It was only yesterday that the train to the village had restarted and it had become quickly obvious that the previous loose adherence to a timetable was now very much a thing of the past. The trains had never been accurate enough to set a clock by, but under the new situation it was fast becoming a question of whether one could set a calendar by them. Because none of the railway workers were willing to put themselves in danger for something as trivial as a timetable or keeping their bosses happy, now the train would get wherever it was going when it got there and not a moment sooner. Fully aware of this, the young men lie down in the shade with their caps and berets across their faces. The ambient warmth of the midmorning sun gently lulls them into a shallow sleep as they wait patiently to be taken to the front lines.
Marianela holds the warm, damp hand tight in hers as she looks out across the platform at the dusty tracks and fields beyond. The sound of the crickets and the summer starlings, gently warming themselves under the gaze of the sun, chatter from the surrounding land. She looks down the tracks at the heat waves rippling above the ground far in the distance as the sound of the train’s whistle climbs above the background noise of the countryside. Salvador lifts himself from the bench and pulls the rucksack and rifle over his shoulders. The other men along the platform start saying goodbye to their loved ones.
Marianela studies Sal’s face, trying to consign every wrinkle, every hair and every patch of skin to memory. He pulls her close to him and puts his arms around her, burying her face into his chest. “I will be back soon enough. I promise,” he says.
Muffled by his jacket, she fights through her tears, “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid. You are the only family I have.” He holds her tight against him as the train pulls into the station. The steam exhales its billowing clouds across the ground and the brakes slow it from a walking pace to fully stopped.
The cloud of steam dissipates almost as quickly as it appears. The young men swing the doors open and they crash noisily into the side of the carriages. One by one they pull themselves up and into the train. Salvador releases his mother enough to look her in the face. “You have comrades now. And I will be back soon enough,” he tries to reassure her. He breaks from the embrace and boards the train. Her arms are empty and she looks on, powerless to stop him. The fear overwhelms her with sadness and she stands silently watching as the whistle blows and the train pulls slowly out of the station. She stands watching it making its way down the tracks and she asks herself if that was the last time she would see her son.
Marianela maintains her vigil until the train finally takes its slow bend north-east towards the northern front and far beyond her sight; all the time unaware that a few yards away stands the other young man she had reared at her breast. He is waiting and watching. She pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and wipes the tears from her face. Juanico steps out from behind the crates and into her field of vision. She sees a look of worry on his face; it is the same brooding visage he had mastered as a child. “What is wrong, Juanico? You look troubled,” she asks. He shuffles his feet, nervously staring at the ground as he struggles to find the right words. She puts one hand on his shoulder and asks softly, “It is all right. Tell me what is wrong.” He feels a familiar warmth wrap around him.
Nervously stilted, the boy replies, “My father is not well. He is always angry and drunk. He is shouting and hitting us. You must help him.”
She pulls the boy towards her with both hands. “Do not worry. I will speak to him.” Momentarily reassured, the tension across the boy’s narrow shoulders loosens. She turns him around and with one arm through his, walks him slowly back towards the village. “You are not to be frightened by what is going on. No one else should get hurt,” her soothing voice hums. He continues looking at the floor. Her arm clinging tightly to his exudes a warmth that spreads across his body. “Are you meant to be working in the fields this morning?” she asks.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Good. And your grandmother and great aunt are in the stores sewing, no?” He repeats his last response. She smiles and tries to reassure him. “Good, well then, we won’t have anyone disturbing us while we talk to him then, will we? I am sure it is nothing more than his leg hurting him.”
When Marianela and Juanico reach the house she stands with some trepidation at the door, preparing herself before going in. She holds the boy behind her. The sun is hot on her head and she can feel the hair tied back in a pony tail heating up against her neck. She knocks tentatively on the door and calls out, “Pedro. It is I, Marianela.” There is no response from inside the house. She knocks and calls out again. When she hears no response she pushes the door open. The smell of rancid sweat and stale alcohol emanates from inside the room like a dance hall the morning after fiestas. She guesses that the women are refusing to clean the house, most probably thinking it a chore beneath them.
