The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “You merit more than I could ever give you, my sweet daughter.”

  The ceremony was distinguished by one other detail: Diego’s father served as the best man, a duty he at first protested.

  “The best man should be your closest friend.”

  Diego clutched his father’s shoulders. “That is why I have chosen you Papa.”

  After the ceremony, the entire wedding party, over twenty-five in all, was invited to a dinner. Respectful of Muslim traditions, two fat lambs—seasoned in a marinade of olive oil, lemon juice, pepper, and oregano—were skewed and roasted over an open fire.

  There were speeches to be made and songs to be sung and dances to be danced. The guests lingered until the morning light, and, with the exception of Lupe’s parents, all were a little drunk.

  Diego’s father beamed throughout the evening. He had a crisp 100-peseta bill in his pocket. It was an enormous sum: a month’s salary for a farm hand in 1935. He had to sell his beloved burro, Regalo, to raise the sum. It was true; he would miss his old friend, but it was a fair exchange to honorably celebrate the marriage of his son.

  In the first morning light, when the music and laughter finally began to lull, Francisco hooked the arms of Diego and Lupe and walked them to the burning embers of the roasting pit. The lovers’ faces shone in the combined light of the hot coals and the morning sun—a soft yellow-orange hue, so beautiful that it tore at Francisco’s heart. He put his arms around the bride and groom, and for that moment the trio became one, like the trunks of three olive trees grown together.

  “How I wish your mother could see you now,” Francisco said with tears in his eyes.

  “She does, Papa.”

  “And your beautiful bride. How proud she would be.”

  Francisco took the face of his son in his hands and kissed him long and passionately on both cheeks. “You are my blessed son.” Then he turned to Lupe and kissed her. “And you are my blessed daughter. I am the happiest man on earth.”

  “No happier than I, Papa,” Diego said.

  “Nor I,” Lupe added.

  Francisco gave his son a two-handed handshake and slipped the 100-peseta bill into his palm. “This is for you, my son. It will help a little in the beginning.”

  Diego looked at the bill, and his eyes widened. “Papa, I cannot accept this. It is too much.”

  “Would you deny your father this moment of happiness? Are you that unfeeling? Did I not raise you better than that?”

  Diego gave his father a fierce hug. “Yes, Papa, you have raised me much better than that. Thank you. I am proud to be your son, and I promise to bring you honor.”

  “That promise you have already fulfilled.”

  Finally, Diego and Lupe said goodnight to all their guests and made their way to Diego’s room, which was little more than a narrow bed on a noisy spring frame, separated from the rest of the small house by an orange-and-blue-striped piece of cloth.

  Lupe undid her hair and with the red ribbon attached the lily bouquet to the footboard of the bed.

  “These lilies will bless our marriage,” she said.

  On that early morning, the young lovers silently undressed and explored each other’s body with trembling hands for the first time. They took in the scent of each other’s perspiration. Diego inhaled the breath of Lupe, and Lupe consumed the breath of Diego. They were two souls, once incomplete, now made whole. They were wind and dune, tree and earth, Christian and Moslem interlaced in perfect peace now and forever.

  The days that followed were lost in a dreamy mist of lovemaking and giggles and tussles with sheets and pillows. During one exuberant love battle, one leg of the bed gave in to the assault and sent the lovers crashing to the floor. Even that was funny, the newlyweds giggling as they fabricated a bed support out of a short piece of firewood.

  Francisco was in the house when the bed collapsed. He raised his eyebrows and scratched the back of his ear, an expression, all at once, of belief and disbelief and total contentment.

  Then, two weeks after the wedding, Diego and Lupe knew it was time to make their way to the apartment in Granada. It seemed to be the best plan. It was January, and the harvest was over; there was no more money to be made. It was true that Diego did not have many skills outside of tending to olive trees. But he did know how to work, and he was sure he could find a job in a city as grand as Granada.

