"Attis, let's go!" he called over the sound of the workers, waving his hand toward his friend.
Attis turned his direction, yet barely paused. Instead, he lifted his crowbar in salute.
Philip picked up a crowbar and joined him again. To leave the street would mean leaving Attis, and that wasn't even a consideration.
Chapter Three
Lloré al nacer y cada día que pasa explica por qué.
I wept when I was born, and every day explains why.
Spanish proverb
Sophie's pile of trunks and crates filled half of the quiet lobby. The bellman snoozed in a plush armchair. Walt waited in a second chair as Sophie sifted through her things, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what she needed most.
The lock of the last trunk clicked as it unsnapped, and she flipped it open. Was it just her imagination, or could she smell the lilacs outside her bedroom window in Boston and her mother's perfume? She pulled out the linens, fringed with lace, and remembered her mother folding them so lovingly. Her paints and brushes lay underneath, a gift from her father. She touched the simple frame of the self-portrait she'd painted as a wedding gift for Michael. Setting it aside, facedown, she thumbed through the new suits and dresses she'd saved months for—items that made her feel like the important newspaper photographer's wife she’d soon be. She'd packed and repacked a dozen times, and for what—to leave it all behind?
She slid a thin, black cotton garment bag from the trunk and pressed it to her chest. Inside was her most cherished possession—a stylish dress of light blue cotton, which made her feel like one of the women in Monet's idyllic park scenes every time she put it on. She'd bought it for her wedding.
Sophie rolled the garment bag as tightly as she could and tucked it into her satchel. She could find a way to send for the rest, but this dress represented the purpose for her trip—to marry the only man she'd ever loved.
She turned to Walt with a sigh. "Okay, I'm ready. This is the last of what I need."
Her things would be carted to a back storage room of this hotel, and now she had one last thing to do before heading out.
"I don't think this is the type of walking shoe you meant." Sophie lifted one leather-clad, pointy-toed foot. "Just give me a few minutes to change my clothes."
Walt extended his hand toward the satchel. "I'll watch your things."
"Thanks." She handed it to him with her journal. "I'll be right back."
As she dressed, she thought back to the first time she met Michael. She was working as a tour guide at the Museum of Fine Arts, waiting for her own art to be discovered, and he was on assignment, taking photographs for . . . for something she couldn't remember and that made no difference now.
Michael was tall, dark, lean, and exotic, with wavy brown hair and green eyes. Giving him a tour of the building, Sophie had found it unnerving the way his lips curled in a coy smile as he listened to her talk. It was almost as if he were studying the true message behind her words, one she didn't understand herself.
After the tour of the museum, he asked her to coffee, then to dinner. And afterward they walked on the Freedom Trail as Sophie shared about the historic places in Boston, and Michael talked about Spain, where he had spent every summer of his boyhood. His love for the country was evident from the beginning.
After that, they managed to see each other every day. She remembered the antique-style map he had hanging in his apartment, wooden thumbtacks marking each foreign location he’d visited—more than Sophie had even heard of. And she was moved by how her landscape paintings fascinated him. He was in awe, marveling at each one she completed.
They dated for six months before Michael invited Sophie to meet his parents. His American father and his mother, a first-generation Spanish dancer, seemed to come from different worlds. But when relaxing in Michael's embrace on the swing in the backyard, Sophie spotted Michael's mother dancing in his father's arms, and knew that's how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. With festive Spanish music drifting from the gramophone out the back window, Michael proposed. Without hesitation, she said yes.
Now, with the help of Walt, she hoped that yes would become reality.
Sophie came back to the lobby dressed in her sturdiest boots and trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and jacket. Traveling clothes—for whatever elements they'd face.
"They're only things," she said out loud, with a backward glance at her trunks. "That stuff can be replaced, but I'm not going to wait until these civil battles settle down. Even two weeks sounds like a lifetime."
"I agree, señorita," Walt said with a flourish of his hat. His brown hair flopped over his high forehead as he did.
Sophie nodded, realizing he was younger than the hat and suit had led her to believe. "Sí, Don Walterio. The Spanish frontier awaits us."
"Oh, no." Walt wagged his finger. "No Don Walterio for me. No Don anything. It is the Dons—those with titles—who find themselves stripped of their possessions and their lives." He slid his finger across his neck, then dramatically shivered. "I'd like very much to keep my head, thank you."
Deion Clay hurriedly stacked the dirty dishes on the large bus tray, then glanced around before folding the stained copy of the New York Times and tucking it down the front left leg of his baggy trousers.
"You know you gonna get the boot if Bossman catch you."
Deion nodded but refused to make eye contact with the singer he knew only as Roberta. When she sang, her voice was as silky and smooth as the red satin dress that clung to her chocolate frame. And though she was one of the most popular singers in the joint, she knew—everyone knew—that Roberta, too, balanced precariously between the marquee board outside and the unemployment line down the street.
She slid into the chair directly in front of Deion, and he turned to clear off the next table. Still, the vivid flowery odor of her perfume, mixed with the thick cigarette smoke in the air, caused him to feel light-headed as memories of the last singer he’d gotten involved with flooded him. He wasn't going to let that happen again. With women, he'd decided, life had more complications than it was worth.