She walks slowly into the darkened hallway calling out in the gentlest voice she can muster, “Pedro. Are you here? I wish to speak to you.” The boy tiptoes in behind her.
From up the stairs she hears the slurring drawl of someone she once called master and who she thought she had loved, “Whore, now you come to gloat. So now you come to gloat at me broken and dying, killed by your communist lovers.”
She turns to Juanico and says, “Wait here.” She closes her eyes and starts making her way up the stairs slowly, trying to build fortitude inside herself with each step.
The broken barrage of pause-riddled abuse continues, “Whore, fucking dog. God condemns you. I condemn you, whore.” He pauses briefly and when he restarts his voice is thick with a mouth coated in tannins, “Dog fucking whore. Daughter of a whore.” She reaches the door of his room and before opening it, takes a deep breath, clenches her teeth and forces a smile onto her face. She exhales through her nose and opens the bedroom door.
It takes her a moment to locate him. The shutters are closed tight and barely any light is finding its way through the cracks in the wooden slats. The smell of tobacco, sweat and alcohol is overwhelming as her stomach tightens to stop herself from gagging. The smell of human waste starts to rise above the sweat and alcohol as she acclimatises to the smell.
As soon as he speaks again, more quietly than before but still dripping with venom, she is able to locate him in the room. He is on the floor in the corner behind the bed. “Is this what you wanted for me, you Jezebel? Have you not punished me enough?” he screams at her. She feels her heart tightening as she takes two steps slowly towards him. He drops the wine bottle and grabs a kitchen knife that is lying beside him. The closer she gets to him, the more the smell of the vomit flecking his chin and bare chest and the pool of bile by his bare buttocks overwhelms the other smells in the room. She feels a wave of embarrassment wash across her as she realises he is entirely naked.
Fighting with his waning strength to hold the knife out towards her, he lets his head loll forwards and closes his eyes. As the tears roll up from deep in his chest he whispers to himself as if she wasn’t there, “Dear God, why have you shown me everything only to take it away?” He drops the knife and starts grasping in the dark for the bottle. He finds it, puts it to his mouth and swallows as fast as he can. It is not fast enough and the liquid overflows over his face and onto his chest.
She watches on helplessly, feeling the energy drain out of her. She steps forwards carefully and slowly, holding both hands out in front of her. He lifts his head but his eyes remain closed. “Pedro, I never wanted any of this to happen. You must see that,” she says. As she gets closer, the stains of human waste dappling the bedclothes, dragged half off the mattress and onto the floor beside him, become visible. She becomes aware of the buzzing of a fly in the room.
The last mouthful of wine splutters from his lips as he coughs out the words, “What did I ever do to you? I gave you everything and this is what you do to me.” He barks violently, ‘WHORE DOG’ at her and the smell of
his breath hits her like a wave.
She fights through the bitter clouds smarting her eyes and puts one hand on his calf. She feels the hair matted with dirt. She delicately strokes his calf with her fingertips. She tries to reassure him. “I did nothing except love you,” she tells him.
He clumsily pushes her hand away and covers his face with his forearm. “Lying whore. You fucked the workers in the fields; you fucked the gypsies in the street. I was just another cock filling your diseased womb. And the devil you produced comes back to destroy me. I curse you, your cunt and your whore son,” he cries at her.
Marianela turns back to the door and sees Juanico, half-hidden by the frame, looking into the room. His eyes are glistening with tears. “Get me a bucket of water and a cloth,” she tells him. He grips onto the wood of the door frame; his knuckles are white with fear. She calmly repeats herself, “Get me a bucket of water and a cloth now.” The boy turns and runs down the hall.
Marianela rests her hand on the man’s shin. His stomach muscles tighten and then relax as he falls forwards towards her and into her waiting arms. She holds onto him tightly and strokes his head, whispering into his ear, “I have never done anything to hurt you. It was all lies. I loved you.” His chest and shoulders shudder with each whimpered cry.
