Blood in the Valencian Soil (Secrets of Spain)

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “Luna and I are closer than ever before,” Cayetano bluffed. It wasn’t quite a lie. “What did you come over for?”

  “Just to say hello, see how you were doing,” she shrugged.

  “How’s Paulo?” Cayetano asked her. “Still fucking my wife?”

  María threw him a glare over her glasses. “At least you acknowledge that I’m your wife.”

  Cayetano leaned over and pulled the handle to open the footrest on his chair and rested his legs. “In name only, my dear, in name only. I take it that you have the divorce papers.”

  “I do,” she mumbled.

  “Signed them yet?”

  “No.”

  “I could change it, petition for divorce for just one party. That could look ugly. Not appropriate for your ever so false ‘nice girl’ image.”

  “I have a lot of conditions for the divorce, Cayetano. My lawyer will send a list.”

  “Hmmm… so you have disputed the divorce, yet have terms and conditions. Obviously you don’t want me back as much as you have claimed to in the past. You just want a divorce that looks reasonable to the wider public, who, of course, don’t know you or me at all. That’s twisted logic.”

  “We had a strong marriage…”

  “No, we didn’t,” Cayetano cut in. He had his arms folded over his chest, and looked up at the plain white ceiling above him as he spoke. “I never saw you, you worked every evening. I was out every day. We simply came and went from this apartment that we both lived in. We scheduled seeing each other. That isn’t a healthy marriage.”

  “What would be a healthy marriage then?”

  “When you love someone so much that you can’t breathe.”

  “Oh, please, that doesn’t exist,” María scoffed.

  “Not for you and me it doesn’t.”

  “We were close once, Cayetano. We were madly in love once.”

  Cayetano glanced away from the ceiling to his ex-wife across the room. “We were young.”

  “We’re not exactly old now. We belonged together.”

  “Doesn’t mean to say we still do, or could get those feelings back.”

  “Yeah, I know,” María sighed.

  “How is living with your parents again? How is your father?” Cayetano asked, and unfolded his arms.

  “Okay,” María shrugged. “Papá asks about you. I pretend that I have had more contact with you and have something to tell him. He has worried since your accident.”

  “Does he still have all that stuff on the Medina family history?”

  “He wouldn’t part with it. Why?”

  “Just curious. Did he ever find anything about the mystery baby of Pilar Ortega?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “The family lost so much when they went to live in France, so any details or letters or anything must have been lost. The identity of the baby and his real father were probably never recorded.”

  “Everyone knows who the father was. The King.”

  “True. But there isn’t much information.”

  “I’m sure Leandro would love to find more about the baby and the family he had.”

  “He would love that, but that’s impossible.”

  “Maybe I should go and pay him a visit one day.”

  “He would love to see you,” María said, her enthusiasm coming back to her voice. “You can come over any time.”

  “Listen, María, my leg is killing me, and I have a massive headache. Can we save the awkward chat for another time?”

  María got up from her chair and wandered over to him. “Do you want me to rub your leg for you?”

  Cayetano’s mind shot back to Cuenca, with Luna and her miracle cream on his leg, her hands on him. The way she had rubbed him. The way she had groped him. The way she had sat up on him in bed while they made love. “No! Please don’t rub my leg. It requires a particular technique.”

  “You’re drunk,” she said and stood over him in the chair, her hands either side of him on the armrests. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t feel so great, and you don’t need to ask why. Can’t a man feel like shit and drown it with a few drinks?”

  “Caya, you’re a wreck. You don’t look as if you haven’t showered or shaved for weeks. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it to anyone, especially you.”

  “I love you,” she said quietly. She leaned right over him in the chair. “You can talk to me.”

  “I can’t talk to anyone.” His short, sharp tone had finally slowed down.

  “You can say anything you want to me. It’s me, the person you trusted for years with everything.”

  “But I can’t trust you now. I can’t trust anyone I know. I can’t believe anything anyone says. The people I’m closest to treat me like a pawn, just a piece of a puzzle, not even treated to the truth.”

  María frowned. “Caya, what happened?”

  Cayetano just shook his head gently. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing can be changed. Nothing can be undone.”

  “Anything can be fixed, Cayetano. Anything.”

  “That isn’t true. Some mistakes haunt you forever.”

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Things aren’t that bad.”

  “They are. I will get up in the morning and have no idea what to do with my life. I have nothing to look forward to anymore.”

  “Me. You have me.”

  “You betrayed me, just like everyone else.”

  María leaned forward and kissed Cayetano’s lips and tasted the whiskey on them. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t move away. He had finally let his guard down. She brought her lips again, and this time he responded just a fraction. As she climbed onto his lap, she felt his hands go to her hips, and not to protect his sore leg. It didn’t seem to hurt half as much as he had made out a moment ago, or he had forgotten all about it. María had suffered during her long absence from her husband’s affectionate company. They had made love in his chair many times before, and she gladly would again. She had finally worn him down. Something had worn him down. All she need was tonight to change his mind about her, and they could get their lives back. He didn’t fight her as she undid his pants, let her do all the work. The fight was gone from Cayetano Beltrán, and María would take full advantage of it.

