A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  Marianela hurries back to the kitchen; the fear of being caught in the tornado of anger tearing through the house reduces her to involuntary shaking. Pedro stands for a few moments staring at his mother, trying to regulate his breathing. He is aware of his ribcage rising and falling and the sweat making his shirt cling to his shoulders. He turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him. The two women sit in silence for a few moments. Soledad’s sister is the first to speak as she tries to reassure her sister, “He is angry, he doesn’t know what he is saying, do not—”

  Soledad speaks across her, “Don’t say anything.” Her lips tighten until they are pencil thin and she looks down at the table. “Don’t say anything,” she repeats.

  Moments later Pedro walks diagonally across the square under the dappled shade of the trees. He doesn’t look up from the floor as he walks, consciously avoiding looking at the smouldering remains of the bar in the corner of his vision. Crowds of villagers stand horrified, staring at the collapsed building. The smell of burnt alcohol, charcoaled timbers and super heated mud bricks mixes in the smoke and is carried by the breeze through the narrow streets of the village.

  He makes his way into the guard’s station, ignoring the uniformed twenty-year-old on duty outside. Manolo sees him almost immediately and stands up, gesturing to the guards to let him through to his office. He closes the door behind Pedro and pulls out the chair in front of his desk.

  A picture of the exiled king in all his state grandeur looks down from the wall as Manolo sits back down opposite Pedro. Manolo takes a cigarette from the packet and then pushes the packet across to Pedro. Pedro takes one and fumbles in his pockets for a lighter. Manolo lights his own and then pushes the heavy ivory desk lighter across towards the other man. Manolo waits, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches the man inhale the smoke deep into his lungs.

  Manolo’s eyes stop for a moment on the bloodied knuckles of the other man’s right hand. “Is there something you want to tell me, Don Pedro?” he asks.

  Pedro flicks the ash from the cigarette. “My son is the culprit. Of the fire,” he mutters under his breath.

  Manolo allows the smirk to grow. “You are mistaken, Don Pedro,” he replies.

  Pedro draws deep on the expensive French tobacco. “No, sir. My son is guilty. He just admitted it to me,” he explains.

  Manolo takes a bottle of brandy from his desk drawer and two glasses. He pours out two drinks and pushes one across the desk to Pedro. “No. You are mistaken. I assure you. Have a drink; it will calm your nerves.”

  Pedro looks up, his voice raises slightly, “Sir, I am not mistaken and I do not want a drink at this hour. Thank you.”

  The smile leaves Manolo’s face. “It was not a question. Now take the drink and steady your nerves.” Pedro looks back nervously at the stern expression on the other man’s face. He takes the drink and sips it. Manolo stands up from the desk and turns to look at the portrait on the wall. The only sound in the room is the burning paper of the cigarettes. Pedro watches the back of the other man’s head.

  After a few seconds Manolo breaks the silence, “Good. Now, you are mistaken. Whatever your son said was a lie. It was anarchists and communists fighting, it was a drunken brawl that got out of hand. Nothing more.”

  Pedro’s brow furrows as the confusion grows. He replies, “But my son confessed and it was the sons of the—”

  Manolo spins around and slams the heavy bottomed glass onto the table, “Say no more.” He leans against the table top as he stubs the barely smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. “Choose your words carefully before you start maligning churchgoing, honest people. Remember who you are,” he orders. Pedro looks down at the table to avoid catching his eye. Inside, he feels anger and impotence growing in equal measure. The Civil Guard continues, “Firstly, that bar is a rats’ nest. And rats kill and eat their own. Secondly, the drunken rats in that bar got what they deserved lest you forget who we are talking about. And finally, and for you most importantly, don’t you dare presume to tell me what is right or what is wrong. Do you understand your place or do you need me to remind you?”

  He leans down with both hands on the table, his bloated, uniformed stomach hanging over the gun belt at his waist like a caricature. Pedro draws on the cigarette, his eyes focussed on the clear, golden brown liquid gently swirling in the bottom of the glass in his hand. Manolo walks to the door and before opening it says, “Be careful, gardener. It was God’s will that those revolutionaries and their whore’s brothel burned down. If I hear that you are saying otherwise I will only be able to think that you one of these Jews or Freemasons trying to destroy our country. Do you understand?”

  Pedro hears the door open behind him. Fighting with his shaking legs, he places the glass on the desk and lifts himself out of the chair. Without looking up, he makes his way to the door. Manolo grasps his forearm, stopping him from leaving. “We have put up with this conspiracy to destroy our country for too long. Remember whose side you are on,” he warns him.

  Pedro looks at the pasty hand gripping his arm and nods his head. “You are right. I was not thinking. Please forgive me,” he replies.

  Manolo lets go of the other man’s arm and holds the door open for him. As Pedro edges past the other man, Manolo makes one last comment, “Remember what I said or it may be your house next.”