  IN 1935, THERE WERE FEW vehicles on the dusty road between Espejo and Granada. So, when Diego and Lupe set out with two small suitcases for the medieval city, they calculated it would take three to four days to walk the 138-kilometer route. But on the afternoon of the first day, they were lucky: A trucker with a load of sheep pulled off to the side of the road.

  The driver was a jovial sort. He had a dark, round face accented by a thin mustache and a three-day beard. “Hola. You two look like you could use a lift.”

  “We sure could,” Diego said. “We are headed for Granada.”

  “You are in luck. That is where I am taking this load of mutton chops.”

  The two climbed aboard, Lupe sitting between the driver and her husband.

  Lupe noticed that the man was wearing a crisp black fedora racked over one eye. “That is a handsome hat.”

  The driver ran his fingers around the brim of his hat and then snapped it like ringing a bell. “You like this? This is my lucky hat. It cost me three-days’ pay, but I think it was worth it.” He turned to Lupe and gave her a wink. “It makes me look rather dashing, do you not think so?”

  “It certainly does,” Lupe said with conviction.

  “You are nice people. I like you. My name is Juan, but all my friends call me Juanito. And, since you are my new friends, you can call me Juanito too.”

  Diego introduced himself and his bride to the driver. He told Juanito about their recent marriage and their dream of starting a life for themselves in Granada.

  “So you are newlyweds. I knew that already, of course.”

  “How did you know?” Lupe asked.

  “It is in your eyes. ‘Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes.’”

  “That is beautiful. Did you just make that up?” Lupe asked.

  “Ah, that I could be so clever. No, my sweet, those are the words of William Shakespeare. My words are much more clumsy.”

  “You seem very intelligent,” Lupe offered.

  “I like to read. Sometimes I read books; sometimes I read people. You, for example. You are in love. When you are in love, you need nothing, except perhaps the moonlight and a few twinkling stars. Am I right?”

  “Yes, Juanito. You are right,” Lupe said, sharing a smile with Diego.

  “Ah! That is wonderful, but is love enough? After all, with time a hungry stomach can speak louder than any declaration of love. Tell me, young lovers, do you have a job?”

  Diego took charge of this question. “No, we do not have work. But I am very strong and willing to do anything. I am not afraid of hard work.”

  “I believe you,” Juanito said. “Maybe I can help you. We have a truckers’ union in Granada, and they take good care of us. It is the right of the people to organize and throw off the chains of bondage. If we do not stand together, the rich will trample us into the ground.”

  Diego and Lupe exchanged a look, not sure what to make of the driver’s peculiar fashion of speaking.

  “Are you a communist?” Juanito asked.

  “No, I am nothing. I am a simple laborer. All I know about are olive trees. I am not political. It is not something that I understand.”

  “But you must understand, if you are to survive.”

  “That may be true,” Diego conceded.

  “I will take you to one of our meetings and introduce you to my comrades. If providence is on our side, you may find a job on the loading docks. It is strenuous work, but …”

  “I am not afraid of hard work!”

  Juanito laughed a series of hoots. “Yes, yes, I know that about y
ou already, my friend.”

  The truck rumbled into the Granada stockyard in the late afternoon. After Juanito had unloaded his cargo of sheep, he suggested the three of them pay a visit to the stockyard foreman, who had a small office on the far end of the docks.

  “Hola, José,” Juanito called out, crashing into the office like a bull out of a chute and draping over a long three-foot high counter.

  José scarcely looked up from a stack of papers at his desk. “Hola, Juanito. Did you get that load in from Córdoba?”

  “José, you surprise me. Have I ever let you down? Of course not. It is not in my character—never has been, never will be. I am a man of honor. My word is my bond.”

  José ignored the oration. “Who have you got there with you?”

  “I am glad you asked, mi capitán. This is Diego and Lupe. They have just arrived in Granada, and, as luck would have it, Diego is at this very moment at liberty.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In the language of the people, it means he needs a job.” Juanito slapped his hand on the counter. “What have you got?”

