Bridle the Wind (32 page)

I felt as if, by some violent blow, my vital organs had been dragged from me, and I left just a shell – numb, hollow, and stunned. Then at length I
began to feel pain, and the pain was so strange, so unaccustomed, so severe, that, despite what Juan had asked, and my own sense of honour, I packed up my things, stamped out the fire, leaving the fish uneaten, and led el Demonio through the forest, over two ridges, until I came to the head of a little valley, where the trees parted to reveal a brook running through a tiny meadow. There, far below, I saw a small stone farmhouse, a tethered goat, and a few beds of vegetables. A wisp of blue smoke wavered from the chimney. As I watched, hidden in the trees, from half a mile away up the valley, I saw a figure, an elderly whitehaired man, come limping from the house to sit on a bench under what looked like a walnut tree. Presently a smaller figure followed, carrying a basket, and curled up on the grass beside the other.

If I had Father Vespasian's spyglass, I thought, visited by a sudden mad notion – if I had the spyglass, I could remain here for days, watching them whenever they came out of doors. If I had the spyglass –

And suddenly grief fell on me like a drenching storm. I could have sat there on the ground and howled like a dog. I could have wept enough tears to wash down the bed of the brook in a torrent, and flood the little pasture, and wash away the house.

But I did not.

Instead I turned, and with a heart of lead, walked away upward through the forest, over the shoulder of the Pic d'Occabé, and away from that
peaceful place. If I could have done so, I would have mounted the pony and ridden at a gallop. I longed to put as much distance as possible, as speedily as I could, between me and that hidden spot.

It cannot be more than a quarter of a league yet, I kept thinking; perhaps half by this time. Now, perhaps three. My slow footsteps were like a heavy chain, pulling me back.

At last, after a long, dreary march, I came to the Lake of Iraty, traversed the marsh, mounted, and so followed the river down as far as Orbaiceta. Every place where I had been with Juan seemed miserable, filled too full with memories. I did not, therefore, waste any time at Orbaiceta, but purchased a little food and struck off across country to Burguete. For this reason, too, I resolved not to return to Pamplona, but continued westward, coming out of mountains into sierra, then back into mountains again, sleeping at night wherever darkness chanced to find me, until I came to the town of Vitoria. This is a large and grand city, larger than Pamplona, set on a green plateau and ringed by green mountain slopes. There are eight streets in circles around a lofty cathedral, and high houses so lined with miradors that they glitter in the sunrise as though all built of glass from roof to street. My poor Demon had fallen lame, so here I planned to sell him and find myself a mule or horse to continue on my way to Galicia.

I was looking at mules in the marketplace when I heard a voice upraised in a familiar tongue,
asking if anybody there spoke English. I discovered two elderly ladies asking for help with their bargaining: they were trying to buy two Seville shawls, at a ruinous price, from a marketwoman. I offered my services, which were gladly accepted, and for a couple of hours I was able to distract my sad mind by helping the pair with their various commissions. The end of it was, that I learned they were making a journey to Santiago de Compostela, and hearing that I was bound in that direction myself, they invited me to accompany them and be their courier.

At another time I would have said no. What! Travel in a coach with a pair of elderly ladies when I might have rambled along at my own pace, seen what sights I chose, and enjoyed my own adventures? Never in this world! But just at that time I had had enough of adventures. I was heartsore and weary, and wished for nothing so much as to be back at Villaverde. The wealthy English ladies had the best of horses and postilions; they proposed to travel to Burgos, to Valladolid, to León, at a spanking pace. So I accompanied them, having first sold el Demonio, for much less than he was worth, to a kind-faced baker's wife, who promised to treat him as if he were a member of the family.

I remember little of that journey. I talked to the ladies, told them many things about Spain, and left them at León with good wishes from me and fervent thanks from them. If I ever came to Norwich, in England, they said, I should be kindly welcome at their house.

From León I struck off across country once more, riding a mule purchased in the market there, and so, at long last, in late afternoon, came within view of Villaverde, grey walls and golden roofs, perched up on top of a high sweep of hill, like the crest of a breaking wave. How that sight warmed my sad heart!

When I rode up to the gate, half a dozen dogs came racing out to greet me. I had been away from home for over half a year; however, it seemed they had not forgotten me. And behind them came my friend Pedro, great-nephew of our old cook, who had died.

‘Madre de Dios!
Is it really you, Felix?' says he, big-eyed, gasping and yawning at the same time; plainly he had been taking his siesta on some heap of straw in the stackyard.

‘Well, it's not my ghost, at all events,' said I. ‘Quick! Tell me! How are they all? My grandfather? Is he well?'

‘Ay, ay – the same as ever he was, sharp as an old eagle, with his eye into everything. Who has done this, who has done that, why is the Andalusian mare lame, who has been riding her – suppose el senor Felix came home and wished to ride her? Better a lame mare than
that
bag of bones, anyway,' he added, giving my mule a disparaging look.

‘And who
had
been riding the mare? You, I suppose,' I said, grinning at him as he led my mule off towards the stables. The dogs boiled round me in a sea of fur, and I hugged them and pummelled
them and threw them off me in armfuls, making my way toward the arched stone doorway that led to the main house, which is built all around a colonnaded courtyard.

News of my arrival had already flashed ahead, and there, in the arcade that surrounded the court, was my grandfather coming; not on his feet, alas, but propelling himself in his wheelchair.

