Castro's Dream

by Lucy Wadham

  I don’t know. You didn’t ask.

  Lola looked down at the checked tablecloth.

  There’s so much about you that I don’t know.

  Astrid put out the cigarette.

  I should look in on Mummy.

  They left the kitchen and went upstairs to their mother’s bedroom. Outside the door Lola rested her hand on Astrid’s cheek.

  I don’t know how I would have got through this life without you, she said.

  Astrid took Lola’s hand from her face and held it tightly. She looked at Lola’s smooth forehead and at the deep blue eyes with their golden flecks: five in the right eye and six in the left, like shards of light. The love she felt for this face came from a deep knowledge. She had been reading it since Lola was a baby and knew it better than she ever would her own. As a child she had watched Lola’s eyes flicker and close for sleep. She had seen the way they rolled as her lids opened. Now she felt ashamed of this knowledge, as though she were watching her sister live her life from behind a one-way mirror.

  She found nothing to say.

  Lola squeezed her hand.

  Let’s go, and they stepped into the ornate bedroom.

  Astrid, Margot observed calmly. You’re wearing your hair down.

  Astrid clasped her mother’s frail body to her. There was that barely perceptible resistance, that inner shrinking she had always felt from her mother whenever she sought physical contact. She now believed it to be something older than experience, something inscribed in her like genetic material. Astrid pulled back and looked into her face: nothing new; the grey eyes, under scrutiny, had always flicked away like that. Her mother patted her hand. Had she been able, Astrid knew she would have drifted away to occupy herself with something else. She had always eluded intimacy, Astrid thought. Even when she drank, she would always be doing something, generally sorting, until she passed out. She had a great many possessions and beyond what she had inherited, had accumulated so many objects throughout her life, that there was invariably something to sort through. Since she no longer had the strength for this, she sorted and resorted her ramshackle mind instead. Astrid smoothed back her mother’s hair. It was soft as cotton wool.

  Are you eating, Mummy?

  Of course I’m eating.

  Properly?

  We had some lovely quails’ eggs, didn’t we, Beatrice?

  Lola nodded. There had been no quails’ eggs but she did not say so. She noticed how her mother became less composed in Astrid’s presence. She seemed hunted.

  Are you taking the pills I sent you? Astrid asked.

  No, dear. They make my mouth dry and they give me a fiendish headache.

  How are you sleeping?

  I’m an owl. I nap in the day but I’m as bright as a button at night. Aren’t I Beatrice?

  Lola nodded again.

  As soon as I can make these stupid legs work properly I’m going to get up and do some work.

  What sort of work? Astrid asked.

  Margot’s eyes flicked mistrustfully over her eldest daughter.

  Angus can’t do everything himself, can he?

  Angus is dead, Mummy. Remember? It’s just Mary now. And the trustees take care of things for her, and for you.

  Lola watched Astrid. She was always calm and unrelenting with their mother. She never let her settle into delusion. Lola could see Astrid’s gentleness but knew there was something cold and hard lying there at the core of her feelings for their mother. Ever since she was a child, Lola had seen flashes of it. Suddenly she wanted to leave the room.

  I’ll go and see about lunch.

  Astrid looked up.

  I’ll make it. What is there?

  There’s pâté and some smoked salmon that Gachucha brought this morning, Lola said.

  Mummy, you can’t live off this deli food. It isn’t good for you.

  No, quite right. Margot gave a long sigh. When Josu gets back we can all start eating properly again. He’ll go up and shoot us some palomas.

  I’ll make something, she said, heading for the door. I’ll bring it up.

  And she quickly left the room, closing the door.

  In the kitchen she reached into her bag and found her phone: one missed call. As she waited for the message, she watched the door, ready to hang up if Lola should appear. She had learnt to practise deceit with the same ease and detachment she used for vivisection.

  Mikel did not use her name. His voice had none of the assurance of his letters.

  I have a number. You can call it if you want to see me. Tell the man who answers that your name is Carmen. He will tell you where I am.

  Then he gave the number twice.

