I greatly valued the hour or so of freedom which was mine in the evenings before supper for this was when I was able to meet up with Anita and her friends. I enjoyed being once more with people of my own age and all through the day I would look forward to eight o’clock when Anita would call for me and we would make for the Espolón to join the others. There were usually six of us: Anita, her best friend Marisol, three boys called Gonzalo, Sergio and Felipe – and me.
Marisol was a vivacious girl with dark eyes, shortish brown hair and a prettiness which stood on its own without the aid of make-up. Sergio was short and unusually fair for a Spaniard. It was easy to see that he had a great interest in Marisol for his eyes never left her and he was always trying to be close to her. She, for her part, managed skilfully to ignore all his attentions. Felipe was not in love with any girl but rather with the idea of becoming a bullfighter. It was an ambition that he knew full well would never be fulfilled but that did not prevent him from dreaming about it. He was totally obsessed and all his conversation was centred around bulls and various heroes of the ring whose exploits he followed with avid interest. Gonzalo wasn’t in love with anyone or anything which was a relief. He was just a clown, a tall, lanky individual with huge glasses and an expression of permanent surprise. He had the ability to make anyone laugh at any time and it was impossible to feel low when he was around.
Sometimes we would sit in one of the pavement cafes in the Espolón and play cards or we would climb the steep hill behind the cathedral, wending our way between scrubby bushes and cypresses till we reached the little café at the top.This hill was known as the ‘Castillo’ for it was here where the old castle once stood and some remains of it and its ancient walls could still be found among dense undergrowth.
The little café-bar at the top of the Castillo hill was small, friendly and primitive. There we would order a porrón of white wine and a dish of prawns. Sitting at one of the wooden tables in the cool of the evening, we would watch the setting sun glowing blood-red behind the tall cathedral spires. Far below us twinkled the lights of Burgos and beyond, the darkening plain stretched away into the distance.
Drinking from the porrón was a skill I had not yet mastered. It required holding it at arm’s length and from that distance, pouring the wine accurately into one’s mouth. Despite repeated efforts I usually made a mess of it, succeeding only in soaking myself with wine to the intense amusement of my companions.They, of course, were experts and usually came down the hill a good deal merrier than when we had climbed it, Anita and Marisol singing, Gonzalo dancing around, Felipe fighting imaginary bulls and Sergio trotting along behind Marisol like a faithful dog.
Sometimes we would call at Anita’s house. It nestled snugly at the foot of the Castillo at the end of a dusty cul-de-sac on the outskirts of town. The house was small but detached with a pink tiled roof, cream walls and a tiny patio at the back. Inside, it was sparsely furnished with only the bare necessities but the atmosphere was so warm and hospitable that I felt very much at home there.
Anita lived with her Aunt Domi and one of her brothers, Teodoro, known to everyone as ‘Teo’. Their small kitchen was usually packed with people – friends, neighbours, relatives – all talking at once, discussing the events of the day, laughing, joking or arguing in a friendly way – usually about politics. In the corner, by the charcoal stove, the diminutive figure of Aunt Domi could be distinguished hazily through the smoke and steam, busy with her frying pan. Every now and then she would add her own comments to whatever discussion was in progress, jabbing the air with her fork to emphasise certain points, her sharp, jet-black eyes darting from one speaker to another.
Between these debates Teo, sitting on the kitchen table and strumming away at his guitar, would entertain us with Latin American songs rendered in a rich, manly voice. It was not easy to leave that cosy haven and return to the Vázquez flat. I felt a bit like a prisoner whose parole had come to an end.
Best of all were Sundays when I had the whole day off and could go with my friends on outings into the countryside.The first of these was an exciting experience, a picnic which was organised soon after my return from Santander.We gathered at Anita’s house bright and early on a hot September morning.There were ten of us as our usual group had been joined by Anita’s older brother, Pablo, who was a medical student living at the local hospital. Also there were two ex-college friends of Anita’s and a French boy called Michel who was spending the summer holidays in Spain. Marisol was learning French and was happy to practise it with Michel who was rather good-looking.
