The Moon Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Where is Papá?’ Lucía said in a panic as her eyes searched for him.

  ‘I am here, querida,’ a voice replied from the steps that led from the auditorium. José emerged, his arms full of bottles. ‘I went to the bar in the foyer for supplies.’

  ‘Hurry now!’ Meñique urged him as another blast shook the walls and the lights along the corridor flickered and died. Candles were hastily lit and passed from hand to hand.

  ‘Now we descend into el infierno,’ José joked, raising a bottle to his mouth as they took the steps downwards.

  ‘How can it be so cold down here when the air is so warm above?’ Lucía asked no one in particular as they all made themselves as comfortable as they could in the damp cellar.

  ‘At least we are safe here,’ Meñique said.

  ‘What about Chilly?’ demanded El Tigre, pacing the floor, unable to keep still. ‘He has gone out there – maybe to his death!’

  ‘Chilly is a brujo,’ said Juana. ‘His sixth sense will keep him safe,’

  ‘Ay, maybe, but what about us? We shall be trapped down here, the building collapsing on us!’ wailed Sebastian.

  ‘And there may not be enough brandy for everyone,’ added José, clanking his bottles to the floor.

  ‘This is what it all comes to.’ El Tigre shook his head. ‘We shall die here and be forgotten.’

  ‘Never!’ said Lucía, trembling now. ‘I shall never be forgotten!’

  ‘Here, señorita, you must stay warm.’ The broom lady took off her thin apron and wrapped it like a shawl around Lucía’s bare shoulders.

  ‘Gracias, señora, but I have a better way to keep warm . . .’

  Half of her sentence was drowned out by an explosion that felt as though it came from directly above them. ‘Señores y señoras.’ Lucía shouted to be heard as she lifted her arms above her. ‘As the estupidos payos explode this beautiful city, we gitanos will dance!’

  *

  Of all the memories Meñique would hold of his Lucía in the future, the hours trapped in the cellar of the Teatro Coliseum while the beginning of Spain’s destruction began in earnest were the most vivid.

  She roused the terrified cuadro to standing, insisting that the men pick up their guitars and that the women dance. As the army garrison was attacked by the Nationalists, the noise of the guns was drowned out by a dozen gitanos celebrating their ancient art, a lady with a broom as their only audience.

  At four in the morning, the city fell silent, and, fuelled by fear, exhilaration and the alcohol José had brought with him, the cuadro sank to the floor and slept.

  Meñique woke first, feeling dazed from the effects of too much brandy. It took him some time to work out where he was – it was pitch black – and when he did, he reached around the floor to find the candles that he’d stowed under his jacket last night. Lighting one, he saw everyone was still asleep, Lucía’s head lolling against his shoulder. Gently moving her to lie on his jacket, he took the candle, and, disoriented, searched for the steps that led upwards to the door. It took all his courage to push it open, knowing if he couldn’t that everyone in the cellar was already the living dead, buried under what rubble remained of the theatre above them.

  Thankfully, it opened easily, and he stepped out into the passageway that led to the dressing rooms. All there was to show for the night’s violence was some missing plaster from the ceiling. Meñique offered up a prayer of thanks, then walked along the passageway until he came to the stage door. Opening it slowly, he peered outside.

  The air was still thick with dust from the endless explosions, and the silence of the usually bustling city was eerie. He looked up and saw that the building opposite was scarred by bullets and grenades, the windows shattered. Meñique stifled a sob. He knew that this was the beginning of the end for his beloved Spain.

  He returned to the cellar in a daze and regarded the peacefully sleeping cuadro.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ Lucía said as he shook her gently awake. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We are safe, pequeña, and that is what is important. I will go upstairs to the bar and see if I can find some water.’

  ‘Don’t leave me.’ Lucía clung to him, her nails like talons against his skin.

  ‘Then come with me, and help.’

  The two of them took the steps up to the theatre, using their candles to find their way through the deserted auditorium and out into the bar.

  Lucía piled chocolates on top of the boxes that Meñique had filled with jugs of water.

