by John Elliott
The black and white illustration on page 34 in front of him showed Raul, the younger Sanchez brother, pointing in terror into the interior of a gigantic cave from which he had fled. Behind him, a raging sea hurled spume over the guano-stained rocks. In one of its troughs, a bumboat, manned by straining oarsmen, beat its way tenaciously to his rescue. Outside, the voices restarted with an added intensity. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he closed this, his favourite book, opened the door and, finding no one around, ran to the salon.
Overall, it had already been a strange day. Rosario and Veri had been caught that morning in an unexpected downpour on their return from the Tuesday market. Forced to scamper off the road, they had sought shelter in the disused chapel of the Little Hermitess of Salaca, whose interior was mournfully dilapidated and filthy with grime. Veri had told him later that recent human excrement had been shat where the altar once was and that the air had been so stinking and horrible that it had driven them back to the crumbling threshold where they were spattered with the teeming rain. First the hills and then their view of the road itself disappeared in the unrelenting torrent. Thunder and lightning rolled, crashed and flared over their forced stopping place. Veri kept wanting to dash in and out, but Rosario pinched her arm tightly and, in an attempt to divert her attention no doubt, started to relate the story of the Little Hermitess.
Eventually, the storm lessened, and, when only a few drops of rain splashed and dripped from the broken coping above, the two of them set off again. On their way back, the road and its verges were strewn with snails. They were so abundant that Veri was able to crush many of them under her feet without being admonished. For several days afterwards, at the slightest pretext, she had grinningly tried to imitate their crunching, cracking, squelching sound.
Tian, for his part, it turned out, had risen with the dawn. After drinking a glass of the previous night’s coffee, he had shut himself in his workroom, intending to continue the notation he had begun the week before. A frustrating hour of inactivity later, he was seized by an ungovernable rage which culminated in him wrestling over his chair, hurling the empty glass at the wall and exiting to pace agitatedly up and down the narrow field behind the house.
When he calmed down sufficiently to return indoors, he took a bottle of brandy from the kitchen shelf and ensconced himself in the bay of the yard where the logs were stored. His curses and shouted obscenities continued to reach the house for some time until they gradually tailed off as the contents of the bottle decreased. His mood then plateaued out with the few remaining snifters, inspiring him to lusty renditions of the sentimental songs that had been popular in his student days. Drowsiness overtook him by noon.
Their meal together, in spite of Veri pulling funny faces and trying to chatter about snails, was fraught and otherwise virtually silent. After it, Tian went back to work with no more success. He chose not to join his circle of friends at the Café Goldsmith at the customary time, but instead fitfully studied a score for trio of clarinet, cello and piano, recently submitted by one of his final year composition students. Rosario, some time after five, coaxed him to sit with her during the dead hours while she mended one of Veri’s nightgowns.
Towards six o’clock, this restored but fragile domesticity was interrupted by the sudden, flustered arrival of Adelaida, who lived in the cottage at the top of the road. Breathlessly, she told them all that a stranger had been spotted twice; firstly standing in the olive grove farther up the hill by Josep when he had gone out to inspect his tomatoes after the storm, and secondly by old Domingo as he unharnessed his mule at the foot of Alberca Lane. Because of the many visitors, ‘those unknowns’ in her words, who came to see the professor, she at once thought of his house. The descriptions given, however, fitted a workingman. ‘Not one of them,’ she admitted, meaning gypsy, ‘not by complexion anyway,’ and as most of Sebastian’s acquaintances were either ‘ladies, gentlemen or bohemians,’ she thought it best to check and bring a warning.
Adelaida had scarcely departed when the boots of an extra patrol were heard outside in the yard. Two of them presented themselves at the door. By their accents they were young Southerners whose rifles seemed too big for their bodies. Tightened vigilance was now in operation following the reports of an unauthorised person who had been seen acting suspiciously. If sighted, the barracks should be phoned right away. Their message delivered, they saluted again and rejoined their detail. Soon after they had gone, the murmuring began.