When I arrived Aunt Domi was packing an enormous picnic into bags and rucksacks aided by Anita and her friend Mari Carmen. Michel and Marisol were deep in conversation and Sergio was watching them sulkily. He was the only one who didn’t seem happy that morning.We each grabbed a bag of food and Teo slung his inseperable guitar over his shoulder. Now we were all set to go.
We strode off across the fields, following the river and singing as we went to the accompaniment of the guitar and Michel’s mouth organ. The sun, rising higher in the sky, gained strength, beating down on us as we tramped across the treeless plain. From time to time we stopped to quench our thirst with wine from a bota, a round container made of hide which, when squeezed at arm’s length, squirted a jet of its contents into the mouth. It was slightly easier than a porrón and, driven by necessity, I managed to master it to some extent.
As I walked along beside Anita, I recounted my adventures in Santander. She seemed surprised. “You went out with that older man?” she exclaimed in disbelief.“To a nightclub on your own?”
“Yes, why not?”
“I wouldn’t do that. In Spain girls don’t do that sort of thing.”
“How old-fashioned! Everything here is so behind the times.”
Anita regarded me with disapproval mixed with admiration.“I think things must be very different in England,” she mused.
I thought it best to end this discussion so I asked her about her parents and almost immediately regretted having done so as I saw her smile fade.
“My parents are both dead. My father was a university teacher and he was killed by the Falangists in the Civil War. I can’t remember him. I was very tiny.”
“That’s terrible,” I exclaimed.“Your father killed!”
“So were my uncles although one of them managed to escape to France.You see,” here she instinctively lowered her voice,“we are Republicans. My father and uncles were shot and my grandfather was imprisoned.” There was a pause while I tried to take in this horrifying revelation.Then I said:“And your mother?”
“They took away our house and all our possessions. She fled with us three children but there was nowhere for her to go so Aunt Domi took us all into her house. She’s my father’s sister. My mother had a weak heart and the stress of it all was too much for her. She died a few years ago. Poor Mamá.”
I put my arm round her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Perhaps you’d rather not talk about it.” She shook her head.“No, it’s alright, I don’t mind.We’re not the only ones. Nearly everyone lost relatives in the Civil War and we’re lucky really. Aunt Domi is very good to us. She is paying for my brothers’ careers: Pablo wants to be a doctor and Teo is studying law. It’s just that we have to be very careful. They know about our political past and that doesn’t make life easy for us.”
Again the ominous ‘they’; it reminded me of my conversation with the Basques on the train and I felt very sorry for Anita.
By this time we had caught up with the others who had gone ahead and were now sitting on the river bank under a poplar tree. They were watching a gypsy boy on the opposite bank weaving a basket from reeds. Marisol was still practising her French and seemed to be enjoying a joke with Michel who kept murmuring his musical language into her ear, studying her face with his golden-brown eyes. She responded with little peals of laughter, cheeks pink with pleasure.
Sergio was leaning against the tree, eyes downcast, kicki
ng irritably at the grass and occasionally throwing a sullen glance in the direction of the happy pair. As I approached he grabbed me by the arm.“Do you understand French?” he muttered angrily,“What are those two saying? What’s he saying to her?”
“I’m sorry Sergio, I can’t help you. My French is dreadful and they’re speaking too fast for me to follow.”
Sergio sighed gloomily, plunging his hands deep into his pockets. “Since that Michel arrived she’s spent all her time with him,” he complained.
“Oh come on Sergio! Forget them! Marisol’s only practising her French.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope that’s all she’s practising with him. What does she see in him anyway?”
I smiled.“Well, he’s a really nice boy.”
Sergio muttered something inaudible under his breath and stalked away.
