A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  He reaches the end of the line and throws a boot into the little girl’s hip. “Stand up when I’m talking to you!” The girl lets out a whimper and both children leap to the security of their mother’s side. She engulfs them in her arms. Manolo walks back along the line, eyeing each of the adults as he goes.

  In the crowd of onlookers the few men in suits are largely outnumbered by the workers in overalls. All look on sheepishly from a distance.

  Manolo stops at the beginning of the line facing the first brother. With their noses only separated by a few inches he asks, “Which of you has abused the kindness of Don Pedro?” The peasant begins to answer but no words pass his lips as Manolo punches him in the stomach. The worker doubles over, winded.

  Manolo moves along the line to the next brother. “Do not make the same mistake as your Bolshevik comrade,” he spits at him. The brother stares at the wall of the building across the street, preparing himself for the strike that doesn’t come.

  Manolo carries on walking along the line to the last man: the father of the children. Without speaking, he punches him in the stomach. The man falls to his knees. Manolo stands above him. “Was your bitch not enough for you?” He punches him across the side of the face, forcing the man onto all fours. Manolo looms over him. “Maybe your pups ruined the bitch for you.” He stamps down hard on the man’s forearm. The sound of bone cracking is immediately drowned out by the scream of pain that echoes through the streets.

  The woman reaches out towards her husband, begging the policeman for forgiveness. Manolo pulls the pistol from its holster and points it towards the boy’s head. “I suggest you tend your pups, bitch.” The husband pushes her hand away and pulls himself back up to his feet. He stands defiantly, cradling the broken arm.

  Manolo steps backwards from the line and puts a hand across Pedro’s chest to pull him back with him. He shouts to the men lining up behind him, “Ready!” The five policemen bring the rifles up to their shoulders and aim. Manolo holds the riding crop high in the air. “If the guilty dogs don’t admit to this then you shall all die.” People in the crowd bring their hands up to their mouths. At the back of the crowd several of the peasants, incandescent with rage, are held back as they attempt to make their way to the front of the crowd.

  Manolo shouts, “Aim!” and the firing squad take aim.

  A second passes and then the husband stumbles forward to his knees. “I did it, whatever it was, it was me; I beg you, do not kill my family,” he implores.

  Manolo, riding crop still high in the air, speaks just loudly enough to be heard by the line of workers, “There was more than one of you.”

  The youngest brother begins to take a step forward, only to be stopped by the middle brother’s arm across his chest. He turns to his younger brother briefly, shakes his head and turns back to Manolo. “It was me. I helped him. It was just the two of us.”

  The younger brother whispers, “Don’t do this.”

  Manolo lowers the crop, “Good, now that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” He turns to the soldiers. “Take them all out to the main road and teach these two snivelling creatures a lesson they will not forget. Make the others watch. If they fight or run, kill them all.” Manolo turns to the line of workers. “And if I catch any of you in this village again I will have you all shot.”

  The police bring their rifles to ease and make their way across to the family. Two of the policemen use the butts of their rifles to push the middle brother and the husband up the street towards the train station. The remaining three pull the younger brother, wife and children by their collars behind them. A few of the crowd follow from a safe distance, while the majority disappear back into the square.

  Pedro looks on in silence. Manolo turns to him as they watch the procession making its way up the road. “Word will spread around the village in no time. We won’t have any more dogs breaking their leashes any time soon.” He pats Pedro on the back. “I think you owe me a drink; this has given me quite a thirst.”

  Pedro turns to face Manolo and catches a glimpse of his mother and aunt watching from the corner of the street. He answers the Civil Guard with deference, “Of course, sir, the very least I can do.” Together they walk through the dissipating crowd towards the square, Pedro one step behind Manolo.

  Chapter 5

  The months pass and the child grows in Marianela’s womb. In the house all discussion of the events surrounding the pregnancy fade away as Soledad focuses on pushing forward with her plan. Slipping between the denial-laden silences the old woman and her sister conspire to marry Pedro to a second cousin from Pamplona.

