Bay of Secrets

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘It’s OK,’ he had said. ‘You do not have to say any more.’ He hadn’t wanted to pressurise her. It would come in time, he told himself. Ruby would confide in him in time. And that would be the right time.

  *

  Andrés took a pull of his beer and held his breath as the final lingering notes filled the café, drifting like dust motes in the space between them. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt for her yet but he thought that he kind of got what she was about. He knew they had things in common. And he understood her loss.

  In his case, of course, the deaths had been symbolic ones. Do not darken this door … His father’s harsh voice seemed to grate into his ears as it had done so many times before.

  There had always been tensions in his home – for as long as he could remember. His father bullying and demanding. Izabella dancing to his tune. His mother scurrying around trying to please everyone. Andrés getting into trouble.

  ‘Why do you have to answer him back?’ his mother would say, clicking her tongue in frustration. ‘Why can’t you be silent, son, and simply leave him be?’

  Leave him be. Leave him be. As if Enrique Marin were not after all a mere mortal, a mere man, but some sort of god on high that they all had to worship and adore. While he … Andrés shook his head in disgust.

  The tensions had grown more tightly strung than ever as he became a teenager, though he hadn’t known why. What had changed? His father worked in his studio muttering or yelling, or stomped down to the Old Harbour – bandanna round his head, cheroot hanging from his lips – to scowl at the waves, or to play dominoes in the Bar Acorralado.

  Leave him be … Mama worked in the house and created her calados, her embroidered linen cloths, as she sat outside – sometimes silent, sometimes gossiping with neighbours. Izabella was a dutiful daughter and trotted around after his mother like a puppy. And Andrés continued to paint.

  What had changed? The village was slowly becoming richer – there was more planting, more crops. And tourism. Once, the villagers had survived by bartering for fish in exchange for milk and cheese from their goats, cereal from their plots of land, figs and prickly pears – either fresh or sun-dried. But now the tourists had changed all that. And his father was selling paintings. The times of poverty were gone, or so people said. So why was Mama’s smile so rare and why was his father’s frown so deeply etched on his brow? Why were they both so unhappy?

  Andrés had not known. Now, though, he could guess. Perhaps Mama had been aware of what was happening even then and had turned a blind eye to it. Leave him be … When had it started? For how long had it gone on? These were questions for which Andrés would probably never have an answer.

  *

  And then the song was over and Ruby was bowing and smiling and slipping the saxophone strap from her shoulders. The audience were clapping. Andrés got to his feet and clapped too. Tina smiled across at him.

  Ruby disappeared backstage.

  Andrés fetched another stool and ordered her a beer. That protective sensation again … He wasn’t sure yet how he felt about it.

  Tina put the beer on the counter in front of him. ‘She’s really good,’ she said. ‘You can feel her pain.’

  ‘I know.’ He could see Ruby making her way over. The woman with whom he went walking in her red fleece and blue jeans and who had sat hugging her knees like a child on Chesil Beach now looked as glamorous and elegant as a film star working the red carpet. She smiled straight at him.

  Andrés got to his feet. Whichever way he looked at it, this was important. He wasn’t going to fuck it up.

  CHAPTER 27

  Barcelona, 1973

  The streets were busier these days as Sister Julia walked from Santa Ana to the Raval quarter – more people visited the city; people of different nationalities and from different cultures. Tourism had come to Spain. There was much to visit in the city of Barcelona. The cathedral and the Gaudi houses, the parks and the fountains. And so many different voices … At first, Sister Julia found this unsettling – perhaps change was always unsettling? – but then she realised. There was less fear on the streets and more of a sense of liberty. This had to be a good thing.

  At the clinic there were fewer single mothers and Sister Julia no longer worked such long hours. It was a relief – now, she had more time to read and study the English language; there were many worthy writings in English and she was glad that she could understand them. It was one of her great pleasures. But there were still deaths and there were still adoptions and Sister Julia still kept her book of names – a book which was almost full.

  One day, a day of autumn mist and fallen leaves when the city smelt of damp and wood smoke, Sister Julia lingered outside the bookshop in Las Ramblas. It was not just English she wanted to read. Books were once more being published in Catalan. She smiled to herself and offered a prayer of thanks. This was a move towards the recovery of her culture. If only her parents were still alive to see it. Her mother had passed away from this earth only a year after her father – as if she simply found it too hard to cope without him. And since then she had not seen either of her sisters. Matilde and her husband had moved away; Sister Julia only hoped that her sister would find the strength to accept the life that she had been given. As for Paloma … As far as Sister Julia was aware, she still lived in Barcelona with Mario Vamos, the man she had married for love. But – much to her regret – she no longer saw her.

  It was hard, Sister Julia thought, to even recall the closeness of the family unit they had once had. They had survived when many others had not. But it had never been easy. And hadn’t they too been broken – just like all the rest?

  She arrived at the clinic to find things much as normal. There were two women in the medical room, both in the early stages of labour, and the doctor was prowling around his consulting room as he often seemed to do these days; never still, always on edge, always ready to brandish his crucifix and demand repentance from the women who still came to them for help. But these days there was an air of fanaticism about him. For how long, she wondered, could this possibly go on?

