A Most Uncivil War Read online

  The man puts his glasses back on. “This is important, Sal. Both our lives may depend on this. You are to tell no one. Do you understand me? No one at all.” Salvador nods, but in his mind he starts going through who he could talk to. As if sensing his thoughts Raul cuts off his train of thought, “Sal, I mean no one at all. If you need to get hold of me you send a letter to Cati asking how her father is. If you don’t receive word back within two days you are to go to the union bar in Poble Sec and speak to the owner. He will be able to find her. If it is something you think you can deal with here, bring Miguel into your confidence. He is a good man and will stand by you if you need it.”

  Salvador starts to feel an anxiety playing at the corner of his mind. He replies, not altogether sure of himself, “Of course. Is there anything I should do? What shall I tell Cati?”

  Raul smiles reassuringly before answering. “The two of you have grown close. I hope one day her father has the chance to feel the same pride for you that I do.” Salvador’s eyes smile first, before the smile makes its way down his features.

  Raul continues, “Tell her nothing. Continue your correspondences as if nothing has changed. You never know if the letters are being opened.” Salvador had never thought of this and the possibility of a stranger, and worse a fascist, reading his most intimate thoughts horrifies him.

  Raul stands up and pours himself a coffee. He looks over the top of his glasses at Salvador as he rolls himself a cigarette. Raul draws deeply on the cigarette and then takes a sip of the coffee. The smoke rolls lazily from his nostrils. Salvador can feel his eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and Raul notices. “Get to sleep. I’ll put the fire out before I leave,” he tells him.

  Both men stand up and put their arms around one another. Raul pulls out of the embrace first and kisses the other man on both cheeks. Holding Sal’s shoulder with one hand he says, “Remember what I said. I will send word when I can.” Salvador nods and smiles back, but inside he feels nervous and lost. Raul squeezes his shoulder.

  Raul continues, keeping time in the air with his finger as he speaks, “Look after yourself,” tap, “and your mother,” tap, “and keep in touch with Cati,” tap. He leaves the index finger pointing; it turns the closing question into a demand, “Agreed?” Salvador nods in agreement, the smile disappearing behind a more serious realisation.

  He opens his mouth to speak but his tiredness only allows him to muster a faint, “I will. And make sure you send word.”

  The two men hug again before Salvador lies down on his bedroll. As his eyes close he watches Raul sit back down at the table and nurse his coffee as he reads the train timetable. The same finger that was keeping time a moment earlier, now keeps his place on the page. Sal’s eyes close.

  The following morning Salvador wakes up to the sound of banging on the door. He drags himself up onto his elbows and squints his gaze across the room. Raul has gone and the banging continues. He pulls himself up from the bedroll and shuffles across to the door. “One minute, I am coming,” he says, rubbing one of his eyes.

  He opens the door and the low autumnal sun bathes the room in its crisp light. It is quickly followed by the smell of cut wheat from the fields. The fresh light and air chase smoke, sweat and shadows from the hut. Silhouetted by the early morning sun, Pedro fills the door. He pushes past him and into the room. The older man looks around the room before turning his gaze on Salvador. He pokes the riding crop into the teenager’s bare chest. “Where is the Basque?” he barks.

  Stunned, Salvador steps backwards, reaching for the table behind him. Confused by the sudden shift from sound sleep to oppressive activity, he looks around the room for Raul. “I don’t know, he is not here,” he stumbles over his words.

  The man steps forward and pokes him in the chest again. “I can see that. Don’t make me beat you. Where is Raul?”

  Having nowhere left to step, Salvador feels the wooden table pressing against the top of his thighs. “I don’t know. He has gone,” he blurts out. He pauses a moment before continuing. “He must have already gone to the fields,” he offers.

  Pedro stares at him for an uncomfortable length of time, unable to tell whether the boy is lying or not. The second he realises that he can’t discern the veracity of the boy’s tale, he pulls the crop back down to his side, turns and leaves, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Salvador falls back into the chair with sweat beading across his forehead. He pulls the tobacco tin across the table and closes his eyes to steady his racing mind. Outside, Pedro pulls himself up into the saddle, readjusts the rifle in the saddle holster and pulls hard on the reins. The horse turns and pushes into a canter down the dirt track towards the fields. Pedro keeps his eyes locked on the duke’s house in the distance and its pillars of ancient evergreens reaching high into a cloudless, pale blue sky.

  Pedro reaches the hut just as the three men are making their way towards the field. Pedro pulls the horse to a halt in front of them. Looking down from the saddle he barks at Esteban, “Where is the Basque?”

  A pitiful deference visibly shortens Esteban as he looks to the dirt beneath his sandals and replies, “I do not know, Don Pedro; he has not arrived yet.”

  Feeling the anger growing inside, Pedro drags the horse’s head around and points it back towards the village. He shouts, “Tell him to come to the duke’s gardens as soon as you see him.” And without waiting for a response he kicks his heels into the horse’s side and launches back towards the village. Esteban looks at his companions, bemused; the two men shrug their shoulders back at him.