  The family of the cousin visits regularly and play their allotted roles in the conspiracy. Over time, and under what can only be described as an incessant barrage of pressure from his relatives and the priest, Pedro eventually agrees to marry the young cousin. It is more an act of surrender in a war of attrition than anything else.

  Maria-Theresa is three years his junior; immature and as plain to the eyes as she is to the ears. Both unassuming and agreeable, Maria-Theresa seems to disappear chameleon-like from view during conversations and silences alike. Desperate for somewhere to hide, Pedro sees the marriage to this undemanding girl as a place of sanctuary from the melodramas of his own existence.

  Marianela watches the tragedy playing out in front of her, powerless to stop it. She feels the weight of the growing baby and the fading of her dreams constricting like chains around her heart. As the two inevitabilities career towards her, the weight is replaced by an overwhelming fear that her heart will irreparably break. At night she cries herself to sleep, terrorised by the dread that her heart will be barren and the child will find no love to embrace it when it is born.

  On the day of the wedding Marianela sits at the back of the church. And just as she had anticipated, all she can feel as she watches the loveless farce playing out in front of her is her dreams dying and the warmth of the tears rolling down her cheek.

  She watches Pedro kiss the girl at the end of the ceremony and feels the grip of a giant hand close around her throat, then her chest and finally the muscles in her pelvis. She falls to her knees between the pews and hears her own scream echo around the cold stone church.

  Soledad turns and looks sternly towards the maids sitting with Marianela who quickly exit her from the church. While the ceremony concludes, Marianela is taken back stumbling and screaming to the house by two of the maids and the village doctor.

  Pedro and Maria-Theresa are driven to the parador in the open top Hispano-Suiza of the duke. Throughout the journey Pedro’s mind is on Marianela. He leans over to his new wife and whispers something caring and appropriate to the moment. The airflow off the windscreen whirls around their heads, forcing Maria-Theresa to hold on tightly to her veil. She cannot hear him over the wind. She looks up at him with her hair whipping across her face, smiles and looks away demurely.

  Every lump and dent in the dirt road shudders up their spines. The duke’s driver snatches a glance at the two in the rear-view mirror. On reaching the compressed and tended main road, the driver opens up the car’s engine and it roars as the machine leaps forward, pushing the two passengers into their seats.

  Within minutes the car pulls into the driveway in front of the parador where the seemingly happy couple are greeted by their friends, family and distant acquaintances.

  Pedro plays his role, helping Maria-Theresa out of the car to the applause. The politely clapping onlookers patiently count the minutes until they can fill their stomachs with free wine and food.

  Speeches and drinks pepper the five course lunch laid out along banqueting tables. In time the meal progresses to coffee, brandy and cigars, which in turn is replaced by an early evening buffet, with more drinks and some polite dancing.

  The evening envelopes the guests and, as the lights slowly dim, the alcohol finally takes its toll. One by one the older
attendees begin to peel off, the music gets louder and the dancing begins to heat up the room.

  As the clock strikes twelve the band is sent away. The silence doesn’t last for long. Guests pick up the guitars and the songs of their forefathers start ringing out around the room. Voices rise above the strumming and clapping as a shared identity is reaffirmed. The crowd makes room for two of the younger guests who begin the well-worn steps of the jota.

  Feeling that he cannot postpone the inevitable any longer, Pedro finally stands up, takes his new wife’s hand and leads her to their marriage bed. The crowd pauses to applaud the couple and several of the younger male revellers take their opportunity to bait the groom with coarse directions.

  The couple make their way up the stairs to the room in silence, wearing forced smiles. He is fearful of an inability to perform while she is anxious that she will not bleed.

  They undress in silence. The music and voices below are nothing more than a distant murmur fighting their way through the building to be heard. Nervously, she lies down on the bed naked, her teenage body overwhelmed by stage fright. Nervously, he keeps pulling at himself as he climbs on top of her.

