Soledad grabs Marianela’s head by her hair and drags it up. “You will pay for what you have done to me,” she cries as her palm crashes against the girl’s face for the final time. Spent, the old woman lets go and the girl’s head falls limply back to the floor.
Marianela’s bleeding nose trickles a sickening metallic taste down her throat and onto the back of her tongue. Salty tears dilute the blood covering her face as the semi-conscious girl coughs blood and phlegm onto the cold stone tiles below her face.
The front door opens and Pedro steps into the house. He stands still as he tries to take in what he is seeing. His mind wrestles with two competing thoughts: shock and inevitability. The seconds pass and the urgency of the moment becomes clearer as his mind draws in to focus.
He rushes across the room and kneels down beside Marianela. He carefully lifts her shoulders off the ground and pulls her close to his chest. Her semi-conscious head lolls limply against his white shirt. The blood pulsing from her eyebrow and nose quickly soaks through to his chest.
His voice shakes with anger. “What have you done to her, what is wrong with you?”
Dona Soledad’s eyes tighten and her voice is shrill. “You ungrateful child, you have done this. You are just like your father. You will see. You’ll suffer for your sins just as your father did.”
Pedro picks Marianela up into his arms and rises to his feet. Looming high above his mother he looks down and, unblinking, stares directly into her eyes. His irises hide behind dilated pupils. His voice trembles with fury. “Hold your tongue, widow; I am the man of this house and you will remember that, you will not speak to me or of my father so.”
He turns away and walks across the room. He lowers Marianela down into the chair and turns back to his mother. “Wake your sister and tend the girl’s wounds. In silence. I shall make up a bed for her in the pantry. We will discuss this once she is resting.” As he leaves the room he mutters to himself, “Sons of bitches.”
Once Marianela is sleeping on a makeshift bed in the pantry, Pedro, his mother and aunt all sit down in the hallway in silence. Pedro stares at the floor as he tries to calm his anger. Soledad allows her gaze to skip around the room as she forms a plan.
Pedro breaks the silence, whispering only loudly enough for his relatives to hear. “What has the girl done this time to deserve that? If I had not returned would you have killed her?”
Soledad takes her opening steps, “The girl is with child. Like an animal, she has been fucking in the streets; during fiestas, delivering food to the peasants in the fields, letting drunks into the storehouse at night. Alas, she won’t give me any of their names.”
Pedro stares back down at the stone tiles where she had been laying. He feels betrayed; guilt and disbelief struggle inside him as he listens to his mother. Soledad sees the seeds of her lie begin to take root. She continues, “The Jezabel spoke of luring a gentleman to her bed also. Whoever he is, this must never come out. To protect his name and dignity, you understand.”
Pedro’s gaze flits from one point on the floor to another. Sensing her plan is working, the woman continues, “Of course, you are right, son; we must not punish her for this. She is like an animal and we cannot expect her to behave any other way. It is our Christian duty to look after the whore and child. But we must make sure that this will never happen again. You must replace all of your farmhands immediately.” She pauses again to study his face. Satisfied, she continues, “I will seek God’s guidance.”
Soledad watches him as she speaks. Pedro feels his heart and mind in turmoil as he desperately clings to the security of his mother’s reassurances. His tight shoulders visibly slump. In a voice loaded with surrender he finally responds, “We are agreed then. We will discuss what to do next in the morning.”
Silently, and one by one, they retire to their beds where sleep eludes them.
Chapter 4
The following morning at breakfast Pedro issues his decree, “I will go to the police station and speak with Manolo. Then I will inform the estate manager; the duke is in the south but will need to know of this.” He looks up from his plate of melon. Neither woman responds so he continues, “Mother, you will seek advice from the priest. Aunt, you must tend to the girl. I will return for lunch.” He pauses again. He looks at both women before continuing in a more deliberate tone, “We are to speak to no one else of this matter.”
The juice of the melon glistens on his chin, reflecting the thin shards of sunlight breaking through the shutters in the dining room. He empties his coffee cup, wipes his mouth and stands up. He looks at his mother from under a furrowed brow before turning to his aunt. “Aunt, get the girl fit to work.” He then turns from the table and strides out of the house without looking back.
Soledad stands up and steps away from the table. “Do as he says, sister; I will go to Father Nicolas.” Following in her son’s footsteps, she quickly leaves the house, only pausing to wrap her black shawl around her head and shoulders.
The aunt sits in silence for a moment. Her eyes scan across the breakfast things, never truly focusing. With a heavy sigh she lifts herself out of the chair and begins clearing the table.
In the pantry next door, Marianela flinches as she gently dabs her fingertips at her swollen eyebrow and cheek. With one hand on her stomach she quietly weeps, rocking backwards and forwards on the side of the bed. The only signs of the previous night’s events are the desperate map of bruising, swelling and cuts across her face. Her once fresh-faced radiance has been replaced by a battered and broken countenance.
*
Pedro finds the Civil Guard Manolo sitting outside his office in the main square. The heavyset man, in his late twenties, has a coffee by his side and a cigarette in his hand. The smoke hangs close in the air to him and stings his bloodshot eyes. He watches Pedro walk towards him.
