to Victoria’s incorporation into Alfonso’s kingdom?” I asked, forcing myself to think about something else.
“We can’t look at something like this with a contemporary mindset. The same warring factions in the siege of Victoria, the kings of Castile and Navarre, would later fight side by side at the Battle of las Navas de Tolosa in 1212 against the Miramamolín, who had been Sancho the Strong’s ally during the siege of Victoria. The boundaries between the kingdoms of Castile and Navarre were fluid: They were redrawn five times over the course of the twelfth century. The average person didn’t feel the same sense of national belonging we do today; they were too busy struggling to survive. They were bound to the social strata they were born into, and their support for one monarch over another depended on the favors granted to thei
r town, not on patriotic sentiment. In addition, kings went to war over territory to preserve status more than anything else. Rulers constantly needed to display their strength because admitting weakness was impossible.”
I glanced at my cell phone for the time: hours seemed to pass like minutes for the del Castillo brothers. I called Grandfather. He was going to take Deba to the Jardín de Etxanobe, next to the Triumph of Vitoria mural, and let her go on the swings.
I tried his number a couple of times, but he didn’t pick up. I assumed he was distracted by something else he was doing.
“Speaking of families, I’d like you to meet my grandfather. He’s babysitting my daughter, Deba.”
Iago smiled, intrigued.
“He must be a very active gentleman to be able to look after his great-grandchild.”
I shrugged. Maybe what I took for granted wasn’t obvious to everybody else.
“He’s practically immortal. I can’t remember him as anything but old, but age hasn’t diminished him. He’s full of energy. He just started using a cane a few weeks ago, but I don’t think he even needs it.”
I suspected he’d decided to carry it as a deterrent after the shock Ignacio gave him in Laguardia, but he had played the innocent when I’d asked him about it.
“I’d be delighted to meet him,” said Iago.
We headed for the Old Quarter, avoiding people dressed in skeleton and demon costumes. Half an hour later we arrived at the garden, the highest point in the city and one of my favorite spots.
We walked through the iron gate, and all I saw was a sculpture that someone had carved from a sequoia struck by lightning. And it was quiet. No shrieks of joy from Deba as she pranced around in her eguzkilore costume, no “Gotcha, little fox!” in my grandfather’s comforting voice.
“Unai!” shouted Iago. “Call an ambulance!” I didn’t react—I couldn’t.
Iago launched himself toward Grandfather, who was sprawled on the ground, motionless.
I was paralyzed, staring at Grandfather and Iago as if they were from another planet.
Iago felt Grandfather’s neck for a pulse. His bloodstained beret was lying at my feet, but I couldn’t pick it up.
“He’s in cardiac arrest! For God’s sake, Unai, call an ambulance, he needs CPR right now!”
But I didn’t call. Grandfather wasn’t moving. Deba wasn’t there.
Instead I watched, detached, as a competent man unbuttoned my grandfather’s coat, placed his palms on his chest, and began pressing rhythmically.
He straightened Grandfather’s head, plugged his nostrils, and gave him the breath of life. Once, then a pause. Twice.
“Unai, get a hold of yourself! Come here!” Iago cried in desperation.
But I was rooted to the spot.
I opened my mouth, but to my horror discovered that my Broca’s aphasia had returned. I couldn’t utter a single word.
Iago continued performing CPR, but Grandfather didn’t stir. Finally Iago sat astride him, using his whole body to press as hard as he could on his heart.
“Unai.” He changed his tone, speaking softly, gently, as if to a child. “Unai, take a step toward me, just one step.”
I wasn’t cognizant of following his instructions. My body just responded to his parental voice. My right foot edged forward.
Iago continued to give Grandfather mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I was aware of everything that was going on, but it was like watching a movie I didn’t want to see but couldn’t stop looking at.
“Great, Unai, you’re doing great,” Iago repeated reassuringly. “Now, take another step toward me. You’re almost there.”
My left leg obeyed. Another small step. I was just close enough to see that my grandfather’s ruddy cheeks looked almost drained of blood. He was pale, lifeless.
“One more step, Unai. One at a time. That’s good, keep coming, don’t stop,” the tranquil voice said. Iago kept breathing air into the limp body in front of him, but every so often, he cast sidelong glances at me to make sure I was listening to him.
At some point I reached them, and my foot touched Grandfather’s body. Iago took his phone out of his pocket and called a number.