  *

  The morning sunlight fills the room and the distant noise of the workers in the streets down below shakes Sal from his sleep. He blinks his eyes to acclimatise them to the bright sunlight. Caterina comes into the room, the top half of her overalls are tied around her waist by the sleeves and his greyed cotton shirt, baggy on her, wafts loosely in the breeze. Her smile reassures him. She puts the two cups of coffee down on the table. He clambers to his feet and joins her at the table. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and she pushes the cup and the tobacco tin across the table to him.

  His naked, heavily scarred back rests gently against the cold of the chair as he tightens his belt and sits down. He takes a sip from the hot, brown, watery coffee and begins to roll a cigarette. “Where is everyone?” he asks.

  “Father is sleeping, Mother has gone to work and my sister is next door with my cousins,” Cati replies.

  He lights the cigarette and turns around in the chair so he can look out of the balcony windows. “What is the news?” he asks.

  She looks at his naked, hairless chest, the sinewy muscles drawn tight across his ribcage and stomach and the soft, dark hair creeping up from his belt to his navel. He turns to her and smiles. “Well, what’s the news?”

  “No news yet. Javi said that he would be coming this morning to see my father. If there is any news we will hear it then,” she responds. He smiles back at her, shrugs his shoulders and looks back out of the window.

  “Do you think it will be soon?” he asks. Following his gaze to the buildings opposite, she replies, “I don’t know.”

  A knock at the door interrupts their conversation. Cati turns and looks to the hallway. She quickly untucks and unbuttons the shirt. Sal puts his cigarette in the ashtray and gets up from the table. She takes off the shirt, throws it to him, unties the sleeves of the overalls and pulls them up over her shoulders. He stares unblinkingly at her breasts as he pulls the shirt on and starts buttoning it up. He takes out a revolver from his satchel, holds it behind his back and walks over to the door. Before opening it, he glances back over his shoulder to make sure she is ready. As the last button of the overalls fastens she nods to him and he opens the door.

  Standing on the dark landing is the man from the previous night at the bar. “Good morning,” he says in a warm tone.

  Sal holds the door open for him and replies, “Uncle.”

  The man walks into the main room and kisses Cati on both cheeks. “Please sit down,” she says, unfolding a chair at the table for him. Sal goes into t
he kitchen and returns with a cup and the pot of coffee. The man sits down at the table, placing the bag that was over his shoulder at his feet. Sal sits down and pours out a coffee for him. The man nods towards the floor to ceiling windows opening onto the balcony and Cati immediately gets up and closes them.

  The two men sit in silence looking at each other while they wait for her to rejoin them. The older man’s face looks tired. Cati closes the door to the hallway and joins them at the table. The man leans into the table. “Are we alone?”

  Cati leans in as well. “Only my father is in the next room. He is sleeping.”

  “Good,” the man replies. Salvador takes his cigarette from the ashtray and leans back in his chair. The man looks at both of them in turn, pausing momentarily and then starts talking, “We’ve got word that it will happen any day now. We’ve had word from three of the barracks and the municipal police and Civil Guard headquarters.” Cati and Sal glance at one another and then back to the man. Salvador leans forwards onto his elbows.

  The man continues, “We have plans in place across the city.”

  Cati asks, “What about the rest of the country?”

  The man nods knowingly. “There are plans in place across the country. You do not need to worry about that. All you need to worry about is your militia. You need to stay here. We’ll bring arms to you later today and the plans for this area. The signal will be the factory sirens. I don’t know how much warning we will have. You have to be ready at all times. When they march out of their barracks our brothers and sisters across the city, across the country, will rise up to defend our people.”

  Cati imagines the question on Sal’s mind. She puts her hand on top of his. He asks, “What about the villages? Will they have warning also?”

  Knowing Salvador’s background, the man tries to reassure him, “I am sure they will. We can only send word with messengers, no communications are safe now. Nothing is being sent in writing. Conspirators are everywhere.” He pauses before continuing, “I know that some will, but I don’t know for sure that they all will.”

  Salvador looks down at the table, “My mother is alone in the village. She works in the house of one of these whores.”

  Cati tightens her grip on his hand. He looks up at her, “I cannot leave her alone there.”

  The man answers on Cati’s behalf, “You must do what you think is right. But remember, if the city falls, then all of the villages in Aragon will follow. In truth, all of the villages in Spain will fall if we do not protect the cities. It is here that they will target their forces; their soldiers and police are in the cities, their money is in the cities. It is here where we will win back our country. Once we have the city we will clean up any of the towns and villages. I promise.”

  Salvador looks down at the table and then focuses on Cati’s hand, the thin fingers wrapped tightly around his. He puts his other hand over hers. “I have to think about this. I cannot leave my mother alone with those bastards in the village.”

  “I understand,” the man replies. He waits a moment and then continues, “You must do what is right. If you still wish to leave tomorrow there is a shipment of arms going to Caspe in the morning. Meet it at the Windmill Theatre at six and you can travel with it. What you do from Caspe is up to you.”

  Sal listens carefully and nods gently. The man continues, “If you insist on going then make sure your village isn’t taken. I would imagine they will try to seize the communications, arms and transport first. If your village is small enough they will close down the roads coming in and out afterwards. Get the workers into militias and give them precise directions. Beware of the communists; they will try to take control. If we strike before they know we are upon them, then we may just have the chance to begin the revolution.”