  26

  Valencia, España ~ noviembre de 2009

  Christmas songs played inside the El Corte Inglés, the department store just around the corner from Luna’s apartment. It was only November, but it was already cold, and unusually early for Christmas crap by Spain’s standards. She was off on an excursion today, and couldn’t find her gloves anywhere, and had to stop and buy a pair. It would be even colder in the mountains around Valencia. Giacomo and Enzo had shivered the whole way to school with her this morning.

  “Luna?”

  Luna turned at the sound of her name. She stood outside the entrance to the El Corte Inglés; the self-opening doors wafted her with warmth and the scent of perfumes from nearby counters every time someone went in or out. She had to get outside and away from the damn Christmas tunes. Luna hated Christmas, all happy families. God, now she resented families. She had become bitter beyond her years. It didn’t even have anything to do with her hangover from her night out in the old town. That took nearly a week to get out of her system.

  “Michael.” Luna put her gloved hand out and shook his. It wasn’t the English accent that gave away the fact he was her new real estate agent; it was the way he had hurried along to greet her. Spaniards did a curious thing – even if they were running late, they seemed to try and never show it. Being late was an art in Spain, practically an expectation. This cheery-looking 30-something man harboured no such manner. He was here to work. “Nice to meet you.”

  Luna watched Michael shake her hand, staring at her. It got a little irritating. It may have not been rude to stare at people in Spain, but having ice-blue eyes made everyone take a second look.

  “It’s a beautiful day to go and look at houses.” Micha
el gestured at the once-again clear blue sky above them. “Your inquiry surprised me; I have only had two other calls about this property in the year since I listed the place for sale. And they both ran for it when they saw the place.”

  “That’s comforting,” Luna joked as they headed for his car that he had double-parked nearby. That was practically parking etiquette in Valencia.

  “I think Escondrijo will be perfect for someone, the name is intriguing on its own.”

  “Hiding place,” Luna said while she looked out the window of the car. People clutched their shopping bags as they walked in the cold. “That struck me as an odd name.”

  “Not the only odd thing,” Michael replied. “The guy who owns it is odd. Alejandro has lived there since the 1930’s. He’s about 95 or something. It’s remarkable that he still walks around the property and lives alone up there.”

  “So why is he selling?”

  “No idea why. But he says that he will only sell to the buyer he likes the most.”

  “What’s he looking for?”

  “I don’t think he knows. I’m not entirely sure he’s sober at any time of the day.”

  “Does he know I’m a foreigner?”

  “He doesn’t like the fact I’m a foreigner, and I’m helping him,” Michael scoffed. “I will tell him that you have your mortgage in place, and maybe that will make him like you more.”

  “I don’t need a mortgage.”

  “You’re never supposed to tell your agent that,” Michael chuckled. “I might try and talk you into a bigger place instead.”

  “I have pretty specific requirements.” They turned past Luna’s apartment building on Avenida de Francia and started towards the edge of the city.

  “You must do. Will Mr. Montgomery come to see the property at some stage?”

  “There is no Mr. Montgomery. This place is for me and my sons.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. The love of an extraordinary man may have brought me to Valencia, but my immense love of the place keeps me here.”

  Michael nodded as he drove. “The love of a great woman brought me here, and my love for both her and this great country keeps me here.”

  “I’m in good company then.”

  “I live in Serra, which is the closest town to Escondrijo. Are you going to drive back to Valencia every day for work once you move from the city?”

  “No, I need to find myself another job, and a school for the kids.”

  “School is no trouble. How are your tango skills?”

  “Ah… okay, I suppose. I’m anglosajón, but I have a bit of Latin blood in me.” An extremely unfortunate drop of it.

  “There is a guy, Nacho, who works in Serra. He wants to run tango and salsa classes, and he needs a female assistant. He’s quite a guy, you could apply there.”

  “Is there any call for dance classes in Serra?”

  “Not really. He wants to extend in Olocau, so he told my wife.”

  “Olocau is even smaller than Serra!”

  “Just saying, if you were desperate and wanted a job where you could get hit on a lot by your boss and get paid terribly...”

  “Hmm… tempting. I do need a job. The recession took my last one and my work permit is about to expire.”

  “Buy Escondrijo and list it as a working farm. Put down a few names as employees, and they will extend your permit. You will be a business owner.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” Luna looked out of the window; the city had begun to give way to the countryside. She had relied on men for too long, a husband, a friend, a lover, a lost grandfather to achieve her goals. Maybe she didn’t need any of them. She knew she didn’t.

  It seemed as if they had driven a long way through the forests of white pine once they left the town of Serra. It wasn’t that far, but the winding, narrow and steep roads made it feel like civilisation had fallen away. The moment they pulled up on the bare limestone outside the house at Escondrijo, Luna knew it was what she wanted. They got out of the car, a thousand things to fill their senses. The views were breathtaking – some trees had been felled to allow the view to stretch out across the flat land towards Valencia city and the sea, and the vista seemed never ending. Almond trees surrounded the house, their branches empty after harvest. Beyond the house was a small olive grove, placed on one of the few places where the terrain was flat. Behind the house, the mountain continued to rise, silent and imposing.