Pedro gestures towards the chair beside him. “I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to speak. I was rather hoping you might be able to help… or rather, advise me on a small matter.” Manolo nods towards the chair, still scrutinising the other man’s every movement.
Pedro sits down and takes a cigarette from the tin inside his jacket. Manolo leans forward to light it for him. “What can I do for you?” the guard asks.
Pedro draws deeply on the cigarette before answering him. The smoke rolls lazily from his mouth as he utters each word, “It appears that some of my workers have been using our maid as a whore.”
Manolo maintains his matter-of-fact expression and tone, “And you would like me to teach her a lesson?”
Pedro notices his own feelings of guilt taking root in the pit of his stomach. He glances indifferently at the people going about their business in the square and tries to retake control of the situation. “My mother insists that it is our holy duty to take care of the girl. She is only a simple peasant and does not yet understand the ways of the animals in the fields.”
Almost imperceptibly, Manolo raises one eyebrow. “I see. So you want me to deal with your animals?”
Pedro draws deep on the cigarette again, becoming very aware of the need to hide his true feelings. “The girl will not say which one did it. I must replace all of them.”
Sensing an opportunity to assert his authority, Manolo agrees, “It would be my pleasure. Bring them to your storehouse at sunset with everything they own. All of them. I will send them packing, but not before making an example of them.”
Very aware of what Manolo is capable of, Pedro fights to hide his worries. “Thank you, sir.” He pauses before continuing, “And my family thank you for the peace you bring to our village.”
*
Hurrying into the church, Dona Soledad finds Father Nicolas on the dais straightening an altar boy’s collar. He turns around when he hears Soledad’s footsteps on the stone floor. “Forgive me interrupting you, Father. I seek your holy counsel,” she sa
ys with her head bowed.
“Of course, child,” he replies, gesturing to the pew beside him. “What is it, what troubles you?” The altar boy quietly leaves and the priest sits down.
Soledad continues, “Father Nicolas, the girl that helps in the house has been dishonoured by several of my son’s labourers. She is a stupid girl that knows little of the animal instincts of such men. In her naivety she has allowed them to defile her.”
The priest shuffles in the pew, rearranging his cassock as he takes out his rosary. He begins running the beads through his fingers. “Continue, child.”
Soledad watches the beads of the rosary on the priest’s lap. “My son is talking with Manolo and Garcia to deal with the men involved.”
The priest nods his head. “That is the right thing to do. But what perplexes you, child? Why do you seek God’s counsel?”
Not realising she is doing it, Soledad mimics the movement of the priest’s hands, rubbing the tips of her fingers together on her lap. “I feel that it is our duty to support the girl as she was in my care when it happened. Father, I need to know if this is God’s will.” The words hang in the air for a few seconds as the priest looks down at the rosary making its way between his fingers.
Soledad waits, unsure whether to continue speaking and before she has a chance the priest breaks his silence. “The peasants are simple creatures, like dogs, for instance. It is true they are devoid of the human capacities for love and respect, but your instincts are right, they are part of the holy creation. The bible teaches us of the holy son and the prostitute. It tells us that it is our duty to guide these soulless creatures and to protect them from themselves.”
Father Nicolas smiles condescendingly at Soledad before continuing, “You are right to worry, it is exactly these sorts of unholy acts of depravity that lead the peasants into the clutches of the Bolsheviks.” Hearing his own words, the priest contrives to present a more sympathetic air. “You are right to have come to me. It is your goodness that lets you see the hand of the Devil guiding these animals.” He pats the pew in front of him, “You are not to worry. God’s wisdom will guide Garcia and Manolo; I will see to that. You, in the meantime, will tend the whore and her child with a firm hand and guidance from the holy spirit.”
Signalling the end of the discussion, Father Nicolas stands up. “Good. Dona Soledad, regular confession for you and your son and you are not to let this worry you. Send the child to me, I will help her learn. God be with you.”
After crossing herself and muttering a prayer she turns to leave. “And with you, Father.”
*
In the kitchen of the manor house Pedro stands awkwardly, shifting his weight between his feet. The cook and her workers busy themselves preparing meats for the smokehouse. The smell of the garlic in the sausages fills the kitchen and clings to the clothes of those in it.
Garcia, the duke’s estate manger; a tall, thin, middle-aged man, enters the room. “Good morning, Pedro. I didn’t expect to see you today, what can I do for you?” Uncomfortably, Pedro explains the situation as succinctly as possible. With each sentence, Pedro tries to downplay the potential impacts on the duke’s house. Grasping the ledger close to his chest, Garcia listens intently. While the other man speaks the estate manager watches him over the spectacles perched at the end of his beak-like nose.
Garcia waits a moment after Pedro finishes talking before responding. With an air of superiority he replies, “I will, of course, let the duke know the situation in my next telegram, but it sounds like you have everything in hand. None of those implicated worked on the duke’s estate so I can’t imagine it is important enough for him to involve himself. I would say on his behalf though that you must bring this situation to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. Ensure your peasants comport themselves in an appropriate manner in the future. As head gardener and your family, beneficiaries of the duke’s good will, you represent his excellence. Keep your workers in line or your family will find themselves back in the fields.”
