“Here we go again.”
The judge, in a bad mood, looking over some papers, suggested he present his charges in court. He added that this was neither the moment nor the place to do so. And Joxe Mari knew he was powerless and the ball of hatred never stopped growing inside his body, and when all was said and done, it was all the same to him. He denied the accusations and, to end that circus once and for all, said he was ready to answer questions, which he did, dry and sharp, in a marked Basque accent.
After he’d made his statement, they brought him to the cells. There they left him alone for a long time to wait for the van that would carry him to jail. It smelled of moisture, of old air. And on the wall, surprise, there were phrases in Basque and the ETA anagram, and the outline of Euskal Herria with the motto Gora Euskadi askatuta inside it. A pity he didn’t have a ballpoint pen. A kind of euphoria came over him, perhaps because he didn’t feel he was alone even if he was alone, I understand what I’m saying. And he began to sing, first in whispers, then in a normal voice: Hegoak ebaki banizkio.
102
THE FIRST LETTER
“Dear Joxe Mari.” Dear? Are you crazy? She scribbled out the word as soon as she saw it written. Opposite Bittori, on the wall, hung Txato’s photo. You, stay calm, I’m only trying things out here. The sheet of paper was profaned by that insincere, formulaic greeting. Bittori grabbed another from the pile resting on one side of the table. She wrote leaning forward awkwardly so that she could withstand the pain in her stomach, a pain that hadn’t let up since the last hour of the afternoon. Ikatza was dozing lightly a short distance away on one of the sofa cushions. From time to time she opened her eyes. From time to time she licked a paw. And more than half an hour had passed since midnight.
“Hi, Joxe Mari.” Utterly corny. “Kaixo, Joxe Mari.” She grimaced. That expression meant pretending there was an intimacy they didn’t have. Finally, she simply wrote his name followed by a colon. She was tempted—punctiliousness?—to call herself the Madwoman, which is how his family refers to me. She found that out from Arantxa, whom she often met on the street, always in the company of that caregiver with the face of an Indian from the Andes who wheels her around. “My parents call you the Madwoman, but pay no attention to them.” Bittori thought that if she revealed that confidence she might cause a rift between brother and sister. So she didn’t reveal it. Instead she wrote: I’m Bittori, you probably remember me, it’s not my intention to annoy you, believe me I’m free of hatred, et cetera. She reread the first paragraph with disgust, but what else can I do? Just keep going, and if there’s a problem, you can correct it.
On a separate sheet, she’d listed the subjects she wanted to bring up in the letter. Not many. And it wasn’t her intention to go on too long. Why go to all that trouble when he might not answer me? Even so, those few issues had kept her tense and brooding, insecure and sleepless, for several days. She got right to the point. It wasn’t rancor that moved her. Her reason for writing him? To learn the details of how her husband died. Especially, who fired the shots. More: that she was willing to forgive, but under one condition. Which was? That he ask her for forgiveness. She added that this wasn’t a demand but a plea. All that: didn’t it mean she was lowering herself excessively? It didn’t matter. She wrote that because of her illness she only had a short time left. She instantly erased the sentence. Just then another stab of pain came over her. Ikatza must have noticed, because she woke up alarmed.
“I’ve reached an age when I don’t think I have much life left in me.” She reread. Yes, those words sounded more discreet. The truth seemed too strong. If I say it outright, he’ll think I’m lying. Even worse: that I’m trying to make him feel sorry. Only she knew the truth. Not even her children, though she thought it unlikely Xabier didn’t suspect something. If he didn’t, why would he insist she visit the oncologist? Blaming old age was less melodramatic. For sure, when he reads that part, he’ll think about his mother, as aged as Bittori. That will soften him. And of course, she would be very grateful if, before they buried her, he told her the circumstances of Txato’s death. She needed to know, that was all.
