Guernica (9 page)

“He just happened to pass and decided that he wanted some coffee,” Miren said in a higher-than-normal pitch, subconsciously
trying to reassume the sound of an innocent little girl incapable of guile. As had the server at the café, Mariangeles rolled
back her eyes.

“
Ama
, I want him to meet Papa.”

Mariangeles began laughing and continued to the point that Miren looked as if she were ready to cry.

“
Ama
, please, can’t you talk to Papa? Can’t you make him promise to be nice and not chase him away?”

“You really like this boy, don’t you?” Mariangeles asked.

“I really do, yes.”

“Then why do you want him to die?”

“How was your coffee with Miren Ansotegui?” Mendiola asked the moment Miguel stepped into the shop.

Miguel groaned. “This town . . .”

“Somebody came into the shop and told me about it already,” Mendiola said.

“Of course they did. We just happened to meet at the café and coffee sounded good. That’s all it was. Coffee at the café.
We talked a little. We did not even sit at the same table.”

“It obviously fooled everyone,” Mendiola said. “Son, do you know what Justo Ansotegui will do to you if you act dishonorably
with his daughter?”

“I won’t act dishonorably with his daughter; I enjoy her company and I’m serious about getting to know her,” he protested.
But his curiosity overcame his eagerness to put the subject to rest. “All right, what would he do?”

“He is the strongest man in Biscaya; he could snap you over his knee like . . . a dowel rod,” Mendiola said, as he was holding
a slender dowel rod in his hands at the time. He considered breaking it for effect, but it had taken half an hour to mill
it to specifications, so he just bent it slightly.

Miguel understood the message anyway.

The wine weighed more than Dodo expected as he hoisted six bottles of champagne in a pack on his back and another four in
a sling pouch hanging from his shoulder.

“I should get twice the pay,” Dodo argued when arrangements were made for him to carry the wine through a mountain pass to
meet a compatriot at a
venta
on the other side of the Spanish border. “I have to carry it uphill.”

If nothing else, Dodo looked the part, in a wool sweater and pants, with a shepherd’s vest and rope-soled espadrilles, all
beneath his beret. He carried the smugglers’ beloved
makila
walking stick, carved from the medlar tree, with a horn handle and a spiked tip that could double as a weapon.

Jean-Claude Artola had taken him along on two jobs in the mountains, and Dodo had deemed himself ready to join the silent
fraternity. This would be an easy first solo mission for Dodo, and the load was not as heavy as many that were carried.

At sunset, he crossed the valley and slipped into a pine forest until he found the stream he was to follow on the early part
of his hike. He walked through patches of evening light that made the fallen yellow leaves glow like a path of gold. Yes,
he thought, this is the way to make a living. There is romance in this, even in the name the smugglers use, the “
travailleurs de la nuit
”—the workers of the night.

By dark, he reached the branch of a smaller stream that would lead him to the higher boulder fields, the tree line, and then
to the meeting point at the pass. The small rill then branched, and after a mile the water disappeared under tight brush cover.
This, he discovered, was not the way. He retraced his steps, looking for the proper path toward the shoulder of the ridge
that he could follow upward. Two exhausting hours later, thick wild-rose brush encircled him, snagging his pants, pulling
at his espadrilles, and several times snatching off his beret. There was no stream, no path and certainly no light. There
was no direction, either; he often was uncertain if he was going up or down.

One route that looked promising left him battling brush higher than his head. The packs had doubled their weight and his sweat
had soaked through his sweater and was matting the sheep fur on his vest. Adhesive webs clutched at his face and neck, making
him certain that giant spiders were walking on his flesh and were ready to bite his eyes and crawl into his ears and lay eggs.
If he hated anything worse than the Spanish, it was spiders. As he walked, he now clawed at the air in front of him with both
hands, trying to break down their elastic strands. For the first time in his life, his anus itched, from the stress, he imagined,
and all that damned French cheese.

He should have reached the pass long ago, but he was not prepared to give up. Retreat is impossible, anyway, when you have
no idea where you are. He feared that he was circling, covering the same ground. So he picked a direction and committed to
staying with it regardless of the impediments, and within half an hour he had worked himself to the edge of the boulder field.

Now Dodo was sure he could pick up speed. Within five steps, he cracked his shin on a jagged outcrop. He felt the cold air
and moisture on his leg, but it was too dark to examine the damage. Wait, I have twenty matches, he thought, I’ll light one
every ten or fifteen paces and work my way to an opening. Each match burned only a few seconds, though, and it caused the
subsequent darkness to seem even blacker.