Pedro listens nervously; head bowed, he nods at the end of each sentence. Pleased with himself, Garcia draws the conversation to a close, “I can’t stand here all day solving your problems. You are well aware of the numerous attentions for my time. So if that is all, I will bid you farewell.” Not waiting for a response he turns and leaves. The kitchen staff glance nervously at one another as Pedro stands unmoving, watching the other man go.
After leaving the kitchen Pedro walks through the gardens under the blinking shade of the olive trees. He always feels the responsibility of his father’s legacy in the gardens most; the high walls are a constant reminder of his place. Today, perhaps more than most days, he is under no illusions of the powerlessness of his position.
As he walks towards the rear entrance he thinks of all the different turns of event that have brought him to this moment. A father who chose to die for the glory of Spain and leave a child without a father, and a wife without a husband. He remembers the old duke bringing the news of his own father’s death to the house.
He reaches the gate and lifts the lever. In his mind he can still hear the magnanimity in the duke’s voice as he ordered his mother to place the boy in his employment as if it were an act of charity. He remembers his seventeenth birthday when the estate manager appointed him to his own father’s position as Head Gardener. He can still see his mother fizzing with excitement when he told her of the annual wage and the gift of the fields.
Within two years Pedro knew that he was caught in a life that he had not chosen. The grandson of a landless peasant, by nineteen, owning a smallholding that produced enough for his extended family and a surplus that generated an annual income. He held a respected position of employment with one of the oldest families in Spain. An adult in appearance only, Pedro feels the responsibility weighing heavily on his young shoulders as he steps through the gateway.
Leaving the cool privacy of the gardens he makes his way through the village, wrestling to regain memories of his father that over time had grown so distant and unclear. They were now little more than frozen images in his mind’s eye; a snapshot of him standing proud in the doorway in his uniform before he travelled south to fight, and another of him barking orders at the peasants in the walled garden.
As he walks slowly through the sunbaked streets Pedro’s earliest memory of his father begins to take form in his mind. He remembers being carried up the stairs to bed when he was very young after having fallen asleep listening to the adults talking. The recollection of the overwhelming feeling of security he felt in his father’s arms brings a tear to his eyes. Any love his father had for him was seldom demonstrated and this memory stands alone in his mind.
To avoid going straight home Pedro stops in the square for a drink. The taverna is empty save for two of the clerks from the town hall arguing noisily with the owner. Pedro welcomes the reassuringly familiar situation. Across the country men are in cafés, tavernas and bars; drinking, smoking, snacking and debating anything and everything.
Pedro sits at the end of the bar preferring to observe rather than take part. He thinks about his father as he sits quietly drinking two small glasses of wine. The men keep arguing in the distance. Before long the warming glow of the wine begins to draw a haze over his situation and he knows it is time to go back and embrace his responsibilities. He makes his way back to the house where the warmth of memory is soon replaced by the claustrophobic chill of reality.
He opens the door and the sun bursts into the hallway of the house, throwing his silhouette across the length of the room. He is greeted by his aunt and mother laying the table for lunch. The three of them sit down to eat. Pedro says a short and superficial grace.
Soledad waits for an appropriately respectful time after the prayer before initiating conversation. She begins to describe her conversation with Father Nicolas. Before she finishes her first sentence Pedro cuts her off. “I do
n’t need to hear about it. I am dealing with it. All you both need to do today is make sure that the girl recovers enough to perform her work. If a child comes we will deal with it then.” The two sisters glance surreptitiously at one another and silently agree to continue the lunch in silence.
After the meal, Pedro checks on Marianela who is sleeping in the pantry. He stands for a few moments watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. He watches her bosom pulling on the cotton of his mother’s nightdress ever so slightly as she inhales. Behind him he can hear his mother and aunt clearing the table and muttering quietly to each other. He imagines a son growing inside her: his son. He feels his jaws clenching as his gaze makes its way up to her damaged face. He feels his shoulders widening and spine straightening. He closes the door gently and hurries from the house in silence.
The sun makes its way behind the rooftops to the west, and the long shadows of the houses fill the streets of the village. Pedro waits by the doors of the storehouse. Standing beside him in a line are the three brothers, the oldest one’s wife and their two children, a boy of five and a girl of nine. The children sit on the baked earth drawing patterns in the dust; the adults look sheepishly at one another in silence, a feeling of dread and unsubstantiated guilt gnawing at them.
Pedro checks his pocket watch. It reads 7:15. As he returns it to his waistcoast pocket Manolo officiously turns the corner. Marching out of time behind him is a line of five rifle-carrying police officers from the station in the nearby town. Pedro feels his stomach turning in knots. Behind the guards a small crowd follows them with voyeuristic intent.
Manolo brings the impromptu parade to a halt with the raising of a hand. Without looking at Pedro he paces along the line of workers, his empty hand resting on the handle of the holstered revolver and the other gently tapping a riding crop against his calf. “So these are the animals that have brought shame on our village.”
A Most Uncivil War Page 2