The Spanish Promise

by Karen Swan

  ‘You look tired,’ Luciana said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Bad night?’

  ‘No, it was good,’ he shrugged. ‘Seven dead and we got a cannon and a cache of guns off the bastards. They’d been holed up in the San Jerónimo Church on Moreto.’

  ‘What kind of guns?’

  ‘Mousquetons. Lighter than rifles but hell of a kick.’ He patted his shoulder in warning.

  Luciana nodded as though she was making a mental note, just in case. Sometimes it struck Marina just how very far she was now from being the secretary she’d first met six months ago, swapping explosive words for packing nail bombs with dynamite. But then, weren’t they all transformed by this war? Marina could hardly remember her old life at La Ventilla any more – the rolling green pastures and grazing animals, handmade dresses and her mother’s sweet perfume, her soft hands and slightly dulled eyes, those extravagant fiestas, almost too bright, too colourful even in memory for this bleached-out, dust-covered, shelled landscape.

  ‘Mousquetons? They had been stolen from the barracks then?’ Marina asked, sealing off the last bomb and putting it carefully in the box.

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  ‘Did they give you anything useful? Besides the weapons?’

  Ivan shook his head. ‘There was no talking; they were determined to shoot their way out.’

  Luciana gave a ‘what can you do?’ shrug. It wasn’t an unusual situation: stories of torture were rife and no one on either side wanted to be a prisoner; it was better to be dead.

  Marina leaned against the counter, brushing the powder off her hands and sniffing her fingertips – the smell always disturbed her sleep, as though war could permeate her dreams as well as her waking life. She sighed, feeling a wave of exhaustion break over her; her feet burned from standing on them so long, for she had finished a shift at the Palace hotel earlier. She and Luciana both worked there now: waitresses by day; milicianas by night.

  Some sounds outside made her look up, alert again, and she automatically crossed the room, peering out carefully from behind the shutters. A black Rolls-Royce was parked on the street below, a pair of legs emerging from one side, Miguel Modesto’s impressive form already erect on the other. Notorious around the city, the car actually had a nickname – El Rayo, or Lightning – and was conspicuous for its presence at the highest profile ‘trials’.

  ‘It’s the others,’ she said, looking back to find Luciana already watching her.

  The other woman simply nodded. ‘I shall put the broth on.’ She rose from the table again, her palms pushing down on the tabletop as though she needed help getting up. She looked older than her thirty-seven years.

  Marina stood stiffly as she watched the men look around the empty street before entering the building, bracing for the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor, their keys in the door, the timbre of their low voices vibrating through the rooms before them. And then they were there, Sindo removing his hat and placing it on the hatstand with his usual precision, Modesto shrugging off his overcoat, his eyes falling immediately to her as they always did.

  ‘Good evening, ladies.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Marina replied, forcing herself to walk across the room and take his coat from him – it was a courtesy, a sign of friendship, something which was ever more important these days as his power grew and her resistance showed no sign of waning. Several times he had made subtle approaches to her – offers for dinner, a new dress – but every time, she politely found an excuse, knowing all the while his patience was growing thinner and thinner, until one day, she would wake to find herself out of favour of one of the most powerful men in the city. And what would happen then?

  ‘We were just hearing from Ivan about the day’s successes,’ she said, folding his coat and going to fetch him a rebujito without being asked.

  ‘A modest gain. We had hoped they were storing a lot more guns in there. We have still lost thousands of weapons that should be ours, weapons that are killing our own.’

  ‘The snipers though, they had been problematic, had they not?’ she asked, handing him the drink and trying to find the positives.

  He nodded, his stare weighty upon her. ‘Their position had been favourable. The towers gave them a 360- degree view that was difficult to penetrate. Reclaiming the church brings back that corner of the district.’

  ‘Well I’m glad.’ She forced a smile, hoping he wouldn’t misread it as something she didn’t intend. ‘It is an area of the city I like very much. It is good it belongs to us once again.’