  “Yesterday, I had nothing. But today a worker fell off the loading dock and broke his foot. He is no good to me now, and I could use a hand.” José looked over Diego. “Let me see your hands young man.”

  Diego presented his hands palms down. The foreman turned them over and rubbed his thumbs into the calluses. He smiled. “You are no stranger to work.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you work six days a week from dawn to dusk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The wage is seventy-five cents a day. Does that suit you?”

  Diego only earned fifty cents a day in the olive orchards. Seventy-five cents seemed like a fortune. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you union?”

  “I am nothing.”

  “Then you are union. Can you start work tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. I sure can.”

  “Good. Be here at six in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Diego offered his hand to the foreman. “Gracias.”

  The foreman shook his hand. “We will see if you thank me at the end of the week.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, one other thing. We have a union meeting once a month. You are expected to be there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the three left José’s office, Diego thanked Juanito for his kindness, vigorously shaking his hand. “I will not forget this.”

  The young couple took up their suitcases and began the last leg of their journey, a five-mile trek to their new apartment in the Arab Quarter, the Albaicín. The two talked non-stop, excited about the turn of events—certain that it was the first sign of good things to come.

  Tired as they were, Diego was grateful that Lupe knew the way to the apartment. When they approached the center of town, she warned her husband that the flat was not a palace. Diego said it did not matter, but when they finally arrived, the setting was even more grim than he had imagined. The apartment looked out on a narrow side street, barely wide enough for a horse and wagon to pass. The doorway was darkened, and the steps up to the third-floor flat were both uncovered and uneven, crackling underneath them at each step.

  The apartment itself was a single darkened room, completely bare except for two straight-back chairs, a small wooden table, and a stained mattress folded in half on the floor in the corner of the room. There was no bed frame. Diego unfolded the mattress, and a rat scampered out from its hiding place.

  Lupe screamed. “Get him, get him.”

  Diego flung his suitcase at the rat. It hit its mark, stunning the rat. Diego finished the job with two stomps of his heel. Then he turned to Lupe, who was now standing on her suitcase in the middle of the room.

  “It is over.” Diego took his bride in his arms. She was trembling. “Shh. You are all right now.”

  “I am sorry I am such a baby, but I hate rats. I really hate rats.”

  “I will make sure we have no rats.”

  Lupe calmed down and again surveyed the room. When she looked again at the worn mattress, she said, “Oh, I wish we had a bed frame. I know that is awful of me. We have so much, but would it not be nice?”

  “Yes, Lupe.”

  Although there was no electricity, there was a potbelly woodstove, a kitchen sink, and, to the lovers’ delight, a small bathroom with a toilet and a cold-water hand basin. There was much work to be done, but that would wait for another day. That night Diego and Lupe ate from their dwindling supply of bread and dried sausage and fell into bed, exhausted, but terribly happy. As they lay there in each other’s arms, Diego hummed José Padilla’s beautiful melody, “La Violetera,” a tender song about a flower girl from Madrid with happy eyes who enflames the heart of every man who buys a violet for his buttonhole. And before the melody resolved, Lupe was fast asleep.

  “I DO NOT THINK MIGUEL wants to hear this story,” Diego said.

  Miguel’s chin was on his chest. His mouth was open, and he was snoring.

  “Would you like me to wake him up?” Lupita asked.

  “No, let him rest. It is not easy being the chief of police. So many naps and so little time. And then there are all those aggravating cups of coffee to drink; the work must be grueling.”

  “You should not be so hard on him, Tito.”

  “You are right. He cannot help it. He thinks that the secret to life is following the rules.”

  “It gives him a purpose, Tito.”

  “I understand that, but there is so much more.”

  “Like your love for Lupe?”

  Diego smiled. “There is no greater joy, Lupita: to touch the soul of the person you love. I hope you experience that for yourself one day.”

  “So do I, Tito.”

