Guernica (6 page)

Miguel listened as he ate, while Dodo used his fork mostly for gesturing, especially when repeating reports of conflicts that
were growing more lethal around Spain.

“There was no news of it in the papers, but I heard of this from a crew from the south,” Dodo said between bites. “The Guardia
fired into a crowd of demonstrating landworkers in Extremadura. They killed a man and wounded two women, and the rest of the
crowd surrounded them and killed the guards with stones and knives. Can you imagine?”

No, Miguel hadn’t heard of it, and he wondered if such a thing could be true. Dodo might say anything to emphasize his point.

“It happened again at a protest, a peaceful protest, in Arnedo,” Dodo said. “Guards killed four women and a baby, and wounded
thirty people who were just standing there watching.”

“Why wouldn’t we hear something about it?” Miguel asked.

“Because they don’t want you to hear, that’s why. People are afraid to talk. Afraid it will happen to them. Which is exactly
why we have to be ready.”

The waitress, standing behind Dodo, listened to his stories. She shook her head slowly and said to Miguel, “Don’t listen to
him, dear, he won’t be so angry when he finds a girl.”

Had there been reason for the citizens of Guernica to hold a referendum on the most popular person in the village, Miren Ansotegui
would have won without competition. She was only sixteen, but she seemed to encourage people to take part in her youth rather
than give them reason to be jealous of it. She reminded them how life looked before it became so complicated.

It was more than the way she floated through the streets of town, so lean and loose limbed, her black braid a pendulum swinging
from one hip to the other with each stride. More appealing was her knack for disarming people, for drawing them near, as if
initiating them into her own club of the unrelentingly well intended.

There was no trick to it beyond good nature. As she spread warm greetings to everyone she passed, she uncannily inquired about
that single portion of their lives that made them most proud. She always opened a gate to somewhere they each wished to go.
And then she listened.

“Do you have any more of those incredible peppers, Mr. Al-dape?” she would ask the old man with a vegetable cart. “I couldn’t
stop eating them the last time we had them. They were the best peppers I’ve ever had.”

Or she would buzz into the Aranas’ dress shop with “Mrs. Arana, I saw your granddaughter the other day at the market and she
must be the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen; is she walking yet?” It allowed them to brag about themselves without the
stain of immodesty. She had asked the question, for heaven’s sake, and it would be rude to contradict her or decline to elaborate.
As Miren hurried on to further encounters in town, her path of courteous inquiries left a wake of goodwill. Charmed acquaintances
felt better than they did before she appeared and were eager for her quick return. There was much more about them, after all,
that she would want to hear.

She might mention the particulars of an event in support of whatever was her charitable cause at the moment. If Miren Ansotegui
was going to be there, it would be entertaining, and it was guaranteed that many others would be likewise ensnared by her
plans. Their involvement would allow them to recount their mu-nificence the following day in the cafés and
tabernas
, and also, they presumed, would place them on the unofficial list of Contributors to Miren’s Causes.

When Aitor Arriola’s house burned to the stone after an ember from the hearth blew into the kindling pile, neighbors were
helpful in getting his family back on its feet. But because of the burns Aitor suffered while trying to fight the blaze, his
attempts at reconstruction would be delayed past the onset of bad weather in the fall.

Seeking out every unmarried gentleman in town, regardless of age, Miren promised them a special dance at the next
erromeria
if they would work one hour helping the Arriolas. She charmed commitments out of nearly a dozen men aged fifteen to seventy-five.
As they arrived with their tools, Miren showily penciled their names on a list, making them promise to attend the dance on
Sunday evening to be thanked and rewarded. Although some arrived sheepishly, every man who helped rebuild the home showed
up to redeem the promise. Those who were not dancers claimed they had just come to be friendly, even if they had not been
to an
erromeria
in years. And a number of them were dragged out to dance by Miren, who patiently taught them the simplest box-step waltz.

Mrs. Arana, who found Miren’s civic flitting uplifting as she moved from shop to shop and friend to friend, labeled her
tximeleta
—the Butterfly. It was an image Miren shed at a late-summer dance practice.

Her group of a dozen young girl dancers gathered in a small square behind a café to practice for an upcoming performance.
Friends of the dancers sat on benches beneath the plane trees or at the several tables under the striped awning that covered
the back patio of the café and provided a pocket of relief on the warm evening. Miren had parked her friend Alaia Aldecoa
at a chair on the patio and ordered her a glass of cold cider.

