Love in Revolution

by B. R. Collins

  Contents

  Summer

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Autumn

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Winter

  Nine

  Ten

  Spring

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Autumn

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  About the author

  By B.R. Collins

  Summer

  One

  When I was small, there was a house at the end of the town that had fallen down. We weren’t allowed to play there, of course, but we did sometimes. We’d play furious, clumsy games of pello against the one intact wall, and when we were tired out we’d collapse in the shade with tepid bottles of cherry juice that stained our teeth pink. We’d argue about the bumps and curves in the wall and the angles of our shots as if we were professionals. Or sometimes we’d be too out of breath to talk, and we’d lie there in silence, listening to the breeze in the gap-toothed stones.

  But there was one room in the house – or something that used to be a room – that fascinated me. It still looked like a room, with wallpaper on the walls, a mirror that hung crooked, a sagging old sideboard that no one had bothered to move; but one wall had been torn apart. There was a vertical crack that went the whole height of the house, and between the ragged margins of wallpaper there was a dark gap, big enough to put your hand into. After we were tired of playing pello, I’d stand in the tumbledown doorway, just looking. I couldn’t help thinking about how long the crack had taken to appear – seconds? days? years? – and imagining the first moment when someone looked up from their everyday life and realised that their world was falling apart.

  I always imagined that they would have screamed and run. But now, I’m not sure. I think the world can collapse around you very, very slowly, so you hardly notice it’s happening. I think it can start with something small, something tiny. That’s how revolutions start – with the first tremor, the first plume of dust. That’s how love starts too: a shiver and something snaps, too tiny to be seen with the naked eye, hardly even felt. And it’s only when the house is in ruins – when there’s nothing to keep out the weather, the cold, the bullets – that you look back and wonder how it happened.

  But all the same, I think I can pick a moment when my world started to end. I can see it clearly, pinpoint the first slip of subsidence, the moment when the walls shook.

  It was the day Pitoro Toros, the pello player, came to our town; the day I saw Angel Corazon for the first time.

  It was also the day I fell in love.

  It was June. I was fifteen.

  The sun was streaming in through the church windows, casting red lozenges of light on to the floor and across the pattern of my dress. I squinted through my eyelashes, making the colours blur, and then, because I couldn’t help myself, I turned my head and stared at the man in the pew on the other side of the nave just behind us. He must have known everyone in the church was sneaking looks at him, but it didn’t show; he was praying, apparently, his powerful shoulders hunched and his thick, famous arms braced against the wooden ledge in front of him. I breathed deeply, as quietly as I could, wondering if the air smelt different just because he was there.

  Martin kicked me on the shin with his heel. ‘You’re staring,’ he whispered, and then glanced over his shoulder, following my eyes. He bit his lip.

  I rolled my eyes and kicked him back, a sharp strike on his ankle that made him wince and stifle a yelp. ‘Now who’s staring? Martin, you’re in lo-ove . . .’

  ‘He’s here,’ Martin murmured, ignoring me, with a note in his voice that was wistful and awestruck and envious all at once. ‘I can’t believe he’s actually here . . .’

  ‘And for his August and Most Beloved Majesty King Ferdinand . . .’ the priest said, and cleared his throat. He must have known no one was listening, but you had to give him credit for trying.

  ‘They say he can serve so fast you can’t see the ball hit the wall,’ Martin said. ‘In his match against Hiram Jelek, he didn’t lose serve once. Not once. And they say he can stop a ball dead, just with his chest. Oh, I’d love to see that . . .’

  The priest slapped the altar with the flat of his hand, raising his voice. ‘That he may vanquish and overcome all his enemies, especially those who with blasphemous and irreverent thoughts incite us, his people, to violence . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I said. Mama looked round and frowned at me. I lowered my voice. ‘And when he played Old Man Ciro, he bounced the ball into his chest so hard it killed him . . .’ I turned to look again, willing him to raise his head. Pitoro Toros, the Bull, three times winner of the King’s Cup, one of the best pello players ever. And he was here, in our town, in our church . . . He didn’t look like the newspaper cuttings on Martin’s wall – but then, here he was in colour and not brandishing a trophy.

