Copyright © 2014 by Allen Johnson
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Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-009-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-022-2
Printed in the United States of America
For
My adopted brother,
Who has been a victim of tyranny
And a model of forgiveness and integrity:
Juanito Garcia Oliver
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to my literary agent, Peter Riva, who, from the beginning, offered unflagging counsel, encouragement, and commitment in the writing, editing, and publishing of The Awakening.
I would also like to thank my dear friends—Judy Clem, Patricia Johnson, and Carl Van Hoff—all of whom graciously and meticulously lent their insightful comments and proofreading skills.
Your vision will become clear
Only when you look into your heart.
Who looks outside, dreams.
Who looks inside, awakens.
—Carl Jung
Although few acknowledge and even fewer accept, there is a time in every person’s life when he or she is invited to be awakened.
For Anthony Rossi that time was September 1990 through January 1991. For Diego Garcia it was fifty-five years earlier in the teeth of the Spanish Civil War.
This is the story of their respective invitations and the ultimate merging of their destinies.
I
THE OLIVE TREES OF ANDALUSIA
Saturday, September 8, 1990.
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT. LUPITA Garcia was at the kitchen table expanding the medical notes she had scribbled in her patients’ files throughout the long day. She had received her first patient at seven in the morning, and the young physician was looking forward to finishing her notes and collapsing into bed.
Finally, she closed the last file with authority, arched her back, peeled off her reading glasses, and gently massaged her eyelids with thumb and forefinger.
“There. That does it,” she said, unpinning her glistening black hair, allowing it to cascade down her back.
Then it happened.
Lupita’s body tensed at the unmistakable whine of her grandfather’s van careening up the narrow cobblestone street and grinding to a stop at the front door of the house.
She was moving to the door when Diego stormed into the living room like a man possessed: “Lupita! Lupita!”
She was only a few feet away, and yet Diego acted like she was invisible.
She was terrified by the frenzy of her grandfather’s booming voice. “Tito! I am right here! ¿Que pasa?”
Diego whipped around to the sound of her voice and finally focused on his granddaughter. “Come!” he shouted, and then again, “Come!” He barreled out the front door like a man running for his life.
Lupita was on her grandfather’s heels. The battered work van was still running, the front wheel perched at an angle on the sidewalk. Diego slid the side panel door open.
Lupita gasped.
There, crumpled among a jumble of shovels, hoes, plastic tubing, and olive tree seedlings, was the body of a man, a stranger, his head and torso drenched in blood. Lupita felt for the carotid pulse; it was beating, but only faintly.
“My God, Tito, we have to get this man to the hospital in Córdoba!”
Diego faced his granddaughter and clutched her firmly by both shoulders. “You know I cannot do that!” he bellowed. His eyes were scalding, his mouth trembling with emotion. Lupita had seen that look before and knew that any protest was futile.
“All right,” she conceded, “but you have to understand he could die.”
“He is more likely to die on his way to Córdoba.”
Lupita was now in charge, as Diego knew she must be. After all, this was not new territory for his granddaughter; at thirty-two years of age, she was already a respected general practitioner and surgeon in the Córdoba province.
“Get the blanket from my bed,” she commanded.
While Diego hurried into the house, Lupita tentatively examined the bandanna that Diego had tied around the stranger’s neck to slow the bleeding; the blood was already dry; no artery had been compromised. Then she ripped open the stranger’s shirt and located a puncture wound at his left shoulder. The wound was still slowly oozing blood. She tore off her blouse, rolled the garment into a compress, and firmly pressed the wad against the open lesion. The stranger did not stir.
As her grandfather returned with the blanket, she unhooked her bra and cinched it tightly around the makeshift compress. She caught her grandfather’s gaze, which was not disapproval, but rather pride in his granddaughter’s unconstrained ingenuity—at a time when speed and execution were more important than propriety.
Lupita rolled the stranger to his side. “Tuck the blanket underneath him.”
Once centered on the improvised stretcher, they carried the man into the house.
“The dining room table,” Lupita said, straining under the load.
They eased the stranger’s body onto the century-old oak table, sending a vase with fresh flowers crashing to the terracotta tile floor.
“Get my bag,” Lupita said. Then, mindful that she was still naked from the waist up, added, “And a shirt.”
The young doctor seized a table lamp from the living room and planted it next to the stranger’s side. She immediately began examining the shoulder wound, a deep three-centimeter-diameter puncture, which would need to be stitched. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the laceration had narrowly missed both the axillary artery and the lung.
After treating and dressing the patient’s shoulder, she turned to the gash at his throat and the abrasion on his forehead. Both required a thorough cleaning and several stitches.
During the examination and treatment, Diego stood beside his granddaughter, responding swiftly to every command. He was awestruck by her surgical skills.