"Just what's in those ol' papers anyway? I mean, what can be so interesting?"
He cautiously glanced at her, wondering if she honestly cared.
Roberta leaned closer, allowing one of the straps of her dress to slide down, exposing her smooth shoulder. Yet her eyes held an inquisitive look that caused Deion to risk opening up.
"There's a war in Spain, Roberta. Fascist rebels are trying to take over the country, no matter the fact that the new leaders were voted in democratically. No matter the fact that they're fightin' 'gainst the very people that make up the heart of the country."
"Humph." Roberta righted her strap and leaned back in her seat. "Last week you talkin' about Ethiopia. Today it's Spain. What about Chicago? I don't see how that fighting overseas has anything to do with you."
"Then you don't know much at all, do ya?" Deion lifted the tray filled with other people's leftover food. Other people's dirty dishes. He was used to meddling in other folks' messes. And if no one cared about places like Ethiopia and Spain and things like injustice and Fascists, then soon enough they'd all be in a pile of trouble. Those dictators wouldn't stop until they controlled the people everywhere.
He clucked his tongue. "Listen now. If we crush Fascism there, we'll save our people in America and other parts of the world. I don't know about you, but being I'm from Mississippi, I've been insulted, segregated, abused, and Jim-Crowed enough to know a bad deal when I see one."
Roberta rose and returned to her spot on the well-worn piano bench. She lifted her fingers to play, but instead of pressing them to the keys, they hung in the air like limp spaghetti. "Still don't know what Spain gots to do with anything."
Deion opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. As he walked toward the kitchen, Roberta launched into a lively jazz tune he couldn't remember the name of. It was no use trying to explain it to anyone who hadn't seen the
sight of burning bodies, of their people hanging from trees, swinging and swaying like his mama's laundry on the clothesline. Heard the groaning of the helpless loved ones. Or seen the bitter rage that comes over a man unable to do a thing.
Of course, what was he doing about it? He asked himself the same question a dozen or two times a day. Sure, he should feel thankful to have a job when so many were without, yet Deion's shoulders still slumped.
There's nothing I can do about it in Chicago.
Spain was a long way away. And so was Ethiopia, where the Fascist Italian government did even worse to colored folk there.
He set the tray in the deep sink, the clanking of dishes reminding him of the clanking of the train wheels over the track—the ones that had carried him here, and the ones that could carry him to New York, where he'd heard people did more than just read the paper and talk. Maybe in New York he could find a better job than cleaning up other people’s slop. And maybe he could talk about real matters with folks who cared, instead of just reading it secondhand from stolen, food-splattered newspapers that scratched his thigh as he walked.
Father Manuel Garcia had heard that in some towns the antifascists, Communists mostly, had killed their priests. And sometimes he wished they'd done that in the northern towns too. It would be easier to be dead than to carry the burden of those who died. He'd prayed for them, absolved their sins, but he couldn't save them. Of course, Jesus the Christ was the only One who could save.
Manuel made the sign of the cross as he heard footsteps nearing on the stone walkway to his front door. He rose from his high-back chair, his young body feeling old, moving like the antiquated priest he had replaced two years ago.
His fingers brushed the doorknob. After all this time, the door still didn't seem like his door. The church had sent him to this parish. Yet, instead of identifying with the Mother Church, he felt a part of the people, as many priests from the north did. That is perhaps the reason they'd been allowed to live, when so many others had died.
Manuel opened the door before the visitor could knock and extended a hand to the small boy who stood outside. Augustine, he believed his name to be. Or Rafael. He always got those young brothers' names mixed up.
"What is the matter?" Manuel knelt to the boy's height, his dark robe pulled tight, a stone biting into his knee.
"They've found another one. Fascist pig. He's been imprisoned, and he asks for the priest."
Curses and more curses. Unmentionable curses, Manuel thought to himself, rising. Words a priest would never spout, but thoughts were a different matter. A priest was a man, after all. A weary, confused, heartbroken man.
He fumbled with the thick silver cross that hung from his neck. Its weight reminded him of the burdens he chose to carry for his Lord.
He'd thought for many years that the greatest weight on his soul was to die to his flesh daily—to live a life of chastity and denial. But nothing had prepared him for the pleading eyes of the people staring up at him—one set murderers at heart, the other set victims.
He rose and turned his back to the door. "They're at the city hall, I presume?"
"Yes. Will you come?"
"I will come. Will you run ahead and tell them this?"
Without answering, the boy turned and darted back in the direction of town, and the heaviness on Manuel's heart burdened him more than his vows of chastity and poverty ever had.
Nothing he imagined could be worse than a civil war in the midst of a small town. He thought of the families who had lived all their lives together—whose mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers had done the same. Yet now their friendships were split apart by ideologies that scarred their souls as well.
Yes, the priests in the north were much needed. To absolve not only the sins of the dying, but of the living.