  ‘He doesn’t look like his photo,’ Martin said. ‘I wish he’d look up . . .’

  ‘Martin! Stop talking,’ Mama said. ‘And you too, Esteya. Don’t think I can’t hear you both.’

  We turned our faces back to the altar, struggling not to giggle. I tried to swallow the bubbles of excitement that kept rising and bursting in my throat, but they were like an itch that I couldn’t scratch.

  ‘And for all his subjects,’ the priest intoned, ‘above all those for whom we your servants feel a justifiable affection and pride, those sportsmen who by their endeavours express the eternal fight of good against evil . . .’

  ‘He’s making this up!’ Martin hissed, half admiring, half outraged. ‘That’s not what he says normally . . .’

  ‘The son of our town, Pitoro Toros, known to all of us as the Bull . . .’

  For the first time that morning our amen came promptly at the end of the prayer, and the priest’s mouth twitched at one corner. Martin and I smiled at each other. And everywhere in the church people were catching one another’s eyes and glancing conspiratorially towards the pew where the Bull stood, still doggedly pretending not to notice the attention.

  ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen.’

  ‘And the pello talent of our beloved brother the Bull,’ Martin added, but it was drowned out by everyone else saying amen and the creaks and rustlings as we closed our prayer books and shuffled our feet, so that I was the only one who heard. His voice was full of longing.

  ‘The Mass is ended, go in peace.’

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ I said, along with everyone else, and meant it. The noise swelled to a crescendo. The Bull looked up, finally, and glanced round. He had thick features, a nose that had been broken more than once and a mouth that didn’t seem to close properly. It was easy to believe that he’d killed a man on the pello court. He wasn’t handsome – well, actually, he was ugly – but there was a kind of glamour about him. People said he was one of the best players ever . . .

  No one left the church until the Bull did; then we elbowed and fought to get as near to him as we could. He smirked a little – as if he’d only just noticed us – and swaggered out into the square, his hands in his pockets.

  As we pushed forward Martin grabbed my arm. ‘Hey, there’s Leon. I thought he told Papa he was studying?’ He pulled me sideways, out of the flow of people, and we stumbled to a stop in the cool shadow of the church. Leon was rolling a cigarette, leaning in a doorway on the other side of the square.

  ‘I told you so,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t come to church, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist seeing the Bull . . .’

  I was r
ight. You could see from the way Leon jerked his head up when he heard the voices drifting across the square. Sunlight flashed off the lenses of his glasses. He was frozen for a moment, peering towards us; then he saw the Bull. The half-rolled cigarette bent and spilt tobacco between his fingers.

  ‘I hope Mama doesn’t see him,’ I said. ‘Lunch will be horrible if she does.’

  Martin looked at me and grimaced, but all he said was, ‘Do you think I should ask the Bull for his autograph?’

  The Bull was surrounded now. Someone had found a pen from somewhere, and I caught glimpses of the Bull’s muscled, damage-thickened hand, writing his name over and over again. One of the Ibarra girls danced away with a scrawl of ink on her dress, just above her left breast.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘why don’t you get him to sign your trousers?’

  Martin grinned, and then tilted his head to one side, considering. ‘Do you think he would?’

  Just then the hubbub of voices died away. The Bull was a little apart from the crowd of admirers, talking to someone in the shadow of the fountain. He was still holding the pen – between finger and thumb, as though he wasn’t used to writing – but his hand had dropped to his side: he wasn’t signing his autograph. He turned on his heel, shaking his head, and swaggered back to his fans. Someone asked him something, too quietly for us to hear the words.

  ‘Kid wants a lesson,’ the Bull said.

  ‘A pello lesson?’ the other Ibarra girl asked, girlishly pleating her dress, showing her best lace-topped stockings.