  Miguel snorted.

  “He must be rounding up the desperados,” Diego said.

  “I will give him a nudge.”

  “We could put a fly in his mouth.”

  “Tito.”

  “Or unzip his pants and pull his shirttail out.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Or how about tying his shoe laces together and shouting ‘fire’?”

  “You are cruel, Tito. I think I will just give him a nudge.”

  “Where is the fun in that?”

  Lupita tugged Miguel’s sleeve, and the police chief woke up with a start, both feet coming off the floor.

  “So, you gave Lupe’s brother two plates of churros,” Miguel said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “We are a little bit beyond that point in the story, Miguel. But not to worry; I will fill you in on all the details later.”

  “Did you get to the part about the stranger?”

  “Not yet, Miguel.”

  “Good.” Miguel took a deep breath and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “All right. I am ready now.”

  THE SHOP FOREMAN WAS RIGHT: The work was hard. Most of the day, Diego loaded sacks of grain and fertilizer from warehouse to truck and truck to warehouse. But occasionally, he worked the livestock—running sheep, pigs, and cattle in and out of the corral—a welcomed job that made him think of Espejo and the olive orchards. All in all, he was thankful for the work and certainly up to the task. In time, his muscles responded to the strain, becoming even more firm and defined.

  He liked the other men. They generously shared their tricks of the trade, like how to twist the tail of a wayward steer or lift a 35-kilo sack of cement without breaking your back. Sometimes, over lunch, they would play dominos and joke with Diego about his beautiful new wife.

  But of all the men, Diego felt closest to Juanito. At the end of a day’s run, the merry poet would find Diego, slap him on his back, and ask, “So tell me, my boy, how are things in Camelot?”

  Although Diego understood only half of what Juanito said, he knew one thing for certain: He was a good man with an enormous heart. He was someone he wanted as a friend.

  In early February, Diego decided to visit Jua
nito at his home, who, as Diego had discovered, also lived in the Arab Quarter. It was where nearly all the poor working-class people lived. Like Diego and Lupe, Juanito occupied a small cold-water, upstairs apartment.

  Juanito greeted Diego in his distinctive whimsical style. “Ah, it is my good friend, Diego. Enter my humble home, my brother.”

  Juanito’s apartment was dominated by stacks of books scattered on a small desk and along the walls. Diego had never seen so many books.

  “I know,” Juanito apologized. “Order may be heaven’s first law, but here it is chaos that rules.”

  “You must like to read very much.”

  “These are my friends,” Juanito said, picking up three books at random. “This is Voltaire. This is Cervantes. This is Hardy. I also have Marx and Descartes and Plato somewhere in this hovel,” he said, waving his arm across his body.

  “How can you afford so many books?”

  “I am not married,” Juanito laughed. “These are my concubines. They are not as warm in the night, but their words can inflame your imagination. How else can you enter the minds of the most evolved men of antiquity?”

  The two men sat and drank a cup of Juanito’s exceptionally strong coffee. “If it is not robust, it will leave you hairless,” Juanito chuckled, reaching over and tapping Diego along the side of his smooth cheek.

  As was often the case, Juanito began talking about his passion for the people’s union and the liberty of the working class. “Come, I want to show you something.”

  Juanito led Diego to his small bedroom and a reproduction of a painting by Francisco de Goya mounted in a narrow oak frame.

  “This painting is called The Third of May 1808.”

  Diego had never seen the painting, and he was struck by its drama. It was a night scene; the ghostly skyline of Madrid could be seen in the background. The focal point of the painting was a peasant in white shirt and ochre pants the color of the earth, kneeling before a broad stain of blood. The Spaniard’s arms were outstretched above his head, his face illuminated by the light of a large lantern. The heroic man, surrounded by terrified villagers pleading for their lives, was about to be shot by a Napoleon firing squad. Diego thought the man’s face, dark with a thin mustache and a mat of curly hair, looked like Juanito.