Authors: Brian Caswell
Asturias
Brian Caswell
was born in Wales in 1954 and emigrated to Australia at the age of twelve. After some success in the music industry he became a teacher and worked for fifteen years in high schools in Sydney's south-west, specialising in English, history and creative writing and indulging his love of basketball by coaching the school teams.
Merryll of the Stones,
Brian Caswell's first novel, was named honour book in the CBCA Book of the Year Awards in 1990, and this success led to a new career as a young people's author.
Since 1989, Brian Caswell has written twenty-four books, receiving many awards and shortlistings, including the Children's Peace Literature Award, the Vision Australia, Young Adult Audio Book of the Year Award, the
Aurealis
Award for science-fiction and fantasy, the Australian Multicultural Children's Literature Award, the Human Rights Awards, the NSW Premier's Award (three times) and twice he has been included in the prestigious International Youth Library's âWhite Ravens' list. All his published novels have been listed as Notable Books by the Children's Book Council of Australia.
More recently, Brian has moved into screenwriting.
He lives on the NSW Central Coast with his wife Marlene. They have four children and four grandchildren. He plays and coaches basketball, designs âcutting-edge' educational programs, listens to all kinds of music (usually far too loud), watches âan excessive number' of movies and DVDs, binges âperiodically' on fantasy and space-opera and is hopelessly addicted to soda water.
Also by Brian Caswell
Young Adult Fiction
Merryll of the Stones
A Dream of Stars
(short stories)
A Cage of Butterflies
Deucalion
Dreamslip
The View from Ararat
The Dreams of the Chosen
Double Exposure
Loop
Younger Readers
Mike
Lisdalia
Maddie
Relax Max!
Alien Zones Series
Teedee and the Collectors or How It All Began
Messengers of the Great Offf
Gladiators in the Holo-Colosseum
Gargantua
What Were the Gremholzs' Dimensions Again?
Whispers from the Shibboleth
By Brian Caswell and David Phu An Chiem
Only the Heart
The Full Story
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams
â¦
William O'Shaughnessy,
Ode
For my brother Allan, who kept his hold on the dream
long after the rest of us gave up and followed more
“sensible” paths.
And my wife Marlene, who still sings like an angel â¦
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Asturias
was written while I was in receipt of a Writer's Fellowship from the Literature Board of the Australia Council, the Federal Government's arts funding and advisory body, and I would like to sincerely thank them for their generous support of this project, and so many others.
Thanks also to Erik Alvarado for his advice and his friendship, and to Rose and Manuel Canlas, for helping me find a more efficient way to get my words down on paper â and for providing me with good excuses for breaking my diet.
CONTENTS
Prelude: And all the broken dreams â¦
First movement: Theme and variations
7Â Â Â The choice of the heart
19Â The dark side of the dream
20 What a man's got to do â¦
PRELUDE:
AND ALL THE BROKEN
DREAMS â¦
24 May 1984
The boy closes the door quietly behind him and holds his breath. The house is quiet. His father's car has gone from the driveway and Abuelito, his grandfather, is taking his siesta on the back verandah.
It is safe.
The room is almost dark. It smells of old age and forgotten dreams. The bed leans lopsidedly against the end wall, unmade as usual. The bed-covers and sheets pool where they fell a few hours earlier, when the old man struggled to find the floor with his feet. Later, when his shift at the factory is over, his father will enter the room and make up the bed, in time for the old man to climb painfully back in and begin the cycle again.
The rays of early afternoon probe into the gloom through the gaps around the old pull-down blind; tiny bright shafts that seem to die on contact, absorbed by the solid darkness of the room, lending only a ghostly illumination to the black shapes ranged around the walls.
The boy reaches up for the light-switch. He is just five years old, and not big for his age, and the switch is barely within the range of his extended arm.
The globe in its heavy shade gives out a dull yellow light, but it is enough. Suddenly the room comes to life.
The huge black dressing-table with its mottled mirror squats in the comer, two of its drawers not quite closed, three framed photographs the only objects on its dusty surface. And standing tall against the adjoining wall, the wardrobe, black and solid and mysterious, holds its secrets behind scarred doors, which the boy has never raised the nerve to open.
Against the wall stands a small wooden chair, and beside the bed the small chest is cluttered with necessities: a half-full glass of water; two bottles of pills; his grandfather's wire-rimmed spectacles and a paperback book, in Spanish, which lies spine up, open at the page which sent the old man to sleep the previous night.