  ‘All this for free,’ she exclaimed, despite the circumstances obviously delighted as she stuffed the expensive confectionery into her mouth.

  ‘You know that you can buy as many chocolates as you want to, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but that isn’t the point,’ she shrugged.

  Downstairs in the cellar, its inhabitants were waking up, assessing where they and Spain found themselves this morning.

  ‘We must leave for Lisbon as soon as we can,’ Lucía pronounced. ‘How can we get there?’

  ‘More to the point, how can we get the papers to take us across the border?’ asked Meñique.

  ‘And how can I get to the apartment to get the money I’ve hidden under the floorboards?’ grunted José.

  In the end, it was decided that Meñique and José would venture out and try to make their way to their apartments to take what they needed, leaving the rest in relative safety.

  ‘I will come with you,’ declared Lucía. ‘I cannot arrive in Lisbon without my wardrobe.’

  ‘There will be no room for that, Lucía. No, you stay here and behave yourself. No one leaves but me and José, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ the occupants of the cellar chorused.

  Meñique and José ventured out into the street, José seeing what Meñique had already witnessed. ‘What have they done?’ he said in horror as they hurried down a street where a few dazed residents had also ventured out. ‘And which side are we on?’

  ‘Our own, José, our own. Now, let’s get to that apartment.’

  Thanking God that they lived only a couple of streets away, José went to retrieve the cuadro’s papers, his sack of pesetas and two of Lucía’s dresses, whilst Meñique went to perform a similar salvage exercise at his own apartment.

  After gathering what he could, Meñique glanced down from the window and saw that the streets below him were still silent, so on impulse he grabbed the keys to his car then set off in the direction of Chilly and Rosalba’s apartment, a ten-minute drive away. He had travelled less than three hundred metres before he spotted the military road block. In anguish that he was unable to ascertain his friends’ safety, but mindful that Lucía was waiting for him back at the theatre, he made a swift U-turn and drove the short distance to the Albaycíns’ apartment, praying that he would still be able to get through. As he arrived, José stumbled down the stairs with all he could carry and they piled it onto the back seat.

  ‘Hide any valuables in your clothes for safekeeping in case we are stopped.’

  José did so, but placed the large sack of pesetas between his legs in the passenger seat. ‘Even I cannot fit that in my trousers,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  They set off along the street, and had only travelled a few metres before they saw an army truck appear from a side road. A hand was held up, and Meñique brought the car to a halt.

  ‘Buenos días, compadre. Where are you heading?’ asked a uniformed officer as he descended from the truck and approached the car.

  ‘To the theatre to pick up our family, who were stranded there during the troubles last night,’ Meñique explained.

  The man peered into the car, his beady eyes fixed on the sack between José’s legs.

  ‘Get out of the car now!’

  Both occupants did so as the soldier pointed his gun at their chests.

  ‘Hand me the keys. I am taking your car for the use of the military. Now get on with you.’

  ‘But . . . my daughter is Lucía Albaycín!’ José c
ried. ‘She must have her dresses to wear for tonight’s performance.’

  ‘There will be no performance tonight,’ the soldier said. ‘A curfew will be in place by sunset.’

  ‘But the car, my mother, she is old and ailing and—’

  The soldier jabbed José’s chest with the muzzle of his gun. ‘Shut up, gitano! I have no time to stand and argue. Move on or I will shoot you where you stand.’

  ‘Come, José,’ said Meñique. ‘Gracias, capitán, and viva la republica.’ He put his arm through José’s and dragged him away from the car, not daring to look back into the soldier’s line of sight until they were safely around the corner. When they were, José sank to his knees and sobbed.

  ‘Everything we had! It is all gone!’

  ‘Nonsense! We escaped with our lives.’

  ‘Twenty thousand pesetas, twenty thousand . . .’

  ‘And you will earn it again, a hundred times over. Now, get up and let us return to the theatre and work out how we leave Spain.’

  Everyone crowded around them as they arrived back down in the cellar at the theatre. José was still sobbing inconsolably.

  ‘I should have left it where it was,’ he moaned, ‘or put it in a bank . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ El Tigre said. ‘By tomorrow, the peseta will be as worthless as a grain of sand on the beach.’

