A Forbidden Love

by Kerry Postle

  ‘Aren’t we all, comrade?’ she giggled, continuing to share her knowledge of the best hotels, bars and restaurants in Madrid with Maria. ‘And that’s why you really have to go to Gaylord’s. It’s my favourite … hard to get in without an invitation. Sentries with bayonets stand outside the porte-cochere. They say General Lister and the military commander they call El Campesino drink there. When they’re not giving it to them at the front, that is. What do you think? Fancy coming if I can get you in? It’s full of Russians. They’re like bears!’

  ‘El Campesino?’ Maria looked puzzled that any soldier should be called the Peasant.

  ‘It’s to accentuate his working-class origins,’ Federica said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘He is communist after all. So,’ she said, getting the conversation back on track. ‘Fancy coming? To Gaylord’s?’ She lit up a cigarette and proceeded to disappear behind a cloud of blue smoke. ‘Cigarette? Maria? Maria? Fancy a cigarette?’ Federica pulled on her sleeve. ‘Cigarette? I asked.’

  ‘No, no thank you,’ Maria said, in a daze and feeling slightly nauseous.

  Federica sat back on her heels and looked at Maria. Not bad looking, she supposed, but not exactly fun. She didn’t even smoke.

  ‘How about the cinema? The Marx Brothers are a hoot in Night at the Opera. I’ve seen it three times already and I’ve not finished with it yet … You will love it. I know you will,’ Federica said. Maria forced a smile.

  Workers carried in more chests. Camphor and dust wafted into the air as Federica threw them open. ‘Sorry,’ she shouted over to Sandoval. She put up her hand. ‘So sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘Well, remember!’ he roared back.

  ‘Who is that?’ Maria asked. ‘Says he was a political prisoner released at the start of the war but I’ve heard that …’

  ‘Here! Now!’ Sandoval stopped Federica mid flow. The girl scampered over to him and returned several minutes later head bowed.

  ‘Such a beast,’ she whispered to Maria. ‘But not in a good way. You can sort through those, the one with the men’s clothes in and I’ll look through the evening gowns. Unless you want to, of course.’ She didn’t. Instead, she picked through frock coats, dress coats, uniforms and hats adorned with ostrich feathers. Federica held up a sparkling tiara and put it to one side. She’d forgotten all about Sandoval.

  ‘Federica? Do you know many milicianas?’ Maria did not want to give up on her dream.

  ‘Oh yes, but most of them are pregnant now,’ her friend answered in a tone of faux concern. Maria shuddered. She started to cough uncontrollably. Federica raised her eyebrows, whispered ‘never mind’ then she got up and moved over to a large wooden armoire. Opened it and rooted round like a pig at the trough. ‘Look at these shoes!’ she gasped, breathless with greed. All thought of milicianas, pregnant or otherwise, had disappeared from her mind.

  ‘Do you have a boy?’ Federica tried to squeeze her foot, ugly sister-style, into a delicate shoe made of pink kid. ‘I do,’ she said, flinging the ridiculously impractical footwear across the room. ‘So bourgeois!’ she hissed under her breath. ‘He’s been at the front,’ she continued. ‘Not now though. Injured. And has the most beautiful scar. Proved himself as a hero of the people. And still does, here in Madrid. Not afraid to do what’s got to be done, if you get my meaning.’ Maria did not. Federica threw another shoe onto the wooden floor. ‘Why did those rich bitches have such tiny feet?’

  Images of Luis burned within Maria’s heart. They scorched themselves onto the pages of her memory. He would always be the better part of her. Perhaps she should read his letter. She closed her eyes to keep Federica from looking into them and seeing what was in her soul. She needn’t have worried.

  Federica, her nose back in the wardrobe, was snuffling round for larger shoes, her searchlight gaze intent on seeking out footwear to fit her proletarian feet. She had no interest in plumbing the depths of Maria’s broken heart when she still had a magnificent shoe mountain to mine.

  ‘What’s he called, this boy of yours?’

  ‘What?’ Federica said, her voice muffled by velvet, leather and silk.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Amaro. Amaro Pargo.’