But none of these is what has drawn him to the room.
Slowly, the boy turns.
Hanging on the wall, just to the right of the door, are the treasures that have led him so often to break the taboo of Abuelito's domain. Two guitars: one large, one small. The only objects in the room without a trace of dust on them, they shine in the dull light like polished gold.
The boy reaches out a hand and gently strokes the strings of the large guitar, highest to lowest, listening to the magic of the notes they sing, feeling the vibration as he places the tips of his fingers against the wood of the sounding board. Then lowest to highest, slowly, one string at a time.
He closes his eyes and smiles, lost in the sound â¦
ALEX'S STORY
Abuelito, my grandfather, is old.
So old that there is no one left alive who ever calls him by his real name. Manuel Moreno, he was baptised, seventy-eight years ago in Consuegra.
Consuegra is a mid-sized town, about a hundred and fifty kilometres south of Madrid, on the other side of the world. A town which remains in his memory, unchanged, exactly as it was when he left in 1952 with Abuelita, my grandmother, and Maria, their baby daughter, my mother.
1952. The year he finally turned his back on Spain, and all the broken dreams, never to return.
Manuel.
Until I was ten years old, I didn't even know that was his name. To me, since the time names came to have any meaning at all, he had always been Abuelito. Grandfather. And when I found out, my image of him suddenly changed.
I came up behind him and spoke the name aloud.
“Manuel?” I said, and waited.
Slowly, he turned as if he expected to see someone else. Then the expectation faded, and the look that replaced it spoke of such loss that I ran from the room.
Later, he said nothing. Neither did I. But the name has never passed my lips again in his presence.
Abuelito, my grandfather, is old.
And being old, his life has become that peculiar mixture of mystery and revelation. The familiar stories that mask the deeper truths. The tips that hide the icebergs beneath the surface. The events that replay again and again, like items on a highlights tape, which give no true picture of the game as a whole â¦
“Late that night, when it is dark and the candles are burning down, they come for us.”
He uses Spanish when he speaks to my father, but he always speaks to me in his strange, tenseless, almost-English, so I'm used to the way he reinvents the language sometimes. Even so, when he talks about the “old days”, about the Civil War in Spain, his accent thickens, and his eyes glaze over, as if he isn't really speaking to me at all.
Old age is a strange place, full of memories that seem more alive the further they retreat into history. Abuelito is seventy-eight years old, but sometimes it's like he's eighteen again, with the battles of sixty years ago still firing his eyes and echoing in his ears.
And always, in the end, it comes around to Ãvila, and what happened there. To Francisco, to Conchita.
To Ardillo â¦
I listen. I always listen, but the words never change. Like a prayer, or a child's bedtime story, they have a life of their own, and demand to be spoken.
And so he speaks them.
“Francisco is on guard,” he says, “but he is only fifteen â¦
hermanito â¦
my little brother. I tell them many times. âFifteen is too young,' I say. But do they listen? âIs old enough to be shot by the Fascists,' they say, âis old enough to fight for the Republic.' ”
At that, my grandfather laughs, but sadly. Then he looks at me for the first time, and his gaze is searching, as if he sees in me ⦠an echo of something lost.
“Was old enough to die ⦠Francisco, he fire one shot, and shout to warn us, before they kill him. We have only one chance. We grab our guns and run outside, out from the back of the house, just before they throw inside the grenades.
“I am running, and I feel the blast, but Ardillo he is behind me. I turn, I see him fall on his knees. Then he gets up and follow me. But his arm just is ⦠hanging. By his side.
“We stop in trees south of the town. Ardillo, Juana ⦠and me. My brother Francisco is dead. Ramon, his friend, he will die later inside the Alcazar in Segovia, before they can make him talk, and Conchita ⦔
He always stops when he speaks her name.
Conchita.
He keeps an old photograph of her on the dressing-table in his bedroom. It was always there, my father says, even while my grandmother was alive. Right beside the one of Ardillo playing his guitar.
Conchita. In the picture she looks about eighteen, maybe younger. A dark Spanish beauty who never lived to grow any older. I know his feelings for her haven't changed for over sixty years, but he never opens up. Not about her.
Ardillo he talks about.
