A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  Cati’s little sister sits forlornly on the balcony alone. The space next to her where her brother would have been sitting is now empty. His fragile lungs were unable to cope with the poisonous environment. He has been dead four months. Caterina picks up the little girl. Her drawn and grey face lights up on seeing her sister. Cati spins around in circles, the little girl in her arms warming with joy.

  The mother takes the sack from Salvador and kisses him on both cheeks. She is much smaller than him. He puts his arm around her shoulders and for a few seconds they watch the two sisters spinning in the middle of the room. Finally, the woman looks up into Salvador’s hazelnut brown eyes. She smiles. He pulls the old woman closer. She takes his hand in hers. “Come, Caterina, your father has waited a long time to see you. No?” she says as she leads Salvador into the back room.

  Lying on the bed, Juan Antonio looks frail and washed out. His paper-thin skin is dragged tight across his skeletal remains. Salvador hears Caterina take a sharp intake of breath as she sees him. She pauses for a second and then runs across the room. She kneels down beside the bed. Salvador stays in the doorway watching from a distance. The atrophied arms, the sun spotted skin and the smell of decay filling the room nauseate him. He knows the man is only in his fifties, but the time in prison has aged him mercilessly.

  On hearing the noise he opens his eyes. The once brown irises are haloed by the bleaching of age. Caterina pulls the old man’s fragile frame up out of the blankets and towards her. Over her shoulder he coughs into a rag that he strains to get up to his mouth in time. The coughing scrapes across his lungs and up his throat. His hand falls back to the bed, holding on tightly to the blood-blackened rag. The man’s weak eyes look at Salvador, struggling to focus. Salvador forces a small smile back to him. He can feel Cati’s mother’s hand gripping his tightly. He squeezes it reassuringly in response.

  The rattle of the old man’s cough gets worse the longer he is upright. Caterina gently lowers him back to the blankets, propping him up at a forty-five degree angle. The mother takes the wineskins from Salvador and leaves the room. Salvador pulls the chair closer to the bed for Cati and puts his hand on her back. Looking behind her and seeing the chair, she allows him to push it under her. Salvador sees that her eyes are glistening with tears in the candlelight. He puts his hand on her shoulder.

  Juan Antonio stops coughing, but continues to hold the rag close to his mouth. His voice is weak and distant. “Is this Pepe’s man then?”

  Caterina glances back at Salvador and smiles; her eyes scintillate as she turns back. “He was Pepe’s; now he is my man, Father,” she says proudly.

  The old man coughs into the rag, a rasping lung-clearing cough. “How is my friend? Why does he not come to see me?” he asks.

  Salvador bows his head respectfully before replying, “He would be here if he could but he is being held close to the Pyrenees.” The old man closes his eyes and nods his head knowingly. Sal continues, “He was arrested in Asturias in ’34.”

  The time-worn face smiles. “Of course he was,” he replies. A small, almost inaudible laugh turns into a dry wheeze, and then another cough.

  *

  In the main square of the village Pedro, Manolo and Garcia sit at their usual table watching the villagers perform their usual evening activities. “Did your workers vote?” Manolo asks.

  Pedro doesn’t turn to face him as he replies, “They are from the south. I doubt it.”

  Garcia calls the waiter over. The man brings the tray with the bottle of brandy on it across to the table. Manolo continues, oblivious to the waiter, pouring the golden brown liquid into the glasses. “They will ruin this country. Animals voting, Jews running the government and Bolsheviks in the factories; you see if I am right, they’ll ruin this country.” Garcia nods. The waiter puts the bottle back on the tray and returns to the bar.

  Manolo continues, “The time is coming when we will all have to take control. For their sakes, you understand.” Garcia nods and sips the brandy.

  Pedro continues staring into the middle distance. Across the square he can see his son with the boys from the CEDA making their way around the casino and out of sight behind it. Manolo follows his gaze too late to see the group disappearing behind the building. He continues, “Spain is being dragged into the same swamp that they dragged Russia and France into before it, Pedro. They executed their king; you know that, don’t you?”