Then he heard a squeaking that sounded like the rats he used to chase out of the net boxes on the wharf. But there were so
many, and they were in the air all around him, some striking the felt nib at the top of his beret. Oh, God, he thought; he
hated bats even more than spiders and Spaniards. He swung at them blindly, trying to keep them off his head, once connecting
with one so well that he could feel the fur and diaphanous wings. He sat, lit a match, and saw thousands of the flying devils
dipping and swooping above him in thick black sheets. He would light no more matches.

“I can do this,” he said out loud. “I’ve been in trouble before. I am a Navarro.”

His pep talk caused him to pick up speed, unwise in a hillside of sawtoothed granite, unstable scree, and gaping sinkholes.
He slipped but caught himself and gave up elevation to go around a large outcrop toward a flatter meadow. Feeling each step
with his toes, he made better time through the open places. But when he touched something soft with his canvas espadrille,
and it felt alive, he withdrew half a step and struck a match.

The sudden light awakened a cluster of sleeping bears.

“
Jesus, God, shit!
” he screamed as he was knocked down by the startled beasts.

“
Jesus, God, shit!
”

His heart pounded through his ribs. He waved his
makila
as if he were a swordsman, hitting none of them but jabbing himself in the leg, cutting through his trousers. He could feel
blood leaking into his shoe. And it was not a hard rock he had fallen on but his backpack filled with bottles.

He lit a match; yes, he was bleeding.

He lit another; good God, those weren’t bears, but some kind of small, furry horses that had regrouped and bedded down again
only yards from him.

“Don’t come near me,” he warned them through the darkness.

He lit another; yes, the crunch he had heard and the smell of wine meant what he thought it did. Still seated, he carefully
picked through the broken glass in his pouch, finding most of the bottles shattered.

“Shit and derision,” he mumbled.

Dodo removed the pack from his back and sat where he had fallen. Only a few of the bottles in the backpack were undamaged.
He unwound the wire restrainer on the top of an unbroken bottle from his pouch, and with his scraped thumbs he worked the
cork off the champagne. The badly shaken bottle spit the cork far into the darkness with a “bop” that could have been heard
for miles.

Halfway through the first bottle, he decided that pouring alcohol on the cut on his leg would sterilize it. Much of the other
wine already had soaked through his clothing anyway, making it stick to his body. The sweet, fruity smell only attracted the
bats in greater numbers. There was no point in fl ailing at them now.

He was well into a second bottle before he passed out on the rocky talus, leaving the bats free to gather on him, lick up
as much champagne as they pleased, and try to fly home drunk before dawn.

CHAPTER 9

Sit, sit, my new friend; welcome to Errotabarri.” Justo gave the boy a reprieve; he didn’t offer to shake his hand, a gesture
he generally used to measure the breaking point of a man’s finger bones. Instead, he issued a double-armed hug that was gentle
enough that Miguel was allowed to continue breathing, but firm enough that Miguel sensed that he had escaped a vise that had
been only partially constricted.

That went well.

But Miguel was forced to ask himself: How did this man sire such a daughter? He was not taller than Miguel, but he was as
thick as the bole of a burled oak. His feral brows hung over his eyes like a pair of awnings, and the mustache that hyphenated
his face was prodigious in three dimensions. The serrated edge of his right ear protruded from under his beret. Those who
told Miguel that Justo looked like a cross between “a Catalonian bull and a cave bear” had not exaggerated.

“You are taken by my good looks, I see,” Justo said.

Miguel uttered a dry-mouthed laugh and looked toward Miren.

“Since I can see you are curious, my new friend, I will tell you about this ear of mine,” Justo said. “It was gnawed off in
a battle with a wolf in the mountains when I was young.”

Justo lifted his beret and turned his head toward Miguel for better viewing.

“Ha . . . that was his final morsel. I made him spit it back out with his dying gasp. I wanted to sew it back on, but he had
chewed on it awhile and it would not have been as attractive as it is now had I sewn it back on.”

Miguel glanced at Miren again; she nodded and tilted her head, silently saying, “Yes, yes, I know; be strong.”

Justo’s strategy was now clear; this was not to be about physical intimidation. Mariangeles had stressed to him how much this
meant to their daughter, and Justo gave his word that he would not assault the boy. No promises were made about frightening
him.

“Since your background is on the boats and you are newly arrived in the hills, you will want to hear how we do certain things,”
Justo continued. “I must tell you first, before we eat, before we strengthen our friendship with food and wine, of one of
our customs here on the
baserri
. It involves our stock.”

Mariangeles, unsure of his specific intent but certain it was ominous, placed a warning hand on her husband’s furry forearm,
her nails ready to puncture and drain blood if necessary.

“We have some sheep, not many, but enough to keep us busy. The ewes we want for breeding and shearing; one or two of the strongest
rams we save intact for their services. But the other young males that we raise only for their meat need not bother us with
their interest in breeding.”

Mariangeles tightened her grip.

