Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “Pollito, did you see us dance?”

  Pollito said nothing but smiled at his sisters with adoration. They gathered him up and kissed his dark head.

  “Will you play the guitar with Papa when you are a big boy?”

  Pollito nodded, and I felt sad that we would never see that day.

  Now the stage was being cleared and Geronimo was helping to set up equipment for the band who would play until dawn, or until the guests could dance no more. Drums, guitars, keyboards, and amplifiers were put into place and microphones were positioned and tested, uno, dos, tres.

  The band members took their places, ready to begin.

  “¡Un momento!” roared a voice. “Wait one moment!”

  All heads turned to the top table where Paco was now standing. He had been wearing the same broad grin all evening, and it hadn’t deserted him yet.

  “¡Un momento!” he shouted again as he mounted the stairs on the side of the stage.

  The band relaxed and rested their instruments, waiting for Paco to join them. In one hand he held a glass of wine and he grabbed the central microphone with the other. The whole square burst into a round of applause. Some wags began heckling.

  “Sing us a song, Paco!”

  “Are you going to dance us a flamenco?”

  “¡Madre mía! Can a man not say a word at the wedding of his only daughter?” he roared, laughing.

  It occurred to me that he didn’t really need the microphone as his voice naturally boomed round the valley.

  “Pah! I’m not a man of words,” he said, “but I just wanted to thank all of you, on behalf of my family and Alejandro’s, for coming to Sofía and Alejandro Junior’s wedding today. I know some of you have travelled a long way to be here to see my daughter and Alejandro’s son get married.”

  Another round of applause.

  “They took their time, but they got there in the end!”

  The guests cheered, and Carmen beamed.

  “Now, will you please raise your glasses,” Paco raised his own to the crowd, “to the happy couple!”

  “¡Salud!” the guests yelled. “Felicitaciones!”

  “¡Arriba, abajo, al centro y adentro!” shouted the young man who had sliced up Alejandro’s tie. “Up, down, towards the center, and down the hatch.”

  Everybody laughed and followed the young man’s example.

  “One more thing,” roared Paco. “In 2004, the English moved to El Hoyo, into the house next door to us.” He pointed to our table and all heads swung round. “Joe and Veeky have been our neighbours for more than eleven years. Very soon they leave for a new life in Australia. Please raise your glasses and wish them well.”

  “¡Los ingleses!” chanted the crowd.

  I couldn’t have been more surprised and felt myself flushing scarlet. Joe squeezed my hand and we smiled at all our well-wishers. I was trying very hard to hold back tears.

  “And now the party really begins!” bellowed Paco, replacing the microphone. “Music! Sofía, Alejandro, take the floor!”

  As the band struck up a waltz, the bride and groom danced alone, gazing into each other’s eyes. They fitted together like the last two pieces of a jigsaw, and I prayed their marriage would be long and happy.

  The balmy night, heavy with the scent of jasmine, lent itself to romance and I hoped Valentina and Geronimo would help themselves to a share of it. At that moment they were on opposite sides of the square, but who knew what the night might bring? Little Paco and his girlfriend were on the dance floor, wrapped in each other’s arms. At a quiet table sat Lola Ufarte and the young priest, deep in conversation, both looking serious.

  We stayed until past two o’clock, but finally surrendered. We knew the party would continue until the sun rose over the mountains, but were unable to keep up with the diehard revellers.

  We walked home in silence, hand in hand.

  “It was a lovely night, wasn’t it?” I murmured as we laid our heads on our cool pillows. “A perfect wedding. And I hope Geronimo and Valentina come to their senses.”

  But Joe was already asleep.

  In my dream, I was wearing a wedding dress and carrying a bouquet of white jasmine. We were checking in at the airport and Joe was hauling the big red suitcase.

  “We’re not taking that,” I said. “It will only get lost or stolen. Leave it here, we don’t need it.”

  “You must take the suitcase,” said the airport official, stamping our passports.

  Stamp! He then stamped a pile of papers.

  Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!

  “Vicky, wake up!”

  Joe was shaking my shoulder. Somebody was hammering on our front door and shouting. I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. Half past eight.

  “Joe?”

  But Joe was already heading for the front door. I pulled on some clothes and went to join him just as he was closing the door.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” I asked. “Who was that?”

  “It was one of the Ufarte cousins. He said little Pollito is missing. They woke up this morning and found his bed empty. Come on, the whole village is looking for him.”

  Figs with Honey and Cinnamon

  Higos con miel y canela

  Although the recipe suggests the figs should be served hot, apparently they can also be chilled and eaten safely within a couple of days.

  Ingredients (per person)

  2-4 figs, dependent on size

  1-2 tablespoons of honey

  A pinch or two of cinnamon

  A dollop of creme fraiche, ice cream or pouring cream

  Method

  Halve or quarter the figs, and place them, cut side up, in an ovenproof dish. If you can find one that they fit snugly into, even better.

  Drizzle honey all over the figs and sprinkle the cinnamon.

  Bake in a medium oven (about 180C / 350F) for around 20 minutes until the honey is only just melted.

  Serve hot with a dollop of creme fraiche, ice cream or cream.