“There is a centenarian male with a severe head injury at the Jardín de Etxanobe. He’s in cardiac arrest and I’ve been giving him CPR for three minutes. Send an emergency team. Also, you need to start searching for a little girl. She’s missing, and we don’t know how long she’s been gone. The injured man is her great-grandfather, so we’re looking at a possible abduction. Call the Portal de Foronda police station. The little girl is Inspector López de Ayala’s daughter. I’ll keep giving his grandfather CPR.”
Three minutes? No. It had been a lifetime. An entire lifetime flashed before me: the swing he made for me and Germán in Solaítas; the day he told me about the family’s secret hiding place where the cache of perretxikales, or St. George mushrooms, grew; the nights when we lay on our backs near the Tres Cruces crossroads and watched for shooting stars.
Iago dropped his cell phone on the ground beside him, and resumed his task.
I have thought about that day often.
About what could have made me freeze that way.
It was dissonance.
Cognitive dissonance.
My brain couldn’t accept losing the two most important people in my life at the same time.
Both of them.
During those endless minutes before help arrived, I couldn’t decide who to help first, Grandfather or Deba.
And that dilemma overwhelmed me. It wiped me out.
50
THE STORM
DIAGO VELA
Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1200
The storm forced them to spend a second night at La Romana Inn. Pilgrims following the Camino de Santiago, frightened by news of the lengthy siege, had bypassed Victoria. Without their patronage, the inn was empty, soulless. Not many Castilian soldiers had been calling there lately, either. Their leather purses were empty after months of deadlock, and they could no longer afford a quick release on one of the inn’s pallets.
Bishop García had retired to the upper floor, doubtless in need of rest after a long ride. Onneca watched the flames in the hearth as she dried out her robe while Alix helped Astonga bake the rooster-comb pies Bishop García had requested.
A series of thunderclaps sent Onneca to the stables. She knew her mare would be terrified.
“Stay calm, sweet lady,” she whispered, stroking the animal’s mane. “Stay calm. Tomorrow we shall finally have lunch in the town.”
Onneca spent a long while with her mare. She had a great fondness for solitude and avoided lengthy conversations, for they exhausted her. Yet another reason she avoided the chatterbox Alix de Salcedo whenever possible.
While in the stables, she happened to look at her cousin’s saddlebags. In their haste to come in from the storm, he had left them behind on the stable floor. She had stooped to pick them up, wiping away a film of muddy straw, when she saw it.
A small wax seal—the royal seal. The seal of King Sancho the Strong. Why did her cousin have a copy of the royal seal? Only old Ferrando the notary was permitted to have one. Possessing copies of that seal was high treason.
Onneca rummaged anxiously in the bottom of the saddlebag and discovered a second seal. An older one, more worn. This one had belonged to the deceased King Sancho the Wise.
She grabbed the two seals and stormed upstairs in search of her cousin. He owed her an explanation. He owed her several explanations.
But before she entered his room, she heard his voice and the voice of a young man. This was puzzling; she imagined that only the landlady and her sisters would be abroad at this hour. She drew closer and listened.
“Here are your powders for tonight. My mother will come up when your fellow travelers are asleep
. But I’m here about a different matter.” The boy began to whine. “I’m of age now, Father, and I’ve taken many risks and done you many favors.” He sounded upset.
“You misjudge me, Lope. I haven’t forgotten the promise I made you when you poisoned de Maestu. But the inn was under suspicion back then, and if I had publicly recognized you as my son, I would have exposed myself unnecessarily. Now years have passed, and the town has forgotten all about de Maestu’s death. Have I ever stopped sending money to you and your mother? How else would you have survived the harsh winters, or this ridiculous siege? Don’t be ungrateful, son. Here is the document you’ve long been waiting for,” said Bishop García.
You poisoned my father? Onneca thought.
Without stopping to think, she burst into the room, oblivious to the danger she was in.
“Did this boy give my lord father the blister-beetle oil that killed him?” she cried. The bishop looked aghast at the two seals clasped in her hand.
“Calm down, Onneca. I’ll answer all your questions; only first you must give me those seals, I beg of you. You’ll make me out to be a schemer.”
“And what do you use them for exactly? What did you use Sancho the Wise’s seal to do? Did you send the letter informing me that Diago Vela was dead? Did you destroy my life to keep him from becoming my spouse?”
García glanced around the room calmly.
Calm.
Calm was always a good thing.
A pallet, a washing bowl, a hearth, a poker, candles. Few objects with which to strike a person.
“Leave us, my boy. Go downstairs to your mother and aunts. Keep Alix de Salcedo occupied. I don’t want anybody coming upstairs for a good while,” he said slowly.
“What are you going to do, Father?” the young man asked nervously.
“Either you leave the room, or I will renounce the document recognizing you as my son. You decide.”
The Lords of Time Page 36