  Lucía grabbed Meñique’s hand. ‘Did you bring my dresses?’

  He frowned at her. ‘No, but I did try to look for Chilly.’

  Lucía looked momentarily chastened. ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘It was not possible to reach his apartment. There are too many soldiers on the streets. All we can do for now is plan our own escape and hope Chilly can follow us to Lisbon later.’

  ‘Will the trains be running?’ she asked him.

  ‘Even if they were, we have no money to pay for tickets to Portugal.’

  ‘There will be a safe here,’ piped up Sebastian. ‘It will be in the office, they always are.’

  ‘And how would you know that, señor?’ questioned Lucía with a suspicious glance in his direction.

  ‘It is only instinct,’ he replied innocently.

  ‘And if there is a safe, how would we know how to get into it?’

  ‘Again, señorita, I think my instinct might guide me.’

  Sebastian was despatched upstairs with Broom Lady, whose name was revealed as Fernanda and who knew exactly where the safe was, whilst the others discussed the best way to flee from the stricken capital.

  ‘And what’s to become of those who stay?’ Lucía shook her head. ‘¡Ay! Our country is destroying itself. What of Mamá? My brothers and their families?’

  ‘If we manage to find a way to leave, then perhaps we can send for them.’

  Fernanda arrived back with a satisfied-looking Sebastian, who pulled a thick wedge of banknotes and a large handful of coins from his pockets.

  ‘Unfortunately, they must have been to the bank yesterday morning, but at least we have plenty for tickets out of here,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘The question is where? And how?’

  Fernanda muttered something in Lucía’s ear.

  ‘She says her brother is a bus driver. He has a set of keys because his shift is in the early morning when no one else is up.’

  The entire company stared at Fernanda, who nodded.

  ‘Where does he live?’ asked Meñique.

  ‘Just next door,’ she replied. ‘You want me to tell him to get his bus here?’

  ‘Señora, perhaps it will not be quite as easy as that,’ Meñique sighed. ‘The city is in chaos and the military may have already taken over the bus station.’

  ‘No, no, señor, the bus is parked around the corner at the stop.’

  ‘Then please, señora, let me accompany you to see if your brother is prepared to drive us to the border.’

  ‘He will require payment,’ she said, eyeing the coins and notes now piled on the floor of the basement.

  ‘We have money, as you can see.’

  ‘Then I will take you to him.’ She nodded.

  Meñique and Fernanda left. Within half an hour, they were back.

  ‘He has agreed,’ Meñique announced, ‘and he is bringing the bus round to the stage door to collect us all.’

  A cheer went up and Fernanda was smothered in hugs and kisses.

  ‘Someone blesses us,’ Lucía smiled at Meñique.

  ‘So far, but there is still a long way to go.’

  Fernanda signalled to them all from outside the stage door when the bus arrived in front of it. They climbed aboard, their initial exhilaration that a route of escape had been found tempered by the sight of their beleaguered capital city.

  ‘Do you know the way to the border?’ Meñique asked Fernanda’s brother, whose name was Bernardo.

  ‘Trust me, señor, I could drive it blindfolded.’

  ‘If he only lives next door, then why did his sister not return to his apartment last night?’ Meñique muttered as he sat down next to Lucía.

  ‘Maybe on the night that Madrid came under fire, Fernanda was having the best fun of her life,’ she smiled.

  The passengers on the bus soon fell silent as Bernardo – who sported a long grey beard and curls beneath his busman’s cap – drove steadily, expertly weaving around piles of rubble and the gaping craters that had appeared in the wide roads.

  ‘Madrid brought to its elegant knees by the violence of a few.’ Meñique shook his head. ‘Even if the socialist part of me agrees that the Nationalists must be defeated, who could have ever imagined this?’

  ‘What does “socialist” mean?’ Lucía asked. She had curled herself up, rested her head on his knee and closed her eyes, unable to cope with the scenes around her.