  ‘Lesson in manners, more like,’ the Bull said. He glared round at the crowd as if it was their fault. A couple of people took a step backwards. ‘Jumped-up little peasant. I kill people on the pello court. He really thinks he can survive a match against me?’

  ‘He wants to play you?’ I didn’t see who asked, but there was the same incredulous, flattering expression on everyone’s face.

  The Bull’s scowl dissolved slowly. He nodded. It was like seeing a rhinoceros decide not to charge, after all. He glanced down at the pen in his hand, as if he’d suddenly remembered it was there.

  ‘Why don’t you humour him?’

  Everyone looked round. It was Teddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a little boy, his camera poised to take a photograph for the paper. His pink English face was trickling with sweat. ‘It would make a splendid story,’ he added. ‘LOCAL HERO GIVES PELLO LESSON TO . . . no, wait, how about OUR HERO IS GOOD SPORT? Sporting in every sense of the word, old boy.’

  ‘Oh, please do,’ the Ibarra girl said. Her hand tightened on her dress and the hem crept even higher. ‘We’d love to see you play.’

  ‘I don’t really feel like . . .’ the Bull said, the words coming out so slowly it was as if he was trying to speak a new language.

  ‘Yes, it would be embarrassing to lose.’

  The words were clear, ringing off the walls like the echo of metal hitting stone. We all turned to look. There was a quiet, communal hiss of disapproval; but the boy who had spoken sat quite still, poised on the edge of a windowsill at the side of the square, a smile in his eyes. I hadn’t noticed him before, but now I was looking at him I wanted to go on looking.

  ‘Zikindi . . .’ someone said, in disgust.

  The boy tilted his head gracefully, as if in acknowledgement. He probably was Zikindi. He had the right colouring for it: light brown face and hair, a kind of lustrous tinge to his skin, and pale eyes. He surveyed us, like a king looking at his courtiers, and then spoke to the Bull, as directly as if they were the only people there. ‘If you’re afraid to play against him – he’s a peasant, after all . . .’

  The Bull narrowed his eyes; if he’d had horns, he would have lowered them. Then he turned away, and called into the shadow of the fountain, to the other boy, the one he’d been talking to before.

  ‘Hey! Oi, kid!’ he called. ‘You sure you want a game? I don’t want to send you home a cripple . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was odd: hoarse, a little too loud, and sort of blurred, as if the tongue and mouth didn’t fit together properly. It made me want to clean out my ears.

  But then he stepped out into the sunlight, from behind the fountain, and the voice didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  He was like an angel.

  He was blond and slim, a little dusty and grimy but blazing gold and white in the sun. He was wearing peasant’s clothes but they looked like a party costume, as if just the fact that they touched his skin transformed them into something rich, something special.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Esteya, you look like you’re trying to catch flies,’ Martin said.

  ‘Shut up.’

  The Bull glanced over his shoulder at the crowd, but what he saw seemed to reassure him. No one wanted to see the Bull beaten, especially not by this too-pretty-to-be-true peasant boy whom no one had seen before. He was too beautiful; I could see the resentment on the faces around me. They wanted to see his face smashed in – or a little bruise, here and there, at least. No one wanted him to win. Certainly not.

  Except me. And maybe the Zikindi boy, who was watching too, with a crease between his eyebrows.

  I looked back at the peasant boy and prayed, the way you pray for a miracle.

  ‘Er . . . you are?’ the Bull said. ‘You’re sure? All right, well, I’ll be a bit nice to you. You play with the local kids, do you?’

  ‘No.’ The boy was staring at the Bull as if he was the only person in the world. ‘Never played.’

  ‘You’ve never played?’

  ‘Well . . .’ The boy swallowed, struggling for words. ‘With my brothers when I was small. And now . . . Not with other people. I play with myself.’