  *

  In the kitchen Marianela kneels beside Juanico, tucking his shirt into his shorts in silence. Her mind is elsewhere. She can’t stop thinking of Raul leaving, and whenever she does she is overwhelmed by a very real feeling of dread. She walks the young boy to the front door. Her mind wanders to her son in the hut and she feels an aching sadness to think of him alone. She hands the boy his books and pats his behind as he follows his grandmother and great aunt out onto the street. She closes the door behind them.

  Watching the boy running ahead, Soledad turns to her sister and says quietly so as not to be overheard, “I don’t trust the whore; she is too close to that Basque troublemaker.” The sister nods her head sympathetically. Soledad continues, “And did you see the haste with which my son left this morning?” The sister nods again, maintaining her silence. “I tell you, something is going on. I will ask the priest after mass,” she informs her sister matter-of-factly.

  In the house Marianela focuses on the washing and pushes her dread-filled fears to the back of her mind. Whenever she gets the chance, normally at least five minutes after she hears the door close behind the last of them and she knows that she is alone in the house, she gives herself a moment’s respite. She closes her eyes, lets her hands stop cleaning and rolls her head in circles to loosen the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She can hear the vertebrae clicking. She hangs her head forward and allows it to swing gently right to left and back again. For a few moments the persistent fear of being hit or screamed at is gone and in the gentle silence she allows her mind to float for a few moments.

  Chapter 13

  After finishing the morning’s chores Marianela makes her way to the shops. She turns the corner from the station road onto one of the dusty side streets and almost immediately notices several of the young men from the CEDA walking down the road towards her. As they get closer she notices the yoke and arrows patches clumsily sewn onto their breast pockets. With each step bringing them closer together, she feels her own fear growing.

  The twin sons of the mayor push past their friend to force her to walk between them. She stares at the dirt in front of her so as not to catch their eye. She sees their feet and legs in the top of her field of vision and she knows that they are almost upon her. She sees a hand blur towards her and slap the bag from her hand. A split second later, from the other
side, she feels a shove at her shoulder pushing her towards the first brother. She stumbles into him and he seizes his opportunity to grab at her breast. She feels the skin beneath her dress painfully clawed and pulled at.

  The two other youths close in on her and she feels a hand grab and hold her jaw; another pushes her buttocks up and apart and a third grabs at her crotch. The stale coffee and tobacco breath is hot against her cheek as one of them snarls something at her. She fights to push the hands away from her and, in the process, stumbles to the floor.

  The two brothers stand over her threateningly. One of them speaks, “Watch where you are going, whore; you have dirtied my brother’s uniform.” He pulls his fist back sharply as if to hit her and she instinctively pulls her forearms up to her face to protect herself. The punch never comes. She hears them laughing as one of them pushes the sole of his shoe against her chest, and shoves her to the floor.

  The other leans down and shouts into her face, the spit spraying against her forearm and eyes, “Watch where you walk, whore, or next time you’ll satisfy all of us.” She closes her eyes tight.

  The older brother turns and walks away. The others follow him. She lies prone in the dust, paralysed with fear. She doesn’t dare look up in case they are still there. The waiter from the nearby café who had been laying out the tables comes over to help her to her feet. Marianela cowers involuntarily when she feels his hand at her elbow. He tries to reassure her, “Do not worry, madam; I am just helping you to your feet.” Marianela nervously looks up at him. He has kind eyes framed in a greying face that has seen a lifetime’s toil. She knows him well. She tries to smile back at him.

  *

  Pedro reaches the gardens just in time to see Garcia leaving through the side entrance. He ties up his horse and makes his way to the tool shed where the workers are waiting for their day’s work. The worry of being judged for Raul’s actions plays on his mind as he hands out the day’s tasks. The men listen intently and once he finishes speaking they busy themselves with getting their tools and making their way to their allocated work areas. Pedro stands for a short while watching them prepare and make their way out into the gardens.

  Once he is alone, he sits down on an overturned bucket and rolls himself a cigarette. In the distance he starts to hear the hoes dragging furrows in the earth and shears clipping bushes. He leans on his thighs and stares down at the dry, copper brown earth between his sandals. The sun slowly warms the back of his neck and he feels the sweat starting to bead and flow in rivulets between his shoulders and down his spine. He breathes in deeply and sits up straight as he exhales.

  A mosquito buzzes a high-pitched whine around his ear and then goes silent as it lands on his neck. He feels the pinch of the bite and then the slap as the flat of his hand slams against it. The blood-filled parasite leaves a large, round, red tribute to its last stand. He wipes the remnants against his trouser leg before squeezing the bite between thumb and index finger.

  He draws on the cigarette and his mind returns to Raul. He struggles to explain to himself how this man can be so ungrateful as to put him in such a position after all he has done for him. He allows his mind to be led by emotion and he projects his fears onto Raul. He rolls the cigarette between his thumb and fingers before drawing on it. Slowly, it becomes clear; it is jealousy: jealousy of his wealth, jealousy of his relationship with Marianela and jealousy of his son. He nods his head knowingly to himself, drops the cigarette between his feet and grinds it into the dust under the sole of his sandal as he stands up.

