A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  Still standing, and with head slightly bowed, Pedro replies, “Thank you, sir. My son is yet another gracious gift for which I have to be thankful.”

  The duke continues, “What is he now, four or five years old?”

  Pedro murmurs his reply, “Nearly five, sir.”

  The duke raises one eyebrow and draws deeply on the cigarette. “These are turbulent times for the fatherland. Your son is part of the future of both our families; that is why I insisted your duty was here rather than in our colonies. The duke is these lands. Your family, your father before you and your son after you have a duty to ensure our legacy.” Pedro nods his head. The duke continues, “The times are changing and the peasants are filling their heads with this talk of Jewish revolution. Your family represents the crown in these lands; Spain expects you to maintain them accordingly. You know that, don’t you?”

  Over the duke’s shoulder Pedro sees the estate manager making his way along the pathway toward them. With each step his head momentarily nods like a wading bird. The duke looks up on hearing the footsteps on the hard earth. “Good, I was just telling the gardener how his son will be educated.” He looks back at Pedro. “Garcia will help take care of it. He will take classes here in the village and when he comes of age he will apprentice with his father.”

  The estate manager nods. “Of course, sir, a truly noble thought. I will let Father Nicolas know of your decision.”

  The duke nods in self-admiration. “Good, then that is all then.”

  Sensing the duke’s termination of the conversation, Garcia waves Pedro away. As he is leaving he sees the man hand a telegram to the duke and overhears him say, “Dark news from Barcelona, sir.”

  The duke watches Pedro leaving, waiting until he is out of earshot before responding. “So once again I find myself having to deal with this. Garcia, do you understand the responsibility I carry?”

  The estate manager has known the duke since he was born. Recognising a rhetorical question when he hears it, he raises his eyebrows slightly, tightens his lips and nods his head. The duke continues, “Because that imbecile can’t run my affairs properly I have to go to Barcelona to sort this out myself. Does that idiot know that I am meant to be going hunting? No matter; I’ll tell him myself when I get there. Inform my driver and let the factory know that I am on my way.”

  The duke pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning the air in front of him. “Get hold of that Civil Guard that I was introduced to in Madrid. Do you recall? It was that brutish minister from Salamanca that introduced us.”

  Garcia nods. “Of course, sir, I will do it immediately.”

  The duke nods to himself, stands up and as he walks back to the main building says, “Good. Then that is all then.”

  Once he has finished his work Pedro leaves the high-walled garden. He walks his horse alongside the stone walls, out of the village and towards his fields with the reins in one hand and a rolled cigarette smouldering in the other. The sun is low in the sky behind him and it throws long shadows in front of him along the mud track. The silhouettes trigger a memory from his childhood of reading Don Quixote to his father by candlelight. The shadows on the path conjure images in his mind’s eye of the knight and his emaciated horse. He thinks to himself Where is my Dulcinea, where is my Sancho Panza? He strokes the horse’s neck.

  Although he has been ordered to hand his son’s education over to the priest, he can’t help but question if his son would not be better growing up leading a simple life in the walled gardens and the fields as he has. At the back of his mind a distant memory of dreaming of a simple life with Marianela begins to once again come into focus. In less time than it takes for a heart to beat he recognises it as a childish whim. His face hardens and he buries the thought at the back of his mind.

  He pulls himself up into the saddle. He draws his heels sharply into the horse’s sides and it responds by lumbering forwards down the dirt track. Pedro clears his mind, save for the thoughts of duty. The dust from the track kicks up into a cloud behind him as the animal plods on. The dust eventually settles, leaving only hoof prints as a reminder of his having been there.

  Walking along the irrigation channels of Pedro’s fields, towards the workers packing crates onto the cart, is an unshaven man in simple clothes with a sack over his shoulder and a black beret on his head. He is in his late twenties and covered in dust from walking the roads and dried soil from sleeping in the fields. He puts down the sack at his feet, takes off his glasses and studiously cleans them with a handkerchief as he scans the horizon.