  The man drinks his coffee. Caterina asks, “And here, who will be leading the defences here?”

  The man laughs, “No one will be leading them, but you can be sure that the Nosotros will be at the vanguard. They have never surrendered and they never will.”

  Cati forces a smile towards Sal. He turns back to the man. “What of the conspirators?” he asks.

  A solemnity seems to shroud Javier as he responds, “It is not up to us to tell the workers how to protect their homes and families. Each will decide for themselves. When the time comes, remind your brothers and sisters that many of the soldiers and police are their brothers and sisters also. Fear, superstition and hunger have confused them. The more of them we free, the quicker we take back our country. Mark my words carefully though, the villagers will know who the leaders of the conspiracy are, and you would be well advised to make sure they are unable to conspire again.” Sal nods his head.

  The man gets up from the table and says, “Let me have a few moments with your father, Caterina.”

  She gestures with her head towards the door. “Of course. He is in the bedroom.” She places her other hand on Salvador’s. She leans in close enough to rest her forehead on his and quietly whispers, “We need to have this discussion now. I cannot leave my family alone. Not now. I am more use to the revolution here. I have been fighting in these streets all my life.”

  Sal kisses her on the cheek. “I know. But I can’t be without you, I can’t ask you to come and I can’t leave my mother to face this alone.” He lifts up his head and she follows so their cheeks are pressing against each other. His stubble pushes against her soft skin. His gentle voice whispers into her ear, “I do not know what to do, my love. You must tell me what to do.” She feels his breath stroke across her ear as he speaks.

  She turns her head slightly and presses her lips against his cheek, muffling her voice as she replies, “I cannot tell you what to do. All I can tell you is that I will always love you and support your decision whatever it is, even if it breaks my heart.”

  He closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of her hair on his face. His thoughts turn to the village that he had left so long ago and his mother. He remembers playing in the garden with Juan Nicolas. The briefest flash of happy childhood memories is quickly replaced by the beatings he saw his mother taking, the constant abuse from the withered old crone and the monster standing above him with the bloodied belt in his hand. The warm softness of Cati’s lips on his cheek and the safety of her touch on his hand draw him back to the moment. He can faintly hear the voice of the man in the next room. He focuses on the sound of Cati’s breath as she exhales and he feels the warm air from deep inside her flowing over his cheek. He grips her hand tightly.

  “Do you want me to wait and help make the preparations here before I go back?” he asks.

  She rubs her hand up and down his forearm. “No, go tomorrow morning and prepare the village. I will join you as soon as the city is secure. I promise,” she replies.

  “Once we are victorious we shall start a family. I want you to be the mother of my children,” he says as he pulls his face away from hers so that he can look her in the eyes.

  He sees an all-too-familiar tenderness in her face. “Yes. That sounds perfect. And we will bring our families with us so that we can start a new family, with many children,” she replies. He leans forwards and kisses her on the lips. The dry skin of their lips briefly opens and the tips of their tongues touch gently against each other as they close their eyes.

  *

  Pedro walks back through the square in a daze. The anger towards his son slowly gives way to an equally consuming anger towards Manolo, the priest and the duke. He stops briefly under one of the trees and steadies himself with one hand. He feels a hopeless inevitability as he looks at the burning husk of the bar. He watches the volunteer firemen throwing buckets of water onto the smoking cinders of the wooden skeleton and plumes of steam mix with the smoke and climb into the sky. He imagines the baby choked of oxygen and roasting like a pig in its cot. He tastes the bile in the back of his throat and tears well up in his eyes. He watches the C
ivil Guards pushing the vacantly staring onlookers away. One of the firemen rushes through what remains of the door frame and onto the veranda just as one of the main beams cracks loudly behind him and collapses with a crash into the ruins. Smoke billows out and cinders blossom into the sky. Pedro scans the faces in the crowd and sees terror and approval. He feels his sadness step down as disgust and anger surface.

  Pedro enters his own house. The dining room is empty. Marianela steps out of the kitchen. She lowers her head and stares at the floor and hurries past him to clear the table. He stands framed by the front door, watching her picking up the plates and hurrying back to the kitchen. He says nothing. He imagines grabbing the woman and throwing her against the table. In his mind’s eye he sees himself slamming against her. At his sides his hands clench tightly into fists. Marianela hurries back to the kitchen and starts washing the dishes in the sink. Her eyes focus on the water in front of her. Pedro shakes the images from his mind and listens for any noises in the house. He only hears the china in the sink. He walks into the garden. Marianela feels the suffocating fear lift as he goes through the small doorway to the barn. Marianela allows the breath to leave her chest in an audible sigh.

  Pedro sees his mother and aunt tending the boy. One of his eyes is entirely closed from the swelling and the other is only partially open. The young boy pushes at the earth beneath him as his father approaches. A whimper struggles to break through his bloodied, swollen lips. Soledad looks back over her shoulder and on seeing her son, stands and places herself between them. “Enough. You have punished the boy enough,” she says. Pedro stares back at her. “My son, enough,” she repeats, her voice fragile and nervous.