  In a fragile voice she whispers, “What do you want me to do, my husband?”

  He pushes her face away from him. “Be quiet.” Pain grips at her crotch as he begins. It is soon replaced by the sickening smell of stale cigar smoke and alcohol baring down on her. As the moments pass a new discomfort focuses her attention. The pressure of his forearm against her chest restricts her breathing and his hand pushes her face away from him and deep into the pillow.

  Going through the motions he stares at the bedposts trying to clear his mind of Marianela. He senses his own performance become increasingly mechanistic. He closes his eyes and thinks of the prostitute in the city. Maria-Theresa focuses on the nightstand. She knows that her duty is to suffer whatever her husband requires of her, but nothing had prepared her for this. She focuses on her veil lying on the nightstand. The weight of his body presses her deeper into the mattress. She closes her eyes and starts reciting the rosary in her mind.

  Within minutes it is over and he rolls off her. She stares up at the ceiling. In the periphery of her vision she can see his chest rising and falling. She glances down at his groin and enjoys a moment of comfort seeing the ruby evidence of her lost innocence. They lay in silence.

  In the house Marianela’s agonised screams are hyphenated by the sobbing of a broken heart. From late afternoon, into the evening and on to the early hours of the morning her suffering and sadness echo through the rooms and corridors. After fourteen hours of unabated pain a boy is finally born. Fists clenched, eyes open and a full head of brown hair, he screams at the world that greets him. The only witnesses to the boy’s first sounds are the two maids and the village doctor.

  Marianela lies bloody and exhausted, once again a victim of Pedro’s whims. From within her arms the round brown eyes stare up at her face intently. Marianela sings softly to calm him. The soothing sound slowly placates his cries.

  Her eyes fill with tears as she looks down at her beautiful son. Marianela swears to him that she will never let the world imprison him the way it has her. She gently rubs her lips against the soft forehead of the little boy. Tears roll down her cheeks and anoint the newborn’s head.

  Tranquillity overtakes the child as his mother’s voice, warmth and soft skin gently lull him into his first sleep. She lowers him to her chest, and baring her breast starts gently rubbing the nipple against his lips. Sleepily, he surrenders an open mouth. Marianela feels the recognition of motherhood swelling inside her.

  The maids gently mop the blood and sweat from her. In the corner of the room by candlelight the doctor fills in the documentation needed by the mayor’s office. Marianela feels her head loll back against the headboard as her eyes close. Beside the word ‘Father’ the doctor writes one word: ‘Unknown’.

  Chapter 6

  The years pass and the village continues about its business with little more than a disinterested nod towards the political machinations of the outside world. In the fall of 1921, after several years of trying to conceive, Maria-Theresa eventually does so. She dies giving birth to her son, Juan Nicolas.

  With her own son Salvador already three years old, Marianela takes on the role of wet nurse, replacing Pedro’s first son with his second at her breast. The early years are hard on Marianela, tending to both boys between her other chores. She quickly matures physically and emotionally into motherhood.

  Growing up together the two boys become close. By the time Juanico is nearly five years old his emotional reliance on the older boy is obvious and many of the villagers gossip about the family; specifically, how unseemly it is for a bastard born to a peasant amidst scandal to spend so much time with the son of a gentleman born in such unfortunate circumstances.

  The family sit down to dinner. Soledad watches Marianela carefully as she serves the meal. She waits for the maid to leave before speaking. “My son, is it not time for my grandson to start attending classes with Father Nicolas?”

  Pedro looks up from the chicken breast lying in the congealing oil and garlic on his plate. He studies his mother’s face before replying, “I can teach him what he needs to take over from me when the time is right.”