  Astrid hovered between the two digits for save and delete. She pressed three for save. Then she turned off her phone and returned it to her bag. She went to the larder and found potatoes, tomatoes, eggs and onions to make a salad. She stood over the sink and peeled the potatoes under the cold tap. Her hands were soon red and smarting from the cold but she did not allow herself to remove them. She was thinking of his first letter to her:

  You have moved to Paris. I have never been there, nor anywhere in fact. I have never left Euzkadi or Spain, the land of my oppressors, because it seemed a sin to see the world until my homeland was free.

  She remembered how appalled she had been by what she recognised as the dead language of liberation movements. But very soon the letters had lost their ideological veneer and Mikel began to use the mystical language of the unrequited lover:

  Astrid,

  I have a view. I can hardly believe it. For the first time since I was incarcerated I can see earth and sky. Today the sky is filled with big clouds racing past. I can see the shadows they make on the plain. I believe this is a sign that I will soon be free. I am filled with panic at the thought of freedom. This view opens up my mind to hope. I have begun to hope again and with hope comes fear, a feeling that fills my chest and makes me weak. My love for you fills my days and my nights. Sometimes it suffocates me. But I believe it is my destiny, that without it I am nothing at all.

  Her memory had kept this letter. Her phenomenal memory, that had carried her effortlessly through her exams, that had charmed Chastel and so enslaved him to its infallibility that he was losing his own through disuse. She hated it.

  She drove the point of the knife into the potato and gouged out the grey eye. Do not manufacture belief out of me, she thought.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Kader sat on a bench on the promenade in San Sebastian. He lifted his face to the sun and closed his eyes. The episode with Raoul had depressed him. He believed he had a way with dogs. But that treacherous cunt was no dog.

  I didn’t look him in the eye, he murmured. He had not looked the mongrel bastard in the eye.

  René had been mortified.

  Don’t worry about it, Kader said, patting René on the arm. Raoul’s a racist, that’s all.

  That’s what I’m afraid of, René said, looking sadly at his dog who was chained to the back door of the truck, his head between his paws, sleeping unashamedly.

  René had driven him into town in his uncle’s Jeep. As they were driving along the river, René had said,

  I’ll give you my mobile number, kid. In case you ever need anything while you’re down here.

  Fine. Just try not to call me kid. OK? Kader had answered.

  But René was all right.

  The sea had been as Kader had expected: no more, no less. The sight of it had made him grin stupidly. He had stood staring at it, watching it move in and out. He had stared for so long, he felt himself being gathered up by it, as though the turquoise sea were breathing his soul, in and out. He forgot the pain in his heel and the older pain in his shoulder. He forgot where he was and who he was.

  Kader now stood up from the bench and limped back to the ocean. A few people were swimming in the shallow water, splashing in the waves. He wanted to get into the sea too, immerse his aching body, but he wanted to find Astrid’s father first.

/>   He turned his back on the ocean and walked towards the Hotel Londres. He was not sure what he was going to do but a fancy hotel was a good place to start. Kader limped across the wide esplanade towards the hotel. He liked the way this town made him feel. He liked the smell of the air and the light from the sun, which seemed to make everything sparkle. He looked at the people on the esplanade; three old men conferring in the shade of those graceful trees; two girls, walking fast towards him, arms linked, talking furiously in their language, eyes and mouths serious. He stopped to watch them pass, enrapt. This was a grand and beautiful city but unlike Paris it seemed not to shun him.

  He passed the entrance to the hotel bar and walked round the side to the main doors at the back. He did not acknowledge the poor man in livery standing at the foot of the steps. He pushed the revolving door and walked into the lobby as if the whole place were waiting for him and only him.

  Kader had never been inside a place like this. It was a palace. Beside this, the Mercure was a dump. But he did not betray his awe. He walked up to the desk and stood in front of an old queen in a grey uniform and waited patiently for him to look up from the checking-in book. Soon Kader knew that to wait any longer would ruin any chance of being taken seriously.

  Do you speak French?