Chapter Four
Nunca aconsejes a nadie que vaya a la guerra o que se case.
Never advise anyone to go to war or to marry.
Spanish proverb
A different Barcelona greeted Philip when he awoke in the morning. From the hotel window he watched the streets swarming with armed workers, rifles on their right shoulders. Most wore their civilian clothes with badges and insignia in red and black—matching the banners hanging outside and showing they were anarchists. A few wore dark blue militia uniforms. Yes, much had changed overnight.
He cracked opened the window and listened intently to the heavily accented voices. A young man, not more than thirteen or fourteen—the same age as his students back home—roamed the streets, proudly displaying his anarchist badge. The boy's eyes grew wide as a woman in overalls walked by, slinging a rifle over her shoulder. Philip chuckled to himself, realizing that this was the first Spanish woman he'd seen in trousers as well.
In contrast to the un-uniformed anarchists, the town's militiamen stood, feet planted at the entrances of hotels, shops, and administrative offices. They too watched the woman pass. Some men still crouched behind barricades constructed from sandbags, dead horses, and broken cobblestones, as if enemy tanks would rumble down the streets at any moment. Yet a few lifted their heads to note other trousered women joining the first.
In the days prior to the revolt, Philip had noticed men of all ages lounging on the city's benches, calling out compliments to any woman who caught their eye—which was most of them. It was good to see that the battles had not changed the landscape of the city too much.
Still, some Barcelonans didn't seem to grasp the reality of war within their streets. Unbelievably, Philip noted families with picnic baskets dotting the sidewalks. It reminded him of a history lesson he taught in junior high—about families venturing out to view battles in the early days of the American Civil War, only to be caught in the fighting. What were they thinking?
A soft knock sounded at the door. Attis answered it, and a minute later was at Philip's side.
"Well, my friend," he said. "We're leaving."
"Not a big surprise. Where to?"
Attis ran his fingers through his dark hair. "The organizer of the games doesn't know, but he said to take our things downstairs this evening. He'll have a better plan then." Attis flopped back on the bed. "I'm starving and exhausted. I must've had some pretty powerful dreams last night."
Philip slipped on his shoes. "Race you downstairs. Since it's the only race today."
He'd meant it as a joke, but Attis didn't laugh.
To come all this way for nothing.
Mostly solemn faces greeted them as they entered the lobby. Philip dug his sore hands in his pockets. "Is there someplace we can find breakfast?"
The balding clerk nodded. His starched white shirt with black tie and professional smile suggested unconcern about last night's events. Yet the thin layer of sweat upon his brow told Philip otherwise. "Sí, there are many places still open for business. The café next door has good breakfasts."
Philip glanced toward the door. Outside, a father, mother, and three children strolled by. The boy broke from his mother's grasp, tapped on the hotel window, and waved. The clerk waved back.
"What are they doing out?" Philip pointed his chin toward the family. "Don't they know what's going on?"
The concierge clucked his tongue and wagged his head. "The favorite outing of Barcelona folk is to go to the river on Sundays. They take the electric line. This tells you how common such revolts are. Sometimes the fighting is over on the first spurt. Not this one, though. That family, they'll be back. You watch." He tapped the phone receiver. "I've heard all exits from the city are closed. There will be no picnics in the countryside today."
It didn't take much convincing for Philip to talk Attis into taking a stroll of their own after breakfast. His stomach was full, yet tense, as they walked through the streets. Like others around them, they held white handkerchiefs high in their right hands just to be safe.
Gingerly they moved along, stepping over spent cartridges and bandoliers. A dead mule lay on the sidewalk in a puddle of its own blood. Already flies
swarmed around it, and the morning sun combined with a gentle breeze to spread its stench. Philip pinched his nose, and his stomach churned as he noticed smaller, dried pools of blood on the roadway where injured men had lain. It brought to mind the faces of those Philip had worked beside last night. Did they still live? Or had they given the ultimate sacrifice after he and Attis returned to the hotel?
At least they died for a noble cause, Philip thought. To maintain the elected leaders and stand against the Fascist dictator who fought to return the burden of oppression upon the people. Their deaths, in a sense, were for all who longed for equality among men of all races and stations in life.
They rounded the corner and paused as they gazed at the smoldering church. Philip eyed the bell tower, still standing proudly over the city, where just last night snipers had perched. Centuries-old stone walls remained, but the hand-carved doors and stained glass windows lay in rubble. Inside, pew and altar alike were burned. Philip supposed the gold and silver ornaments of faith had been looted. What had the citizens of this city lost because of this "freedom fight"? He glanced at Attis, but neither said a word. Philip knew his friend, too, was thinking of Philip's father's small church back home.
As they continued on, Philip noted buildings old and new, from quaint shops to modern boutiques, pocked with bullet holes—and at the foot of one blood-smeared wall sat a small bouquet of violet irises. Philip caught his breath at the out-of-place flowers.
"Somebody's friend." Attis rubbed his forehead as if to erase a memory. "Somebody's son."
"Somebody's love," Philip muttered as he watched a young woman, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face, walk by, clutching a single iris.
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