Instantly, I was enveloped in a fire of terrible jealousy, completely uncontrollable and frightening in its intensity. It was a basic, primitive passion not experienced since early childhood. It came bubbling up through layers of self-control, built up over the years, to erupt like a volcano, shaking me from head to foot. As predicted by Federico, Shakespeare’s ‘Green-eyed Monster’ had sunk its teeth deep into my neck. How dare this dowdy girl in a black coat take my place! Take what belonged to me!
He’s yours, not hers! hissed the Monster in my ear. Tear her away from him! Go over and confront them both and tell her the truth!
I suppressed this temptation with difficulty and instead prayed that Luis would not look up and see me and what was written on my face.The next minute they had walked by and disappeared into the crowd.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Gonzalo had caught me by the arm and was peering at me anxiously.“You look like you’re…”
I laughed a little hysterically. “It’s you, Gonzalo, you’re so funny! Whoever saw a cowboy in glasses? You’re crazy and you’ve made me laugh so much I’m almost in tears.”
Gonzalo, whose comical face always registered surprise, looked more amazed than ever.
Until now, I had been feeling rather pleased with myself at having succeeded in blocking out thoughts of Luis and generally recovering from the break-up of our relationship. After those first few miserable, sleepless nights, I had come to the conclusion that melancholy brooding was counter-productive and making my situation worse. In order to forget my pain, I had filled every hour with feverish activity, throwing myself whole-heartedly into my teaching, going to dances or the cinema with Anita, meeting friends, and helping Don Federico with his evening English classes. But now, seeing Luis with the girl whose very existence I had refused to acknowledge, was like opening the floodgates and the memories kept pouring in. I recalled those warm, summer days when we had first met at Federico’s academy, the joy of being alone with him after lessons, the first time we kissed. I remembered our walks by the riverside at dusk, watching the sunset’s reflections in the water; our strolls out into the country, those golden afternoons of autumn, with the leaves fluttering down to land on our faces as we lay under the poplars, making plans for when we would be together in Madrid, just the two of us, away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. Of course, it was all hopelessly romantic and it couldn’t last.
Despite being haunted by these bitter-sweet memories, I was careful to hide my feelings from Anita who had an uncanny insight into what was going on in my mind. She had resolved to cure me of my madness and was quite pleased with my progress so I couldn’t disappoint her by confessing to a relapse. She had gone to such pains, even to the extent of inviting José Luis all the way from Madrid to the Christmas Eve party in the belief that his looks and charm might be enough to distract me from thoughts of Luis.
The film was full of blood, passion and unrequited love ending with the two main characters destroying each other slowly, painfully and with a good deal of mess. Aunt Domi enjoyed every minute of it and was in a good mood for the rest of the evening.
Apart from western films, Domi had a passion for reading paperbacks of the same genre. Often, during those long winter evenings, we would all four of us sit round the brasero, buried in our books, each of us locked into a separate world. Teo would walk through the olive groves with the gypsies of García Lorca’s poems or share the tortured lives of the characters in his plays. Of course, all works by the murdered poet were banned, but Teo kept a horde of them in a secret hiding place in his room. Lorca, in common with many other intellectuals, had been arrested in Granada by the Falangists during the Civil War and executed, along with others, in an olive grove.
Meanwhile, Anita would be far away in nineteenth century Russia, starving in freezing garrets with consumptive idealists, plotting revolution by candlelight, dying in the snow or locked into a world from which there was no escape. These were among the themes of the Russian authors she so admired: works by Dostoevsky, Chekhov,Turgenev and others.
Domi, however, was quite happy to ride with her cowboys, sharing their unending struggle against malevolent Indians. This was her chosen form of escape from the drudgery of everyday life. As for me, I was in the habit of picking up Domi’s discarded paperbacks which were mostly within the limits of my basic Spanish vocabulary. Anita, who clearly disapproved of her aunt’s choice of literature, had snatched them away and planted before me a formidable tome entitled ‘Dead Souls’ by Nikolai Gogol. Reading Gogol in Spanish was no easy matter and that book took me the whole winter to finish.