  28

  THE SEARCH

  The news of Pollito’s disappearance chilled me to the bone. Outside, I could hear feet pounding up and down the street and voices rang out.

  “Pollito! Pollito!”

  “I’ll look in our garden, in the chicken coop and on the roof terraces first,” I said. “You never know, he could have got in somehow.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Pollito!” I called, as I searched, “Pollito!”

  No reply.

  “You stay here,” I said to Joe when I rejoined him. “I’m going out to help look in the village. I don’t want you exhausting yourself.”

  I ran out into the street. There were so many places where a small child could hide. Many of the cottages were deserted or falling down. Perhaps he’d been chasing kittens into a ruin and a wall had fallen on him? Had he tumbled into the gully that ran under the bridge at the entrance of the village? Had he wandered into the woods? Everyone knew that he was an adventurous soul and loved to explore.

  So many possibilities, each one too terrifying to consider.

  Outside their house, the Ufarte twins were sobbing, their arms around each other. The streets were full of people as most of the wedding guests had stayed in the village overnight. Some still wore their party finery, and I guessed the party hadn’t wound up long ago. Some wore hastily pulled on clothes, and I even saw a few in bathrobes. They all may have been very differently attired, but everybody’s expression was the same.

  Profound concern.

  The church bell began to clang. Yesterday it had pealed, joyous and triumphant, announcing the marriage of Sofía and Alejandro. Today, it was a clamour for help. Up in the bell tower, Geronimo struck the bell with his hammer, slowly and repeatedly.

  “Everybody go to the square!” somebody shouted. “Go to the square!”

  Oh good, I thought, somebody has taken charge, and we all hurried in the direction of the square.

  Although the tables had been cleared, ther
e was still plenty of evidence of the party. Cigarette ends and bottle tops littered the ground and white paper napkins clogged the gutters. But nobody was thinking of the clearing up job now.

  On the stage stood Pancho, the mayor. I joined the growing number of people who had already gathered there waiting for him to speak. He held up his hand, hushing us into silence. Although he was not a tall man, his presence commanded the audience.

  “You will know by now that Pollito Ufarte is missing.”

  Everybody nodded.

  “The police have been called, but there is a lot we can do before they arrive. Pollito has been known to wander off many times, but has always been found not long after,” said Pancho. “But today he has been missing for two hours already.”

  Somebody sobbed, and we averted our eyes, hanging onto Pancho’s words.

  “That’s much too long,” somebody whispered.

  “There is probably a very simple explanation for Pollito’s disappearance, but we must look for him, nevertheless.”

  “Sí, sí,” agreed the crowd.

  “This is what I think we must do. First we must all check our own houses. Look under the beds, in closets, look everywhere. Check your cars, garages and outhouses. Look in the dog kennels, cellars, wood stores, everywhere. You know what children are like. The little fellow could be curled up asleep somewhere for all we know.”

  More nodding.

  “Members of the Ufarte family, please go home. The police will need to speak with you. Father Rodrigo and Father Samuel, please search every corner of the church and tower.”

  The Ufartes and clergy left.

  Pancho drew himself up to his full height and addressed the crowd again. He held his head high, his hook nose silhouetted against the blue, cloudless sky.

  That day I forgave him all his bad behaviour. I forgave him for pursuing me endlessly, for pestering me for so-called English lessons. Today he was the perfect mayor, totally in command, and ready to lead his community. Today he had earned my respect.

  “I am going to divide everybody else here into four groups,” he announced. “I will appoint a leader for each group. Then I shall divide El Hoyo into four areas, and each party will be responsible for one of those areas. This will make our search more efficient and stop us wasting time searching an area that has already been searched.”

  Pancho held up his arm and metaphorically sliced the crowd into four, gesturing them to bunch together in their groups. I found myself in a group with Valentina, some villagers I knew only slightly, and some guests I remembered from last night.

  “Alejandro!” called the mayor.

  “Yes, Pancho!” replied the groom’s father.

  “Alejandro, please take charge of your group. Search the village from here, and work north. Check the cemetery and the olive groves beyond.”

  Alejandro beckoned to his group and they followed.

  “Paco, take charge of your group, and work east. Check all the buildings, the gully and the woods.”

  “Pah!” shouted Paco, thumping his fist so hard on a table that an ashtray jumped. “If Pollito is to be found, we’ll find him!”

  “Manolo,” said Pancho, pointing at Marcia’s son. “Please take charge of your group. Work your way to the west. Start from the square, like the others. Check all the buildings. Then your group will need to climb the mountain, search the shrine and all the crags and outcrops.”

  Manolo, a quiet, intelligent, and sensible man, led his team away. Only my group remained. Geronimo had returned from ringing the bell and stood watching and listening.

  “Ah, there you are, Geronimo,” said Pancho. “I want you to take this group. Search the south part of the village. There are plenty of derelict buildings where a little chap could get into trouble. Search along the mule track to the old lead mine.”

  Not for the first time that day, my heart went cold. Surely Pollito would never have made his way to the disused mine?

  Valentina gripped my arm, the same thought must have struck her. Our eyes met.