Lupita did an ABO test to determine the man’s blood type. She mixed a drop of her patient’s blood with the anti-A antibody serum and then with the anti-B serum. The anti-A sample agglutinated; the anti-B did not. He was type A. Thank God for that. Diego was also type A; he could be the blood donor. Hematologic procedure called for two additional reagent blood tests to absolutely confirm her results, but time was unforgiving. Without an immediate transfusion, the stranger could die from hemorrhagic shock. Her eyes narrowed. “Al diablo con eso,” she said to herself. The hell with it. Better to act now than risk losing her patient.
She called her grandfather by his pet name. “Tito, I have to do a blood transfusion. You have the right type. Are you willing?”
Diego was already rolling up his sleeve. “Take as much as you need.”
Lupita smiled. “I think a pint will do it, Tito.”
“I am ready.”
“I am not,” she said, moving swiftly to the do
or. “I need some things from the clinic.”
Lupita jumped into Diego’s van and raced to the small clinic down the hill near the entrance of Espejo, which housed Lupita’s office and a bare-essentials emergency room. She quickly gathered hydration fluid, anti-tetanus serum, catheters, syringes, and two IV pole stands. Treating the patient at the clinic would have been easier, but the doctor knew that Diego would never stand for it; it smelled too much like a hospital. She loaded the supplies into the van and sped up the hill.
When Lupita rushed through the door, she almost burst out laughing. Diego had moved the stranger to one side of the table and was now lying stoically beside him, his sleeve rolled up, and his eyes fixed on the pin-and-mortise oak beams overhead.
Lupita quickly set up the IV pole stands and started the blood transfusion.
“I am glad I am giving my blood.”
“Yes, Tito.”
“I realize he is not Juanito, but it is still a good thing.”
“It is a very good thing.”
When they had done everything possible, it was two o’clock in the morning. Both Lupita and Diego were exhausted. Lupita decided to leave the stranger overnight on the dining room table. For security, she wrapped a rope three times around the table, crossing the stranger’s legs, hips, and sternum. The next morning, when he was more stable, they would transfer him to her bed.
Lupita kissed her grandfather on his forehead. “You did well, Tito.”
The two sat down in the living room, speaking quietly, almost in a whisper.
“Gracias, Lupita. You were unbelievable. I am so proud of you.”
Lupita smiled lovingly at her grandfather. “Where did you find the man, Tito?”
“The Arab Quarter in Granada.”
The Garcias lived in the village of Espejo, 130 kilometers northwest of Granada. It was a foolhardy journey, one that could have easily taken the life of the stranger.
“And you decided to bring him here.”
“You know how I feel about hospitals.”
“Yes, Tito.”
A pause.
“You understand, of course, that we will have to call Miguel.”
“Yes, I know,” Diego said, “but not tonight.”
“No, not tonight,” she said, her eyes beginning to weigh heavy for want of sleep.
Lupita stood up and caressed the back of her grandfather’s head. “Goodnight, Tito. You are an angel.” She took one last look at the stranger and went to bed.
Diego did not get up; he was too restless, too stirred up to sleep now. Not that falling asleep was a problem for Diego; unlike many people his age, seventy-four, he could nod off at will. But sleep was not on his mind this night. He ran images of Juanito in his head, timeworn memories, yellow and dim, that made him smile, then cringe, then sigh with grudging resolution. Finally, just before drifting off, his thoughts turned to someone more immediate: Miguel. He wondered what trouble the Espejo chief of police might make for them.
Lupita was up at daybreak. She immediately stepped quietly into the dining room, where she found Diego. He was sprawled in an armchair that he had moved from the living room to be closer to the stranger. Lupita’s stethoscope was draped around her grandfather’s neck. When she entered the room, he awakened with a start and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Did you hold vigil all night?”
“I wanted to make sure that he was all right.”
“And is he, Doctor Tito?” she asked, glancing at the stethoscope.
Diego looked askance at his granddaughter. “He has not moved a muscle all night, but I have observed that his chest routinely rises and falls. I think that is a good sign. Would you not agree, doctor?”
Lupita kissed her grandfather on the top of his head. “Yes, doctor. Excellent prognosis. May I?” she asked, unhooking the stethoscope from Diego’s neck.
Lupita listened to her patient’s heart and lungs. Although he was still unconscious, his vital signs had dramatically improved. She was hopeful. She and Diego transferred the stranger to her bed.
At eight o’clock, Lupita telephoned the chief of police. “Miguel, I think you need to pay us a visit.”
“Are you all right?” Miguel asked uneasily.
“I am fine.”
“And Diego?”
“He is fine too. It is something I cannot talk about over the phone.”
“I understand. I will be there in ten minutes.”