  ‘Then we should walk there some time. Perhaps when the flowers come into bud.’

  Marina nodded, although she couldn’t imagine anything flowering in the city ever again; corpses were more numerous than flowers these days, the fetid stench of death overpowering the delicate aroma of jasmine and oleander. ‘I’d better help Luciana with dinner,’ she said quickly, turning away and feeling how his eyes followed after her. She saw Ivan and Luciana watching him watching her too. Were they threatened by his interest in her, or was it her they were worried for?

  ‘Miguel, come – the papers I mentioned are through here,’ Sindo said, leading him out of the kitchen.

  Wordlessly, Luciana pushed the bowl of onions her way; Marina began chopping, wishing Paloma was still here. There had been safety creeping about in her shadow, but now she was doing what she had been built for – fighting on the front line – and Marina was left blinking in the glare of a spotlight, hopelessly exposed.

  Paloma had returned to the apartment only twice in the three months since she’d left – the first in the dead of night, between operations, staying only for thirty-six hours and sleeping for thirty-two hours of that. The second time, she had returned injured, a flesh wound in her arm needing medical attention before an infection in it grew worse. Luciana had doused it with iodine and as Paloma endured the stinging agony, she tried to pass the time telling them about the regiment’s exploits; they were working closely with a small unit called Hijos de la Noche who specialized in nocturnal exploits, sabotaging operations behind Nationalist lines, and led by an American captain, Jack Quincy, who had been attached to the unit from the International Brigade.

  Each time, Marina had sat with her for as long as she could, revelling in the daring of their exploits and wishing she too could believe in something so passionately she was prepared to die for it. But sometimes she wondered if perhaps a part of her – the vital part – had already died, for it was becoming increasingly hard to feel; so much of her existence was concerned with surviving – and having to fight to survive – that ironically any joy in living seemed to have disappeared altogether. She couldn’t remember when she had last laughed or smiled even, and hunger, tiredness and fear were her constant companions.

  Had she made a terrible mistake coming here? Wasn’t life continuing as it always had for her family? She didn’t have to be living in this way. She could be safe. Protected. The Nationalists had control of Andalusia, the power balance remaining in the hands of her father and his friends; after a brief tussle with the reds, nothing had changed for them. Whilst the rest of the country struggled and fought, Left against Right, socialist against Nationalist, the battle was already won there, the status quo re-established. Santi’s uprising had been quashed and he was dead.

  Dead.

  Santi was dead.

  She blinked hard for a long moment, the knife slack in her hand as she steadied her breath. No matter how many months passed, no matter how many times she said the words, they never felt real – it was impossible he could be gone. And yet he was. It was the only thing that had changed: her father was still the landowner, the bulls still grazed the green grass and the workers were still hungry . . . She had left for nothing and he had died for nothing and that was the worst of it.

  ‘Marina?’ She looked up to find Luciana looking over at her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are sure? You look pale.’

  ‘I’
m just so tired, that’s all.’

  ‘We will sleep when we are dead. Perhaps tomorrow,’ Luciana said, tossing her a look. She had a dark sense of humour that unnerved Marina sometimes.

  They continued chopping and slicing, the thin stock bubbling ferociously and spitting at their wrists as they threw in the vegetables.

  ‘It is smelling good in here,’ Ivan said, rubbing his hands together appreciatively as he walked back into the room.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ Luciana said. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Why not? I believe I have earnt it,’ he replied, holding out his glass and sinking back down at the table again.

  ‘What were you doing through there?’ Luciana asked over her shoulder as she poured the sherry.

  ‘Looking through those old boxes in the study. There’s been a high-profile arrest on the French border.’

  ‘Oh. Anyone we would have heard of?’

  ‘Heard of, no, but I thought it might be the previous owner of this place. I thought I recognized her from the photograph on the arrest card. She’s a beautiful woman even if she is a fascist.’

  Marina fell very still as his words carried over to her. What?

  ‘And is it her?’ Luciana asked, scooping up a handful of chopped potato and dropping it in the pan.