  “We must find him!” she whispered, and I nodded.

  “How many of you have already searched your own houses?” asked Geronimo.

  Most of us raised our hands.

  “Good. Those of you who haven’t done so already, search your own property. Do that first, then come and find us. Everybody else, we will fan out, starting from here.”

  Geronimo had an air of authority that I’d never seen him display before. Under his direction, the search began in earnest. We spread out, determined to check our areas thoroughly.

  “Pollito!” we called and I could hear his name being called by search parties all over the village.

  There were several tumbledown cottages in our area, and we scoured every one. Then we walked abreast, in a line, stumbling over the boulder-strewn waste ground beyond the last cottages at the edge of the village.

  Nothing.

  Now there was nowhere to go but the narrow mule track that hugged the mountain slope, leading us towards the disused mine. On one side, the ground fell away steeply. On the other, the mountain rose, craggy and unwelcoming, even with the summer sun beating down.

  It occurred to me that the rough path we were treading must have been well-worn in the days when the mine was being worked. Miners’ boots must have tramped along it, as must the hooves of pack-mules, ferrying food and equipment to and from the village and hauling the lead that had been extracted.

  Much of the old mine’s infrastructure still exists. The steep steps built into the mountainside remain, as do the tracks of the little railway that carried the rock out into the sunshine.

  There are open tunnels, either side of the steps, although the entrances are either entirely or partially blocked by fallen rocks. The mine is home to colonies of bats. But what sent shudders down my spine was the memory of the deep ventilation shafts, still open, unguarded and treacherous.

  Geronimo led the way along the winding track to the mine. We followed, our eyes sweeping the ground and bushes for clues, but finding none. The sun beat down. Our feet crunched on the rocks and summer-dried vegetation. Nobody spoke.

  When we reached the foot of the steps, Geronimo stopped and turned.

  “Quiet,” he said.

  Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. A breeze stirred his long hair, and his voice echoed round the valley.

  “Pollito! Pollito! Are you there?”

  The whole search party had frozen like statues. I strained my ears. Nothing but the breeze stirring leaves, and the distant calling of villagers.

  And yet…

  I wasn’t positive, but I thought I had heard something… In fact I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me, because I was so desperate to hear an answer.

  I glanced at Valentina, knowing her ears were a lot younger and keener than mine. She returned my look, and her eyes told me she had heard something, too.

  “Call again,” said Valentina.

  Geronimo took a deep breath.

  “Po-lli-to! Po-lli-to! Are you there?”

  And there it was again. Louder this time. A kind of snuffling sound.

  Most of us heard it this time. We gaped at each other. Could it be Pollito? Or had we disturbed a wild animal, perhaps? Ibex and wild boar were common in the mountains.

  “There is definitely something in the mine,” said Geronimo, speaking for us all.

  “How do we get in?” somebody asked.

  “It is a very dangerous place,” said Geronimo. “I know it well because I used to play here as a boy. There are many openings and tunnels where a child could crawl, and shafts that any child could fall down.”

  We stared at him in horror.

  “Come, we will climb the steps,” he said. “The main ventilation shaft is at the top. Take care, because the steps are old and crumbling. At the top, we will call again. There is no time to lose.”

  He set off, his feet hardly touching the steps. Valentina and a couple of younger folk followed c
lose behind, while the rest of us made our way as fast as we could manage. Nature was reclaiming the steps. Weeds sprouted and whole sections were missing.

  At the top of the steps, the others were already gathered around the old ventilation shaft. Geronimo was lying on his stomach, trying to peer down into the darkness.

  “That looks deep,” someone said.

  “Surely Pollito would not come here?”

  “What a dangerous place!”

  “Quiet, everyone,” Geronimo barked over his shoulder.

  Everyone fell silent.

  “Pollito, are you there?”

  Then we all heard it. Down in the depths of the mountain, a snuffle, then a whimper.

  “Pollito?”

  “I want my mama!” sobbed the little boy and his voice echoed off the stone walls.

  “Pollito!” we all shouted. “Pollito!”

  “Quiet!” hissed Geronimo. “Pollito, we are coming to get you and take you to your mama. Are you hurt?”

  “My foot hurts, and I do not like the dark!”

  “Stay still. Do not move! Did you fall down the hole, Pollito?”

  “Yes!” Renewed wails.

  With his bare hands, Geronimo pulled at the brambles that partially obscured the shaft. I saw blood as the cruel thorns ripped into him.

  “Is that any better, Pollito? Is it lighter now? Can you see?”

  “Yes, a bit. I want my mama!”

  “Wait, Pollito, I’m going to climb down and get you.”

  “No!” breathed Valentina by my side. Her face was ashen.

  Geronimo rolled over and sat up.

  “Emmanuel, Felipe, Juan Pablo! Run back to the village as fast as you can! Go to the Ufartes’ house, tell Maribel and Juan Ufarte that we have found Pollito. Tell the search parties. Hurry!”

  The three youths scrambled down the steps, intent on their errand. Geronimo turned back to the hole.

  “Your mama and papa are coming, Pollito,” he called. “I am going to climb down and help you.”