She continues holding the naked, soiled body close to hers, “I loved you and they came between us. I would have done anything for you. There was only ever you. I was never with anyone else.” She hears the boy’s footsteps behind her and the water splashing over the side of the bucket onto the floor. He puts it down beside her and then stands silently watching as she takes the sodden cloth and starts wiping down his father like a newborn infant.
The cool water and the loving touch are gentle on Pedro’s alcohol-addled senses, sparkling against his skin like electricity dancing across the tips of his hairs. Every five wipes, she re-soaks the cloth and once again lovingly washes the filth from the man’s chest and back.
She notices him open his eyes and knows that he sees the boy standing behind her because the muscles across his chest and stomach draw tight. She turns to the boy and says, “Go to the school and get Pepe. Speak only to Pepe and bring him here. Tell him I have asked for him to come urgently.”
Pedro, half listening, struggles through his laboured breathing to speak, “No, no one must see me like this.”
She places a kiss on his temple as her cloth wipes the vomit from the stubble surrounding his mouth. She whispers in a slow and measured voice, “And no one that doesn’t care for you will. I promise.”
The boy feels unable to watch anymore and is grateful for the excuse. He turns and runs through the house. Marianela lets herself fall back from her haunches and onto the floor against the bed. She pulls her legs apart so as to pull the man between them and rest him against her chest. She pulls his head back onto her collarbone, nestling it against her neck and continues to wipe the dirt from his face and neck. Slowly, he gives in to his own exhaustion and allows sleep to take over. She wipes down his chest before leaning him forward to wipe his lower back. She pulls him back towards her and his legs apart to clean between them. As her mind wanders through her memories she pauses for a moment. She feels the muscles in his back grow taut and his breathing shallow. She wets the cloth and moves to his thighs, avoiding the bandage. His breathing deepens and she feels his back relaxing into her chest.
When Raul arrives he finds Marianela sitting on the floor against the bed with Pedro naked, sleeping against her chest. She looks up and half smiles with an air of resigned sadness. The hand stroking the back of the man’s head stops momentarily. Juanico looks around Raul into the dank room. His breath draws in sharply. Raul half turns to the boy without allowing his gaze to move from the two in the corner of the room and tells him, “Everything is going to be fine now. Get yourself back to the fields and if your work group asks, tell them that you were with me this morning.”
As he speaks he imagines what the boy must be thinking. He turns fully to face the boy. The boy looks back, his eyes struggling to see through the thick film of tears covering them. Raul puts his hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry. We will make sure your father gets better. Get yourself back to the fields and when you come back tonight you will see everything will be good.” The boy nods his head and reluctantly turns and leaves.
Raul listens to the boy’s footsteps and as soon as he hears them on the stairs he makes his way quietly across the room. Marianela looks up at him imploringly, her wide, brown irises bursting from the whites of her eyes. Raul pulls the sheets from the bed and rolls them into a bundle before throwing them towards the door. “Where do they keep the clean sheets?” he whispers.
Matching his volume, she replies, “In the cupboard on the landing.” Pedro stirs slightly in her arms but doesn’t wake.
After a few moments Raul comes back into the room. He pulls the clean sheets onto the bed. Marianela shuffles forwards to give him space to tuck them under the mattress. Pedro partially opens one eye but is unable to discern the activity. Once the bed is made, Raul kneels beside the woman and puts his arms under the man. He lifts himself to his feet, carrying the man in his arms and feels his leg trying to buckle. He tenses all the muscles in his body to stop himself from collapsing to the floor. He involuntarily grimaces with pain. As soon as he steadies himself he gently lowers the man onto the bed. He reaches out a hand to help Marianela to her feet. Pedro rolls himself onto his side and pulls his knees up into a lazy foetal position. The two watch him in silence.