The group rehearsed the hoop dance, which required the girls to weave at increasing speed, tapping one another’s bamboo hoops
with greater force as they tightened the intricate steps. Alaia frequently rose to sway in place when the music played, but
this evening she appeared to drift away from a man at the café who was talking to her. Miren did not recognize him and approached
them both during a pause.

“Is there a problem, Alaia?”

“I just asked this young lady if she wanted to dance with me,” the man said, turning his head toward Alaia.

Miren looked at Alaia, who seemed uncomfortable, having edged farther away.

“Did she tell you she didn’t want to dance?”

“That’s what she said.”

“This is my friend, sir, and if you haven’t noticed, she happens to have lost her sight.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with her.”

Miren fought against her anger and smiled to douse the tension. “Sir, you may have enjoyed too much wine, so I’m sure you
want to move on now, don’t you?”

“Look, little one, she’s big enough to take care of herself.”

Miren’s artificial smile vanished. Inadvertently trained for this by her dance practices, Miren struck at the table with her
hoop, causing the man to jump.

“Hey!” he shouted, rising from his chair.

Miren recoiled and struck again so quickly that the bamboo whistled in the air. But she didn’t touch him with the decorative
weapon. She slammed the bamboo on the table in front of him, then on the table leg, then on the back of his chair, then on
the awning support just behind his head. Hit after hit, with the bamboo cracking like rifle fire, she repeated this circuit
of strikes around the man as he cowered, seeking to reduce his surface area. Given the energy of her attack, Miren could have
peeled the skin off the man if she struck him.

“Call the Guardia!” he yelled when Miren backed away.

“What will I tell them?” the café owner asked. “That a ninety-five-pound girl frightened you with a dance implement?”

“I don’t care what you tell them, something needs to be done.”

“I will do you a favor, friend, since I take it you are not from here. I will tell you this: Her father is Justo Ansotegui,
the strongest man in Guernica, who would happily gut you with his hands if he heard any word of this.”

The café owner handed the flustered man a dish towel to wipe the sweat from his face. When he spun and left, towel to his
head, the rest of the stunned dance troupe broke into
irrintzi
screams and cheers. As the dancers gathered around them and expressed their awe at her bravery, Miren felt the sickening drain
of adrenaline after a conflict. She was embarrassed that she could not have found a better solution. She should have been
more clever, she told herself. She did not speak to her father of the incident, afraid that he would seek out the man and
dismember him. But word of her outburst became the news of the town by the next morning.

If anything, the community loved Miren Ansotegui even more thereafter, with one difference: She was not called the Butterfly
with such frequency.

CHAPTER 6

José María Navarro occasionally imposed on his friend Josepe Ansotegui for personal advice. In this case, it regarded his
youngest son, Miguel.

“He gets sick on the boat every day,” Navarro told Ansotegui as they walked the wharf after docking one afternoon.

“I know, the crew make bets on how much time it will take every morning before they see him barking at the sea. But Dodo threatens
them if he hears anybody make fun of him.”

“He won’t quit, Josepe. I know he would feel like he’s letting me down. If we don’t find something else for him, he’ll stay
on this boat, being sick every day for the rest of his life. But if I force him off, he might never forgive me for the insult.”

“I heard Alegria at the shipwright’s was looking for an apprentice,” Ansotegui said. “Would Miguel be happier building boats?”

Navarro laughed at the obvious answer. “Oh, yes, but knowing him, he’d be afraid it would disappoint me. And I guess I’m worried
it’s going to sound like I want to be rid of him.”

“Just mention to him that you’ve heard of the job; if he wants it, he’ll let you know. I’ll put in a word to Alegria for him.”

As Estrella Navarro began clearing the dishes after an evening of general table talk, José María mentioned to his wife that
Alegria was looking for an apprentice shipwright.

Miguel overheard. “Would a shipwright’s apprentice have to go to sea?” he asked.

“No, never, if he chose not to. There might be some time on board doing finishing work in the harbor.”

“I want that job!” Miguel shouted, standing quickly, with both arms in the air as if he’d been pardoned from a prison sentence.
“If you feel all right about it. If you can get along without me.
Patroia
, to tell you the truth, fishing makes me sick.”

Although he hadn’t built anything in his life, Miguel was suited to the job. Within a year, he was not only fully competent
but had developed an affinity for the process. He enjoyed the trips into the hillside forests to cut and mill the mountain
oak, and he relished finding ways to shape wood to his purpose. He began adding his own touches, flourishes that might not
be called for in the design but gave distinction to the product.