  As he gets closer to the workers he sees Pedro dismounting from his horse. He reaches the group of men as Pedro is checking and counting the crates. He pats the dust from his jacket. The man watches Pedro in a respectful silence as he scribbles in a notepad. He clears his throat to get the other man’s attention. Pedro ignores him, and orders the peasant leading the donkey and cart back to the storehouse.

  At the edge of his vision Pedro sees the stranger edging towards him. He turns to face him and barks, “We’ve got no food for you here, stranger!”

  With an air of deference the stranger nods and responds, “Excuse me, sir. I do not mean to bother you for such things. I am looking for work; I am strong and healthy, and I can read and write. Respectfully, sir, I will do whatever work you have for food.”

  Pedro looks the man up and down and estimates him to be around thirty years old. He has broad shoulders, a slim waist, and skin that has been weathered from working outdoors. The man’s clothes are cheap and field-worn, but under the layers of dust and wear could have once been those of a bookkeeper in a city. He hasn’t shaved in days and his hair is thick and matted with dust.

  Something is not quite right about the other man, Pedro thinks to himself; he has the physical appearance of a field labourer, but his behaviour and clothing give him a slightly bookish quality. Pedro eyes him carefully. “Where are you from and who are you?” he asks.

  The stranger puts down the sack, takes off the beret and walks forward with his hand outstretched. “If you will pardon me, sir, I did not introduce myself. My name is Raul Fernandez-Garcia. I grew up in San Sebastian where I was a teacher and at times worked in the fields. With no work available, I went to Pamplona and then Zaragoza where I have been working for the last four years, mostly teaching, but also some work in a factory. Again with no work, I decided to come south, where you find me now.”

  Pedro ignores the outstretched hand and starts tying one of the sacks of produce to the horse’s saddle. He continues his activity, firing a cursory glance at the other man every few seconds. He hands one of the sacks from his saddle to a field worker. In it are a wineskin, onions, garlic, oil and lentils. The peasant accepts it and then hands it to his wife. Pedro points to one of the crates of peaches and mutters, “Take that also.” The three men and one woman that had been standing patiently, pick up the food and make their way quickly to the adobe hut at the crossroads of the irrigation channels.

  Once he finishes his chores Pedro turns his attention to Raul. “Can I expect any trouble from you?”

  Raul responds immediately with head bowed, “No, sir. I will do exactly as you say and take only what you give.”

  Pedro points to the oldest of the peasants. “That is Esteban. Speak to him and he will tell you how we do things here. You will receive one peseta a week, food and a bedroll.”

  Pedro drags himself back up into the saddle and pulls hard on the reins, wheeling the horse around so that he is facing the other man. “Work hard and you will be treated well; cause trouble and you will see what happens.” With a pull on the reins and two heels to the flanks, the horse starts forward, kicking a cloud of dust up that surrounds Raul.

  Tasting the bitter grains of dust in his saliva, Raul spits to clear his mouth. Under his breath he mutters one word to himself, “Parasite.”

  *

&nbs
p; Pedro ties up the horse in the storehouse at the back of the house and makes his way through the central garden, passing by the two boys sitting in the dusty earth under the olive tree. Marianela is in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. His mother and aunt sit talking in the hallway, fanning themselves. The sounds of their fans tapping against their chests and the barely audible squeaking of the knife cutting through the onions all fall silent as he enters the house.

  Pedro drops the sack in the doorway of the kitchen and without looking at Marianela says, “For the Pantry.” He makes his way into the hallway. “The priest will school Juan Nicolas.” Soledad tries hard to stifle the muscles in her cheeks from tightening into a smile. Pedro continues, “It is time that the maid’s child started working for his food. He can start by fetching water for the peasants in the field.” He pauses briefly before continuing, “I have also hired another worker for the field.”