How the explosion drove the shattered window into his shoulder like a hundred tiny bullets; razor-sharp, cutting through the muscles and the nerves, leaving his arm useless; hanging like a damaged branch on a still-living tree. No hope of a cure. No chance that he could ever again caress the strings of his guitar and make them sing.
Francisco his little brother was dead, his throat tom apart by a Fascist's bullet. Ardillo, at least, was alive.
But who was the fortunate one?
“On that night,” my grandfather says, “I watch Ardillo. I see the life go out from him. And nothing can we do. Juana, your grandmother, she touches his cheek, but he turns away. Later, when he thinks we all asleep, I see him swing his useless hand against a tree. Bang, bang, bang. I hear it thump, but I know he feels no pain. That night the music goes out from him. And the life ⦔
Abuelito's gaze has moved out beyond the window, and I know that he is beyond me. That he is back in the woods of Castilla with Ardillo, the brother he idolised but could not save. Back at the moment when his life turned on its hinge, and he passed beyond a doorway through which he could never return.
Ardillo died in 1941.
The rest of the world was at war, but in Spain the war had been over for two years. The Nationalists were in control, the survivors of the International Brigades were safely back home or fighting for liberty on other fields. And the dream of freedom was no more than a bitter memory.
Ardillo has been dead for more than half a century. I know it. When my father took me back to visit Spain, I even saw his grave in the hills outside Consuegra.
He's dead.
So why do I keep mentioning it?
To prove â to myself at least â that I'm not mad.
You see, when I was five years old, Ardillo Jesus Moreno, my grandfather's dead brother, taught me to play the guitar â¦
â¦
The boy reaches out a hand and gently strokes the strings of the large guitar, highest to lowest, listening to the magic of the notes they sing, feeling the vibration as he places the tips of his fingers against the wood of the sounding board. Then lowest to highest, slowly, one string at a time.
He closes his eyes and smiles, lost in the sound.
“She is a fine instrument, Alejandro, but a little too ⦠grown-up for those hands, no?”
Spinning around, the boy draws a breath. Sitting on the bed, which only moments before had been empty, is a man in his mid-twenties. His shirt and trousers are white, and not too clean, and he wears no shoes. But his eyes are bright. And familiar.
Glancing across to the dressing table, the boy seeks out the framed photo in the centre. It is too far away for him to see clearly, but he knows the face. He has studied it many times.
“Ardillo ⦔ The name slips out almost unconsciously and the man on the bed smiles.
“Very good, Alejandro. No, it is Alex, is it not? Alex, Sandro, Sandy ⦠Names are ⦠changeable things, no?”
The boy remains silent, not so much scared as fascinated. Like a mouse before a snake. The figure stands up and closes the gap between them, reaching out to touch the boy's face.
His touch is cold.
“Alex ⦔ He takes the boy's left hand in his own, and traces a fingertip along the length of each of the boy's fingers. “Good hands. Long fingers. Perfect. But not for this instrument, eh?” He allows the hand to drop, and runs his fingers across the strings of the large guitar. No sound comes. For a moment the boy sees his shoulders slump.
Then he turns back and the smile has returned.
“Take down the small one. Don't be afraid. My brother will sleep for an hour at least.”
Still the boy does not move. The thought of this young man and his old grandfather being brothers ⦠He looks towards the small guitar, but does not reach for it.
“It is more your size. It was made for me in Aranjuez by Manito Catala, when I was ⦠just about your age. If I am going to teach you
â”
“Teach me?” Finally the boy finds his voice.
“Of course. It is what I have been waiting for.”
No reply. For a moment he remains silent, then he continues, “They took my music from me.” Again he reaches across and runs his fingers over the strings. But again no sound comes.
“
Forty-three years, and ⦠nothing. I thought your mother might
â”
“My mother? You knew my mother?”
“We never spoke. She had no interest, you see. Never once did she touch the strings. So I had to wait. For you.”
“I don't understand.” In spite of his confusion, the boy is beginning to relax.
“No, I do not suppose you do. It has been almost half a century and still
I
do not understand. Except that something is ⦠unfinished. Take down the guitar.” This time the boy does as he is asked. “Now, we will see if Señor Catala's instrument needs a little tuning. Do you know how a guitar is tuned?”
The boy shakes his head.
“Well, Alejandro. Every journey begins with a small step. Bring over that chair and we will begin.”