He carved esses onto the end of railings or gunwales and used veneers of alder and ash to create decorative inlays of compass
stars in the wood near the helm. These extras became the signature of his work. The men in the boats were of a serious nature,
but considering the hours they spent on the craft, a small bit of style was well appreciated.

Some captains soon were ordering the kinds of Miguel’s handiwork they had seen on other boats. In addition, Miguel brought
his deeply ingrained daily timetable to the shipwright’s shop. He still attended the fishermen’s mass at four A.M., sitting
with his father and brother, and only tacked off course when they reached the harbor. Instead of continuing on board with
them, he headed down the wharf to the shop to begin working on the boats hours before his colleagues arrived. Building boats
meant staying connected to the fishing business, he reminded his father. His hands were still involved in shaping the family
legacy.

A friend of Miren’s told her of a cabin that might be perfect for Alaia, located in a rill at the edge of town on the lower
border of old man Zubiri’s
baserri
. Having been unused for years, the place was simple, not much more than a shepherd’s cottage. The shake roof had grown thick
with moss in its peaty location under a cluster of alders. At first, it was hard to separate the house from the forest because
branches had grown down into the organic roof thatch, as if the trees were trying to embrace the little home.

When Miren neared the cabin, a gentle but overgrown path beside the stream led her directly to the front door. There, at the
bottom of a glade, there would be only two directions for Alaia to consider: uphill and downhill. To go upward would lead
to the adjacent meadow, where Alaia might have access to plants and herbs for her soaps; to go downhill, with the stream at
one side, would funnel her directly to town and the market.

Miren talked Zubiri into letting Alaia have it without rent in exchange for soaps. It had been unused for some time, Miren
pointed out, and as a widower whose children had long departed, Zubiri didn’t need the space. In fact, he would benefit, Miren
promised, because they would make repairs and improvements to his property.

Miren took on the cleaning and refitting of the cabin, with the help of half a dozen men from town. The path was cleared,
and the sagging front steps were rebuilt with a solid handrail. Mariangeles donated a quilt with a lace border she had sewn,
and Justo used the oxcart to carry a winter’s worth of firewood. He stacked the pieces just outside Alaia’s back door on the
north side of the house, where it also would insulate against winter winds that would sluice down the notched terrain.

Mariangeles arranged a few small pieces of cookware above the hearth, and Miren spaced Alaia’s pots and jars and equipment
in an orderly array on the table that would be used as her soap-making bench. In a day, Miren walked Alaia around the one-room
house and took her into the fields and down into town several times to reinforce her mental landscape. She also spent the
first night in the cabin with Alaia, hoping to ease what ever anxiety she might feel after having slept nearly every night
of her life inside convent walls. It was peaceful there as the small stream created soothing background sounds. And as the
fire warmed the cabin, the moss on the roof gave off a rich organic smell.

“I never could have done this without you, Miren,” Alaia said the next morning.

Miren hugged her. “I’m so happy for you. I’ll come visit every day.”

“Miren . . .”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t,” Alaia said. “I’ll never be on my own if you’re taking care of me all the time. I know how you are. We’re dear
friends, but I really can do this.”

“But I want . . . ,” Miren started to argue, but the sound of two words—“I want”—stopped her. “You’re right, that’s how I
am. You tell me what I can do and I’ll trust that you’re in control of everything else. You’ll do fine. But I’ll check in,
and we’ll meet in town all the time. Zubiri is just up the hill, and Josu Letemendi, a boy our age, lives at the
baserri
across the stream. I’m sure they’ll be happy to peek in on you.”

José María Navarro scored the sign of the cross into the bread crust. His sons, Eduardo and Miguel, and his wife, Estrella,
crossed themselves with precise strokes. The two youngest, daughters Araitz and Irantzu, paused their jousting with forks
for the very serious business of the blessing. Along the axis of the cross, José María carved the round loaf into halves and
then into thick slices. The first piece he removed, plated, and placed on the edge of the hearth.

“To calm the stormy seas,” he said, observing a traditional seaman’s gesture.

Eduardo accepted the platter, placed one slice on his plate next to the fillet of sea bream, and slipped another into his
shirt pocket. “In case I have need to calm the stormy stomach later,” he announced. “You should take an extra for later, too,
Miguel.”

“Mass is at midnight,” Estrella said. “And I warn you not to arrive in a condition that will embarrass us. We worked hard
to build our name, and at least one of you seems unaware of the need to preserve it.”

