by Joan Lingard
‘Dead.’
‘Thought he might be. They’re either dead or they’ve gone off somewhere. A gypsy, was he?’
‘How do you know?’
‘You have the look and the hair. Black as a raven’s, isn’t it? I hope you’ve not got any of the gypsy ways? Thieving, and that.’
‘I don’t steal! I’m sure my father didn’t, either.’
‘Except your mother’s heart! All right, don’t fly off! I was only asking. You’re obviously not a full-blooded gypsy. They can sing, though, I’ll give them that. I bet he sang love songs in your mother’s ear.’
‘Can you tell me where I can find my uncle, please?’
‘He lives in the end house.’ The woman pointed the crucifix downward, then she gave it a last quick dust before placing it on the ground below the niche which Encarnita presumed held the body of her relative. ‘Everything’s dusty here. It’s the sand, especially when the wind gets up.’
‘I heard voices in my uncle’s house when I went by.’
‘They’re always arguing, those men! About politics.’
‘Politics?’
‘They want to change the world. Not much chance of that!’
‘It would be difficult.’
‘Difficult! We are born poor, and poor we shall die. It is the rich who run the world and nothing will ever change that. They call the tune. What can we do? Now here am I talking politics myself! It is my son Pedro I have to blame for that. He is a friend of your uncle. Rinaldo has put ideas in his head, along with Manolo. Manolo’s the leader of the group.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Encarnita.
‘It’s not your fault, is it?’
‘What kind of ideas do they have?’
‘That the workers should rise up! Overturn the state. And get themselves killed while they’re doing it. The army and the Guardia Civil are not going to stand by watching, are they?’ The woman took a last look at the niche before turning away. ‘He died twenty years ago, Alfonso, my husband. Chose his time to go. The day after Pedro was born. He’d had a lung disease. It was terrible listening to him at night.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Encarnita again.
‘So what is it you want with your uncle?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Encarnita shrugged. ‘Before my mother died she suggested I might come and find him. She was his sister. They were fond of each other.’
‘So you think he might take care of you, is that it? He has no money, I can tell you that straightaway. He earns a bit on the cane-cutting now and then but that wouldn’t feed the two of you. Doesn’t feed him.’
‘I don’t expect him to pay for me. I’ll try to earn some money.’
‘Doing what?’
Encarnita felt her head drooping, from the heat and lack of food and water.
‘He’s a kind man,’ the woman went on in a softer voice. ‘I’m sure he’ll do what he can for you. My name’s Sofia. And you?’
‘Encarnita.’
‘Come, Encarnita, I’ll take you to him.’
Encarnita collected Cinderella and Sofia led them down to the house of Rinaldo. They reached it as two men were emerging. Sofia introduced them. The younger man was Pedro, her son; the other, the older, was Manolo. They greeted the women politely and went on their way.
It was quiet inside the house now. Sofia pushed open the broken door.
‘Rinaldo,’ she called out. ‘I have a visitor for you. A surprise.’
A tall man with a gaunt face and dark, greying hair came to meet them.
‘Your niece has come to visit you,’ said Sofia and left them.
Rinaldo, after the initial shock, greeted Encarnita with a warm embrace. He kept saying that he couldn’t believe it, he still thought of her as the tiny baby he had last seen. When he heard the news of Pilar’s death he was overwhelmed, for he had always hoped to see his sister again and now felt guilty that he had not.
‘I should have done! The years go by in a blink.’
He took Encarnita into the kitchen at the back of the house, a dark room, where the only furniture was a scored wooden table and three chairs. On the table sat a bundle of grey leaflets printed with large letters in red and black. Inclining her head Encarnita read, ‘WORKERS UNITE.’ He saw her looking at them but made no comment.
He apologised that he had only a little food in the house and not much water. ‘Water is scarce up here. We have to carry it up from down below. I’ll go down to the fountain shortly and draw some.’
‘Give what you have to Cinderella, please. She needs to drink.’
He insisted that Encarnita drink, too. He was eyeing the goat dubiously. ‘There’s a bit of grazing at the back but it drops sharply down the hill.’