  ‘Like the pirate?’

  Federica pulled her head out of the wardrobe, not amused. ‘So what’s yours called?’

  Maria said nothing. Luis had taken over her mind and confused her. She glowed at the thought of his goodness, shivered with shame at her own treachery, prayed for his safety … and now Amaro Pargo. Strange. That was what she and Paloma used to call Manuel when they were children. Paloma. Paloma, Paloma. Whose side am I on? Maria asked herself.

  ‘Not have one? Never mind. Now I’ve got shoes to find.’ Moments later Federica pulled her snout from the wardrobe and stood there, a third, hopeful pair of red velvet shoes hanging off her right hand.

  ‘Want to know what my Amaro does?’ Federica’s heart swelled with the pride of a braggart as she leant over to whisper in Maria’s ear. ‘Well, he killed the enemy at the front, and …’ She paused for dramatic effect, her voice growing even quieter. ‘He pretty much does the same now.’ With a finger pointed at the back of Maria’s head, Federica went, ‘Bang! Just like that.’ She then stopped, looking round the room to make sure nobody was listening. ‘And he goes out on special missions with Sandoval, looking for spies.’ Her voice dropped to a melodramatic whisper. ‘Says they’re everywhere.’

  Chapter 42

  Though it struck Maria as ironic that the Communist Party whose HQ this grand palace had become should take such delight in the trappings of such lavish wealth, she still went along to the gathering the following evening where she hoped to meet Federica’s boyfriend, the mysterious Amaro Pargo. What he did was meaningful. And what he did, she wanted – no, needed – to do. To avenge Paloma. To exorcise all thoughts of Luis and banish him to the other side once and for all.

  The gathering would have been an elegant affair if it hadn’t been so excessive. She and Federica had spent valuable hours looking for the most sumptuous and decadent costumes and it showed, their new comrades were dressed in the brightest satins and multiple strings of pearls. Federica had chosen the most extravagant outfit for herself. Trussed up in, and oozing out of, a deep red silk ballgown (feet weren’t the only small thing those rich bitches had), she wore a tiara on her head, and so many ostrich feathers threaded down the back of her dress that they rose up and curled round her head like a canopy.

  ‘Look!’ Federica squealed, lifting up the skirt of her gown to reveal fine, red velvet shoes. She’d found a pair that fitted.

  ‘Tasteful,’ Maria said, with a hint of sarcasm so subtle that Federica gave her a kiss. ‘Oh, mustn’t forget! Salud comrade.’ She gave her little salute that looked particularly ridiculous given the clothes she was wearing. Maria, who hadn’t dressed up for the occasion (not that Federica noticed), gave her a little salute back.

  ‘Your boy not here?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Not until much later. Work!’ Federica said as she tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger. A comrade dressed as a nineteenth-century dandy-cum-nobleman with an eighteenth-century wig and buckled shoes whisked the damsel in red silk away. Maria breathed a sigh of relief.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, Maria told herself as she looked about the room. She had no time for frivolity and it was all around. Hypocrites. The thought came to the forefront of her consciousness like a lightning bolt. She wrestled with it, desperately pushing it back down to where it came from. People had a right to have fun in these sorry times. And who was she to judge, after all? But she had to get away before she said something she might live to regret. And she would if she didn’t leave soon, she could tell, as the words queued up ready to springboard themselves off her tongue with great force. She’d come to meet Federica’s boyfriend to see if he might be the contact she needed to get involved in something meaningful but he wasn’t here. For a second, she thought she recognised someone. A young man. Early twenti
es. Possibly younger, dressed in a frockcoat embroidered in gold thread. His face was very familiar but try as she might, she couldn’t place him. But the boy’s face persisted in haunting her.

  It was getting late. Federica’s boyfriend hadn’t shown up yet. It was time to go.

  But as she turned towards the door a hand stretched out from inside an oversized gold sleeve and touched her arm.

  ‘Maria. I’m Lope de Aguirre.’