  Pedro half turns his head to face him. “I know, a terrible country,” he replies.

  Manolo’s voice raises and accelerates, “Is that what you said, a terrible country? They are godless animals, Pedro. Do you not understand the seriousness of the situation? They will put your son on the streets and you in prison. That is, if you are lucky. And don’t ask me how they will treat our women. Don’t ask me.”

  Pedro tries to calm the situation, still focusing on the gap between the casino and the Civil Guard’s office, “I am sure it will not come to that. They would never dare —”

  Garcia cuts him off, “They would dare. Of course they would, it has been proven by science; they simply have no morals. God has forsaken them. The holy church tells us that. They fornicate, fight and drink. It is their kind that killed our Lord, as they executed their kings and queens, as they would kill each other if we didn’t look after them. I tell you, Manolo is right, it is only the guillotine that follows a republic, and after that the streets teeming with their feral bastards.”

  Pedro starts to feel anxious. “The peasants will do as they are told. They learned that in ’34. There are none of them left on the streets,” Pedro offers reassuringly.

  Manolo, now visibly reddening, responds, “Do you not read the paper? The peasants are forcing open the prisons. Those murderous dogs are being released back onto the streets. You see if I am right. Some of our own dogs will be back on our streets before long.”

  Manolo slaps his hand down on the table to draw the two men’s attention to him, “You make sure your guns are loaded and by your beds, my men will have enough on their hands protecting the women and children. You see if I am right. If this continues the way it is going, blood will fertilise our fields before the year is out.”

  Garcia and Pedro both look at Manolo in silence. Manolo drains his glass and shouts to the barman, “Boy, do your job or I will teach you respect.” The barman, a man in his fifties half walking and half running, carries the tray and bottle in both hands across to the table. Manolo picks up the riding crop that was resting on his lap threateningly. “Do you see, these sons of whores have no respect. What do you expect? Bastards, all of them. Mothers whoring themselves on the streets, what kind of sons can you expect when the mothers whore themselves to dogs?” Manolo points the crop at the two men across the table in turn. “You see if I am right. When the time comes we’ll have to put them all down.” The waiter, visibly shaking, pours the brandy into the three glasses.

  *

  Behind the casino Juanico, the ex-mayor’s twin sons and two of the other boys are sitting on a flat trailer that has been left to decompose: a rusty reminder of more productive times. The cheap wineskin makes its way around the circle of boys and the tobacco smoke lies like a morning mist between them. The older of the two twins assumes his usual role in the conversation, “The problem with the peasant women…” Juanico looks on, wide eyed and hanging on his every word. “The problem with the peasant women is that like animals they cannot help themselves and you cannot blame them for that. They need to fuck. They have to fuck,” he continues. The other boys glance at one another knowingly. He goes on, “In many ways, by fucking them we are doing them a service.” His brother nods approvingly.

  Juanico offers evidence, “Our maid fucked our workers in the field.”

  The older boy points towards him. “Exactly. You see, they can’t help themselves. It is our duty to teach them; otherwise, they stop the men from working. Juan
Nicolas, what happened to them all?”

  Proudly, Juanico’s back straightens as he becomes the centre of attention. “I have heard them say that the Civil Guard took them out to the fields and shot them.”

  The twin gestures for him to continue, “And the maid?”

  Juanico knowingly nods, “She is regularly beaten. My grandmother tells her that she is a whore and beats her with a stick.” The other boys nod in agreement.

  The other twin asks, “And the bastard. Tell us about the bastard son.”

  Suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, the guilt begins to stifle Juanico’s words, “He is… well, for example… he has…”

  The second twin beside him, sensing the nerves, tries to reassure him, “It is only natural to be confused. You grew up in the same house as him. Tell us what has become of the bastard.”

  Juanico’s mind begins to fail him as the words tumble from his nervous mouth, “He has gone. He was an anarchist, and he has left the village.”