Lupita heard Miguel’s patrol car come to a stop. She met him at the door and invited him in. Miguel stood with his cap perched on the crown of his head. There was a look of concern in his eyes. Lupita, who was a stickler when it came to courtesy, regardless of the situation, stared at Miguel’s cap.
“Huh?”
Lupita looked even more fiercely at the cap.
Miguel finally caught on, snatched the hat, and tucked it under his arm. His expression was half annoyance and half embarrassment.
“Now, do not go loco, Miguel. Everything is under control.” Lupita led the police chief to her bedroom, where the stranger lay motionless—his shoulder, head, neck, and throat scrupulously bandaged. Two intravenous tubes were still dripping life-sustaining fluid into his arm and chest.
“Caramba! Who in the world is that?”
“I told you not to go loco.”
“All right, all right, but who is he?”
“We do not know.”
“What do you mean, ‘you do not know’?”
“I mean, we do not know. We do not know who he is.”
“Is he sleeping?”
“He is unconscious.”
“Holy mother of God, you have an unconscious man in your bed, Lupita, and you do not know who he is?”
“Exactly.”
Miguel ran his hand though his hair in total frustration and unthinkingly donned his cap.
Again Lupita glared at the hat.
“What?”
Lupita pointed with her nose at the offending cap, which Miguel again snapped off his head.
“Lupita!”
The doctor was not sure if Miguel’s exasperation was linked to the errant cap or the mysterious man or both. “What?”
“How did he get here?”
“Tito brought him here from Granada.”
“From Granada!”
“That is what I just said, Miguel. Stop repeating after me.”
Miguel expanded his barrel chest, making him look even more bear-like than usual. “Sit down, Lupita,” he said, motioning to a straight-back chair at the side of the bed. He fetched a second chair from the dining room and plopped down facing her. He spoke slowly, trying to control his emotions. “Where is Diego?”
“He is on the terrace,” she said, starting to get up.
“No, you stay where you are. I will get him.” He stood up and put his hand to his temple. “I could really use some coffee.”
“You know where to find it.”
Miguel turned, hitched up his gun belt, and made his way through the living room to the kitchen. He found a mug from the cupboard and filled it to the brim. Then he passed through the living room again to the sliding door that opened onto the balcony terrace.
Diego was leaning over the railing, looking to the south at the olive orchards that extended up and over the hills all the way to the horizon. Their home, a white-stucco row house at the top of the hill in the shadow of the church steeple, offered a perfect view of the village rooftops and the orchards beyond.
Diego turned when he heard the sliding door open.
“Ah, Miguel, hola! ¿Como esta usted?” Diego recognized Miguel’s coffee mug—it was his favorite—so, out of mischief, he added, “Can we get you a cup of coffee?”
“Buenos días, Diego. No, thank you. I have already helped myself.” He raised his mug in a salute.
“So you have.”
“Good coffee too.”
“Glad you like it. So, tell me, what good fortune brings you here?” Diego asked, his eyes still transfixed
on the hills.
Miguel pulled on his face and neck. “It seems you have a stranger in the house.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Well, then?”
“Have you met him?”
“I cannot say I have really met him. I have seen him.”
“Si. He is not very chatty right now, is he?”
“No, he is not. And he is awfully busted up.”
“I noticed that too.”
“Hmm. So, would you like to tell me about him?”
During this conversation, Lupita made her way to the terrace; it was not an interview she wanted to miss. Diego could be merciless with Miguel. He did not dislike the chief of police; in fact, he was rather fond of him, as he was fond of all his neighbors. More than anything, it was his uniform that he could not stomach. It was not personal; Diego was repelled by all vestiges of authority. When talking to anyone with conferred power—policemen, priests, soldiers, doctors (with the noted exception of his granddaughter)—Diego took his own sweet time.
All three stood at the railing, Miguel and Lupita flanking Diego.
There was a lull in the conversation.
“Diego?”
“Yes, Miguel.”
“Did you want to tell me about the man?”
Diego swept back a wisp of hair. “I am sorry, Miguel. I thought I already told you. There is a busted-up man in Lupita’s bed.”
“I know that, Diego. I would like to know how he got there.”
“I can explain that.”
“Good.”
Diego remained silent, while Miguel waited with dwindling patience. Lupita bit her bottom lip to stop from laughing.
“Diego?”
“Yes, Miguel.”
“You were going to tell me how the stranger got here.”
“Yes, I was. Well, it is quite simple. I brought him here.”
Miguel looked down the hillside and started counting housetops. When he got to ten, he spoke again. “Diego, I know you brought him here. Lupita told me you brought him here. What I want to know is why you brought him here.”
“Oh, I see, Miguel. You want to know the whole story.”
“Yes, Diego, the whole story.”
The Awakening Page 1