“So we relieve them of their
pelotas
, you understand?” His laughter shook the furniture as he shaped his hands into cups, as if holding suspended objects.

Mariangeles squeezed.

“Some use a blade for the purpose, but it can slip and destroy other parts, and sometimes it causes nasty infections,” Justo
said, ignoring his wife’s silent pressure. “Some of us, the elders in our business, have found that there’s less bleeding
if we just remove the
pelotas
by biting them off.”

Miguel gasped involuntarily; the women groaned—they had heard of the revolting process. But did he have to say it? Mariangeles
withdrew her futile grasp. No point now.

“It is a story,” Justo finished, “that you might want to keep in mind as you start to court my only daughter.”

* * *

Miguel redistributed his food on the plate. The main course had been lamb, and Miguel wondered grimly if Justo had chewed
this meat already. Mariangeles and Miren managed to sustain limited conversation but struggled to draw from Miguel stories
of his background. Justo, though, filled the air with word torrents, and when he saw that Miguel had hardly touched the mutton,
he asked if the boy was familiar with eating anything that did not swim in the sea. When Miguel confessed to a mild appetite
at the moment, Justo speared the meat off his plate and devoured it. “Can’t let food go to waste,” he announced.

“Let me now tell you of my sainted mother,” Justo said, starting a family history of his mother’s death and his father’s consumptive
grief, all so extreme that it did not demand his gift for embellishment.

“The love my father had for my mother will stand through time as a monument to dedication and devotion,” he concluded with
pride. “So great was his capacity for love that he died of a broken heart when it was lost.”

Justo paused as if awaiting applause.

“But what about you boys?” Miguel asked without thinking.

“We grew into men, proud of his example.”

Miguel shook his head.

“What, Miguel?” Miren asked.

“Nothing.”

“What, Miguel?” Mariangeles followed.

“That is a very sad story.”

But Justo now insisted. “Say it, boy.”

“I would never be disrespectful,” he said directly to Justo, lowering his head in a signal of obeisance. “But I think if your
mother had the chance, I don’t believe she would have said, ‘Your grief shows the depth of your love.’ I think she would have
said, ‘Take good care of our boys. You have to love them for both of us now.’ ”

“Careful, boy,” Justo said.

The fire popped, and Miguel flinched. It was the only sound in the room for what seemed like minutes. Justo never took his
eyes off Miguel. Trying to at least alter the force of the stare, Miguel continued.

“I’m sure he loved your mother deeply, but I think it was selfish to ignore the boys. You lost two parents instead of one.
Your father should be alive. He should be at this table right now. I should be able to meet him, a man who fought through
his loss and still was there for his sons. I would admire him.”

Justo chewed on his mustache and all at the table sat in silent suspense. No one had ever talked to Justo this way. Full minutes
later, he stood and walked around the table toward Miguel, who now anticipated strangulation. But he extended his hand. Miguel
took it, and Justo encircled him, gently this time.

“Josepe said you were a good man,” Justo said. “He was right. At least you’re brave. You’ve given me some things to think
about. You’re welcome here in our home.”

“Why don’t you two go for a walk; it’s a nice evening,” Marian-geles said to Miren and Miguel.

Outside, Miren pulled him close. She was thunderstruck by affection and felt flushed, as if she had too much blood and not
enough oxygen. Without thought, they kissed, barely touching lips.

She executed a quick
jota
step, a spin, and joined him at his side for the most enjoyable walk of her life.

The home was caked with dung from the small animals and birds that had taken up residence since its last owner moved to Bilbao
without bothering to fix the broken windows. It was fusty with mildew and mold from a rug that had been soaked with rain beneath
a cracked roof tile. The boards beneath the rug were warped like waves.

And Miguel could not have been happier. The grim condition made the home affordable and also gave him an excuse to rebuild
it to his own specifications. Now he could strip it back to the studs and make it his own.

Of equal importance, it featured a small adjoining shed with large split doors opening to the west that he could turn into
his own woodworking shop. After spending each day at Mendiola’s, Miguel worked through much of the night on his new home.
Within a month he replaced the damaged floorboards with polished oak, constructed pine cabinets with etched doors, and had
fabricated hardwood cornices and baseboards to affix after he patched and repainted the walls.

Miren begged to help with the renovation, and the two conspired to paint the interior on a day when Miguel was free from Mendiola.
This was not a simple act. A young woman seen going into a man’s house could fuel market gossip for months.

Miguel’s house was on the edge of town and was among the last residences just inside the ring of farms that spread outside
the core. After taking a roundabout path through town and executing patient surveillance, Miren determined it was safe. She
immediately deemed the house cozy and had no trouble visualizing herself in permanent residence—stirring a pot over the hearth
. . . mending Miguel’s clothes . . . sweeping the floors . . . slipping into the bedroom.

