A Murder Most Spanish

by Jefferson Bonar

  It hadn’t taken him long to find Salobreña’s lavadero. He simply needed to follow the steady stream of women walking past with basketfuls of sopping wet, freshly-washed clothes who were now returning home after a long day’s washing. He was soon making his way down a treacherous walking trail that led down the south face of the hill, just under the castle’s soaring walls. At the bottom lay a large pool of water carved from rock and fed by a spring that trickled out from the large crack of a stone above. The pool was surrounded on all sides by flat stones, set at downward angles into the water, around which several women hunched over, scrubbing away at a last few articles of clothing in the short time left before the sun would set behind the hills to the west.

  The women had been chattering amongst themselves when he arrived, but their conversation stopped. They all glanced up at Miguel, taking stock of the stranger. Miguel knew it was odd for a man to come to the lavadero, and odder still one who was new to the pueblo.

  Despite the attention, Miguel was feeling better already. He kneeled down in front of one of the stones, unrolled his soot-stained work clothes, and dunked them in the water. Once fully soaked, he pulled them over the stone slab and began brushing them clean.

  Seeing this man work so expertly, the women began to resume their conversations. They spoke of the usual mix of internal family squabbles and gossip, just the sort of thing Miguel had listened to with his mother. It was comforting to know there was one piece of this bizarre new town that was just the same as home.

  Miguel felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

  “That will never work.”

  Miguel looked up to catch the gaze of a young woman with long brown hair and shimmering green eyes. She seemed amused, but without any hint of nastiness.

  “It won’t?” Miguel said.

  “You can’t get soot out like that. Here.”

  The woman reached over into her own bag and pulled a small tuft of green, leafy herbs.

  “You have to rub it with these first.”

  Miguel took the herbs and smelled them. They were rancid, the scent reminding him of boiled cabbage.

  The woman laughed. “I wouldn’t do that. They are just for cleaning. You break them up like this.”

  The woman took the herbs and crushed them with her slim, delicate fingertips. The skin of her fingers was already wrinkled and aged, pulled back from the fingernails and spots he noticed. This was all in contrast to the skin of her face, which seemed to Miguel silky smooth, like cream. He had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch it. He knew he would only make her uncomfortable.

  The woman then gave the crushed herbs to Miguel and pointed to his shirt. “Now rub them in. It will help with the soot. Trust me.”

  Miguel was suddenly embarrassed for the state of his shirt. He was disgusted with how it looked, how it smelled, and what she must think of a beast like him that could soil a shirt in such a way.

  “Um…thank you…”

  The woman returned to her own laundry while the older women just beyond glanced at each other with knowing looks. Miguel knew what they were thinking. They would probably spend the entirety of the next day gossiping about it. They would ask the woman incessantly whether she thought wedding bells were in the future.

  But they weren’t. They never were. Miguel had long given up on the idea of marrying. Women didn’t find him attractive. In their eyes, he was an animal. A tall, dumb animal with little to offer but a lifetime of sweating and stammering and embarrassment. He wasn’t good-looking or smart nor did he stand any chance of his life being anything more than that of a simple labourer. What woman would find that attractive?

  Miguel focused his attention again on the clothes and was amazed to find the herbs worked just as the woman had promised. Miguel said nothing more to the woman and avoided her gaze until she finally left with her mother and her aunt.

  A short while later, long enough to make it look like he wasn’t just waiting for the woman to leave, Miguel packed up his things. As he passed one of the two last holdouts at the lavadero, an older woman with a black scarf tied tight around her head held out her arm to stop him.

  “Her name,” the woman said while smiling, “is Francesca.”

  Chapter Three

  The next day Miguel found the work was getting easier. A cloud cover had rolled in off the sea overnight, hanging low and grey, which gave everyone a bit of relief from the hot sun. Jose had said that morning he was worried it would rain. If the cane got too wet, they wouldn’t be able to keep the fires going and it would delay everything.