  Sister Julia took the morning prayers as usual and then helped the nurses with their bedmaking and other duties. A man came to see the doctor about an adoption; she did not see his face, but she heard the confidence in his low, grating voice from inside Dr Lopez’s office and she could not help but click her tongue in disapproval.

  After Dr Lopez had carried out his morning round, he drew her to one side. ‘I am entrusting you with a vital and confidential task, Sister,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, doctor.’ Sister Julia bowed her head. What could it be?

  ‘There is a payment due from … ’ noisily, he cleared his throat, ‘one of our kind benefactors. You must meet this man and bring the payment back to me immediately.’

  A payment?

  She must have looked confused, because the doctor waved away her doubts. ‘Do not worry, Sister,’ he said. ‘You will be perfectly safe. It is not far. I will give you the directions.’

  But she had not been worrying about her safety. Was she not used to wandering around the city alone? Had she not been doing this for years? No. What had confused her was why she had to go anywhere to collect a payment from a benefactor. Why could the benefactor not bring his payment here to the clinic? It was odd, to say the least.

  ‘I cannot go myself,’ Dr Lopez said. ‘I have to be careful. I must protect my clinic and my name.’ He looked at her. ‘You must go, Sister Julia. No one will look twice at you.’

  Sister Julia began to grasp his meaning. This was not then simply a payment from a benefactor. There was something more sinister afoot if the doctor was talking about protecting his reputation. She was a nun. No one would suspect her of any clandestine or illegal activity. Illegal activity … Swiftly, she crossed herself, closed her eyes to find God. God in heaven, hear my voice. Help me to do what I must do. Amen.

  What should she do? She could refuse to go. But if she went … Something told her
that if she went she might find out something more, something that she needed to know.

  *

  She met the man and the woman under the arches by Calle Fernando. Who knew what kind of dubious transactions took place there? The area was full of shadows; of beggars and thieves.

  The man seemed surprised to see her. ‘Where is the priest?’ he asked.

  The priest? He was usually met by a priest? Sister Julia did not know how to answer this and so she was silent.

  The man laughed, but without humour. He handed her an envelope. ‘Count it,’ he said. ‘I do not want to be accused of short-changing anyone.’

  Sister Julia counted ten thousand pesetas. She had never seen so much money in her life. Whatever was the money for? Was the clinic to be refurbished, perhaps? Would Dr Lopez be taking on more staff? It must take a certain amount of money to run a clinic like the doctor’s but she had assumed that it existed on its charitable donations; she knew for a fact that it was assisted by the Church, the reverend mother had told her so.

  ‘I’ll be back in six months,’ the man said. ‘With the next instalment.’

  The next instalment? Sister Julia’s blood ran cold. ‘How many in all?’ she was bold enough to ask.

  ‘This is the seventh of ten, Sister,’ he said. He bowed his head.

  A hundred thousand pesetas then.

  Perhaps Sister Julia would not have known for sure what the payment was for if she had not recognised the woman half hiding in the shadows of the arches, her scarf drawn around her face as she stepped forwards to leave.

  Sister Julia had seen her at the clinic. She had come there not to give birth, however; she had come there to adopt a child.

  So. This man and this woman were adoptive parents. If she tried, she might even be able to remember the name. They were all – were they not? – written down.

  A hundred thousand pesetas. So that was how it was. Dear God in heaven. It came to Sister Julia gradually what she had been a part of for so long; what she was a part of still. She had been right to question whether it was simply a matter of helping vulnerable members of society, of giving children more opportunities in life. Of course it was not. How could she have been so blind? So naive? So gullible? It was also a question of money. And the money came from the right sort of families. Right, Sister Julia thought, in more than one sense of that word. This was a corruption that had been going on in front of her eyes for almost three decades.

  As she hurried back to the Canales Clinic, the money in her pocket felt as if it was burning through to Sister Julia’s very skin. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it. Blood money, she thought. Money paid for human life.

  The doctor was waiting for her.

  She pulled the envelope from her pocket and held it out to him. Took a deep breath. Courage, she thought. ‘Will you tell me, doctor,’ she said, ‘what this money is in payment for?’

  ‘Ah, Sister.’ He flicked the envelope from her grasp. ‘Perhaps it is best that you do not know.’

  Sister Julia met his piercing gaze. She remembered that first day she had been introduced to him in the hospital and how he had intimidated her. She remembered all the questions that she had wanted to ask over the years – and indeed, all the questions that she had asked. ‘Perhaps,’ she said quietly, ‘I already do know.’

  He frowned. Scrutinised her up and down in a way he had not done since that first day. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, Sister,’ he said. ‘And ours is not to reason why.’ And he took a step closer towards her.

  He was so close now that she could feel his breath on her face, smell the scent of him – of surgical spirit and the hint of stale alcohol. He gripped her wrist and in that second she was so scared that she almost stopped breathing. But she did not back down. She would not back down. She stared right back at him. She knew now exactly what he was.

  ‘Perhaps you will not always be able to hide behind God, doctor,’ she said, forcing her voice not to shake.