For whatever reason, Sonny did not go through the closed salon door immediately. Fear, whether fear of being sent away, or fear of some kind of disappointment, he could not say now looking back from such a distance. Instead, he had retreated to the kitchen where he picked up his book again, this time without opening it. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than before. The minutes dragged by in leaden fashion. Indecisively, he put down and lifted up the battered green covers of The Brothers Sanchez, the normal spell of their contents devoid of interest beneath the weight of what he sensed was about to be.
His self-imposed exile ended at last when Rosario poked her head round the doorway and said, ‘There’s someone here to see us.’ Her tone was even, but her eyes betrayed a mixture of watchfulness and grief. Part of him wanted desperately to stay where he was, not to go with her, yet in the pull of his love for her, and her love for him, he knew there was no other choice but to go.
The shutters in the salon were closed. The lamps were lit. Tian, clearly annoyed, looked up when they entered. Opposite him, a man was sitting uneasily on the sofa. A fake leather and fur cap lay beside him. Veri stood behind, her fingers draped around his neck. She drummed them on his shoulders then giggled and tugged at his hair.
The man smiled. ‘Don’t you know me, Sonny?’
He could not answer. In the soft lamplight, the man’s face, despite the deep lines and creases on his brow and cheeks, still retained a boyish air. His thick, unkempt golden hair curled around his ears. Veri intensified her tugging and fidgeting with it and the inside of his grubby-looking collar. She whispered a name over and over.
Rosario said, ‘It’s been a long time. He’s shy. He’s grown so used to Orias, he’s forgotten Llomera.’
Hot tears smarted in his eyes. Tian muttered disapprovingly. Of course, it was Batistet. How could he have failed to recognise him? The colour of his hair alone had always set him apart and made him distinct. ‘The Blond’, people for miles around had called him, and he had always been proud of his golden mop. His comb came out at every chance to set it to rights, to sculpt it as befitted a ladykiller. Here in the salon, though, it had lost its lustre. All his clothes looked as though he had slept in them for days. The bottoms of his black trousers and shoes were caked in dried mud. His whole appearance exuded fatigue and an air of neglect.
‘You used to come everywhere with me. Everyday you came looking for me, remember? You rode with me upon our tractor. I had to faithfully promise Manolo and your mother here that no harm would come to you. I was there to protect you.’
‘And take him places he shouldn’t have gone,’ Rosario chided.
Batiste grinned. ‘Only to the mill, to see the millers underground. Just to Ligac, to see the horses and the farrier. What if the carters and gypsies told stories, and the girls at The Crystals used language only known to Christians? They all knew who he was, your and Manolo’s son, my little shadow.’
‘It’s a lie! It’s a lie!’ he shouted out, taken aback by the vehemence of his own voice.
An embarrassed silence fell until Tian said, ‘Excuse Sonny’s behaviour.You must be tired, Batiste. We’ll let you rest now. You’ll be alright here. We’ll talk again later tonight. If you want to be alone with Rosario I’ll make myself scarce.’
Batiste swivelled his head and tenderly kissed Veri’s fingertips. He nodded to Tian. Then, as he wearily got to his feet, he pulled out a thin, brown paper parcel from inside his jerkin and laid it beside his cap on the sofa. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped
his lips. He stared at Rosario. Everyone else’s eyes fixed on the packet with its crumpled and partly torn paper and its frayed string. Without speaking, Rosario advanced towards it with the gait of a sleepwalker. She lifted it tentatively, as though it might disintegrate under her slightest touch, then she pressed it to her bosom. ‘Thank you, Batiste.’
He did not reply. She began to weep softly. Veri dashed round from behind the sofa and clutched at her skirt, her own eyes filling with sympathetic tears. Tian led the way to the daybed in the cubbyhole where he, himself, sometimes dozed if he had been working during the night. Batiste sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. He stretched back and closed his eyes. ‘Since I crossed the border,’ he said, ‘sleep and I have been strangers.’