She came to the delicate matter of telling him why should we fool ourselves, because Txato, the day he was killed, when he got home at lunchtime, told her he’d seen Joxe Mari and that he’d stopped for a moment to talk to him. And even though she hadn’t attended the trial at the National Court, because no one bothered to tell her about it, she found out from his sentence that it had been proven that Joxe Mari was implicated in the murder. She erased. In the death of her husband. “I’m asking you, from the bottom of my heart, to tell me your version of the events.” If he didn’t like the idea of writing, she was willing to visit the prison to speak directly to him and that way there will be no paper trail if that’s the problem. Her only desire, she repeated, was to learn the truth before she died and to forgive. She erased. And that he ask her forgiveness and that she forgive instantly and have that peace and then I can die.
Two o’clock. Bittori reread the letter scattered over with crossed-out words. I’ll make a clean copy in the morning. Just then her first wave of nausea rolled over her. Oh God. Immediately, a second wave. When the third hit, she vomited onto the table, she couldn’t help it, and of course onto the letter and a little on the pile of paper. When she leaned back from the table, she fell or let herself fall, she doesn’t really know. She does remember that the stab of pain inside her stomach was so intense it forced her to go into a fetal position on the carpet. Despite all that, she was still not ready to believe in God the way others do when they find themselves facing the great blackness. What for? If I die, I die. She made an effort to drag herself to the telephone, just over there, nine feet away, on top of the bureau, but nevertheless so far away. Far away? Unreachable. I’m not getting over this one. I’m here, and I’m staying here. My children. Before she lost consciousness, the last thing she saw was Ikatza, who had come over to rub against her face. The cat caressed her forehead with her black fur and her smooth tail. Ikatza, silent, Ikatza, black, Ikatza pretty. You might be the last thing I see in this life.
She woke up at about ten, the living room brimful of morning light. Pain? Not a trace. Mysteries of the body. She cleaned house slowly, dividing the work into short segments. What we don’t want is. And she opened doors and windows to air the place. She telephoned Xabier, and mother and son spoke for five minutes about trivia. She then called Nerea, and mother and daughter spoke for half an hour about trivia. At midday, she ate nothing. She didn’t dare. She picked at some Swiss chard, a tiny bit of potato, both left over from the previous evening, more than anything because she hated to throw food away, but it was useless. Why is that? She was afraid to send solid food to her painful guts. And finally, to trick her hunger, she made herself a big cup of chamomile tea.
Should she travel to the village before five? It didn’t make much sense. Joxian was a man who slept his siesta, so as a general rule he gets to the garden at about midafternoon. The first time, Bittori waited for him to arrive hidden among the trees on the other side of the river. Then she realized she could also observe him from the bridge, though only through a clear space in the hazelnut bushes. If she stayed on the bridge near the bus stop, she’d save herself a long walk. The only thing she wanted in this case was to see him arrive. To avoid her completely, Joxian hid in the shed, but this man doesn’t fool me. Besides, I’m not about to shout to him. Are you kidding?
For a moment, she considered the possibility that Joxian might reject her letter. Would he dare? He is a bit cowardly after all. He was even when young. She took the envelope out of her bag. She should just put it there. Where? On top of a rabbit cage. As if it made him sick to his stomach to touch it.
“I’ll give the letter to Miren and say it’s from you, okay? But after that it’s out of my hands. She’s the one who visits.”
“You don’t go to see your son?”
�
�Me? Very little.”
The first few times she went to see him at the garden, Joxian was standoffish, brusque. Bittori didn’t know whether it was out of timidity or anger. Because this man is not the kind who bears a grudge. He’s not a hating guy. What do I have to lose? And by always being friendly with him, even if the poor man felt so uncomfortable, she gradually wore down his harshness.
Joxian, red-faced (from wine?), jutted his chin toward the letter:
“This is going to be trouble for me.”
“Well, I’d give it to your wife, but something tells me she doesn’t want to see my face, though I have no idea what I did to her.”
“There’s no way to know if she’ll bring it to my son.”
“Why? It’s written with good intentions.”
“Damn it, you’re stirring up things that shouldn’t be stirred.”
