A Most Uncivil War Read online

  A Most Uncivil War

  NICOLAS LALAGUNA

  Copyright © 2016 Nicolas Lalaguna

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1785896 675

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  With eternal gratitude to the people of Spain who paid the ultimate price showing us that another world is possible.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  In the east of Spain between Teruel and Reus there is a small village. It is similar to many of the villages in the region and as the midday sun looms high overhead, the whitewashed walls hold the stifling heat amongst its narrow, dusty streets. Separating the bleached buildings from the cloudless, blue sky high above, red tiled roofs perch on the top of each house like a beret. On one side of the village, within a walled garden, stands a stately home overlooking the industrious villagers in the streets and fields. Branching off from the fast-flowing Rio Guadalope to the east, the circulatory system of tributaries and irrigation channels keeps the fields surrounding the village lush.

  The cool, fresh waters from the distant mountains soak through the orange earth ensuring that the peaches are juicy and the olives are sweet, before they take the train to Zaragoza or Barcelona. For many of the villagers 1917 will be no different to previous years. But for a few it will be very different.

  Outside the church Pedro stops and ties his horse up. It whinnies and shuffles its poorly shod hooves. The baking summer sun beats down on the back of his shirt. He looks up towards the sky and shades his eyes as he takes a red neckerchief from his pocket. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his neck. Two barefooted children run past him, kicking up clouds of dust. Pedro watches them and smiles before entering the cool sanctuary of the village church.

  Pedro looks up the aisle between the pews and sees his mother, dressed in black, kneeling at the feet of the young priest. He ties the damp neckerchief loosely around his neck and watches the priest rest his hand on his mother’s bowed head. He can only just hear the priest’s Latin blessing as he bends his knee and crosses himself.

  Pedro watches the priest and his mother walk down the central aisle towards him. The priest nods his head in greeting, “Good day, Pedro. I have noticed that you have not joined your mother in morning mass recently. I hope the godless communists don’t have you questioning your faith.”

  Pedro bows his head. “No, Father; thankfully with your blessed lessons no one could stray from the righteous path. I have been busy with work in recent weeks. Nothing more than that. I will, of course, be here on Sunday.”

  The priest smiles and clasps Pedro’s shoulder. “Good, and it is fine work that you do.” The soft, fleshy hand is more used to counting the collection and gains little purchase on the shoulder sculpted from years tearing at the baked clay in the fields. The priest allows his eyes to scan the man in front of him. He successfully hides his contempt for all the evidence of a life toiling in the sun staring back at him: the sun-leathered skin, the crow’s feet, the scarred and calloused hands and the mud-caked sandals. Unaware of the priest’s disdain, Pedro thanks him for his goodwill and turns to leave. His mother follows him.

  Mother and son walk through the streets, the horse’s hooves gently padding beside them. Each house they pass has closed shutters in the windows and curtains hanging over the doors. The black of her mourning stands out from the dust-stained whitewash surrounding them. She links arms with her son. “Remember the new girl will be arriving today. You will need to clear a space for her in the storehouse.” Pedro nods his head.

  As they turn the corner into their street Pedro sees her for the first time. Standing in the sun with one bag at her feet and an address in her hand, Marianela’s sixteen-year-old eyes fix his gaze. She quickly looks down at her feet with embarrassment as his studious stare dances across the contours of her body, clearly evident under her simple dress and apron.

  His focus is broken as his mother hits her across the shoulder with her stick. “Stupid girl, what are you doing just standing there? Get inside the house.” Red faced and with eyes moistening, she runs into the house, scolded and feline.

  Pedro takes the sack of vegetables from the saddle and follows them in. His mother takes the sack from him and pushes Marianela towards the back door with the end of the stick. She turns to Pedro who is still standing in the doorway. “Go and get washed. I won’t have you saying grace and breaking bread with the soil still on your hands.” Without waiting for a response she follows the girl through the house.

  Before turning to leave, he glances back toward Marianela just in time to catch her doing the same towards him. He watches her pull back the curtain over the door and the sun rush across her, pouring into the shadows of the hallway behind her. He turns, leaves the hallway, and takes the horse to the storehouse at the back of the building.

  Chapter 2

  Over the course of the long, hot summer months Marianela is never far from the young man’s thoughts. Pedro had been using his monthly trips to the market in Zaragoza as an opportunity to visit a gypsy girl in a brothel there, but from the moment Marianela arrives, neither the bordello nor the prostitute hold quite as much fascination for him. It is not long before it is in his imagination that his desires are being realised.