Neither he nor Veri felt able to ask about the parcel, although they both sensed it had to with their father. When they were alone together, Veri said, ‘It’s probably Daddy’s bones. They’ve been ground down and mixed with his hair. Mummy will burn them and bury the ashes. Then Tian can write music about it. We mustn’t tell the teacher or anyone. You must promise never ever to tell.’ Her face puckered up with grief and she shoved her clenched fists against his chest, rocking him back. He was overwhelmed with hatred for Batiste.
‘I hate him! I hate him! We don’t want him here,’ he cried.
At supper, Batiste ate sparingly, declining a second helping of garlic soup. When Tian quizzed him about his life over the border, he explained that he managed to get by with working in the fields or taking the occasional factory job. He was a good mechanic, but steady work in that line was hard to find, and, although he spoke a variant of the local dialect, his knowledge of proper French had not progressed beyond the rudimentary. The papers he carried gave him a French identity that was okay for a casual scrutiny. Anything else and he would be in trouble. His accent would let him down. He asked Tian about the possibility of a genuine amnesty.
‘It depends who you listen to. Some say they could come back, but in my opinion it won’t be safe for a long time. Anyway, who is ready to forgive and forget? That’s the unpalatable truth.’
‘Have you been home?’ Rosario asked.
Batiste shifted awkwardly in his chair and shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. But perhaps if you ever went there you could speak to my mother. I know she’s still alive.’
‘Who knows? One day we might. It might be possible.’ She glanced at Tian.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been thinking about the present situation. If anyone asks I’ll tell them a French colleague came to consult me. Tomorrow I’ll drive Batiste nearer to the frontier. After all, there’s nothing remarkable about two musicologists on a field trip. We’ve got some suitable clothes, haven’t we, Rosario? No, don’t worry. It’s the least I can do after the risk you’ve taken. My name anyway should squash any suspicions. Don’t forget, Manolo himself asked Rosario and the kids to depend upon it.’
Now, as the card players at his side were well into their second game, Sonny realised that they had all laid an imaginary place for Manolo at that table. His absence had seemed more real, had carried more weight, than their own presence. It had been as if none of them could avoid looking over from time to time to see how he was doing, how he was dying invisibly once again among their company. Rosario especially had tended to the void, pushing her knife and bread ever closer to it, unnecessarily lifting the ladle from the soup tureen to fill the non-existent plate.
Batiste, he now was sure, had disliked being in the house, and he suspected, for her part, Rosario had wished that someone else had come, someone, who in life and thought, had been closer to her dead husband, rather than this one-time gadabout Lothario, whose drunken sprees and on–off courtships had been a perennial source of gossip in Llomera. As for Tian, there had been no mistake. He had made it plain in a hundred little ways that he found the intrusion tiresome and unwelcome.
The meal finished, they were sent to bed. He was glad to go, but Veri protested and wriggled more than usual. Only the threat of a slap and confinement in their room made her reluctantly comply. When at last they were tucked in and Rosario had kissed them, Veri asked, ‘Will we see what’s under the brown paper?’
‘Yes. Yes, you will tomorrow. It’s only some letters and things of Daddy’s. Photos he had of us, identification papers, things like that. Don’t you remember? We talked about it after we knew he had died. We knew some day we would get more news and see the things that were with him in the days we were apart.’
‘Don’t believe Batiste,’ Sonny exclaimed. ‘He tells lies. He makes up stories. He once told me there were ghosts in the cemetery when I was little and that when you ate the last scrapings of the pot you turned into a dog or a pig depending on how big the moon was.’
‘And rub your belly on the ground,’ Veri squealed, imitating a snuffling pig.
‘Hush! This isn’t about stories. Batiste was with Daddy when they crossed into France. Then he was sent to another place where he heard Daddy had died. His funeral had been held by the time he was able to get there, so he collected what there was and hung on to it. Iusebio hadn’t made it to the frontier and Daddy had told Batiste where we’d be. Anyway, he’s known Tian from their schooldays. He waited until he could find someone he could trust the things with, but the news for a long time was bad. People who had returned were arrested and put in prison. Now he’s come in person. He’s put himself in a lot of danger. So we must all agree never to mention his being here to anyone else. We’ll play a game, shall we? We’ll call him Monsieur Pierre. You can both say hello and goodbye in French, so it will be easy.’