  Maria’s eyebrows arched in mockery. Lope de Aguirre was the name of a Spanish pirate from the sixteenth century. Every girl and boy had heard of him. ‘Wrath of God, Prince of Freedom, King of Tierra Firma? That Lope de Aguirre?’ she said, amused. She had no idea who he was, but then again, there was something vaguely familiar about him. His eyes squinted, face crinkled, awkwardness exuded his every pore. She’d seen him before. ‘Sorry. No,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. My real name is Virgilio. Virgilio Lorenzana Macarro.’ He looked round, moved in towards her and whispered, ‘a friend of Luis de los Rios and I recognise you from Fuentes de Andalucía.’ She shuddered. Now she remembered him. But what was he doing here? The orchestra played. The good communists danced to waltz after waltz and Virgilio told Maria enough of his story for her to appreciate the parts her father and Luis had played in saving the life of this person before her. Federica saluted them from the other side of the ballroom. ‘I can say no more,’ he said. ‘These are dangerous times for us all. There was a time when the difference between the sides in this war was clear. The Nationalists were brutes. I expected the other side to be the same. When your father and Father Anselmo entrusted me to people I considered criminals, I was afraid. I was their enemy. But they showed mercy, forgiveness, and they led by example not brutality. Your father was the one who told me that and for a while I saw it was true. But now,’ he said, his eyes scanning the room suspiciously, ‘I’m not so sure. The dividing lines are blurred in Madrid.’

  Maria felt the floor shift beneath her feet. She saw Federica swaying towards them.

  ‘Excuse me Virg … Lope,’ Maria corrected herself. ‘I need to get away. I have to sit down.’ Her hand wrapped across herself.

  ‘Down the corridor,’ he whispered. ‘There’s a library, on the right.’

  She rushed off for fear of being caught by Federica, but she needn’t have worried. Federica was busy asking Lope about her boy.

  She rushed towards the main entrance looking for the library door. There it was, on her right, huge and as heavy as a tombstone. It pulled her inside.

  A thousand books wrapped round the room from ceiling to floor. Maria quickly moved her head like a searchlight looking for life in the hallowed space. She found none. Satisfied that she was alone, she pushed the door to, took a deep breath and pushed her hair behind her ears. Her head raced, memories of Luis precious once more.

  She went up close to the bookshelves, thinking of him. She dragged her finger gently along the volumes, reading the spines as she went. There was a copy of Cervantes, Garcia, Machado … Some she’d read, most she hadn’t. She picked up a copy of Calderón. She remembered the quotation Luis had recited to her the last time they were together. She had to find it.

  There were four high-backed leather chairs in the room. Two had their backs to her, flanking either side of the only window in the room. The other two were wedged in between three soft sofas that formed a U-shape in the centre. She allowed herself to sink into the nearest one. It wrapped itself around her. She flicked through the Calderón until she found the quotation. There it was.

  ‘Even in dreams good works are not wasted.’

  And in nightmares doubly so, she thought to herself. She closed her eyes. For a moment she was with Luis once more, in the shepherd’s hut without a roof. She wanted to stay there with him, in her imagination, just the two of them, unblemished by the taint of war.

  A sound intruded on her blessed communion. There it went again. It was a sniff. She opened her eyes to scour the room. She could see no one. Then came a cough from one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the window.

  Maria went over and stood by the sniffing reader for quite some time before he realised she was there. Lost within the pages of his book, it was only when Maria coughed herself that he managed to find his way back to surface reality.

  He slammed his own book shut, looked at Maria, leant forward, checked the door. Seeing that it was closed he sat back in his chair, visibly relieved.

  ‘Antonio Rosario Jimenez.’ Maria recognised the name. And this time it didn’t have any piratical connection. A Madrileňo born and bred, she’d heard about his family from her grandfather. ‘Chose to stay. Defend the city. A forward-thinking family … Good people. Did much before the war to help those without the means to help themselves. Still do. But in this chaos we’ve fallen into that’s not enough … They could be walking confidently along the boulevards of Paris or the streets of London now. Only the son goes about Madrid without fear. And that, I would say, is a mistake.’

  Yet, Maria was about to discover, her grandfather was wrong in his belief that Antonio Rosario Jimenez was not afraid.