‘She’s used to steep slopes and I can take her into the campo, too.’
‘Very well. In that case,’ said Rinaldo, ‘you are welcome to stay with me.’
One day, while roaming about the campo with Cinderella, Encarnita came upon a ruined house. She knew straightaway that she wanted to make it theirs. It would be their secret home, a place to retreat to away from people. She would tell no one about it, not even Rinaldo. It was isolated, far from any main paths, with not another building in sight. She threw out the carcasses of a dead rabbit and several birds and swept the floor with a broom made of sticks. In one corner she made herself a bed of rosemary, thyme and lavender. A small part of the roof remained so that they would have shade to rest in during the hottest hours of the day. She scavenged around the countryside and came back with a number of useful items: a chair with a broken leg that was mendable with a stout stick, some pieces of ceramic pottery she could use as dishes, a scratched enamel basin and a dented tin pail. Nearby, she discovered a source of water, a small spring issuing from between two rocks. She was overjoyed.
‘Look, Cinderella, water! We’ll be all right now. We have everything we need.’ Tucked away in the house, she felt as if she were living inside a fairy tale.
They began to spend their days there and when they returned to Rinaldo’s house in the evening Encarnita cooked a meal, when there was food to cook. Sometimes bread and olives were all they had, with perhaps a sliver of cheese or sausage, if they were lucky. She brought in fallen oranges, figs and avocados from the campo, concealing them in her apron pocket, in case she might be accused of theft. She thought guiltily of Sofia’s suggestion that she might steal because she had gypsy blood. But this was different, she reasoned, for what lay on the ground could surely be picked up by anyone since, otherwise, it would rot. On occasions she made patatas a lo pobre – poor man’s potatoes – by frying onions and potatoes together in oil. This was a dish that Pilar had liked.
Often, after they’d eaten, Encarnita would go down the hill and across the square to the Iglesia Encarnación where she would talk to her mother. That the church bore her own name made her feel more at ease, otherwise she might have found it too big and unfriendly compared to the one in Yegen. She told her mother about Rinaldo and Almuñecar and her secret hideaway in the campo. ‘So you don’t have to worry about me now. Cinderella and I are well.’
Coming out of the church one evening, she bumped into Jacobo.
‘Ah, if it’s not the lovely Encarnita! I was hoping I might see you. You were going to come for a walk with me.’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘You’re tossing your head at me! Don’t you like me? Why don’t you come for a walk with me now and you’ll see what a decent fellow I am?’ He stuck his elbow out for her to take but she did not do so. ‘It’s paseo time. Look, everyone is out!’
‘A girl only walks with a boy in the paseo when he is her novio.’
‘I could be your novio.’ He giggled.
‘But it would not be true. I don’t know you.’
‘You could come to know me. Hey, don’t run away! I was going to offer you a job at the hotel. As a maid. One of our girls is leaving.’
She stopped.
‘It would be mornings only. Six till tw
elve. And sometimes in the evenings, if we’re having a party.’
‘But you can’t offer me the job, can you?’
‘Herr Christien listens to me. He takes my advice. So what do you say?’
‘I will have to talk to my uncle.’
When she did, Rinaldo said, ‘You’ll only be paid a pittance.’
‘I know, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?’
He sighed. ‘Of course. That is why we all do as we do. And why we will never be able to better ourselves. But I think Herr Christien would not treat you unkindly and you would have the company of the other chicas.’
She hesitated before confessing that it was Jacobo who worried her more. ‘He keeps asking me to go for a walk with him but I don’t want to go.’
‘Then you must not, Encarnita. I’ll have a word with my friend Manolo. He works in the hotel as a waiter and he’ll warn Jacobo off. He’s harmless, Jacobo. He talks, mostly. But he is well enough liked in the village.’
Encarnita started at the hotel the following day. She learned to make beds with sheets and pillows, scrub baths and toilet bowls, and set tables with knives, forks and spoons. There was not a constant stream of guests but enough to keep the place going. Most were German, but some came from England, and to those she tried to speak a little in their own language, even if it was only to say, ‘Good morning’ or ‘It is a nice day’.
