Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  "All two of us?"

  "I don't think we'll be the only ones."

  Philip lowered his forehead into his hands, wondering how he’d gotten into this mess and how long it would take to talk some sense into his friend. Too long. Never. I know him too well. .. .

  "And what if we are the only ones? What if no one else is stupid enough to answer the call?"

  Attis leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Then I'm ready to die anyway. The people should have a right to control the land, to work together for their common good. Their alternative is no better than enslavement . . . and who wants to live in a world like that?"

  Chapter Nine

  De musico, poeta y loco

  Todo tenemos un poco.

  Of music, poetry and madness

  We all have a little.

  Spanish folklore

  Sophie waited near the hotel's front desk for José the next morning. She watched a young Spanish woman walk past the glass doors and admired her soft, smooth skin and deep eyes. Sophie touched the low simple knot of hair at the base of her head—the same style as that of the woman walking by. She took in a deep breath of the already warm air and grinned down at her new dress. Just like yours, she silently said to the woman, who had disappeared around a corner.

  Before long a wiry man, about her height, entered the hotel lobby. He approached with a proud stride, gently but firmly grasping both her shoulders and placing a kiss on each of Sophie's cheeks.

  "Buenos dias, señorita."

  "Buenos dias, José. Soy Sofía."

  "Nice to meet you." José pointed toward the door. "Shall we walk? We could call a carriage, but it is not far." He extended his elbow. "And we can acquaint ourselves as we go."

  Sophie slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

  He opened the door for her, and they stepped onto the Gran Via.

  "Nuestro amigo—our friend, Miguel, has asked me to escort you to see some of our country's finest artwork. It is good you are in Madrid and not Barcelona. Here, the churches are closed, but not burned."

  A group of soldiers dressed in dark blue monos passed, each nodding a greeting. Sophie returned their glances with a smile.

  "If the churches are closed, how will we get in?"

  "Sí, your Miguel, this man has many friends. And those he doesn't know, thankfully, I do. First we will stop at San Antonio de la Florida. I know you will be pleased to see the Goya frescoes. Beautiful. The door is kept locked by the keeper, but he promised to open it on your behalf."

  "I'm honored."

  "It is not every day an American artist visits."

  "It's not like I'm Picasso or something." Sophie chuckled. She took in the sight of the people moving along the streets. Businessmen in suits. Women carrying baskets of food from the market. Mothers strolling with their children in carriages.

  "Picasso is a master, sí, one of our own sons. But painters of all stations are much honored here, as are photographers. You will see. Much more appreciated than in the United States. The Germans, they are thinkers," he continued, shaking his head. "They think this and that, and how to make what belongs to everyone else to be theirs. Have you heard that German planes have been seen in the Spanish skies? Bombers delivering Moorish troops from Africa."

  His pace was as quick as his words as he led her through the crowds. "But mark my words, that will not be the last we see of them."

  José pointed to a small, simple church ahead. "This church has been out of service for some time. Yet this is good. Another church close by has been requisitioned for the use of a district militia committee. We would not be able to go there today or anytime soon."

  He said something in Spanish she didn't understand. Perhaps a curse or a statement of disbelief.

  "Can you believe that holy places are being used by the militia? Incredible!"

  Sophie tried to catch her breath, urging herself to keep up with the pace of his legs . . . and his words. If he continues at this rate, I doubt I'll last the day.

  They approached the small building, and even before they knocked, an old man, bent with years, opened the door and motioned them inside. Then, just as quickly, he disappeared.

  A dozen candles attempted to illuminate the dusty room, with negligible results. Sophie covered her mouth and sneezed from the scent of smoke, incense, and dust. When her eyes finally adjusted to the dim interior, she was disappointed by the room's shabbiness—until she looked up.

  "Goya," she said in quiet reverence. She slid her hand into José's and squeezed. "Oh, look at those rosy-cheeked angels."

  She turned to one side and noticed a marker and a large marble coffin. In Boston the graves of important men could be found in old cemeteries, but for some reason Sophie couldn't get used to the idea of final resting places being inside the church. "Is that Goya?"