  Chapter 43

  Antonio Rosario Jimenez was well-read; that was how Maria had met him, perusing the beautiful book stacks, sitting in a tastefully upholstered chair. He had stuck out at the gathering, yet looked perfectly at home in the library. Unlike the rest of the party he hadn’t dressed up as an aristocrat. No doubt because he was the only person there who really was one, and, in these dark times, he had no wish to draw attention to the fact – which was why he’d sought to absent himself from the main hall, leaving the hoots of delight at the palatial surroundings for others to make. He preferred to seek solace and safety in the protective pages of his favourite books. There, he could be as one with his comrades; there, he could truly enjoy solidarity, share ideals.

  However, when Maria had first seen him at the window, sitting in the leather armchair, she couldn’t help but feel a little suspicious of him. The gathering in the main hall had made her feel uncomfortable. Working girls wanted to be infantas while pretending to be communists; former Nationalist soldiers wanted to be heroes of the proletariat while pretending to be buccaneers. Luis had co-operated with her father to help people switch sides. Nothing was as she’d believed. Then she’d escaped to the quiet of the library, walking away from worker-as-aristocrat, only to find its negative sitting in the chair before her. Firecrackers of confusion went off within her head.

  Antonio Rosario Jimenez. Aristocrat-as-worker.

  Yet the book he was clutching in his hand called to her. ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked when the initial panic in his eyes at being caught reading had passed. He put his already closed copy of Calderón down and snatched a well-thumbed copy of Marx from the pocket of his tattered jacket. A pocket, Maria registered, that was hanging loose. No doubt pulled away at the seams, Maria thought to herself, to further distance him from his genuinely aristocratic background. A wave of music and raucous laughter thundered down the corridor and pushed its way under the door, crashing round the walls of the library. It licked their ears before fizzing away. Antonio placed long, elegant fingers uselessly over the closed volume on the table, his face tense.

  ‘My favourite work by Calderón is El pintor de su dishonra, she said, banishing the music and laughter and taking the seat next to him.

  *

  ‘It was ten o’clock before Maria thought to check the time. Her father would be waiting for her. She ran out of the room. ‘Until tomorrow,’ Antonio called after her.

  Maria clattered to the end of the corridor. She turned to look at the main hall for one last time. There was Federica, in all her feathered finery, waltzing away with a man. Amaro? The one who put guns to people’s heads? He looked vaguely familiar to her but in the half-light she couldn’t really tell. She rubbed her eyes. She told herself she was imagining things. It was late. She was tired. And, besides, she no longer wanted to speak to Amaro Pargo. Whoever he was.

  Chapter
44

  The morning after the party Maria sat on her bed in her room preparing to read Luis’ letter. She picked up her copy of Don Quixote, opened the cover, looked at the folded piece of paper. As she unfolded it, so her mind became scales, measuring the best of Luis, the worst of her. But her fingers did not falter and she would force her eyes to read the words upon the page. She took a deep breath then began.

  My darling Maria,

  As you read this I will be far away, or may as well be. Either way we cannot meet up again, not for a while. That’s why I am writing you this letter, to tell you how much you mean to me. If someone had told me I would meet a girl in the way that I’ve met you I would not have believed them, not thought it possible. But I would have been wrong.

  You have touched my soul with your goodness and loyalty. I pray our children take after you …

  She covered herself with her arm. Her heart burned. She could read no more. His words were full of trust and tenderness and she deserved neither. She gave way to sobbing but as she looked at herself in the mirror she realised that she was enjoying this pain. ‘You’re not some tragic heroine in a novel!’ she said to herself scornfully. She brushed her front down as if sweeping away the new life she feared was growing inside. ‘You’re just a …’

  There was a gentle tap-tapping at the bedroom door. Maria quickly wiped her eyes. A smiling face peered around the door. ‘Everything all right?’

  Maria smiled back and nodded. It was her grandmother; she wouldn’t let her down. In an instant Maria had decided that she would take her to the cinema to see the film recommended by Federica.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to go. I’d hoped we might spend the evening together at home.’ Isabel noticed the puffiness around her granddaughter’s eyes. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’