  The man raised his head and just closed his eyes for a Yes.

  I have an appointment with a lawyer called Arnaga. But I’m very late. I got held up. Did he leave a message? The name is Benmassoud.

  The man sniffed once, then turned to look in the pigeonhole marked B.

  Kader found he was actually irritated when the man informed him that there was no message.

  Shit, he said, tapping the desk. Then he looked about him, just to make sure. Do you mind if I check in the bar?

  The man opened his hand and motioned towards the bar.

  By all means.

  Kader made to leave, then turned back and tapped the desk again.

  I suppose I’ll have to stay the night. You’d better book me a room.

  I’m afraid we’re fully booked, sir.

  Kader was truly vexed. He swung his head from side to side, then faced the man with a look that could indicate he was ready to throw a punch. The queen wavered.

  You’re going to have to help me, Kader told him. I need to find this lawyer. And I need a room. A decent one. I’ve had a long journey. Do you understand?

  The man looked at him with a pinched mouth. Kader held his gaze, knowing that this was the moment: the queen either caved in or called the cops. At last he gave a little sigh and Kader knew he had won.

  What’s the name? Arnaga, you say?

  That’s it, Kader said. Arnaga.

  The man disappeared behind a tapestry curtain and came back with a phone book. He set it down in front of Kader.

  I hope you have the first name, he warned. There are a lot of them.

  Kader picked up the phone book and went and sat down in an armchair behind a pillar and out of the man’s sight.

  Kader sat there scanning the Arnaga pages. He noticed that they all had two surnames. The inside of his head began to heat up, as it had at school when he had a test. He tore out the three pages with Arnagas on them, folded them into his pocket and felt better. He took the book back to the desk, patting it gratefully.

  You’ve been very helpful, he told the man. Then he turned and limped away.

  In the network of avenues behind the hotel, Kader found a bar called El Bikini with a nice swirling neon sign. He would love to have a bar. But a bar with live music. He would bring Rai, the music of pleasure, to the sexually impoverished and ignorant. He walked into El Bikini and took a seat in one of the booths. The place was pleasantly lit with little lamps on each table. Mick Jagger was crooning ‘Angie’ in the background. Kader had taken the piss out of Amadou for listening to the song. He was overjoyed now to hear it. The smell of chips warmed his heart. On the menu were photos of what he could order. He pointed to number seventeen, a shot of lamb chops, chips and two fried eggs, with tomato, onion and lettuce on the side. He looked up. To his delight, the girl who had come to take his order was wearing a sky-blue bikini.

  She had a stud in her tongue, which flashed when she opened her mouth. She did not speak French but she was friendly and she smiled a lot. She repeated what he had ordered in a hoarse voice. Then she pinched her throat and smiled apologetically to say she was sorry but she was losing her voice. Kader watched her boy’s arse as she walked away. She was thin and muscular and tanned with a frosting of blonde hair all over her body. Behind the bar a kid of about his age with a large tattoo of a sun on his breastbone was cleaning glasses. Kader noticed that he too was wearing a bikini and his was pink.

  Kader sat in the bar and looked through the Arnaga pages and underlined two lawyers. When he had finished, the bikini couple handed him a spliff. They slid into the booth opposite him and began to make conversation. They did well considering they had no common language. The boy was called Chech or Ketch or something and the girl was called Natalia. Kader gathered after some lame miming from Ketch that they both liked surfing. Kader managed to take the piss out of them a little, to tell them about the death of his dog and about his run-in with Raoul. After a few joints, the three of them were weak with laughter.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Castro was a sleek, honey-coloured mongrel with a dark-brown muzzle and carefully drawn eyebrows. He wore a dirty sock, once white, on his front right paw. Castro’s previous owner was a busker called André who was HIV-positive. André was taken into Bayonne hospital for pneumonia. He had no family or friends who could take Castro in, so he asked his nurse, before she put him on the respirator, to make sure his dog found a good home. She had told him her husband was a vet.

  No fascists, André had told her. I beg you. Castro’s a political animal. I don’t want him with a fascist.