We set off again and walked for about an hour until we reached a spot which everyone agreed would be ideal for our picnic. It was on a river bank under a small grove of trees at the foot of a hill. Perched on top was a small village with mud- coloured houses reminding me of the ones I had seen from the train. Here we set up our camp and three of the lads went off to explore the village. They returned shortly bearing bottles filled with water from the communal fountain and a collection of beakers, knives, cooking pots and various other utensils borrowed from the obliging village priest. It was not long before we were tucking into a giant bowl of salad with hunks of bread and slices of Aunt Domi’s tortilla, all washed down with generous quantities of wine.
While we were eating we heard the jingling of sheep bells and a few nervous, woolly heads peered at us between the bushes.Then the shepherd appeared, a young boy dressed in skins and rope-soled sandals. He reminded me of an illustration in a book of Bible stories I had as a child which showed the boy David preparing to face Goliath.
The shepherd said nothing but came and stood at a short distance, watching us expectantly as we ate – rather like a hungry dog waiting patiently for scraps to be thrown its way. Anita cut a large piece of bread and a good portion of tortilla and held it out to him in silence. He ran forward, a stick-like arm protruding from the skins, and snatched the food eagerly.The next moment he was gone and his sheep with him.
“Poor lad!” I commented.“He must be hungry.”
Anita nodded solemnly.“Lots of people are hungry here.”
The meal over, we all felt replete and perhaps a little guilty after what we had just witnessed.The wine was making us sleepy so we stretched out under the trees to while away the hottest part of the day in their generous shade.Teo strummed gently on his guitar while José and Mari Carmen danced languidly together with bare feet. Michel had fallen asleep and Sergio, swift to take advantage of this happy state of affairs, was trying to persuade Marisol to dance. She was not enthusiastic about the idea, preferring to read a magazine. Gonzalo had climbed a tree and was amusing himself aiming small pebbles at the recumbent bodies below.
I lay back on the dry, wispy grass and closed my eyes, hoping I would not be a target for one of Gonzalo’s pebbles. I turned over in my mind what Anita had told me, horrified by the revelation that her life had already been marred by so much violence and tragedy. I knew little about politics generally and far less about Spanish politics but already several things were becoming clear. It was obvious, even after so many years, that the dark shadow of the Civil War still lingered over Spain. There were reminders of it everywhere: in the ruined buildings, the poverty and, above all, the bitterness of a divided people. I could see that its aftermath was still affecting people’s everyday lives and that this was a land over which hung a blanket of fear.
My reveries were interrupted by something tickling my face. I opened my eyes to see Teo holding a long blade of grass. “Wake up!” he grinned.“I want to show you something funny.”
I sat up and followed his pointing finger. A herd of cows was ambling towards us and Felipe was attempting to lure one of them into combat with his jacket. He stood in front of it, flapping wildly and making encouraging noises.“Eh toro! eh! eh!”The animal stared back at him contemptuously, chewing the cud and flicking flies from its haunches, totally unimpressed. Everyone was laughing and Felipe eventually gave up, flinging his jacket on the ground in disgust.
“You’ll never make a bullfighter!” teased Pablo. Suddenly the cow twitched, and turning, careered straight towards Felipe who was walking back to our group.“Look out torero!” yelled José. Mari Carmen screamed and Felipe ran. I had never seen anyone run so fast, but the cow galloped past him followed by all the others in a frenzied stampede. Felipe tripped and fell into the dust while, from the tree, came the sound of Gonzalo’s guffaws.“I couldn’t resist it!” he hooted. “It was a good shot. Right on the haunches!” He was holding a pebble between finger and thumb and rocking so much with laughter I was afraid he might fall out of the tree. Felipe, who had got up and was dusting himself down, rushed towards the tree, blazing with anger. Anita ran over to calm him and Gonzalo climbed up further.