  Soledad doesn’t hear the last part as her mind has already started honing in on the possibility of living in a city with a gentleman for a grandson. Pedro continues through the hallway and up the stairs to prepare for dinner. The two women sit in silence listening to the rope-soled sandals making their way up the stairs and along the hallway above them. Once he is out of earshot Soledad allows herself a beaming smile. Clutching the closed fan to her chest, she exhales the words, “Finally, our family is travelling in the correct direction.”

  Marianela keeps chopping the onions and tomatoes for the salad while crooking her neck towards the doorway so that she can hear the two sisters talking. In the garden the two boys are drawing pictures in the dust with sticks. Upstairs, Pedro sits on the side of his bed gently massaging the sole of his foot, the bed where his father used to sleep, his mother gave birth to him and his wife died giving birth to his son. He closes his eyes as he massages the arches of his feet.

  *

  Raul joins the other labourers by the fire. He lowers himself to the ground, surreptitiously moving the revolver from the waistband of his trousers to the inside pocket of his jacket. No one notices. Esteban monitors the other man’s movement in his peripheral vision. The youngest of the men, Esteban’s cousin, gently strums an old worn-out guitar. The lentils and vegetables bubble on the pot over the fire. The smell of onions and garlic is still heavy in the air from the frying ten minutes earlier.

  Raul rolls himself a cigarette and breaks the silence. “So what kind of boss is he?” The melodies of the guitar skip around the fire and the shadows from the flickering flames dance against the walls of the hut. Esteban’s brother keeps staring at last week’s paper without looking up.

  Esteban responds, “He is as he says. If we work he is good to us. But it is said around the village that if you cause trouble he will have you fertilising these fields.” The brother’s wife looks up from the pot before going back to stirring the broth. Esteban passes Raul the wineskin. “I don’t know if that is true. With my own eyes he has only ever treated us fairly.”

  Raul holds the wineskin in the air and a jet of wine, black in the rising moonlight, streams into his mouth. Esteban continues, “It is said that some years ago he had the guard take all of his workers out into the fields and shoot them.” Esteban pauses to correct himself: “At least, some say that; others say that they were beaten and driven from town. You know what people are like; they speak many words and still manage to say little truth.”

  Raul passes the wineskin back and lights his newly rolled cigarette. “Why do they say he did this?”

  Esteban drinks from the wineskin and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his smock. “They say that two of the workers raped and killed a maid in the village and when none confessed they all paid for it.”

  Raul scrutinises every slightest movement on Esteban’s face as he speaks. He sees no hint of emotion as the man retells the story matter-of-factly. Raul pushes him, “Do you think he did it?”

  Esteban watches his cousin strumming the guitar and without looking at Raul replies, “As I said, he has only ever treated us fairly. The food he gives us is fresh, the roof over our head doesn’t leak, he doesn’t beat us, always pays us and in return we work from sun-up to sun-down. When there is no work in the fields we work in the house or the gardens.” The older man pauses for a moment before continuing, “As I said, he has only been good to us.”

  Raul lies back on the ground, propping himself up on one elbow. The guitar’s melodies, the humming of its player and the broth bubbling against the backdrop of crickets chirruping their bedtime chorus fills the silence.

  Raul flicks his cigarette into the darkness. The lit end arcs like a shooting star. “Do the guards ever come out to the fields?” he asks.

  Esteban’s eyes flick back to Raul. “No.” He pauses, weighing up his options. “Why do you ask?”

  Raul smiles as he lowers himself onto his back and crosses his legs. He looks up at the stars beginning to shine through the advancing darkness. “No reason. Just curious.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning Pedro comes down to breakfast early to find Salvador and Juan Nicolas sitting at the table eating peaches and singing rhymes in the kitchen. Marianela comes in through the front door with a mop and bucket in her hands. “Good morning, Don Pedro. I trust you slept well.”