  But Miguel wasn’t worried about that. He was mostly thankful no one had seemed interested in why he wasn’t at the tavern that night. They all seemed a bit more tired today than usual, even Amparo. Miguel was happy to let the matter go.

  Again, that evening he was invited back to the tavern. This time Miguel mentioned he was feeling ill and quickly returned to his room to change his clothes once again and bring his dirty work clothes to the lavadero. He told himself it wasn’t because of Francesca. It had nothing to do with her. She probably wouldn’t even be there. No, he had enjoyed working that day in clean work clothes. That was all. Besides, he wanted to know more about those herbs she had given him. His mother might be interested in knowing what they were. That was all.

  Miguel arrived at the lavadero to find Francesca and her mother there again and he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. Francesca saw him and smiled. The other women exchanged looks, but Miguel ignored this, and kneeled in front of one of the slabs next to Francesca, setting about the important task of cleaning his clothes and nothing more.

  “Would you like some more of these? You can have as much as you want. We just pick it off the hillside up near the castle.”

  That was when Miguel let himself look at her. He couldn’t help but smile. It felt like a grin. A big stupid grin that he worked to tame as he took the herbs. But he couldn’t help it. He was too nervous. It was everything he could do to keep his hand from shaking.

  Over the next hour he learned a lot about Francesca. How she lived in a house just below the castle on the far side with her parents, who were both tanners. Miguel didn’t know much about tanneries other than they usually smelled quite bad and thus were always located on the outskirts of town. Francesca said she had lived in Salobreña her whole life. To her, Miguel’s village in Almeria seemed exotic. She asked him about life there and how different it was. Miguel had never considered his village as exotic. It had always seemed plain and ordinary to him. It wasn’t like Salobreña, which Francesca found funny for some reason.

  Every day after that Miguel returned to the lavadero where he just happened to encounter Francesca. She always came with her mother, who always seemed to have a lot of laundry to do. But it didn’t distract her from being suspicious of Miguel. Francesca’s mother always seemed to give him disapproving side glances when he began speaking to her daughter. Miguel couldn’t help but notice how she was always hurrying her daughter to finish up so they could go. But it didn’t bother him too much. He was used to it. A few minutes with Francesca was worth it.

  It was nearly a week later when Miguel showed up to work that he noticed Amparo staring at him. His smirk was intense that day, and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Miguel even for a second.

  “We’re going to push the fire south today. I want to get the rest of that cane along the fence. Then we’ll work our way toward the corner,” Jose announced in that hour before sunrise. “I want to watch out for that fallow field across the road,” he went on. “It’s all weeds over there, so we need to keep the embers from getting away from us.”

  The men grunted in acknowledgement and soon took their places. By now, they each knew their jobs well and needed little communication among them, which was why it was so odd when Amparo came up behind Miguel that day.

  “You’ve been having a bit of fun, haven’t you, morisco?”

  “What?” Miguel said.

  “Down at the
lavadero. The rumour is that there’s a lady down there you’ve been seeing, but are too cowardly to court. Is that true?”

  “No there isn’t,” Miguel said, frightened.

  “Do I hear wedding bells? Eh, morisco? Hoping she’ll marry you someday?”

  Miguel could say nothing. He felt his heart begin to race and tears welled in his eyes. How he wished he could remain calm. Why was it that he had to react this way every time someone confronted him? Why couldn’t he stay relaxed like he saw others do? Why did he always reveal everything about himself to men like Amparo? It was like he had no defences at all.

  “What do you think she’ll see in you, eh? What have you got to offer, a big dumb bellaco like you?”

  “I don’t want to marry anybody.”

  “Come on, admit it,” Amparo said. “You want to marry her. She’s beautiful, from what I’ve heard. Francesca, is that her name?”

  Miguel could feel the hotness on his cheeks. Amparo wasn’t worthy of speaking her name through that vile mouth of his, so full of crooked teeth and malice, which now smiled back at him.