  ‘Well, pequeña, it is complicated; there are two sides in this war,’ Meñique said, stroking her hair. ‘There are the socialists – people like us, who work hard, and want the country to run in a fair way – and then there are the Nationalists, who want the King back in Spain . . .’

  ‘I liked the King – I danced for him once, you know.’

  ‘I know you did, pequeña. Well, the Nationalists are being led by a man called Franco, who is good friends with Hitler in Germany, and Mussolini in Italy . . . From what I’ve heard, Franco wants to control who we worship, how we work, our very lives.’

  ‘I would never let anyone tell me what to do,’ Lucía whispered.

  ‘I fear that if he gains control of our army as well as that of Morocco, then even you cannot stand against a man like Francisco Franco,’ Meñique sighed. ‘Now, go to sleep.’

  In Bernardo’s capable hands, the bus rumbled on. He obviously knew the city like the back of his hand and Meñique wondered what angel had sent him and his sister to them. They could not have dreamt up a more innocuous form of transport to carry them over the border. Soon, they were free of the city and driving through open countryside. Bernardo avoided the villages and towns, weaving his way through fields and woodland, just in case.

  It was dusk when they finally arrived at the small border town of Badajoz. It was crammed with vehicles of all kinds, and the queue for the border control wound like a snake along the main road. There were automobiles and carts laden with the contents of people’s houses pulled by tired mules, and many on foot; women carrying their young children, men carrying their most precious possessions.

  ‘What is taking so long?’ Lucía demanded impatiently. ‘Can they not see we are trying to get through?’ She got up and walked to the front of the bus then pressed down on the horn. It blared out into the street, startling those who were walking ahead of them.

  ‘Pequeña, please, have some patience, and let us not attract too much attention to ourselves,’ Meñique said to Lucía as he pulled her back into her seat.

  It was midnight before they pulled up at the border and Bernardo calmly handed over the company’s papers to the guard, who had climbed up onto the bus.

  ‘Why are you tryin
g to enter Portugal?’ he asked the passengers.

  ‘Why, to dance!’ Lucía stood up, sashaying forward.

  ‘I am sorry, señora, but our orders are to let only Portuguese nationals across today.’

  ‘Then I must marry a Portuguese man. Perhaps you, señor?’ she smiled up at him.

  ‘We are here because the Lucía Albaycín cuadro have a contract to work in Lisbon,’ Meñique added hastily, nodding to José, who swiftly produced the contract. The young guard stared down at Lucía, recognition dawning.

  ‘I saw your film,’ he said, blushing as he looked at her.

  ‘Gracias, señor.’ Lucía swept an elegant curtsey.

  ‘So, I will let you through, but the others will have to turn back.’

  ‘But, señor, how can I perform if I do not have my guitar players and my dancers and singers?’ Lucía clapped at the cuadro. ‘Show the señor how we play!’

  Grabbing their guitars from beneath their seats, José, Sebastian and Meñique immediately began to play as Juana sang.

  ‘You see?’ She turned back to the border guard. ‘The Teatro da Trindade in Lisbon waits for us! How can I disappoint that wonderful city? But no.’ Lucía shook her head. ‘I must return to Spain with my friends. I cannot go without them. Driver, turn around.’

  Bernardo started the engine as Lucía started to walk back to her seat.

  ‘Okay, okay, I will let you pass.’ The guard wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘But I will put you on the records as arriving yesterday, or I will have trouble from my boss.’

  ‘Oh! Señor!’ Lucía turned back and gave him a dazzling smile, then reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘You are too kind. We thank you, Portugal thanks you, and you must come to the stage door to collect tickets for the show this week.’

  ‘Can I bring my mother?’ the guard asked. ‘She loved your film.’

  ‘¡Sí! Bring your whole family.’

  The young man left the bus, blushing profusely, and Bernardo closed the doors.

  ‘Drive, Bernardo!’ mumbled Meñique as he saw another border guard wearing a crested cap approaching their new friend as he waved them through. Five or six kilometres beyond the border, Bernardo drove the bus into a field before turning a sharp left and pulling to a halt in front of a small farmhouse. He slumped over the wheel as Fernanda stood up to minister to him.