  His grip tightened. ‘And perhaps you, Sister Julia,’ he said, ‘should take care.’

  She stood her ground and after a moment he seemed to come to his senses. He loosened his hold on her and she pulled her hand away.

  He took some money out of the envelope. ‘I wish to pay you for the task you have undertaken today, Sister.’ His voice now was businesslike and calm.

  She stared at him in disbelief. Did he really think that everyone could be bought so easily? Was that what his world was like? ‘I want no money,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I want nothing. And I want no part of it ever again.’

  ‘Very well, Sister.’ He opened the door for her to leave. And as she left, a look passed between them. A look so complete in understanding that she felt weak, as if her legs might collapse from under her. But she held her head high and she returned to Santa Ana.

  *

  At the convent, Sister Julia hurried to the chapel to pray. And she asked for God’s forgiveness – because these things had been done in His name. Names … She went to her room, she looked in her book of names and she sighed. There were so many of them. She had done what she could. But now she could do no more. Was she still a person in her own right, as well as a sister at the Convent Santa Ana? Could she make her own decisions? Did she still have a voice?

  She went to see the reverend mother and told her she was unable to work at the clinic with Dr Lopez any longer.

  ‘Why is that?’ the mother superior asked sharply.

  ‘I cannot,’ Sister Julia said. ‘I will not.’ Her face was wet with tears. But who was she crying for? Was it for the mothers who had lost their babies? The children who would never know who they truly were? Or was she crying for herself and what she had lost?

  ‘But for what reason, my child?’ The reverend mother seemed to soften slightly in the face of her passion.

  Sister Julia swallowed hard. Should she tell her about the money? What she now knew – for sure – about Dr Lopez and the clinic? Should she tell her of all the things that had been done in God’s name? She longed to. It would be such a relief to tell someone, to unburden after all these years. And yet … She had tried to tell her before. And each time had been fobbed off with the same story. The reverend mother had always defended him. Why should anything be different now? The truth was that Sister Julia did not know if she could trust her.

  ‘I cannot say.’ She bowed her head. ‘But it has become impossible for me to continue my work there. I need to take some time for prayer. I need to find again my God.’

  The reverend mother regarded her sadly for several moments without saying a word. ‘I will speak to the doctor,’ she said at last.

  Sister Julia could not bear it. If she ever had to return there … She straightened her shoulders. ‘Reverend Mother, I will not go back,’ she repeated.

  The mother superior regarded her again and then at last she reached out her hand and placed it on Sister Julia’s head. ‘You will not have to, my child,’ she said. ‘Do not fear.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’ And Sister Julia felt the burden ease.

  ‘But you cannot stay here,’ she added.

  Sister Julia was not surprised. But where could she go? This was the only home she had known for so many years.

  The reverend mother seemed deep in thought. ‘We will send you to our Canary Island of Fuerteventura,’ she said at last. ‘To a small convent there which is just starting out. It is quiet. You will be safe. You will have the opportunity to reflect and to pray just as you wish.’

  ‘Very well, Reverend Mother.’ It was an appealing thought. To be quiet. To be safe. To have the opportunity to reflect on everything that had happened. Though she knew that if she was safe, then Dr Lopez would be safe as well.

  *

  There was one thing that Sister Julia had to do before she left – she must find her sister Paloma and she must say goodbye.

  One day in early March, when the breeze was mild and it seemed that winter might be creeping away at last, Sister Jul
ia made her way to the street where her family had lived, and where Mario Vamos too had resided next door. It was not the first time she had been back and yet she stood for several minutes gazing at the house, remembering those family times – some cheerful but many fraught with poverty and hardship. She looked up at the window of the room she had shared with her sisters, and she seemed to hear it once again catching in the wind that funnelled down the narrow street – Paloma’s chatter, Paloma’s girlish laughter.

  Her family no longer owned the house and so Sister Julia knocked on the door of the house next door – the Vamos’s. Perhaps even Paloma …

  But the door was opened by an old woman – Mario’s aged aunt, she suspected, whom she remembered from those long-ago childhood days.

  ‘Yes, Sister? Can I help you?’ the woman enquired politely, not quite hiding her surprise at seeing a nun on her doorstep.

  Sister Julia did not prevaricate. ‘Señora, I am looking for Señora Paloma Vamos,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of some urgency.’

  The old woman’s expression altered to one of distaste. ‘I know her,’ she said.

  ‘Then please give me her address.’ Sister Julia smiled slightly to soften her words.

  ‘Of course.’ She disappeared inside and returned with a piece of paper which she passed to Sister Julia. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sister Julia made her way through the maze of the Raval quarter to the street whose name was written in a spidery scrawl on the paper. Number fifteen. When she arrived there, it was drab and uncared-for. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a man of about her own age. She recognised him immediately. But the boyish good looks had slipped from his face – replaced by a hardness that surprised her. He was wearing a cap at a jaunty angle and there was still a certain humour in those eyes. But his mouth was downturned into a cruel line and his expression was not kind. ‘Señor Vamos?’ Sister Julia enquired.