  "Sí."

  Trying not to shudder, she returned her attention to the mural painting adorning the walls, cupola, and bows of the building.

  José pointed to the cupola. "Mira, señorita. Goya represents the miracle of San Antonio. Have you heard of it?"

  "I can't say I have."

  "According to legend, San Antonio was transported from his own Padova to Lisbon with the help of an angel after a dead man prayed for his help. There he resuscitated a slain person, who was then able to testify who murdered him, thus saving the father of the dead man, who was wrongly accused of the murder."

  Wonder filled Sophie as she scanned the mosaic, taking in the small details that caused the legend to come to life within its parameters. "Yes, I see it now. The angels are rejoicing over the miracle. Look at their joyful faces. And the people whisper and gawk at the scene. Do you believe it's true?"

  José shrugged. "Perhaps there was a time for miracles in our country, but no longer. Darkness has fallen over this land of vivid light and distant vistas."

  "You speak like a poet."

  "Then you have judged well."

  "I'd love to read your work sometime."

  "Perhaps." José shrugged. "Poets are appreciated here, but not as much as artists. Sixty percent of Spain is illiterate, you see. I knew an artist once, who unfortunately lived in Seville, which is now under Rebel control. He designed some of the first posters to grace our fine city during the elections. Just days ago, I heard, he was targeted by a bullet, not long after the revolt started. He never once even held a gun, yet he was one of the first sought out."

  "For painting? That makes no sense."

  "Señorita, if it were only painting, there would be no problem. Yet he was one who painted ideas. For a country in which most can't read, he communicated in the way the people know best."

  José spread his arms, returning her attention to the display before them. "Do you think the churches are only filled with art for art's sake? They speak the stories without saying a word. They remind the people of the saints of God. Of Christ. Of sacrifice. Of eternity. My friend—the painter who is no more—did the same. And if you look closely at the political posters that cover our city, you'll see stories in the images, and hopes, and pleas. Spaniards, as you may have realized, are visual people. The eyes are the most important of all senses." He opened his hands as if holding a book. "The ears—not so, unless they can create images in the minds of the people."

  "In New England, where I grew up, I noticed that most people walk around with their eyes down. Here, I feel as if eyes are on me everywhere I go."

  "Yes, Spaniards appreciate beauty. But it's not just you, señorita. We look at everything, take it in, and then pour it out in canvas, prose, and song. Sometimes an artist seeks to involve viewers." He pointed to the frescos. "Other times, the art created is the result of a private experience. If you could only see the place . . ." José paused, then shook his head.

  "What place?"

  "I'm sorry, señorita, but I have made a promise to Miguel. No political talk. No introductions."

  "Introductions?"

  “Sí, to the artists' community o
f Madrid. For they are as radical about their freedom as their art."

  "And you, José. Do you feel the same?"

  "I do not think of myself as radical. In fact, I hardly know what that word means. Instead, I think only of a liberal government, whatever the form. I wish only for freedom in place of submission, and this is the reason worthy of the fight. Yet my friends, they would have much to share."

  He shook his finger at her. "But see here, señorita. Look at what you have done. Like a spider you have entangled me in your web of questions, and now I have a war raging in my own soul." He stroked his chin. After a few seconds, he sighed. "Maybe, I believe, just a short visit won't hurt."

  Less than an hour later, Sophie felt the weight of the past few weeks fall from her shoulders as she entered a small studio. Though many of the artists had returned home for the afternoon siesta, a few remained, working at easels set up around the room.

  The large warehouse-type room was a chaos of painted canvases. Collected objects lined the shelves. Drawings and sketches were pinned on walls haphazardly. Sophie strode along one wall noticing landscapes, portraits, and modern art reminiscent of Picasso's most recent work.

  The smell of oil paint and turpentine brought a smile. Energy stirred the air, and with every breath she felt as if creativity and life flowed into her.