  Pedro turns to leave the hallway and go out towards the garden. “Thank you, yes,” he says without looking back. He pauses, holding the beaded curtain half open over the door with his back to her. “I shall take Salvador out to the fields with me this morning. Esteban will take care of him.” Marianela stops in her tracks and watches him. She remembers his warm breath on her neck as he lay on top of her.

  Pedro continues, “When I return, Dona Soledad and I will take Juan Nicolas to the church to start lessons. Once you have done your chores this morning, if you wish to take your lunch in the fields with your son you are allowed, but make sure you are back in time for lunch.” Not waiting for a response, he leaves. The beaded curtain falls closed behind him in undulating waves.

  Marianela returns the mop and pail to the pantry and steps down into the kitchen with a broad smile on her face. “Did you hear that, boys? You both have very big days ahead of you. These are the first days of your journey to becoming men. Juan Nicolas, one day you will be the master of the house and, like your father, you will provide for your family. And, Salvador, you will help him, you will learn how to tend the fields for Don Juanico. You must both be very happy and grateful to Don Pedro for showing you such kindness.” Juanico, sticky with peach juice, listens to Marianela but watches Salvador.

  The older boy’s hair and eyebrows are nearly black and his irises so brown that it is hard to discern where they end and his pupils begin. Salvador doesn’t react; he carries on cutting sections from the peach and passing them across the table to Juanico. The boy smiles back at him, his eyes glistening with gratitude. The older boy winks at the younger boy. Marianela takes the bread from the oven.

  By the time Pedro returns to the house his mother and aunt are sitting at the dining table, drinking coffee and waiting for their toast and fruit to be brought to them. Pedro takes his seat at the head of the table and rolls a cigarette.

  Marianela brings in his coffee. Her forearm brushes against his shoulder and she feels her stomach tighten. She puts the coffee and ashtray down in front of him. Pedro notices the contact but doesn’t allow it to register on his face.

  His mother breaks the silence. “How did you sleep, my son?”

  Pedro flicks the ash from his cigarette and drinks from the cup. The smoke falling from his nostrils lies like an early morning fog across the surface of the sweet, milky coffee. “I will take the boy to the fields, then when I return we will take Juanico to the priest. I am in the gardens today but will be back for lunch,” he says, directing his words to no one. The two women keep eating in silence. Marianela returns to the kitchen.

  After break
fast Pedro walks through the streets of the village with the reins of the horse loosely in one hand. Salvador tries to keep up, mimicking Pedro’s steps, but their height difference forces him to skip every third step. Pedro notices it but says nothing. Salvador looks up at the man’s broad shoulders in awe. Not noticing a divot in the road he trips and falls. Pedro reacts, instantly picking him up and dusting off his knees. “Watch where you’re walking, boy.”

  With the sun still low in the sky the temperature is pleasant and the smell of wet dust where the women have been cleaning the streets in front of their houses hangs across the village.

  They pass the baker’s boy delivering bread to the houses from the back of a handcart. Reaching the main road out of the village they begin to see the farmers and labourers making their way to the fields. Each person they pass greets them the same way: a nod of the head and a murmured ‘Good’. Pedro and Salvador continue their journey in silence; the only sound the party makes is the reluctant plodding of the horse.

  At the workers’ hut the woman is cleaning the breakfast pot and bowls in one of the irrigation channels. The men are folding away their bedding from the night before. The reheated broth sits heavily in their stomachs. They won’t eat again until the sun is directly overhead and they have done a back-breaking morning’s work.

  Standing at the perimeter of the group Raul looks more like a field hand in blue overalls and rope sandals than he did the night before. Apart from his glasses which still maintain the inconsistent bookishness of previously. He sees Pedro and the boy coming before any of the others. He draws deeply on his cigarette and looks back over his shoulder towards the men. “The boss is coming and he brings another pack animal with him.” Esteban’s brow furrows as he looks up and beyond Raul into the distance.