  Marianela leaves the room silently. Soledad continues, “Spain is changing and the world with it. Juanico will need an education that we can’t give him.” Pedro continues eating; the oil drips from the chicken onto his chin. Oblivious, the old woman carries on, “We have enough money for him to be something different. He could be a gentleman farmer in the city, with fine suits and lands across Spain. One day he may even — ”

  Pedro pushes the plate of half-finished chicken away. “What is wrong with working the land? If it was good enough for your husband and your son, is acceptable enough to put a roof over your head and food on your plate, then why is it not good enough for your grandson? I am in no such hurry to forget how I got here and my son will know too.”

  Sensing the tension building, Soledad looks to her sister for support. “Do you not agree that—? ”

  Pedro cuts her off by noisily pushing his chair back and standing up, “This is not a discussion. I will not have your priest filling his head with the politics of Rome. This is my house, my son and my decision. You would be wise to keep your opinions to yourself.” He wipes his mouth with the serviette, throws it onto the plate and leaves the room without looking back.

  Soledad stares at her plate in silence. Her sister speaks quietly so as not to be overheard, “Don’t push him too hard. He has his father’s stubbornness.”

  Soledad delicately strips the meat from the bones and without looking up responds at the same volume, “It is unhealthy for the boy to spend so much time with the son of the whore. It is our responsibility to God and this family.”

  The sister pushes her plate forward and takes the serviette from her lap. “As always, sister, you are right. Perhaps Father Nicolas can speak to your son; make him see the importance of this.”

  *

  The following day the rampant heat of the midmorning sun is held at bay by the thick, heavy stones of the 16th century church. Icons of unforgiving saints look down from the walls. Mass has finished and Soledad sits quietly alone in the pews reading the bible. Between verses she closes her eyes and repeats what she has just read to herself. She waits.

  Father Nicholas sits down in the pew in front, half turning to face her. “Good morning, Dona Soledad. You seem deep in contemplation. Perhaps in these troubled times it is counsel you seek rather than sanctuary, yes?” he asks.

  Soledad closes the bible, lays it on her lap and strains to smile. “Dear Father, it is true that I am burdened. It is in my home though rather than beyond.”

  The priest reaches over the pew and puts his hand on top of her bible. “Perhaps I can interpret God’s
guidance for you. Tell me what burdens you.”

  Soledad’s mouth remains pursed as she speaks, “My son, Pedro, knows little of the needs of his son. Work and responsibility have kept him from God’s grace and your benevolence but his heart and soul are true. My grandson, Juanico, needs to go to school and learn and I trust only you with his mind and soul.”

  The priest draws back his hand and smiles. “Do not worry, kind lady; I will pray that your son finds the correct path and I am sure God will ensure that he does. Maintain your faith in God, child,” he says as he gets up and leaves.

  The priest walks back into the vestry and starts taking off the vestments of Mass. He hangs them up and concludes to himself that a conversation with the estate manager would have greater impact than trusting Pedro to hear God’s will. With his decision made, he hurries to the duke’s kitchens to talk to Garcia.

  *

  After lunch Pedro walks along the inside of the garden’s walls, glancing cursorily at the plants and borders. He comes across the duke sitting at a bench under a small coppice of pine trees reading the paper. His smoky blonde curls frame the soft, golden skin, wet eyes and pencil thin lips. Still only in his late twenties, the duke’s adolescent looks, rakish charms and centuries-old fortune afford him a playboy lifestyle that he embraces with zeal.

  “Good morning, Pedro, why not join me for a few moments? It is fresh and cool here, and the sweet aroma of our pines calms the soul,” he says. The duke folds up the paper and puts it down on the table. He takes a cigarette from the packet.

  Pedro steps forward and holds the flame of his lighter close enough to use but not so close as to be threatening. “Thank you, sir, but I would not wish to spoil your morning,” he replies.

  Smoke rolling lazily from his barely visible lips, the duke insists, “Stay a while, Pedro, tell me of your son. He is growing into quite the young man now. Your father would be proud of how you have honoured him in light of the terrible way he came into this world. Losing his mother so.”