  "Thank you, José. This is just what I needed. I feel like I'm home again." She lifted a clean brush, feeling its weight, remembering its sensation.

  "Yes, well, I still question if it is worth losing the trust of a friend. Miguel will not be happy if he finds out."

  Sophie crossed the room to where a man worked on an image of the Curatel overlooking Madrid. He painted the event Michael had spoken about, the storming of the hill. Though a few men at the top of the hill lifted their hands in victory, the hillside below them consisted of black and red shapes. It was only as she studied the abstract images more closely that Sophie realized they were disjointed body parts sprouting among the blood-red stones. Her mood changed instantly, as if the emotions of the piece had bounced from the canvas to her heart.

  "We don't have to tell him, do we—that we've come?" She turned to José, noting the serious look in his dark eyes. "After all, I'll be gone in a week or two, and what Michael doesn't know won't hurt him."

  "Unfortunately, mimo," José said with a shrug, "the man you have come to marry has recently said the same thing about you."

  Chapter Ten

  Camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente.

  Shrimp that sleep, the current takes.

  Spanish proverb

  José must have noted Sophie's brooding attitude as they exited the studio and then strode down the Gran Via toward her hotel.

  "I spoke out of turn. Forgive me, señorita. Miguel is my friend, yes, but we disagree on many things. And in one afternoon, you've discovered at least two." José shrugged. "I should not say as much, but I can see the worry heavy on your face." He paused and turned to her, lowering his voice. "It is his work, you see. So dangerous. He doesn't want to bother you with it, but I tell him you deserve the truth. There are many who wish to silence his voice."

  "His voice?"

  "Sí, señorita. His photos speak volumes, and though he has tried to publish them under an alias, they know. His work is as a fingerprint, you see. It is quite unique, the way he can choose one object to tell the story of a battle or one face to represent throngs of soldiers."

  "So, that thing . . . what he's been hiding from me—it has to do with his work?"

  "Sí. Now let me see those bright eyes. I do not wish to ruin your afternoon or your relación. Whether your señor knows it or not, he needs you here. In fact, we must hurry, or we will miss meeting Michael for the bullfight."

  "Bullfight!"

  "Did he not tell you? It is something to look forward to, indeed." José rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "It must have been a surprise, no?"

  They hurried down the last block, and José opened the glass door to the hotel. "See, there he waits for you."

  Michael's green, smiling eyes caught hers, and her heart did a flip. His grin communicated volumes as he strode toward her, holding a bouquet of red carnations.

  Sophie smiled, noticing a grace in his walk he hadn't exhibited in Boston. It was as if he'd taken in the essence of the people, just as one absorbed the hot Spanish sun.

  Michael swept her into his arms. "For you, my dear." He handed her the flowers, then twirled her around, causing her Spanish dress to flare whimsically. "Mi amor bonita. You look like a true Española."

  Sophie bowed her head as she’d seen the young women do. “Gracias,señor.” She leaned close to let him kiss her cheek.

  "Now go put these in water and hurry back. I have a treat for you."

  Sophie studied his face. His green eyes gazed adoringly at her; yet despite José's explanation, uneasiness still gnawed in her gut. She lifted the blossoms to her face, breathing in their sweet scent. "They're beautiful. Where are we going? Do I need to change?"

  A sparkle lit up Michael's eyes. "Yes, there is another dress in your room. Hurry now; we don't want to be late."

  Opening the door to her room, Sophie sucked in her breath as she discovered a black dress laid out on her bed. Red poppies decorated the fabric that was as light as silk. A ruffled, V-necked collar matched the ruffles on the hem of the skirt.

  She quickly dressed, buckled on the large, black suede belt, fixed her hair in a loose braid, and tucked a carnation behind her ear. She spun in front of the mirror. With her dark hair and new style, she felt as if she fit in. She dared even to call herself pretty.

  She grabbed her sketchbook and gave one final glance in the mirror before hurrying down to the lobby.

  Michael showed his appreciation with a low whistle.