  *

  The summer eventually gives way to the autumn, and the electric storms subside as the harvest nears. The weeks pass and the furtive glances between the two teenagers grow as they both refuse to admit their true feelings towards one another. His fear of rejection and her lack of self-esteem paralyse them both into inaction and the tension of their unrealised desires builds. Sensing an impending liaison, Pedro’s mother invites her widowed sister to live with them and help watch over the two teenagers.

  With October fast approaching, the word from the cities grows ever grimmer and the morning newspapers talk of unrest at home and abroad. As the preparations f
or the annual fiesta take place, word of the impending second revolution in Russia reaches the village. In the tavernas, houses and fields the conversations grow increasingly tense. The labourers whisper of unionising, strikes and revolution; while the bosses speak of birthright, security and divine destiny.

  Every evening Pedro goes to the Casino where he listens patiently to the other smallholders spitting angrily as they drink. At the back of the main square, the Casino, with its bar, restaurant and members fees is the main meeting point for the land owners. Every evening he nods as they describe the savagery of the landless peasants working their fields. He smiles as they explain how the workers grow more ungrateful on a daily basis. He tightens his lips and murmurs his agreement as the conversation inevitably turns to anger and then hatred.

  When he can listen to no more he goes across the square to his favourite taverna, a far quieter and less busy end to his day, where he imagines a simple life working the land and raising a family with Marianela.

  Over the course of the evening he continuously reminds himself to applaud the climbing tensions surrounding him in case one of his drinking companions catches a glimpse of the dreams running through his mind. Behind the mask he paints for himself Pedro feels ever more alone in a village full of strangers.

  As the celebrations reach their climax on the first night of the fiesta, the main square is busy with the rich in their best clothes and the poor in their blue overalls. Family and friends from across the region have joined the villagers as they wander from one taverna to another. The music and dancing spill out of the buildings creating a melting pot of soundtracks filling the streets. The labourers drink cheap wine and eat simple foods while their wealthy neighbours drink foreign digestives and smoke cigars from recently-lost colonies.

  Pedro accompanies his mother and aunt through the streets as they take in the sounds and smells of the festivities. The evening passes as they make their way around the square, nodding their heads in recognition of their neighbours. It doesn’t take long for Pedro to notice Marianela sitting with some of the maids from the other houses. Pedro’s mother, Soledad, sees his attention shifting and follows his gaze to the tables where the girl sits.

  Marianela notices Pedro watching her and whispers furtively behind cupped hands to the other girls. Soledad sees the girls whispering and giggling. Soledad fans herself rhythmically as she watches the maids.

  For a brief moment the older woman begrudges them their adolescent entertainment before quickly reassuring herself that these few stolen hours of naïve enjoyment will soon be replaced by an interminable monotony of lives scrubbing floors, bathing the infirm and surrendering to the advances of their masters. Soledad calms her jealousy knowing that the girls’ dreams will soon be crushed, just as hers once were.

  Unaware of the anger she is generating, Marianela watches Pedro continue walking past the tables. She then notices the man’s mother watching her and so quickly looks away so as not to catch her eye.

  The paraffin lamps hanging from the trees and the candles on the tables create brief pockets of light in the square, while the growing intensity of the music reaches into the shadowed corners. The streets surrounding the main square are cold and dark in comparison; they are barren of life save for the solitary candles in the houses of the sick and the still-working.

  After several turns of the square Pedro walks his ageing chaperones back to the house. They reach the door and his mother turns to him, “I don’t expect to see you back tonight, but if you see the girl, send her home; she needs to finish the cleaning and preparations for tomorrow’s lunch.” Pedro nods and turns back towards the main square. Once around the corner he picks up his pace to a fast walk.

  Pedro enters the square and pauses to scan the crowd. He sees the object of his desires sitting on a bench with the other maids. Sitting near to her he sees three men who sang with him as boys in the choir. Marianela watches him as he seizes the opportunity to bring himself closer to her and joins the men at the table. Her stomach grows tighter and she feels her cheeks warming with anticipation.

  The revelries continue late into the night and Marianela and Pedro are seldom far from each other’s sight. Before the sun breaks cover from behind the horizon Pedro notices a tiredness in Marianela as she allows herself to fall back into a chair. He takes his chance, bids farewell to his friends and hurries to her side. Standing over her he summons his courage, “It is late and you have much to do for the lunch. I think it is best that we leave now.”

  Looking up into his deep brown eyes she feels her heart racing. “Of course, Don Pedro, please forgive me.”