  Juanico looks imploringly around the circle of faces, hoping someone will take pity on him and stop him. Nobody does and the words continue tumbling out, “He has gone, he has a woman, they are unmarried. He blasphemes. He disrespected my father.”

  The oldest of the twins takes over, “Do you see? Don Pedro is a good man. A man that works for the duke, that goes to church on Sunday and that has respected the memory of his dead wife, our dear friend’s mother. And let us not forget how he supports the guards. As we are speaking now, we know who he chooses to drink with. And this is how these animals repay him.” The adolescent leans forward and rests his hand on Juanico’s bent knee. “Do not think of such things. We will teach them.”

  The ringleader leans back against the trailer and pulls a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. His voice takes on a more authoritative tone, “We have been given a task. This is a list of the anarchists that shepherded the animals to vote for the Jewish conspiracy. When the church bell strikes three tonight return here and we will show these godless communists that our village will not be infected by their plague.”

  As the boys climb down from the trailer Juanico feels a nervous energy coursing through him. The older of the twins puts his hand on Juanico’s shoulder. “Do not worry, it is the holy kingdom of Spain we protect. When they disrespect God’s laws, they disrespect Spain. It is our families that are Spain and we will make them pay for disrespecting our families. Don’t you worry.”

  Confused, Juanico struggles with his nervous guilt. He masks it with a muted agreement, “I know. I trust in God’s will.”

  Pedro sees the boys turning the corner from behind the casino. He sees one of the twins walking at the back of the group with Juanico with his hand on his shoulder. Pedro feels an inner tension rising. Manolo notices Pedro’s face change and follows his gaze across the square. “Your boy has recognised the seriousness of the situation, Don Pedro,” he says. Pedro holds his glass by the base tight against the table. Garcia glances up before returning to his paper. The boys separate out and make their way across the square towards their homes, Juanico’s direction taking him in front of the bar where the three men are sitting.

  Pedro doesn’t take his eyes off him as he comes towards them. The muscles in Pedro’s cheek start to twitch as his jaws clench and back teeth grind together. Once Juanico is within earshot Pedro starts to lift himself out of the chair. Manolo puts his hand on the other man’s forearm to hold him in his chair. “Good evening, Juan Nicolas,” Manolo says. The boy looks up from the floor in front of him and sees the three men. He smiles and walks across to their table.

  Garcia looks up from his paper at the boy. Pedro lowers himself back into his chair and stares at the boy. “Good evening, sirs,” Juanico says.

  Manolo responds, “And good evening to you, young sir. I trust you have had a good evening.”

  Juanico throws a cursory glance to Manolo as he answers him before looking back to his father, “Yes, thank you. I hope you have had a pleasant evening also.”

  Garcia closes the paper, folds it up and puts it down on the table. “Perhaps you can help us with a conversation,” he asks the boy. Juanico’s gaze flits between the three men. Garcia continues, “Myself and Manolo believe that we have not heard the last from these ungrateful peasants. And that eventually we will have to take action before they destroy our country.” Juanico watches his father for any kind of sign as to how he should answer; he receives nothing. Pedro stares unblinkingly and emotionlessly at his son.

  Mischievously, Manolo picks up where Garcia left off, “Your father, on the other hand, believes that the peasants have learnt their lesson and our country has nothing to fear.”

  Juanico looks down at his sandals; the dust from the roads has long since greyed out the faded blue dye. Nervously, he starts to reply, “I defer to my father in all things…”

  The man won’t let go. “Come now, young man, we are all men just talking over a few brandies. Your father expects you to have an opinion. Isn’t that right, Don Pedro?” Manolo replies as he pats the other man on the forearm. Pedro forces a small smile towards his son and nods his head slightly once.

  Juanico nods back once in reply to his father before responding to Manolo, “Father Nicolas tells us that it is our holy duty to remind the peasants of their place. The peasants are simple and if we are not careful they will be led astray by the foreigners, the Jews and the Freemasons. He teaches us that they are wicked.”