  "You like?" Sophie twisted her torso just enough for the layers of fabric to swoosh around her legs.

  "Very much." He stepped forward and placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. "Just as I'd imagined. Now for the surprise. We have tickets for the one event that reveals, above all else, the true heart of Spain."

  "A bullfight?"

  Michael nodded and extended his elbow.

  On the carriage ride to the arena, Sophie marveled at the number of people heading for an afternoon of entertainment in the middle of a workday. The carriage drove them down wide, tree-lined avenues and twisting narrow streets. Polite men tipped their hats as they passed, and women waved as if Sophie had been a friend for life. Handsome children laughed and played in a grassy park, and a few danced in a spouting fountain.

  "For the Spaniards, everything comes before business—especially pleasure." Michael laughed, pointing to a group of young women walking through the park arm in arm. "On any given day, the talk around town usually centers on which café a favorite dancer will appear at, or which fighter will be in his best form at the bullfight. Many Spaniards never go to bed before five o'clock in the morning—and then only because they've had their fill of drink." A huge grin filled Michael's face as he spotted a man waving to him from the street.

  “Miguel! ¿Como estas, mi amigo?”

  “Bien, Paulo. ¿Donde esta su espousa? Where is your wife?"

  Paulo just grinned back and strolled toward a young woman waiting up ahead.

  Michael turned back to Sophie. "You see why my Spanish friends will meet me day or night to discuss anything I like, but won't take me home to their family? I'm more likely to meet a friend's mistress than his wife."

  Sophie glanced at Michael to see if he was joking.

  He sighed. "Unfortunately for me, I have deadlines, and for some odd reason New York won't hold up production because I stayed up to the wee hours at Café Miami."

  "Café Miami?"

  "Oh, not a place you would like, mimo—it's a seedy bar. A woman of culture and class like you—someone who appreciates fine art, not chrome tables, leather armchairs, and loud music—wouldn't feel comfortable."

  "So you think I
've never been to a seedy bar, my love?" She threw him a sassy glance, then told herself she'd have to stroll by this café—and perhaps peek inside.

  They arrived at the Plaza de Toro a few minutes before four o'clock.

  "The only thing that begins on time in Spain is the bullfight," Michael said, helping her from the carriage.

  Excitement stirred in the air as he led her to their seats in a shaded spot four rows up from the arena.

  "I can't believe this. The closest I've come to a bullfight is learning the steps to the Paso Dobles your mother taught me."

  "You're in luck. Today they're raising money to support the Republican troops, so you'll see twice the number of matadors."

  Michael waved to someone behind her, and Sophie turned. She spied Maria with an older, gray-haired man at her side.

  Michael touched her back. "I hope you don't mind that we are meeting my friends." Michael stood as they approached. "Paco, Maria Donita, may I introduce Sophie?"

  Paco grinned broadly. "Welcome, Sofía."

  "We've heard so much about you," Maria added.

  Both honored her with a quick kiss on the cheek before sitting by Michael's side.

  Sophie fanned her sketchbook in front of her face, attempting to follow Paco's story about the influx of refugees entering the city. She commented at all the right times, then turned her attention to the flushed faces across the stadium. Their stirring told her that the event was about to begin.

  "Is it true that sometimes the matadors are killed?" Sophie asked.

  Michael patted her hand. "The daily possibility of death is what makes Spaniards passionate about living."

  Paco nodded, his hands moving excitedly as he spoke. "The sport of bullfighting celebrates the strength of the human spirit. Against all odds, the little man faces the monster. Sí, it makes perfect sense that the bullfight is our fiesta nacional."

  "I am not in complete agreement, cousin." Maria flipped a brightly colored fan from her pocket and fanned her face as gently and gracefully as a butterfly in flight. "It is not sport, but art. Some say the bullfighter has taken his gestures from the traditional dances of Spain, but I believe the opposite is true. The dancer is only as beautiful as the bullfighter. And some of the greatest, world-renowned dancers, such as La Argentina, found fame in bullfighting passes set to music."