  “She’s too beautiful for you, morisco. And too Catholic, from what I’ve heard. You shouldn’t even be speaking to a woman like that. Won’t be long before she realises what you really are.”

  “I don’t want to marry her!” Miguel shouted. He hated that he sounded like a child.

  “Amparo!” Jose shouted from behind them. “Amparo, get to work! Now!”

  “Liar!” Amparo said, shooting the word from his mouth into Miguel’s chest as if fired from a harquebus.

  It took Miguel most of the rest of the day to calm down. Much of the morning was spent seething in anger at Amparo’s words and demeanour. What business was it of his? Why couldn’t Amparo just leave him alone?

  It was a few hours later, while the men were taking a short break, that Enrique leaned over to Miguel when no one else was looking.

  “Don’t worry,” Enrique said, surprising Miguel. “He does that to everybody. Can’t let him get to you. He’s not worth it.”

  Before Miguel could respond, Enrique was out of earshot once again, sitting away from the group and focusing on his meagre lunch. Enrique was a bit strange to Miguel, but it was nice to know someone else understood.

  By early afternoon Miguel realised that one reason he was so angry was that he knew Amparo was right. There was no way a woman like Francesca would ever be interested in him beyond an occasional chat at the lavadero. He was foolish to hope for anything more than that and scolded himself, yet it sounded more like his father’s voice in his head. He briefly wondered if he could move to Salobreña, and perhaps spend the rest of his life having short chats just before sunset while doing laundry. He could be happy with that. It was really all he deserved and all he could hope for.

  The next day, Miguel gathered his clothes in a sack and went to the lavadero as usual. Although this time he was a bit apprehensive. With Amparo now knowing what was happening, it spoiled things somehow. Amparo’s voice still rang in his head. “Won’t be long before she realises what you really are.”

  Miguel promised himself not to hope for anything. He just wanted to clean his clothes.

  As he came down the trail, Francesca was there as usual. Both her mother and her aunt were with her this time and the lavadero was unusually busy for being so close to sunset. The days had been getting shorter, which meant over the past few weeks there had been less and less time to talk before darkness forced them home. But even a few minutes was worth it, and Miguel went down to the rock pool as usual.

  Once there, however, Miguel could sense a change in the air. Instead of looking up and giving him a little smile of acknowledgement as she always did, Francesca avoided his hopeful stare. He found a scrubbing stone just near her and set up his clothes, constantly glancing up, hoping to catch her gaze.

  But she avoided him. She pursed her lips and stared at the ground, as if angry at the pebbles she sat on. The glances Miguel did get were from her mother and her aunt, who made little attempt to hide their contempt for him.

  “H…hi, Francesca.” It was a bold move by Miguel to attempt to start a conversation. He’d never done it before. But there were only minutes left before they’d have to leave and it was obvious her mother was already packing up their things. It would be his only contact with Francesca for a whole day. He lived for these moments. He couldn’t let this pass without doing anything.

  Francesca briefly looked at him, flashed him a forced smile, and began helping her mother to pack up.

  “Is something wrong?” Miguel asked. He realised the rest of the women at the lavadero had gone quiet. None of them looked at him.

  “I’m sorry, Miguel. But I can’t speak to you anymore,” Francesca said.

  “What?”

  Francesca’s mother glared at him. “We will be doing our laundry in the morning from now on. I would appreciate it if you left my daughter in peace.”

  “What’s wrong? I don’t understand…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Francesca said, finally looking at him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “I’m a good Catholic girl, Miguel. I can forgive a lot. But…” Francesca couldn’t finish her sentence.

  Francesca’s mother stuffed the last of their laundry into their basket and stood up, pulling Francesca to her feet as well.

  “We don’t associate with moriscos. We are a good Catholic family. Perhaps you should go back to where you came from and leave us in peace,” her mother said.

  The others at the lavadero were silent as Francesca and her family hurried away.