  “Feel like you’ve gone back in time yet?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, just like I wanted,” Luna said. She looked at the large stone house. It was a mess. No matter; she had her whole life to work on it. “Does it have power?”

  “No, no electricity or phone, but it does have water. But all can be accessed for some time and money, so don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, it’s fine.” Luna took her sunglasses off as she looked around. It was cold but fresh out there. There was something unique about the place; the air crackled with excitement and surprise. It was what she and Fabrizio had always wanted. He loved riding his bike up L’Oronet mountain nearby every day. A humble set of small buildings were scattered around, but the main house begged to be inspected. Its stone walls were worn, the roof tiles were patchy, and the wooden windowsills tired, but it was what Luna wanted. A lifetime project.

  “Well,” Michael said nearby, “you haven’t asked to leave. I take that as a good sign.”

  “I love it. It’s just what I want. It has a private road off the main road, views, house to be restored, peace and quiet.” How marvellous it would have been to have had the place when Fabrizio died. She was hounded after he was killed. The pretty widow and her adorable little children left behind when her celebrity husband was taken from them. Peace would have been nice. That was it – Luna needed to convalesce. Fabrizio had been dead nearly three years and she had struggled ever since, fighting through everything. It was time to stop. “I want it.”

  “If only it was that simple.”

  “The land is right where it needs to be, and the house doesn’t need to be anything special. That is changeable. I have time, I have money.” Not an endless pot, but enough to make a home for her kids. Fabrizio had left her money specifically to take care of them, and this was their dream together.

  “I would be happy to sell it to you,” Michael said. “But it’s not completely up to me.” He gestured behind Luna, and she turned. There was the owner. In his nineties? All that mountain air worked wonders. “Alejandro,” he called. “Buenos dias, soy Michael Holden.” He paused for a moment as the old man approached them. “Sorry, Luna, I never even asked you how your Spanish is.”

  “I have pretty good Spanish. What dialect do I need? Valencian?”

  “It’s easier to take cues from him.”

  “¿Qué quieres?” the old man snapped when he came to a stop beside the pair.

  “Hola, esta mujer quiere comprar Escondrijo...”

  “You spoke English to her,” the man barked.

  “Sí, she speaks English…” Michael began, unaware that Alejandro spoke the language. “She wants to buy Escondrijo.”

  “No. No guiri puede comprar Escondrijo.”

  Luna rolled her eyes. Guiri. How charming. She was foreign, but she lived in Spain, made a life here. “Yo soy un extranjera, pero vivo aquí ahora …” she began.

  The old man turned to face her directly, and his mouth dropped open. Luna frowned; he had gone pale. He stared as if he had seen a ghost. He looked scared. “Jesucristo en el cielo,” he muttered. “¿Cómo me has encontrado?”

  How did she find him? Luna wasn’t sure what to say. She stood still as he reached out and placed his hands on her cheeks. “Su cabello es negro,” he mumbled.

  Your hair is black? What the hell? “Ah… sí….”

  “No.” Alejandro snapped his hands away. “No, I won’t sell Escondrijo. No.”

  “Pero, Alejandro…” Michael began.

  “No,” he said again. “No, leav
e me.”

  Luna and Michael stood on the spot as the old man retreated into what must be a cold, lonely house. “Okay,” Luna began. “I think I just scared the shit out of an old guy.”

  “I’m sorry, Luna, I don’t know what to say,” Michael said. “Maybe I will come and see him again in a day or two. Perhaps he will have changed his mind.”

  The pair went back into the direction of the car, Luna felt especially unsettled by the man. Was it her appearance? Or just the fact she was an extranjero, a foreigner? It felt intensely personal. “I don’t think he will change his mind,” Luna commented as they got back into Michael’s car.

  “It’s my job to talk people into things. Don’t worry. We will get you up here again. We can get around this.”

  As the car trailed off down the unsealed track toward the main road again, Luna glanced out the window at the house, the old man nowhere to be seen. What a weird feeling.

  “Some people I can’t understand, no matter how long I live in Spain,” Michael commented.

  “Ten years in Spain, and I don’t pretend to know Spanish people all that well yet,” Luna chuckled.

  “I tell you, last night I went to a meeting in Serra. I only went out of curiosity, but wow, the tension in there!”

  “What was it about?”

  “One of the properties just outside the town, they have a fosa, mass grave pit, on it…”

  “As in civil war graves?”

  “Yes. It’s been known about for years, but the owner, he’s getting old, and he knows his father is in the grave along with many others. Now, he wants to move his father to the local cemetery, and it’s caused an uproar.”

  “No one wants him to?”

  “The families of the others buried there are not so keen. The rumour is…. and it’s only a rumour… that one the Falange members who shot them all is still living in Serra.”

  “What?” Luna frowned. “The killer lives in the town with his victims’ families?”

  “That’s what they say.” Michael’s voice didn’t hold as much scepticism as Luna’s. “Nothing surprises me. Mostly this was a meeting of older people who want the past to stay packed away. Locked in an innocuous hole in the ground. They seem to be worried about old grievances.”