That evening, after my experience in the Espolón, I didn’t feel up to tackling another chapter of ‘Dead Souls’, so I surreptitiously extracted, from Domi’s pile of discards, a paperback bearing the title ‘The Ride to White Eagle Creek’. Alas, Anita was quick to notice and pointed to it with disapproval.
“Why are you going back to that rubbish?” she chided. “And why have you got such a long face?”
I shrugged and opened the book defiantly. She came over and put her arms round me. “You don’t need to tell me,” she said, regretting her abruptness,“but you’ve no business to feel depressed when we’re about to set out on our holiday.”
This reminded me of the one really pleasant thing that had happened that day. I pushed the offending book aside and returned her hug. “I went to the station this morning,” I said, “and I’ve bought our kilometric tickets.”
The New Year’s Eve celebrations were less dramatic than those of Christmas Eve. There was, of course, a large meal followed by a party and, to amuse the guests, Anita,Teo, Miguel and I performed a short play which we had devised and rehearsed over the last few days. It concerned a poor peasant boy who won the Christmas Lottery and suddenly became rich. Without the luxury of television, we had to improvise our entertainments but this was enormous fun and went down well with everybody.
As the OldYear drew to its close, we performed a ritual which was traditional in Spain. Each of us was given twelve grapes to be consumed, one by one, with each stroke of the midnight clock. Anything remaining in our mouths was then quickly washed down with plenty of wine as we all embraced each other and greeted the NewYear.
Anita and I were in bed by two and this time, thankfully, there was no sleeping in relays as none of the guests stayed over night.We lay awake for a while, chatting about our forthcoming adventure and I felt happy and relaxed again. For the moment, the Green Eyed Monster had released its grip and slunk away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MADRID
It was four in the morning and snowing hard.
“Look it’s coming! Let’s get the cases into the hall!”
I ran over to where Anita stood peering through the bedroom window into the dark, freezing-cold night and saw, through the steadily falling flakes, the dim headlights of the Hotel España’s bus bumping and jerking up the road towards us.
Hastily, we grabbed our cases, so carefully packed the night before, and rushed down the stairs. Aunt Domi came out of the kitchen stuffing a couple of extra rolls into our picnic bag just as the bus arrived outside our door.
“They’re here!” she cried in her shrill little voice. “And now you’re really on your way.Take care of yourselves!”
She kissed us both fondly and wiped her eyes on the corner of her dressing gown. At that moment there was a thunderous knocking at the door and, as Domi opened it, a great gust of icy wind swept into the hall, showering us with snow flakes.The driver stood beaming in the doorway, his beret at a jaunty angle, his red, cheerful face glowing like a beacon. He greeted us in a loud, gritty voice, replaced a dead cigarette between his broken teeth and hoisted our two cases onto his shoulders. We followed him out, picking our way across to where the bus stood, its engine ticking over noisily, its two yellow beams of light dazzling us, catching the huge, ghostly snowflakes as they twirled earthwards.
Having installed our luggage on the roof rack, the driver galla
ntly assisted us into the bus where we took our places among several other sleepy-looking passengers. Peering through the steamy window, we waved frantically to Domi whose small form could just be distinguished through the storm, standing in the doorway, waving back at us and throwing kisses.Then, with a great jerk, we were off, backing slowly out of our little road into the white wilderness.
I never ceased to marvel at the resilience of these decrepit vehicles. Most public transport in this area was of similar vintage and the shabby old bone-shakers were taxed to their utmost: made to climb tortuous mountain passes, drive over pot-holed roads and battle their way through appalling weather conditions. Nevertheless, though painfully slow, they invariably overcame all these obstacles and would eventually arrive at their destinations, albeit a little late.
So it was that we finally arrived at the station.We were late but it didn’t matter because, of course, the train to Madrid was late as well. It always was.