  A fractional pause. Then Martin caught my eye and smirked; and in spite of myself I started to giggle. A couple of people looked at us, and then the laughter spread. Even the priest smiled, dutifully, as if to make sure we knew he’d got the joke.

  ‘I mean –’

  ‘It’s all right, sonny, it’s perfectly normal for a boy of your age . . .’ the Bull said, and winked, inviting another wave of laughter. ‘So you should have strong wrists, at least.’

  ‘I mean . . .’ He looked round, his eyes wide, seeming to register the crowd of us for the first time. I felt his gaze slide over my face like a question and wished that Martin hadn’t made me laugh.

  ‘All right then. Got a ball, sonny? Or didn’t you think of that?’

  ‘Yes, I have a ball.’ He held it out, like a child showing someone his favourite thing.

  ‘Two, I hope,’ the Bull said, and winked again. Then he plucked the ball out of the boy’s hand and took up a stance in the painted square, waiting for everyone to shuffle out of the way.

  I tried to push forward to see properly, but Martin pulled me back. ‘You know he’s injured spectators?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Can you imagine what Mama would say if you went home with your nose all over your face? You’d be an old maid all your life, and they’d blame me . . .’ Martin dragged at my elbow until I took a reluctant step backwards. Then he glanced round, briefly. ‘Where are they, anyway? Oh – wait, there’s Mama. I’d know that hat anywhere. Honestly, she could take someone’s eye out with that . . .’

  But I didn’t bother to answer, because the court was clear now, and the Bull was rolling his shoulders and swinging from side to side, loosening the muscles. Everyone watched him, mesmerised. In the silence I looked sideways and saw that Martin was frowning, his lips moving as if he was trying to memorise the sequence of movements. I knew next time we played he’d insist on an elaborate warm-up.

  But the boy – not that he was a boy, actually, he must have been seventeen or eighteen – wasn’t doing exercises, or even standing ready. He ought to have been in the middle of the court, shuffling a little, pretending not to be overawed; but he wasn’t. He was standing by the pello wall, looking at it as if it was a work of art, touching it lightly with his fingertips.

  ‘He’s completely
barmy,’ Martin muttered. ‘He’s going to get pulverised. They’ll be taking him home in a sack . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ the Bull called. ‘You ready or what?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ The boy looked round, as though he’d been interrupted in the middle of a conversation. It wasn’t exactly rude, but all the same it made the Bull flush and heft the ball dangerously.

  ‘Good.’

  The Bull served.

  He hadn’t waited for the boy to get into the middle of the court; and he served a nasty, low little shot that was too fast to see, at least before it hit the wall. It leapt off the stone, straight into the boy’s face. He jerked his head aside, just in time, and there was a hiss of excitement from the crowd. But the ball flew over his shoulder and dipped, too quick for him to get a hand to it. He spun to watch it helplessly, as it landed just inside the baseline of the court. There were cheers and applause, and laughter.

  Someone – I think it was Teddy – said, ‘Five love.’

  The Bull stood where he was, his hands on his hips, waiting for someone to retrieve the ball and bring it back to him. There was a scuffle as the younger Ibarra girl shoved past everyone else and ran to pick it up, then ran back to the Bull with it. The other Ibarra girl glared at her.

  ‘Ready?’ This time the Bull waited, ostentatiously, until the boy was standing still and balanced, his eyes steady.

  This time the Bull’s serve was just as fast, but it skidded up the wall and looped high over the boy’s head. He followed its trajectory, but he didn’t move. Someone whistled mockingly.

  It dropped a little way beyond where the first one had, right at the back of the court. A little puff of brown dust rose and sank again.

  ‘Second serv–’

  ‘Ten love,’ the Ibarra girl corrected, and gave Teddy a vicious look.

  ‘But . . .’ Teddy frowned, and then caught the Bull’s eye. ‘Oh. Um. Yes. Ten love.’

  ‘It was out,’ the boy said. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  No one answered. The Bull held out his hand for the ball, and the Ibarra girl brought it back to him. He rolled his shoulders.