  He fills the bucket with water from the pump and makes his way around the garden giving a ladle of water to each of the workers. They know that his kindness is little more than a thinly-veiled ruse to check that they are working. In the deepest recess of his mind he knows that they know it too. The sun rises higher in the morning sky, taking the temperature with it. The earth warms the soles of people’s feet through their sandals and the heated dust lifts into the air like the memory of an early morning fog lying across the village.

  *

  In the fields Esteban stands up straight, stretching the muscles in his back and feeling his muscles fight against the curvature of a lifetime bent double. The joints in his neck and shoulders make dull cracking noises. He looks back towards the village expecting to see Raul and Salvador, but can only make out one person coming towards him. He waits for the solitary figure to get close enough to see who it is. He recognises Salvador from some distance.

  Esteban goes back to pulling the aubergines from the bushes. His spine and shoulders relax back into their learned contortion. He feels the embrace of the familiar pain in his shoulders and hips: the pain that has been, and will continue to be, one of the few constants in his life.

  Salvador reaches the men and takes off his jacket. Esteban looks up. “Where is Raul? Don Pedro was here looking for him.”

  Salvador lays his jacket on the floor next to the waterskin and rolls up his sleeves. “I don’t know. He was gone before I woke up. And the boss has already been slamming on my door looking for him. I don’t need you as well,” he replies curtly. Esteban feels his adrenalin surge in response to the youth’s insubordination.

  “Watch yourself, child, you’re still old enough to be taught respect. If you can’t respect your elders, at least respect your master, and if you can’t do that, then keep your mouth shut,” the old man growls back. Salvador stares impertinently into the old man’s eyes, defiance exuding from his every pore. Esteban feels the adrenalin charging his anger. He drops the aubergine and starts marching towards Salvador.

  Esteban’s brother, Antonio, drops the vegetables in his hands and puts himself in front of Esteban, his hands tightly gripping his shoulders. Esteban feels the strength of his younger brother’s grip through his overalls and knows that he is not strong enough to push past him. Antonio tries to calm the situation down, “Brother, companion, we have a long, hot day of picking ahead of us. Let us deal with that first and you can fight this evening.”

  Esteban’s cousin, Miguel, watches the scene play out in front of him in a still silence. Salvador stands defiant, his clenched fists by his side and jaws locked hard closed. Antonio twists the older man’s shoulders so that he is facing him. “Yes? First we work and then we fight.” He looks back over his shoulder at Salvador. “Best you go help my wife with the crating.” Salvador draws together the four corners of the canvas, covered in aubergines, and pulls it over his shoulder. He picks up his jacket and makes his way across the fields towards the hut where Maria Dolores is working.

  Miguel lays out the second canvas for them to start covering. Antonio looks into his brother’s eyes and, feeling reassured that the man’s temper has subsided, he lets go of his shoulders. “He is just a boy. Do not be so quick to your fists,” he reminds him.

  Esteban crouches to one knee and picks up the aubergine he has dropped. He brushes the dust from it as he watches the boy walk away. Both the brother and the cousin are close enough to hear Esteban mutter, “That boy will put us all out of a job, or worse, get us killed.” Neither of the two men respond; they just look knowingly at one another.

  *

  On entering the church, Juanico crosses himself and mutters a short prayer. The dark stone room, faintly lit by candles and shards of light streaming from the high windows, looms ominously in front of him. The smell of damp mildew laces the air. The boy takes a seat on the final pew and listens to the monotonous Latin hum emanating from the priest. He watches the two choirboys standing by the priest’s side and wonders what indignities they will have suffered today. The hunched black widows crest across the top of the front pew.

  The sunlight catches the gold crucifix behind the priest and for a brief second dazzles the young boy. He closes his eyes and lowers himself to his knees. He rests his head against his solemnly clasped hands, which in turn rest on the pew in front of him. The image is one of a selfless child faithf
ul to the church; in reality, his mind selfishly wanders through more earthly desires. He prays that God cannot hear his thoughts.

  The mass seems to drag slower and slower until any forward movement becomes almost imperceptible. Juanico feels time dragging to an almost glacial speed. His knees, naked below the hem of his shorts, press hard against the ageing timber of the pew. He imagines Salvador in the field. He wishes his life was not as it was.

  The sound of the bells clangs high above his head, echoing around the vast space and shaking him free from his thoughts. He sits back in the seat, mechanically crossing himself. He watches the widows shuffling down the central aisle in their procession of piety. Where the widows consciously project reverence and selflessness, all Juanico can see is selfishness and hypocrisy. He watches the priest walking down the central aisle at the back of the procession, flanked by two widows, and followed by choirboys snapping at his heels. The priest catches the boy’s eye and nods towards the vestry behind the pulpit. Juanico immediately slides along the pew and up the side of the church.

  Juanico finds several of the other boys waiting beside their desks as he enters the classroom. He takes his books from his bag and leaves it with the others at the back. He stands beside his desk, placing his books in the same uniform manner as the other boys. They stand in silence, the air pregnant with unspoken fear. After a few minutes the priest enters the room with the two boys now out of their cassocks still trotting to keep up.