  Manolo squeezes Pedro’s forearm and then claps his hands together, laughing, “See! The history and future of our country in one family. The father, a hardworking man of the field, is too trusting and his reward is to be bitten by his dogs, while the son, a book-learned boy, sees what the father cannot and readies the stick to beat the dog when it is his turn.” Garcia allows himself a small smile. Pedro feels his back teeth grinding, and the fat clammy hand holding his forearm. The boy shifts his feet nervously, recognising the growing anger on his father’s brow.

  Manolo lets a rolling laugh build up from his bloated stomach and projects it out across the table as he roars, “Excellent, from one generation to the next, the son learns from the father’s mistakes.”

  Pedro pulls his arm from under the guard’s doughy hand and reaches for his tobacco. “It is time for you to go back to the house,” he says, his words tight and tense in his throat. The boy, realising the tension building, excuses himself and hurries away. Garcia sniggers conspiratorially as Manolo bellows out his thunderous glee. Pedro lights a cigarette and imagines caving in the fat-faced Civil Guard’s features with his fists.

  *

  In the flat in Barcelona Salvador, Cati and her mother sit at the table in the main room while her father sleeps in the next. The mother holds her youngest daughter delicately in her lap as she nuzzles into the crook of her neck. The rhythmic rasping of the father’s troubled sleep coming from the next room is the only sound in the room. The mother gets up from the table and carries the child to the blankets in the corner. Salvador watches Cati’s face closely as she pushes the tobacco tin forwards and backwards on the table in silence. He watches the anxiety building into anger on her face. She can feel him watching her. He leans across the table and holds her hand still under his. She looks up to be greeted by the open warmth of his caring face. She half smiles back at him. “Do not worry. Your father will be fine,” he says softly so as not to wake the child.

  She feels the warm, calloused skin of his hand on hers. “I know,” she replies.

  The mother sits back down at the table. Salvador tries to reassure her, “The revolution continues. Your father was willing to give everything to make a better life for all of us.” She looks back down at the table. The mother listens in silence, watching her daughter sleeping in the corner. Cati doesn’t respond. Sal continues, “It is our turn to fight now. It is our turn to protect
our communities and comrades and families.” He tightens his grasp on her hand and lifts it off the table. She looks up at him; the sadness and the anger glistening in her eyes are highlighted by the flickering candlelight. “I promise that together we will make them pay for what they have done,” he says. His voice is soft and reassuring. She feels the familiar, warm dampness of his hand holding hers.

  From the open balcony the noise of the city streets below struggles to make its way into the monastic quiet of the room. The mother puts her hand on her daughter’s thigh, “Do not worry about this tonight. Be happy that we are all here together. That is enough for now,” she says. Cati looks at her mother and smiles. She allows her gaze to take in every aspect of the older woman’s face, focusing on the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the grey hair framing the burdened visage of a hard life. She closes her eyes, and the wet tears coating them are pushed out from under the lids and onto the cheeks, cutting a thin, clean line across the soot-darkened skin.

  Salvador gets up from the table and unrolls two bedrolls across the floor. Cati’s mother takes the cups into the kitchen while Cati stares at the tobacco tin on the table. The old woman kisses her on the back of the head and makes her way into the thick air of the bedroom, sits down beside the bed and pulls a shawl over herself. Salvador takes Cati by the hand. “Come. We need to get some sleep,” he says as he leads her across the room. She sits down on one of the bedrolls and slips her sandals off. He lies down behind her, cupping her body with his. His free arm circles her waist and his hand rests on her stomach. She can feel his heart beating faintly against her back through the thick overalls. She takes his hand, and unbuttoning two buttons of her overalls, she pushes his hand in between the cloth and her naked stomach. He can feel the tight muscles of her stomach, the hungry skin stretched taut against them. He gently strokes his hand up and down the rolling muscles, the soft skin pleasing to his calloused fingertips. She feels her breathing slowing, her eyes closing and his ribcage rising and falling against her back. As sleep slowly embraces her she can just discern the soft muffled breath of her sister, the rasping of her father in the next room and the distant hum of the city far below. The reassuring soundtrack cradles her mind as she falls asleep.