A shirtless Miguel was lathing a table leg in the work shed when Miren arrived, and he was covered in fine wood chips.

“Welcome . . . what do you think?”

She forced herself to look around.

“I think Papa would kill me if he knew I came here.”

“He wouldn’t kill you. He’d kill me,” Miguel corrected her. “Ready to work?”

“I am indeed, sir.” She saluted.

Miren had dressed for duty, wearing a rag scarf, a full apron, and layered work shirts so she could dispose of the outer one
if it became flecked with paint. But within minutes she was mottled with goldenrod freckles from paint spattering off the
stiff bristles of her brush.

Miguel suggested he should do the high portions, with his greater range from the ladder, and she could paint the lower portions
and the trim as high as she could reach. They arrived at an effective technique and were cautious to softly blend their brushstrokes
where their work overlapped. Since her area was smaller and more easily reached, she stretched out ahead of Miguel and his
ladder and took a break after almost an hour of work.

As they worked, they sneaked looks at one another when they thought they wouldn’t be noticed. But they often were caught peeking,
triggering embarrassed smiles. She liked to watch his hands as he worked; they had attracted her since he’d held hers that
first night. They were powerful, and she wanted to trace with her fingers the path of the veins that rode over the muscles.
Those hands let him create beautiful furniture that might last for centuries. It was a kind of power she admired.

Caught looking for the third time as Miren bent to replenish her brush, Miguel abandoned coyness.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop,” he confessed.

She smiled but didn’t answer.

“Of course, all Basque women are beautiful,” he said to break a silence that had grown awkward.

“Is that widely known?”

“The sailors of Lekeitio have traveled the seas of the world, and they could never find more beautiful women.”

“How do you know they didn’t discover more beautiful women and just never told anyone?”

“They always returned home.”

She rested her brush and walked closer in a swaying rhythm that forced Miguel to close his eyes.

“So, you’re telling me that I’m just one of the many, then?” she said. “Just another Basque girl.”

“No . . . no . . . no, if there is a woman more beautiful than you, then I would have heard stories of her. There would be
songs about her, or poems.”

“Why don’t you write a poem for me, then?”

“I’ve already created new forms of dance in your honor,” he said, returning to humor.

“True, but a girl loves a poem,” she said, applying pressure.

Confused now, Miguel surrendered control. The motion of those few steps, her smile, and those damned dark eyes. Those had
been trouble from the start. He had spent several weeks now imagining the possibilities with her. He closed his eyes again,
feeling seasick.

“This is probably not a poem; I never studied those things, so I don’t know,” Miguel said. “But I know what I want to do.
Whenever you’re with me, I want to make you feel like you do when you’re dancing.”

Their hug was so firm that his sweat moistened her apron. Without permission, one of her legs wrapped itself around Miguel’s
calf, pulling her hips into his. And there they stood, breathing each other’s breath.

“Would you share this house with me?” Miguel asked. “Live your life with me?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“I love you,” he said. “I truly love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They were quiet, standing and breathing.

“What do you think your father will say when I ask for permission?” Miguel asked softly as they pulled back to look at each
other.

“ ‘
Ala Jinko!
No man is good enough for my little one,’ ” she said in a surprising baritone. “ ‘The only man worthy of her is me, and I’m
already taken.’ ”

“But will he allow it?”

“Miguel Navarro, I don’t care what he says; we’re getting married.”

Justo belched so forcefully that the overhang of his mustache fluttered. “Wretched cow,” he said, gesturing toward the ground
floor.

“Justo, that works only when the animals are here. It’s summer and they’re out in the pasture.”

“In that case, please excuse me. But if it is not the fault of the cow, then it is yours. You forced me to eat too much.”

Mariangeles had been to the market that afternoon and purchased several hake fillets, which she pan-fried with light egg batter.
The fishermen of Lekeitio or Elantxobe sometimes brought a fresh catch to Guernica to sell or trade for farmers’ vegetables
or mutton. Justo had devoured all but the small piece that Mariangeles had set aside for herself.

“I am gluttonous only to remind you that you are appreciated,” Justo said. “And so that you know that you are the finest cook
in the Pays Basque.”

“Thank you, I will never complain of hearing too much on that topic,” she said.

“I’ll take care of these,” he said, collecting the dishes.

“Justo,” she said, waiting until he turned to face her before continuing. “I am proud of the way you reacted to Miren’s news;
I hoped you would be understanding.”

“Actually, Mari, I’m delighted with it. Miguel is a man as foolish as any his age, but he’s a match for our daughter. She
could find no better. I showed good judgment in not killing him.”

Mariangeles laughed. “They make a handsome couple.”

“They will make fine grandchildren for us.”

“More than one? You won’t mind more than one?” Mariangeles was surprised by the use of the plural as it regarded grandchildren.