One kind lady, who worked in a library in London, undertook to teach her a little English while she was cleaning her room in the mornings. Miss Osborne had been attending night classes in London and could speak some Spanish. She had come to Spain to research into its state of illiteracy and had been appalled to find so much in a European country, in the year 1935. ‘It’s not as if it’s South America!’
‘Everyone can read in London?’ asked Encarnita.
Miss Osborne admitted that some illiteracy did exist in the British Isles, which was to be deplored, though not anything like to the same extent as here. She did voluntary work at home, teaching reading, writing and arithmetic to young women at a night school in London run by an organisation for the Advancement of Christian Knowledge. She praised Encarnita’s desire to learn. She told her that knowledge would lift her out of poverty.
‘I take it that you are a Christian, dear?’ Miss Osborne cleared a catch in her throat. ‘Though a Roman Catholic, I suppose?’
Encarnita was not sure what she meant. ‘I go to Spanish church.’
Miss Osborne nodded. ‘Of course you would, wouldn’t you? You haven’t had a choice. But don’t be offended by me saying so for it’s not your fault. Obviously not. But perhaps when you’re older you might want to think about it.’ Encarnita was still mystified so Miss Osborne changed over to Spanish to try to clarify what she wished to say. ‘It is just that in your church there is too much emphasis on the swinging of incense and the worshipping of idols. Statues. Rather lurid statues too, from what I’ve seen, with all that gilt and gold and baby blue, and then there are those thorns in the flesh of Jesus!’ She shuddered. ‘The waxy faces are rather vulgar, too. In very poor taste. I’m sorry to speak this way, Encarnita, but I have to be honest with you, dear.’
‘You don’t like them? The statues?’
‘No, indeed. Besides, God is the only Being we should be worshipping.’
‘Why not Mary? She is the most important of all! She is the mother. My mother always talked to Mary. She said she understood the pain of women more.’
‘Yes, I’ve observed that there does seem to be rather a cult of Mary. Not terribly healthy, to my mind. Half the women in Andalucía seem to be called Maria!’
‘I am Encarnación Pilar Maria.’
‘Yes, well.’ Miss Osborne cleared her throat. ‘We are thinking that we might need to come over and do some mission work here in Andalucía. If so, you might like to come to our classes?’
‘Oh yes!’ Encarnita would be happy to go to any kind of class. ‘My Uncle Rinaldo doesn’t go to church any more,’ she added, thinking that might please Miss Osborne. ‘He dislikes the priests.’
‘Is that so?’ Miss Osborne brightened. ‘Perhaps he has seen the light and will be ready for a less gaudy form of worship. I might talk with him.’
‘I don’t think he’d listen. He says there’s no such thing as God, that the church keeps the people down so that the landowners can get away with murder.’
‘That was a rather wicked thing of him to say, Encarnita. You must not let such poison enter your soul.’
‘He says that when we have a truly free society the priests and bishops will be sacked and the churches closed. “No God, no owners, no private property.” That’s one of their slogans.’
‘Sounds like anarchy to me! I do not think he should be discussing politics with you. You are a young girl and, because of that, impressionable.’
‘Politics are the only things he talks about. He says we’ll have a revolution, like they had in Russia, sooner rather than later.’
‘And look what a Godless country that is now!’
Encarnita enjoyed their conversations, conducted in bits of English and Spanish, even if she could not always follow the drift completely. She enjoyed, too, the actual cleaning of Miss Osborne’s room. She loved handling the lady’s pretty things: her tortoiseshell-backed hair brush, comb and hand mirror, all to match; her cut-glass scent bottle which smelled of lavender water when you lifted the silver top; and the little round pot of cream, moisturising cream, for the face, to keep it from drying out, so Miss Osborne told her. Encarnita would dust slowly and carefully, spinning out the time until Jacobo would roar her name up the stairs, demanding to know what she was doing. Miss Osborne would smile and say in English, enunciating each word loudly and clearly, ‘Better go, dear. I shall see you tomorrow.’