  ‘It looks that way. Sindo and Miguel are just going through the photographs now.’

  ‘What photographs?’ Marina asked, her voice sounding hollow. ‘I thought Paloma said everything was burnt when you moved in?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not everything.’

  ‘So who was the owner?’ Luciana asked.

  ‘Sofia Delgado – some socialite with links to Mola –’

  Marina froze at the sound of her godmother’s name, her past so close to her it was like breath on her neck.

  ‘– The husband was a general in the army. Died several years back in Tangiers but he was top brass. Miguel thinks she could be valuable.’

  ‘Valuable how?’ Luciana frowned. ‘Surely she doesn’t know anything useful?’

  ‘Probably not, but she could be a bargaining chip – her life for a cannon.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘Something like that.’

  Marina felt sick. She remembered her godmother’s excited laugh as Marina had opened her present at Christmas, her pitiful tears when her husband’s body had been brought back. She had been childless, kind, patient, a great storyteller . . .

  The sound of more footsteps into the room prompted Marina to suddenly move again, to look busy and fuss with the meal preparations as Luciana poured them all fresh drinks. She sensed Modesto’s presence rather than saw it.

  ‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ she said, forcing another smile as she turned and went to move past him, reaching for a slotted spoon.

  ‘Fascinating thing,’ he said quietly, coming to stand by her and watching her with an intensity marked even by his standards.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The likeness.’ He pointed to a small photograph he placed on the counter. It was of a young girl, no more than thirteen. A confirmation photograph, the girl’s hands were pressed together in prayer, a short veil settled like a cloud around her shoulders, long dark hair looped back in an intricate braid.

  Marina could remember the exact moment the shutter had snapped – the photographer had said ‘horse’s bum’ to get her to smile.

  Her eyes drew level with his, the fear draining her of blood.

  ‘I mean, clearly it’s not you,’ he said in a low, slow voice. ‘That girl is fascist scum and this once beautiful apartment is now – for her – enemy territory. She wouldn’t dare to remain here. She would know only too well what would happen to a girl like her if she was found: the utter desecration of innocence and piety that would await her, the many, many men who would mete out their revenge against her and the class she represents . . .’ His eyes blazed, burning into her, his breath scorching her face. She didn’t dare breathe back, she didn’t blink, and it felt an age before he spoke again. She truly expected her heart just to stop beating, her knees to give way. ‘But you agree, there’s a likeness between you?’

  He wanted an answer. She had to answer. Play this game. ‘A little,’ she whispered.

  He looked from her back to the photograph, to her again. ‘Yes. You’re right. It is just a little. Around the eyes, I think. And maybe the mouth.’ His gaze fell pointedly to her mouth as he slipped the photograph into his trouser pocket. ‘But she is no match for you, of course. She is just a Nationalist whore, whereas you are a true beauty: classic, refined, timeless.’

  She swallowed. ‘. . . Thank you,’ she whispered.

  His eyes roamed her face, mere inches from hers and she felt his hand creep over hers on the counter, his skin rough and calloused and hot. ‘But let us talk of nicer things. The ugliness of the day is done and we both live to see another dawn. We are the lucky ones, are we not?’ She nodded. ‘Though this is a time of war, still there must be time for beauty, for love, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do,’ she whispered.

  ‘So then, when shall we go for that walk we mentioned, Marina Marquez? I do not think we can wait for the flowers.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry—’ She stopped in the doorway, one leg lifted to keep the weight off her ankle as she caught sight of the figure perched at the end of her bed.

  Señora Quincy turned her head fractionally. Her hands were folded in her lap as she stared out of the window. ‘Oh, Charlotte, no. Forgive me,’ she said, going to move. ‘I should not be in here. I thought you were not coming back.’

  ‘Please, stay sitting,’ Charlotte demurred.

  ‘I just wanted to see it again.’

  ‘It used to be yours?’

  The old lady nodded. ‘And Arlo’s was on the other side.’ Where Nathan slept now.