  They hurry from the square with him striding purposefully several steps ahead of her. She follows subserviently behind with her head bowed. Buoyed by the drink and the months of fantasising, he stops to let her catch up. He pushes her against the door of the storehouse at the back of his house. Over the sound of the distant music he hears her sharp intake of breath. He kisses her deeply, opens the door behind her and pushes her backwards into the storehouse.

  He closes the door behind him and half-lifts her off the ground. She surrenders her body to him. The tips of their tongues caress each other’s as he lowers her down onto the sacks of grain. Running his hand up the outside of her stockinged thigh and hitching up her skirt as he does so, he soon feels her smooth, soft, bare hip against his calloused palms. She rains kisses down on his neck.

  Chapter 3

  The weeks pass and neither of them speak to anyone of that night. Pedro manages the workers in the gardens of the duke by day and oversees his own fields in the evenings. He tries and fails to push the memory of that night away by focusing on his work and duty, but the guilt lies heavy across his shoulders.

  Marianela’s youthful dreams of meeting a man that would love and lift her from the inevitable desperation of her future are cruelly dashed as she struggles through each day. She fights to not let her dream of happiness die inside her, but as each day passes, so the memory fades a little more.

  Each evening he returns home with a growing heaviness in his heart. Each night he watches silently as his mother and aunt seemingly take pleasure in breaking the light that Marianela radiates.

  When she catches him watching her longingly from across a room her dreams momentarily rejuvenate. In an instant she feels her stomach tying in knots and her cheeks flushing again. But the moments are only ever fleeting and are always broken by the cacophonous yelling of one of the older women.

  Pedro slowly begins to accept the role he believes he must play, and feigns nonchalance as he tries to ignore Marianela’s pain. In truth, he jumps inside with every demand screamed at her and smarts with every stick that strikes her. Unbeknownst to the two women, but obvious to Pedro, with each ritual torment any glimmer of hope once visible in the girl’s eyes is slowly snuffed out.

  *

  The winter evenings draw in and the temperature drops. With each day more of the women in the village wrap themselves in their shawls and the men in their jackets to stave off the cold. The storehouses holding the autumn’s surplus slowly empty.

  As the weeks pass Marianela struggles with a paralysing anxiety as she waits for her overdue menstruation. She tries to reassure herself that it could be the poor diet, but in her heart she fears the worst and wrestles with whether to tell her mistress or not. The passing of time increases her desperation and, eventually, she finds the courage and the opportunity.

  Marianela sits nervously watching her mistress doing needlework. The intricate patterns of yet another doily throw their shadows from the candlelight onto her lap. Soledad’s sister has gone to bed earlier than normal and Pedro is at one of the bars playing cards. Marianela steels her resolve.

  Soledad looks up at Marianela. “What is it, girl? I can feel you watching me.”

  Meekly, Marianela crosses the room and kneels at the other woman’s feet, all the time looking d
own submissively. Her voice falters as she speaks, “I am sorry, Dona Soledad; I do not want to upset you but I believe I may be sick.” Soledad rests her tools on her lap and fixes her gaze on the girl. The older woman mentally prepares to give the girl another beating.

  Without looking up, Marianela quietly continues, “I am sorry, Dona Soledad, but I have not had my bleeding for many weeks now and I don’t know if I am unwell.” Marianela feels the weight of anticipation lift; but it only lasts a moment before it is instantly replaced by a very real fear of the woman’s response.

  Soledad pushes Marianela backwards as she stands up. The lace work on her lap falls to her feet. Pulled from one emotion to another, thoughts crash against her like waves. Her mind races. She looks down at Marianela and sees a brazen whore who fornicates in the streets like an animal. Her thoughts rush to her son. In her mind she asks herself whether it could be him. She remembers the way they look at each other and begins to understand. She feels the world close in on her, her knees weaken and her emotions pull her back down into the chair.

  In the quiet of the house the coals in the brazier hiss and Marianela’s breathing builds towards a sob. Racked with rage, Soledad throws herself to her knees beside the prostrate girl, takes the back of her head in one hand and slaps her increasingly harder across the face with the other. She spits furiously, “You godless whore.” The palm of her hand crashes down on the girl’s face like a metronome. “Parading yourself like a common bitch.” Again, the hand connects.

  Her anger increases as it finds its outlet. “I should beat you to death.” As the slap makes contact the girl’s eyebrow splits and blood splatters across the floor. “You’ve taken our Lord’s name and shamed him.” The force of the next hit throws Marianela’s head to the floor. Her cheekbone and nose crack loudly as they slam against the tiled floor.