No surprise ever caught my grandfather unprepared. If
he
had been taking a siesta, he showed no signs of it; not a wrinkle creased his grey satin jacket, not a pin, not a ruffle, was out of place in his snowy cravat. In all respects he looked exactly as I had seen him last – except that his hair, which had been iron-grey then, was now cloud-white. But his eyes were just the same – black, and full of fire.

‘Ah! My dear grandson! There you are,' he said, and held out his hand to me. Then he did a thing that was unprecedented for him: drew me to him and kissed my brow, before making the sign of the cross over me.

‘Buenas tardes,
Grandfather,' I said. ‘I am very happy to be home again at Villaverde.'

And so saying, I found my words to be true. Some of the weight of pain and incomprehension and loneliness that had oppressed me since the sudden parting from Juan had now lifted; I was able to raise my head and look about me and sniff the familiar high upland air of Villaverde – and the smell of the house, lavender and polished wood and beeswax – with sharp recognition and delight.

‘You will wish, no doubt, to bathe yourself and put on some more presentable garments,' said my grandfather, observing with raised eyebrows my tattered dirty sheepskin jacket and disreputable breeches. ‘And then to greet your grandmother and great-aunts, who are waiting with immense impatience to see the returned prodigal.'

His fine keen mouth twitched, very slightly, as he said this. In the past my great-aunts had always been my chief tormentors – rushing with a cackle like angry old geese to report any misdemeanors of mine, and to exact the utmost degree of punishment for them. In those days I had believed that they and my grandfather were all of one mind. Now I realised that it was wholly otherwise. Deep in the Conde's eye there was to be detected a spark as he looked at me. Oh! I thought, if only I can have jokes with my grandfather as I do sometimes with God! How very different life will be at Villaverde!

I said sedately, ‘Well, I will go and wash off the dust at once, senor, and then return to you. I am glad to see you looking so well.'

‘And I may say the same to you, my boy. You have even, I think, grown – just a very little!'

‘I have no great hopes of more!' I said, laughing. ‘My English grandfather is no taller than I am. And he is past seventy.'

‘Well, we will not entirely give up hope. Perhaps in another fifty-seven years … I shall greatly look forward to hearing about your English grand
father. And about everything that has befallen you.'

‘Oh, I have so
much
to tell you, Grandfather!'

After dinner – which was a tremendous, stately meal, with my grandmother and all my great-aunts in their best mantillas and jet combs, as many neighbours as could be gathered, and all the servants in the background, lurking about the grand dining room with its marble side-tables and mahogany, and massive leather-armed chairs, and gold-framed portraits of ancestors, and Toledo sabres on the walls – after dinner was over, which was not until well past midnight, my grandfather beckoned me to his study.

‘You will not be tired yet, Felix; the young need little rest. And the old, such as I, do nothing but rest, and so require little sleep. I have a letter to show you which arrived yesterday, because of which I knew that we must soon have the happiness of seeing you here. It is from Senor León de Echepara.' He added, as he ruffled among the papers on his beautifully inlaid desk, ‘Of course the name of Senor de Echepara is well known to me. We share identical political beliefs. But he has, at times, been active, as I, alas, am no longer able to be. And now he, I understand owing to those same beliefs, has been obliged to leave his home.'

‘Yes, Grandfather. That is so.'

‘Senor de Echepara is a very upright and honourable man, for whose opinions I have a great
respect,' said my grandfather, and handed nie the letter.

Well! What a thing!

I read the letter; read it again; reread it yet a third time.

Twenty – thirty – a hundred details fell into place.

How could I have been so unseeing, so stupid, so crass? I felt like scourging myself for a blind idiot. Juan's distress at being dragged away from the
bertsulari
contest – for, of course, women are not allowed to compete in these; and the masquerade; his actions over the cat, in St Jean, and his love for the pony; chance remarks that he had let fall about his brother; the haste of Father Pierre and Father Antoine to get him out of the Abbey – wise old men, they had known, of course they must have known! His views on the usage of girls,
so often expressed; innumerable remarks, intonations, implications, came back to me. What a thick-skinned numbskull I had been! How Juan (I could not think of him yet as Juana), how he must have been laughing at me up his sleeve!

But no, I thought; no, he had not been laughing at me. We were happy together. Perhaps as happy as it is possible to be. God, I suppose, had not intended me to see through his disguise. And the reward I reaped for that was the friendship we had had – different from any other, better than any other. Deeper than any other.

Now I understood his parting. No wonder he had said, ‘If we should meet in the future, it would not be the same. Never, ever again.'

For that was true. The pair who had lit fires in the forest, and cooked fish, and quarrelled, and made up again, were gone forever. Nothing could bring them back.

Yet I had said, ‘The future may be different. It may bring greater good.'

Which of us was right?

At all events, one thing I knew for certain. Somehow, whether in France or Spain (looking again at Senor de Echepara's letter, I observed that it had been sent from France), somehow, by some means, I must see Juana again. To say – what? That I understood. That I honoured her. That I would always have an especial feeling toward her. That I would always remember our journey.

Suddenly I found that my eyes were dimmed by a mist of tears. I took a deep, deep breath, blinked
the tears away, and looked up at my grandfather, who was regarding me, I noticed, with extreme shrewdness.