Words cannot adequately describe the intense cold of a January night in Burgos in those small hours, and it was with great relief that we clambered up into the relative warmth of a third class carriage. Our fellow passengers roused themselves to greet us, as was the custom, then fell asleep again – all, that is, except a baby in the corner who wailed irritably at the disturbance. Anita and I huddled together on the wooden, slatted seat, arms entwined and heads together, teeth chattering.
For a while we dozed fitfully, shivering and fidgeting until the grey winter’s dawn crept reluctantly over the horizon, spreading its chilly light across the bleak stretches of Castilian wasteland which lay grim and brooding under a blanket of snow.
Inside the carriage, the passengers started to stir and stretch their cramped limbs. Someone unrolled a napkin containing sandwiches and cordially offered them round to the rest of us. No one would have dreamt of accepting. Instead, we responded by wishing their owner a good appetite for which he thanked us before tucking in.
This ritual, I learnt, always had to be observed when eating in the presence of others. Failure to do so would have been considered the height of bad manners.
Presently, the train creaked and puffed its way into a station where it came to a standstill with a jolt that sent us all flying into the arms of the passengers opposite. The baby recommenced its wailing and our friend’s sandwiches were scattered about the floor.
“Venta de Baños,” shouted the stationmaster, announcing the name of the station over the noise of slamming doors. A shabby young man grabbed his bag, flung it over his shoulder and opened the carriage door. He turned to say goodbye and wished us a safe journey before jumping lightly onto the platform where he was impatiently pushed aside by a mountainous woman with a broad grin, red cheeks and two crates of chickens. “Buenos días!” she wheezed, laboriously heaving herself up into our carriage and squeezing into a vacant seat.
“Hay caramelos de cafe con leche,” yelled a sweet seller who was pacing up and down the platform with his wares. “Hay agua,” bellowed a water-seller following close behind, bearing a huge leather container. Their shouts were soon drowned by the stationmaster’s bell and we were off again. The baby continued to cry and the chickens fluttered and grumbled inside their baskets. Chickens seemed to be a permanent feature of third class travel on the Spanish railways.This time there was no room for them on the luggage rack so they were placed on the floor, rammed against our legs and adding to our general discomfort.
By early afternoon we were approaching Madrid and the carriage had warmed up considerably due to our combined body heat and several bottles of Rioja which the man with the sandwiches insisted on sharing with his fellow passengers.This had put everyone in a good mood and the atmosphere was friendly and jovial. The plump lady had told us in detail about her daughter’s confinements, her husband’s sick cow and their various feuds with the neighbours. Her company was so entertaining that we could forgive her chickens for pecking occasionally at our ankles.
The man with the sandwiches was singing Aragonese folk songs in a cracked, tuneless voice and two impoverished students from Valladolid had sworn to us their undying love. Even the baby in the corner had stopped crying and was now sucking eagerly at its mother’s breast.
The landscape, too, had improved for at last the desolate plateau had given way to the pine forests of the Guadarrama mountains. Here the sky was clear and blue and the sun sparkled on the snow. Our carriage became full of warmth, light and bonhomie and it was in this happy manner that we finally arrived at the Capital.
I was no stranger to Madrid and to return to this beautiful city of pink pavements, statues and fountains, was like greeting a long-lost friend. The familiar, much-loved landmarks flashed past the window of our taxi. Here was the Gran Vía, Madrid’s main thoroughfare, full of sparkling shops, theatres, pavement cafés and beautiful women. It had been re-named the Avenida de José Antonio since the Civil War, but nobody called it by that name. Now we were circling the Plaza de la Cibeles with its leaping fountains, just as I had remembered it; and then there was that ridiculously grand post office, magnificent as a palace, standing ostentatiously on the corner.
As we approached the Puerta de Alcalá, Madrid’s equivalent of the Arc de Triomphe, I wound down the window so that we could hear the sounds of Madrid: the honk of car horns, the rattling and clanging of its ancient trams, the cries of the newspaper boys. Even the bleakness of winter could do nothing to diminish the vivacity of the place. Anita turned to me, with sparkling eyes. “It’s wonderful!” she laughed.“Even better than I had imagined.”