  “But I’m not…I’m not…” Miguel said. But there was no one around who believed him.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Miguel didn’t notice the cold. He didn’t notice how his clothes were still unwashed from the night before. He didn’t hear what Jose told them about the fire, or where it was supposed to go.

  He was waiting. Waiting to clear the air with Amparo. Waiting to see if he would have the strength to have the confrontation he knew he had to have. He hadn’t slept the night before, his anger seething through his entire body. It had been a long night as he played through every possible way this morning could go. In some scenarios, Amparo would apologise profusely for having been so horrible to him. In others, Amparo would delight in his success until Miguel threatened him and he would back down. In others, they would go to Francesca’s house, Amparo would explain what happened, and all would be well.

  Jose signalled it was time to go to work and Miguel made little effort to conceal his desire to follow Amparo.

  Amparo noticed straight away. “What is it, morisco? How did things go with Francesca?”

  “Did you speak to her?” Miguel asked, tears already brimming in his eyes. He didn’t care anymore.

  “I know her mother. She was very interested to know about your…leanings…”

  The smirk was back on Amparo’s face. He was enjoying this immensely. In Amparo’s mind, he had won. He had humiliated Miguel. And now he fed off it like a stray cat off a freshly-caught mouse.

  “Besides, you said you didn’t want to marry her. You said you weren’t in love with her. So what do you care?” Amparo said.

  The rage inside Miguel came bubbling up. He wasn’t sure where it came from. But he couldn’t stand to look at that smirk for one moment longer. That long, misshapen nose, those crooked eyes, the way Amparo leaned back on his left foot all the time, the way his thinning hair grew too long in his face and flopped about in front of his eyes in that mocking fashion. That voice. That giggle. It was all too much.

  Miguel hadn’t realised he’d punched Amparo until the pain rattled through his knuckles and Amparo was already falling to the ground.

  He heard a loud yelp from Jose and the next thing he knew, Jose was holding him back. Amparo popped back up from the weeds, touching his left cheek bone.

  “I’m suing you
, morisco! You can bet on that! A hundred ducats! A thousand! You attacked me! Everyone saw it!” Amparo screamed.

  Despite the chaos, Miguel felt a sense of calm. He knew that later he would regret what he’d done. But for just a moment, there was something he’d never felt before – power. Amparo had been unable to stop him. Miguel had just done it. And now Amparo looked at him with frightened eyes, backing away. Gone was the smirk, the sarcastic tone, the mocking. Now it was just fear. And in fear, Miguel realised in that moment, was power.

  “Everyone calm down!” Jose shouted. “Whatever this is about, save it until after work. Do both of you understand me?”

  Miguel found he was already calm. Amparo shook off Roberto’s attempt to hold him back as well and was already marching his way across the field to the other side of the fire that was about to be set.

  “You,” Jose said, pointing his finger in Miguel’s face. “You stay on this side of the fire. I don’t want you going near him today.”

  Miguel nodded. He felt numb at the moment and he couldn’t figure out if he should be worried. No, not numb. Relieved. He could finally look Amparo in the eye now without being intimidated, and it washed away his helplessness.

  After that, Miguel found it easy to return to his work and go on with the day as if nothing had happened.

  It was later that afternoon, exactly what time Miguel didn’t know. He was staring up at the tops of the cane stalks, the blue azure sky just beyond, occasionally waving like water as billows of smoke passed by high overhead. Miguel knew the fire was getting close, but he couldn’t move. He was seated on a batch of stalks that had been pushed over, but not cut. His knees pulled up tight against his chest, his face streaming with tears, his heart feeling as though it would leap out of his chest.

  Miguel could hear the cracking cane from the footsteps of someone walking toward him. It was Jose, no doubt. Wondering why the fireline had been allowed to drift so far to the south. It had been Miguel’s job to keep it on track. But he hadn’t bothered with it in nearly half an hour. Soon the fire would be raging out of control, with all the men shouting and racing through the stalks to catch up with it, trying desperately to cut a firebreak before it could spread too far.