  ‘How did you manage to get up here?’ Charlotte asked, hopping carefully into the room.

  ‘Two of those men lifted me.’ She tutted, displeased by the necessity of it. ‘Still . . .’ She raised her arms slightly to indicate the old-fashioned room. ‘It was worth it.’ She glanced across at Charlotte, seeing how her ankle was bandaged and held up. ‘How did you get up here? You can hardly move.’

  ‘Scooted up on my backside,’ Charlotte grinned, hopping over to the small armchair opposite the end of the bed. ‘Not very elegant. My mother would have died if she’d seen me.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone have helped you? Where are the others?’

  ‘Marina’s gone back to her room – she wanted to check on you obviously. And Nathan’s still in town, working.’

  The old lady rolled her eyes. ‘Digging the dirt, is he?’

  ‘Uncovering truths,’ Charlotte said. ‘He’s not here to apportion blame but to unearth reasons that explain – even support – your actions.’

  Señora Quincy stared out of the window again. ‘Those who need to know, know,’ she said quietly.

  ‘He thinks you fell in love with the wrong man.’

  ‘Oh, I did that all right,’ the señora agreed, but she didn’t add anything and she sat quietly instead for a long time, her awareness of her surroundings seeming to come and go.

  Charlotte let her own gaze drift out of the window, over the gardens. The silence suited her too. She felt worn out and battered from the past few days: London, coming back here, facing off to a bull, that kiss, that kiss . . . what did it mean? There was unfinished business between them, Nathan’s eyes had told her that much as they’d left him in town. But the facts were the facts, no matter how hard she wished them otherwise: he still had a wife and child. Surely that was their ending?

  ‘It’s funny, I can remember it all so clearly – that night I left,’ the old lady said abruptly, cutting into her thoughts. ‘I cut my hair at that basin through there, escaped through that window . . . It was all ahead of me. My life was beginning that night, I could feel it.’ She looked up at the beamed ceiling, the shuttered window. ‘He hasn’t touched the
room at all. It’s just as it was when I lived here.’ She patted the bedspread gently. ‘I can even remember my mother making this.’

  ‘Perhaps Carlos was hoping you would come back.’

  ‘He knew that was never going to happen,’ Señora Quincy scoffed. ‘He may not have been why I left, but he was the reason I never returned.’

  Charlotte watched her closely, looking for clues, signals. ‘So it wasn’t to do with Jack, then?’

  ‘Jack?’ Señora Quincy looked at her sharply. It was another half-minute before she responded. ‘. . . No, not Jack.’

  They fell quiet again. Charlotte didn’t want to push. She sensed the old lady would reveal more through musings and recollections, than interrogations.

  ‘Tell me, how did you find Ronda?’ Señora Quincy asked. ‘Did you like it?

  ‘I didn’t get to see much of it, sadly. The driver took me straight to the bullring from the airport and then, of course, I sprained this.’ She kicked her leg forward. ‘I couldn’t really walk anywhere, but Marina and I did take a horse-drawn carriage tour. It’s absolutely charming – all those white houses and tiny, tiny streets. I couldn’t believe we could get through most of them. I fully expected the carriage to end up wedged between two walls!’

  The old lady smiled. ‘A great friend of mine lived in the mercadillo. I used to sneak down when I could as a girl. Those were the happy days.’

  ‘Marina wants to go back in tomorrow; she’s so keen to explore the town. I think she really wants to get to grips with her heritage.’

  The old lady’s smile faded. ‘She will only be disappointed.’

  Charlotte tipped her head to the side. ‘Will she? From what I’ve observed so far, she’s embracing this new life. You grew up in a different time, a time when the whole world was at war, and I don’t doubt you had good reason for doing what you did. But Marina’s a grown woman who can make her own choices. The world has moved on and the Mendozas are, after all, one of the most illustrious families in southern Spain.’

  ‘Illustrious is not the word I would use for this family,’ Señora Quincy said firmly.