Marianela looks down at her damp and stained clothes. Raul picks up the bucket and hands it to her, “Make some coffee, I will stay with him.” She takes the handle of the bucket and stares into his face. A few seconds pass as they look at one another. She leans forwards and kisses him on the lips. The noise of the man on the bed moving his leg stops them and they pull away. Marianela looks down at the floor. Raul turns away and partially opens one of the shutters to let a thin shaft of blazing sunlight cut through the dizzy haze of the room. It projects onto the far wall, highlighting the dust in the air. The glow of the aura emanating from the shaft increases the light in the room. Raul pulls the chair from the corner and places it where he found the two of them. He picks up the empty wine bottle and hands it to Marianela. She takes it and silently leaves the room. The deep breathing of the man on the bed rattles into a low snore. Raul sits down and starts rolling a cigarette.
By the time Marianela returns, the open window and door have allowed much of the thick fug to escape the room. Neither man has moved. She puts two of the empty cups on the sideboard and pours the steaming brown coffee into the third. She hands it to Raul who carefully rests his cigarette on the edge of the bedside table. He kneels down beside Pedro and lifts his head to the cup. The man barely opens his semi-waking eyes. The bitter, smoky smell of coffee so close to his nose almost involuntarily forces his lips apart. He welcomes the hot drink into his mouth in sips, the bitter warmth cuts through the thick tannins coating his tongue. The taste of bile inside his mouth goes before a third of the cup has reached his growling stomach. Raul doesn’t stop until the first cup is empty.
Raul lowers the man’s head back to the pillow as his unfocused eyes close and he slips back into sleep. Marianela pours coffee into the second cup and once Raul has sat back in the chair, passes it to him. He drinks it slowly, gratefully welcoming the smell of coffee masking the unpleasant smell of the room as the liquid touches his lips. He puts the cup down, picks up the cigarette and draws deeply on it. As he exhales, the smoke folds in on itself in orgiastic liquid swirls as it passes through the shaft of light.
Marianela stands beside him as both stare silently at the man in the bed. Feeling her hip bone against his tricep, he puts his arm around her waist and pulls her pelvis against his ribcage. She allows herself to be pulled towards him, and feels safety in his arm against the small of her back, his grip on one hip and t
he other pushing against the side of his chest. She speaks very quietly, “His mother will cause trouble when she returns from work.”
He exhales smoke and as the last wisps leave his lips he replies, “Don’t worry. I will deal with her.”
*
Hours later, when Soledad opens the door to the house, she is immediately greeted by the sound of voices coming from the dining room. As she and her sister walk into the hallway they see Pedro, Raul and Marianela sitting at the dining room table. Raul stops talking and all three turn to face the women standing in the hallway. “What is this?” demands Soledad.
Raul responds, “Be careful with your tone of voice. We are doing what you should have done. We are making sure your son doesn’t do something stupid and get himself executed. You would be well advised to go about your business while we talk.” Astounded by the insolence, she stands staring back at the man, at a loss for words.
Pedro looks back down at the plate of rice and the fried egg lying across it, the broken yolk sliding easily across the oily, white rice. He shakes his head and tries to reassure the two women, “I am fine. We are just talking. Take your rest in the garden, we need to talk.”
Raul gestures with his head towards the back of the house while looking at the two women. They continue standing there. In a more determined voice Raul commands them, “You heard what your son said. Take your rest in the garden. Our discussion is not for you.”
Soledad feels her sister’s hand on her shoulder and her voice in her ear, “Come, let them discuss what they must.” Begrudgingly, she lets her sister’s hand guide her through the hallway and out into the garden.
Raul waits to hear the beads of the curtain fall back into place before turning back to Pedro and continuing. “You must stop behaving like this. The only thing you now control is whether you live or die. I protected you from taking part in this insanity for a reason. Do you want your son to be fatherless, your mother to mourn a son?” Pedro listens, his head hanging and eyes focused on the yolk staining the rice yellow. Raul glances at Marianela and nods his head once.
A Most Uncivil War Page 29