Did he give the letter to Miren? How can I be sure: he went two days in a row without visiting the garden, at least at his usual time. Also, since it was raining there was no need to water the plants. But what about the rabbits? He’d have to feed them, wouldn’t he? Bittori concluded that to avoid her Joxian came down to the garden at the last hour of afternoon or when night had already fallen, or early in the morning.
On the third day, Bittori walked through the village with little hope of finding Joxian. After going here and there, she went into the Pagoeta to have a decaf coffee. By then, her almost daily presence in the streets of the village had stopped being noticed by anyone. In the bar, no one spoke to her, but by the same token they didn’t glare at her. She paid, and as she left, a few people coming in greeted her with a slight nod of the head.
She decided, it wasn’t raining, to cross the plaza toward her house and then to make a small detour so she could pass by Joxian’s place. A few steps later she spotted the wheelchair and the small woman with Indian features sitting next to it at the rail. Without hesitating, she made her way toward them through the shadows cast by the linden trees. And Arantxa’s face lit up with joy, as it did whenever she saw her. With a brusque gesture of her good hand she demanded her iPad. The caregiver handed it to her. Bittori leaned over to kiss Arantxa, who responded with her usual mute delight. And, as if possessed by haste, she nervously started pressing the keys with one finger. It was clear she urgently wanted to communicate something. Bittori read: “My mother tore up your letter.”
“She tore it up?”
Arantxa nods. She writes again: “Don’t give her any more letters. She won’t bring them. She’s bad.”
Her thin, pale finger scrambles among the rows of letters. The caregiver remains silent, her eyes fixed on the screen. Bittori reads: “If you want to write to the terrorist in my family there is a solution.”
“What solution?”
Just write directly to him at the prison. At the prison? Arantxa answers with two decisive nods. She tries to articulate words. She makes some high-pitched, incomprehensible sounds. Sometimes she is able to phonate a bit; but today, what’s wrong? No matter how hard she tries, she can’t do it, she falls into despair, she gets blocked up. Then she writes: “He’s in Puerto de Santa María I, module 3. You just put his name on the envelope and it will definitely get to him.”
“Do you think he’ll read the letter?”
Arantxa gestures with her hand, as if expressing doubt. The other, spastic hand, she keeps pressed to her stomach.
103
THE SECOND LETTER
And now with not the slightest trace of joy or any other recognizable feeling on her face, her features frozen, she saw Bittori walk toward the far end of the plaza. She’s a good woman. There were a few pigeons pecking around on the ground mixed in with some hopping sparrows, and on the side street, in front of the houses was the man delivering propane gas, filthy, powerful, raising the hundredth tank of the day to his shoulder.
Celeste waited until Bittori disappeared to say:
“Miren will be furious if she finds out we stopped to talk with that lady.”
Arantxa’s paralyzed neck wouldn’t allow her to turn her head around to confront her caregiver, standing behind the wheelchair, face-to-face. So she wrote with a furious finger on the iPad keyboard: “Are you going to tell her?”
“Of course not, Arantxa. What do you take me for? But look around at all the people who may be keeping an eye on us.”
She didn’t want to create a lie by asking Bittori about the content of the letter. Why, when she already knew. Did she read it? Of course. And she kept it, oily stains and all, in a drawer.
Three nights before they were getting ready to eat dinner, and I think the entire province of Guipúzcoa reeked of my mother’s fish and fried garlic. Arantxa in her wheelchair next to the table. The window wide open. Out the window flow smells and smoke. And suddenly the familiar sound of the key in the lock. Joxian walked in scratching his side, his beret a bit fallen toward his neck. In a plastic bag, he carried lettuce, beans, and other greens he grows in the garden, and he put it all down there, next to the urn of the Virgin that goes from house to house and which it was their turn that day to take care of. And with his free hand, because the other never stopped scratching his ribs as if he were playing a harp, he pulled the white envelope out of the inside pocket of his sheepskin jacket.
“It was given to me so you could bring it to Joxe Mari.”