  Mikel was drawn to Castro because he was so obviously not political.

  Sit, boy, Mikel said.

  Castro sat, then lay on the pavement outside the newsagent.

  Mikel emerged from the tabac with a small packet of tobacco and a copy of yesterday’s El País. He was looking forward to reading the news and smoking a cigarette on the bench outside the graveyard. An old yew hung over the wall above the bench, giving shade from the sun and shelter from the wind. He had a few minutes before he had to start opening up the van for the market.

  Mikel sat on the bench and looked down at his new companion panting at his feet. It seemed to him that the dog knew he was looking at him but did not turn his head.

  Let’s see that paw, Mikel said, laying down his paper.

  Castro turned and sat. Mikel held out his hand for his paw. Castro looked about him, tongue lolling, while Mikel examined it.

  Beneath the sock was a dressing. Mikel checked to see if there was any pus seeping through but the lint was clean. Two weeks ago Pascal Pasqua had removed a snapped syringe needle from the abscess between the dog’s pads.

  We’ll be able to take that stupid sock off soon, Mikel told him.

  He picked up his paper and turned to the sports pages. Astrid’s team, Reál, was top of the league. Atlético Bilbao was fifth.

  The room in Biarritz had turned out to be unsuitable for Castro. The landlady, Hortense Tuya, had stood in the hall, her face glowing with night cream, and told him kindly that she loved dogs but not in the house, which was full of highly varnished wood and bibelots. She did not mind making a bed for Castro in the garage. Mikel had decided that he would look for a room somewhere in the country, preferably on a farm. Until then, he and Castro would sleep in the van.

  Mikel looked at the patch of dark fur between Castro’s ears and felt a wave of gratitude. He had slept the night on his side with the dog curled up against his body. He had found that there was no need to train Castro. He was, Mikel felt, obedient because he chose to be.

  I dream of a simple life with you.

  The dog turned and looked at his master.

  Tim
e to go? Mikel asked.

  Castro stood up and wagged his tail.

  Mikel dropped his cigarette, rolled up his paper and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  When they got back to the van, a fishmonger was pouring ground ice into polystyrene trays two slots down from him. She was a big woman dressed in a blue-and-white checked apron. Her face and hands were red-raw. He opened up the side of the van and pulled up the orange awning, transforming it into a stall. When he had finished arranging the goods, he sat down on the back step and smoked another cigarette. Castro lay at his feet and rested his head between his paws.

  As he smoked, Mikel watched the dawn sky above the tall, square steeple change colour. He tried to see the change, tried to trace the colour gathering depth and intensity. He decided that not being able to see the change was a miracle. He had once written a letter to Astrid with the word phantasmagoria in it. The word had come into his mind a few days earlier and he had been waiting to use it. It had occurred quite naturally as the letter unfolded:

  My daily life seems to be made up of phantasmagoria. You are the only thing that is real to me.

  Mikel had always thought there seemed to be more space and light on the French side of the border. He looked at the clean, white church with its stone windows, its pure lines and the grand proportions of the oak portal. Basque villages on the Spanish side seemed huddled and defensive by contrast. One thing he had been right about was his suspicion that this side would never be dragged into open conflict. They had been pacified centuries ago. You could feel it in the sleepy air.

  Delbos, the baker, arrived in a beige van with gothic lettering on it. Mikel dropped his cigarette and climbed into the van to await his first customers. In French his stall was a quincaillerie, a word he particularly liked. Sadly, though, his was not a real ironmonger’s because he sold only cleaning utensils. It was no surprise to him to learn from Etcheberry that this arm of Lamarck’s business thrived. He had always known that the women of his country were obsessed with order and cleanliness. It would appear that women on this side were the same. He sold everything they would need to preserve their illusions: brooms, mops, buckets (with or without sieves, in galvanised iron or plastic), sponges (organic and synthetic, abrasive or otherwise), sponge-brooms (with or without a squeezing lever), J-cloths, tea towels, packing-cloths and chamois.