How hungry we were for our first meal in Madrid! Never had a casserole tasted better than the one prepared for us by our kind hosts, Demetrio and his wife,Auri.
Demetrio was a tall, slim man in his early forties with kindly brown eyes, a gentle smile and dark hair receding slightly at the temples. His wife was much the same age, short with a round, pretty face and dark curls. They had an adorable pair of identical twin girls, as pretty as dolls, aged about eighteen months.The little family lived at the top of a soulless block of flats in a depressing suburb.The lift never worked and it was a long walk for Auri and her toddlers from the street up to the tiny flat on the sixth floor. Nevertheless, they were thankful to be together in a home at all, for theirs was a strange story.
It seemed the couple had met and fallen in love many years before when they were both young and had planned to marry as soon as they were able.Then came the Civil War and Demetrio had sided with the Republicans. He was captured and thrown into prison as a dangerous leftist, and there he remained for fifteen years. During all this time Auri remained faithful to her fiancé never showing interest in anyone else. She wrote to him and visited him whenever she could and they would comfort each other with the promise that one day, when he was released, they would marry. Auri waited and waited for her love, watching her child-bearing years slip by until at last their dream came true. Parted for all that time, they had never faltered but now they were together and their happiness seemed all the greater for the waiting.
Demetrio was a man of great culture and intellect. Because of his past, he had to take a menial job quite unsuited to his ability and talents but he didn’t care so long as he could earn sufficient to keep his wife and children. He found mental stimulation by taking a keen interest in the arts and so the following day, he took us to every museum and gallery in Madrid, culminating in a visit to the famous Prado.
He introduced us to the terrifying ‘Caprichos’ of Goya, painted during the artist’s last years of madness.They depicted a nightmare world inhabited by witches, monsters, devils and beasts.There was a satanic giant crushing the headless body of a man between his claws, the eyes bulging with crazed passion, the great jaws gnawing at the bleeding stump of his victim’s arm.
“Satan devouring one of his sons,” explained Demetrio.“So do men seek to destroy each other – even those of the same blood.” He sighed deeply. It was a relief to move on to Goya’s less disturbing masterpieces – his f
rolicking peasants and voluptuous ‘majas’. But then we paused to view a painting with the title ‘The Third of May’ and were again confronted by the dark side of human nature. This painting showed a bare hill outside Madrid at night where a French firing squad was busy massacring defenceless civilians. One of the victims, kneeling in a pool of blood beside his fallen compatriots, had his arms raised in a last gesture of defiance as he faced his ruthless executioners.
Demetrio shook his head sadly.“I have seen such scenes. Here, in Madrid, I have seen this happen. The only difference was that this time we were murdering our own people.”
Anita shuddered.“I’ve had enough of Goya,” she said.“Let’s see if we can findVelazquez’s ‘Infantas’.”
Anita wanted to ring José Luis but I was anxious to look up my old friend Rafael, so in the end it was decided that I would phone him instead.
“So you’re here already!” said his delighted voice. “Have you brought that gorgeous friend of yours from Burgos? – You have? Great! Desmond will be pleased. Let’s meet up tonight in the Puerta del Sol.”
Although there was no snow in Madrid, it was still extremely cold. An icy wind from the sierra whipped round our ankles as we clutched at our coats, pulling up our collars to shield our ears.Why, we asked ourselves, had we not arranged to meet in some convenient, warm café instead of having to stand out here by the entrance to the underground station?
We watched the trams coming and going but there was no sign of our friends. They were late and we were annoyed. Then I felt someone touch my shoulder and I spun round to see Rafael’s smiling face, good-looking as ever with those friendly eyes and neat little moustache. He was as dapper tonight as I had always known him, wearing an oatmeal tweed coat, well-pressed trousers and highly-polished shoes. Despite the high wind, not a single hair of his shiny, dark head was out of place.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 16