Miren, clenching her teeth, fury in her eyes, sought confirmation:
“Who gave it to you?”
“Who else? The Madwoman.”
“You talked to her?”
“What can I do when she walks into the garden? Hit her with a stick?”
“Give it here.”
She snatched the letter. She tore it in half. She brought the halves together, then with a haughty expression on her face, tore the halves. She tore it all again. And then she threw the shreds into the garbage pail she kept in a cabinet with a door below the sink.
“Dinnertime.”
Did they argue? No. The only thing was that he wasn’t to go down to the garden for a few days. And what about the rabbits? Did he have to let them die of hunger?
“You can go early to feed them.”
“She’ll probably climb over the wall and stick letters in the cracks in the door.”
“Don’t bring them here. Better to burn them.”
The next day he got up almost as early as he did during his time at the foundry so he could take care of his animals as soon as possible. It was then he surprised Arantxa in the kitchen, and what are you doing here? As if she didn’t see him. Sitting in the wheelchair opposite the sink, Arantxa had the garbage can on her lap. With a finger, she asked her father to be quiet. This took place at the time when, leaning on a cane and on the furniture, on anything handy, she, with her will of iron, was able to get up on her own and take short, hesitant, trembling steps despite her paralyzed foot. She’d already fallen down twice but without serious consequences. Finally, with the fingers of her good hand covered with grease, she extracted the final piece of the letter from the stinking can.
Joxian, in whispers:
“If ama finds out, she’ll raise the roof.”
Arantxa: shrugs her shoulders, a blasé shake of her head, as if saying who cares?, I’m not afraid of her. She cleaned up the torn letter on her mother’s apron, hung behind the door. She moved away awkwardly in her wheelchair. Her father tried to help her. She, surly, rejecting, wordlessly informed him she needed no help. But he, as usual, was overcome with compassion. How was his daughter going to move the wheelchair with only one hand? Actually, just as she did a short time before, only in the opposite direction.
“Go on, go on.”
And trying not to make noise so that Miren, still asleep, wouldn’t hear them, he quickly wheeled her to her room.
Alone, on the side of the bed where there are no safety bars, having smoothed ou
t the sheets as best she could, she reconstructed the letter. “Joxe Mari: it’s Bittori writing to you. You’re probably surprised that.” So by midmorning, when she ran into Bittori, Arantxa was aware of the letter’s contents. She hesitated between putting the papers back into the garbage and keeping them, but keeping them for what purpose. Well, she’d see. And for now, she hid them in a dresser drawer.
At one, Celeste brought her back to the house. Father, mother, and daughter ate, their eyes fixed on the TV, Wheel of Fortune. But Joxian, wrapped up in himself, sleepy, is not interested in the program. And besides, the cheers of the youthful audience drive him mad.
“Couldn’t we lower the volume a bit?”
After lunch, while passing the time waiting for the ambulance that takes her to afternoon physical therapy, Arantxa wrote to her brother on her iPad. She told, she explained, she announced that Bittori, Txato’s wife, would write him in prison “and I’d like you to answer her, this is your sister asking you, your sister who doesn’t forget you, ama needn’t know.” In that severe but affectionate tone. She finished: “She’s a good woman. Muxu bat.” It’s bad luck that a left-handed woman can’t use her left hand. She worked like mad, not accepting her limitations, with more rage than skill, to copy the text onto a sheet of paper, foreseeing that, of course, the attempt would be a failure. Did she fail? Completely.
She hadn’t planned to see her children until Saturday, and today was Thursday. What to do? Who could transcribe the letter and immediately mail it? A delicate matter: whoever does it will read the letter. She discarded her father. Celeste? I won’t see her until tomorrow. Besides, I don’t trust her. It isn’t that she’d be carrying tales to Miren, not at all. But for sure she tells her family things about her everyday experiences with the incapacitated woman (or paralyzed woman, I have no idea what word those people would use) and who’s to know if they don’t go around gossiping.
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