He spent the rest of the night in jumbled dreams. In them a cat roamed about in a glade. While it swam across a stream, the water made it grow bigger and bigger. He struggled to get up and free it from the kitchen where it mewed piteously and scratched against the door, but the blanket was too tight around his body, and when he did manage to get it off he found that his legs had lost all their strength. They absolutely refused to carry him over the floor. He was Raul Sanchez and he was drowning. His head forced itself above the surface. He cried out to his rescuers, whose boat he saw perched on the crest of the next huge wave, but no sound escaped from his despairing lips. His body was exhausted. They only cared for gold. The horrible realisation made his flesh creep. Even his brother, Ernesto, was prepared to leave him here unmourned rather than lose time to pursue the heap of treasure, that was why they rowed so lustily, so fixated were they on rounding the headland and finding the cove where at the top of the cliff trail there was . . .
At last, the white light of dawn suffused the wall opposite. In the adjoining bed, Veri breathed softly in little rounded sighs, her mouth half open on the pillow. He pulled on a pair of blue shorts and edged the door ajar. The house was still and closed in on itself. He tiptoed down the stairs, halting at each creak before continuing his wary progress. No sounds of anyone waking disturbed his opening of the outer door to the courtyard. He shivered as the heavy dew wet his bare feet. He crossed the yard and went into the road.
Below the verge, the outskirts of Orias were stirring to the indignant crowing of cocks patrolling their territorial dung heaps. The braying of donkeys and the whinnying of mules joined the chorus as they were led out, pulled and coaxed between the shafts of their carts. The first mail train of the day was already on its way. Plumes of its smoke hung by the river’s edge then drifted out over the valley.
Turning the corner, he saw the figure of a man sitting on his heels, his back pressed against the far side of the courtyard wall. He joined him. He stretched out on the earth at his side. Batiste took off his jerkin and wrapped it round Sonny’s naked shoulders then, cupping his hands, he lifted Sonny’s feet and rubbed them vigorously until the numbness went and they tingled. Slowly, Sonny’s tiny shivers ceased and, as the feeble warmth of the sun increased, he began unselfconsciously to chatter about this and that, telling about school, his playmates, Veri, his mother, Tian and the journey he remembered fro
m Llomera.
While he prattled on, Batiste fished out a tobacco pouch and cigarette paper from the jerkin pocket. He rolled a thin cigarette and said, ‘There’s a lighter in there as well.’
The wheel would not spark to begin with, but with the help of Batiste’s steadying grip he produced a flame. Prolonged, exasperated curses at some recalcitrant beast rose from below. Batiste took a drag and blew out two expanding smoke rings into the air. It was then he had told him about the mule, the one with the lopsided star on its head, which last month had kicked back at him, narrowly missing his thigh.
‘Climb these little hills! Climb! With my Mariana, I’ll make my living,’ Batiste sang softly.
Looking earnestly into Batiste’s face, he said fiercely, ‘I’ll always be “nothing for us”. Forever and ever!’
Batiste chucked away the butt of his cigarette and lifted him to his feet. ‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go in. I must leave and the sooner the better.’
The ferry bell clanged twice, interrupting Sonny’s reverie. Beside him, the canasta school began sorting the cards into their separated packs. Most of the people in the saloon were already pressing towards the companionway, although the dock at Panalquin was still a few minutes distant. Sonny rose and tagged on behind a group in the middle of the room.
He had read his father’s letter, perhaps that was the real reason he had expunged Batiste from his recollected Llomeran childhood. It had been among the bits and pieces of the mysterious parcel. He had read it surreptitiously. Later, Rosario had burned it along with some others in an enactment of Veri’s preposterous suggestion.