On Miss Osborne’s last day in the hotel, with her packed leather trunk standing by the door waiting for Jacobo to lift, she said, ‘I will give you my address in London, Encarnita. If you manage to get there on your journey you must come and see me. There are perils waiting for girls like you when they come to the city. You would have to be wary. And if you would like, we could write to each other and I could correct your letters?’ She pressed twenty pesetas into Encarnita’s hand.
‘That’s too much,’ protested Encarnita.
‘It’s too little,’ said Miss Osborne. ‘May God bless you and keep you from all evil and protect you during the dark days ahead.’
Jacobo pushed back the door and came barging in to lift the trunk. The taxi was at the door waiting for Miss Osborne. Encarnita and Jacobo saw her off, waving until the car had gone from sight.
‘I shall miss her,’ sighed Encarnita.
‘She gave me five pesetas. What did she give you?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘So she gave you more! I thought she would. You’ve got to share it with me! It’s only fair. Why should you have more? I got you this job, didn’t I? You wouldn’t have it if it weren’t for me.’
‘She gave me more because I am her special friend.’
‘Friend! She’ll forget you as soon as she’s on the boat back. They always do.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Encarnita pulled five pesetas from her pocket and passed them over. Jacobo wasn’t as bad as she had first thought. She was getting to like him well enough, though not as a possible novio. They had called a truce on that. He said that if she didn’t want him there were plenty of girls who did. Even female guests, he hinted, would leave their doors ajar for him at night. ‘I’m going to write to Miss Osborne,’ she told him. ‘And she is going to write back!’
She also wrote to Luisa, using the hotel as her address, and a few weeks later a reply came back. Encarnita tore the envelope open eagerly. The sight of Luisa’s round childlike writing made her feel homesick for Yegen. She took out the single flimsy page.
Luisa wrote that her father had died after his wound had become infected again. ‘His end was bad.’ Encarnita felt nothing, neither pity n
or joy, but she was pleased that Luisa would not have to put with such a man any more.
‘Good news?’ asked Jacobo.
‘Quite good.’
‘You haven’t heard from your Miss Osborne, have you?’
‘I expect she’s been busy. She was going to Portugal when she left here to see what the illiteracy was like there.’ Encarnita had written her a short letter, with considerable difficulty, in English, thanking her for her teaching.
A few days later, a letter arrived from Miss Osborne, a very long one, consisting of several pages, correcting first of all Encarnita’s grammar and misuse of words, and then going on to relate all her doings, and those of the Society for the Advancement of Christian Knowledge. At the end, she urged Encarnita to keep to the ways of the Lord and not those of her uncle who, sadly, had gone astray. Redemption was always possible, however. She urged Encarnita to pray for him, but to the Lord God, and not to Mary. The letter was written in a fine sloping hand with wonderful loops and curls that made the reader marvel. She could not understand even a quarter of its contents but she kept the envelope in her pocket so that if another English guest should come to the hotel she could ask him, or her, to translate for her.
In December came a young, fair-haired Englishman, called Lorenzo, to brighten their lives. He carried a violin and he had tales to tell, which he told well. Encarnita was fascinated by his stories. He had walked the length of Spain with a violin, few other possessions and little money. A true traveller. He had earned a few pesetas here and there playing his violin in cafés and market squares and shared a bed in squalid inns with a weird range of people. He’d met poets and musicians, vagabonds and thieves, and had received many favours, especially from the ladies. Encarnita blushed when he spoke of that.
Herr Christien took Lorenzo on to help around the hotel. He helped out in the kitchen and fixed windows broken by the waves. He was given a bed in the attic beside Jacobo and the two became good friends. They joined together to form a band so that they could play at hotel functions. Lorenzo played the fiddle, and Jacobo the accordion. They had fun together. They practised on the roof and they laughed a lot. Encarnita enjoyed the sound of their music as she went about her work; it made her smile and set her feet tapping. They gave concerts, the programme ranging from tangos, serenades and paso dobles to Schubert’s Marche Militaire. The most requested tune was Rio Rita. The musicians were prepared to tackle anything and prided themselves on their versatility.