As the day started to cool, we all became more active. Some of the boys went for a swim in the river while the rest of us hunted for sticks to make a fire.We melted chocolate in one of the priest’s cooking pots until it was ready to pour into cups and eat with biscuits. Later we gathered everything together and walked up the hill to the village to return what we had borrowed.There was not a great deal to see in the village: just a church, an inn and a few houses clustered around the fountain. The paths between the houses were covered with slippery white straw among which a number of chickens were scratching and pecking. Beside the fountain several women had gathered with their water jugs, gossiping and laughing. Children played around in the dirt and watching them on a bench outside the inn was an incredibly aged man, perhaps the oldest inhabitant, enjoying the evening sun. He treated us to a toothless grin as we passed.
We could not stay long in the village as it was getting late.We had a lengthy trek ahead of us and we wanted to get home before nightfall. However, it was not to be, for the sun was already going down as we set off and soon we were walking back in darkness. Carefully, by moonlight, we picked our way across the fields, (I slightly nervously as Teo had warned me there might be snakes) till at last we reached the bridge and arrived under the floodlit cathedral. My friends accompanied me to the doorway of the Vázquez house and there we parted.
I could not bring myself to climb those stairs immediately but paused to watch them all disappearing down the street. I could see that Felipe was pointing excitedly at a poster advertising next Sunday’s bullfight and, as they rounded the corner, Sergio was trying to hold Marisol’s hand. I sighed and reluctantly made my way up the stairs, the sound of their youthful laughter still ringing in my ears.
CHAPTER FOUR
HAZARDS
Tomasín was absent-mindedly drawing something that resembled a well-endowed female on the corner of his exercise book while I explained to him about collective nouns. Outside, a violent storm was raging. Thunder roared, rain lashed against the glass of the conservatory and the silent canary huddled miserably in its cage. Suddenly, the boy looked up and pointed across the room. “See how the lightning has lit up father’s study!” he exclaimed. “But that’s funny! – there are no windows in that room.”
Sure enough a sinister bright light was flickering behind the glass panel which divided Vázquez’s study from the dining room. With a gasp of horror I leapt to my feet.“Quick Tomasín! the study is on fire!”
Smoke was billowing from the study door as we rushed towards it. Don Tomás’s projection screen, stored in a corner, was blazing away merrily but the flames had nearly finished with that and were now eagerly devouring the many books lining the walls. Doña Constanza had also become aware of the disaster and was shrieking and screaming at the servants at the top of her voice. “Rooosa! Josefina! The house is on fire. Quickly, quickly bring water Roooosa!”
Everyone was now coughing and spluttering from the smoke and pande
monium reigned. Tomasín and I tried to beat out the flames that were spreading over the carpet while Josefina and Rosa hurled buckets of water at the books.They rushed frenziedly back and forth from the kitchen bumping into each other in their panic and spilling much of the precious water. Doña Constanza directed operations, screaming and flinging her arms about. In the hall, holding their father’s lighter, Miguel and Paquito stood watching the chaotic scene with expressions of profound satisfaction with a job well done.
At last the flames were extinguished and we were able to survey the damage which was considerable. The screen and many of Vázquez’s medical books had been destroyed, the walls were blackened and there were holes in the carpet. I wondered how Doña Constanza would deal with her younger offspring who had deliberately set fire to the house but to my astonishment, they were not even reprimanded. All she said was: “Oh dear! What a mess! Tomás shouldn’t leave his lighter on the desk!” I came to the conclusion that life in the Vázquez household was hazardous indeed – and in more ways than one.This suspicion was confirmed a few nights later.
It had been a glorious day. Being Sunday, I had spent my free afternoon with Don Federico, climbing the steep, tree-lined road to the monastery. The day was warm and fine, the former oppressive heat having diminished since the thunder-storm and this being late September, there was the faintest hint of autumn in the air.
As we walked, Federico told me stories of his experiences in the Civil War and of his native province of Navarre. We talked about the Festival of San Fermín in Pamplona when bulls were let loose in the streets on their way to the ring, the young men running before them to test their courage. Federico assured me that he himself had often participated in this dangerous activity as a younger man and had various scars to prove it.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 4