“
Corpus Christi . . . sanguis Christi
,” Dodo offered with exaggerated piety. “We will only drink to pre-sanctify the event.”

“
Et spiritus sancti
,” added Miguel, crossing himself again and peering up from his mock prayer to see if his mother had wound up to slap him
across the head. She had cuffed him on the left side of his crown so frequently, Miguel claimed, that it was the reason for
a stubborn cowlick there.

“Well, if you see Olentzero out there, please send him to our house with something sweet,” she said, referring to the “Christmas
coal man”—Josepe Ansotegui—who was carried throughout town in a basket, tossing treats to the little ones.

“And where will this presanctification take place?” José María asked.

“Bar Guria . . . we’re going to work on the harmonies for tonight’s hymns,” Dodo said.

“Watch your language,” José María warned.

It was not a counsel against profanity; it was a reminder to be cautious with whom they spoke Basque—a jailable offense depending
on the mood of the Guardia Civil at the moment.

“
Dominus vobiscum
,” Dodo replied.

The wind from the sea fluted through the narrow walkways of the fishermen’s quarters with a chilling whistle. Cinching their
jackets, Eduardo and Miguel walked toward the procession that accompanied Olentzero beneath the colored lights along the wharf.
A quartet of strong men hoisted a basket chair upon their shoulders and carried the beloved Olentzero from house to house.
A collection of carolers and children clustered tightly, drawing closer for warmth as they stopped to sing and toss small
trinkets and candies.

“Olentzero, we hope you are carrying a
bota
on this cold night,” Eduardo shouted at his friend. “You’ll scare the little ones if you arrive frozen solid.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to bring more for me if I fall short; with so many good little ones to see, it will be a long night,”
the jolly coal man said, lowering his voice and nodding his head toward the rear of the pack of followers. “You’ll notice
our special helpers tonight.”

At the perimeter of the gathering was a pair of armed Guardia Civil officers loitering behind the revelers.

“One of our singers already has been kindly asked to observe tonight’s festivities from behind bars,” Olentzero said.

The wine fueled Eduardo Navarro’s outrage. The customary discussions at Bar Guria were of women and exaggerated tales of sexual
adventures. But as two tables of
mus
players offered energetic damnations of their opponents and their partners, and others dined on
pintxoak
and laughed over their wine, Dodo was hardly filled with the seasonal spirit of peace and fellowship.

“Iker Anduiza is in jail to night,” Dodo protested, loudly enough to cause his tablemates to dip their heads. “Domingo Laca
was taken away last week after some neighbor turned him in for teaching our history to schoolchildren.”

His friends Enrique and José Luis Elizalde had heard Dodo’s railings for many hours on the wharf and in the bars. They talked
of the Second Republic and the hopes of renewed freedoms, perhaps even nationhood. But they knew that most expression was
still subject to the whims of whichever demagogue had strong-armed his way into a position of local influence.

“We’ve driven off better than these,” Dodo preached. “They’ve jailed us for hanging our flag. What’s next? Lopping off our
pelo-tas
to keep us from breeding more little Basques? Is that when we’ll fight them off? We were ruling ourselves when they were still
swallowing the limp chorizos of the Moors.”

“Fine, Dodo, but let’s not fight the war to night,” Miguel urged.

The thought of backing away offended Dodo. “Why not? I know you care, too. How can you be so tolerant?”

“I see what’s right,” Miguel said in a low, firm tone. “I see what’s right, and I agree. But what’s right for me doesn’t include
prison just now. What’s right seems like keeping ourselves going until we can make this go away.”

“You’re hiding, little brother. You’re not facing the truth.”

“Dodo, I’m facing it; I’m just not fighting it before mass.”

They locked on to each other’s eyes, Miguel detecting his brother’s dangerous fervor, Dodo sensing a puzzling inner peace.
They nodded in silent truce, and Dodo gave his brother a conciliatory slap on the shoulder.

“Let’s get some air and have a
cheesh
,” Dodo said. “Maybe we can find a guard in need of watering.”

The numbing wind that tumbled in with the waves did little to sober the unsteady Dodo, and it was still several hours before
they were to meet at the church of Santa María de la Asunción for mass. “Eat that bread you brought, Dodo,” Miguel said. “It
will shut your mouth for a few minutes.”

But Dodo did not eat the bread, instead using his mouth to begin singing a song about fishermen leaving early in the morning
to sail far away. He sang in Basque. Miguel put his arm around him to try to quiet him. “Yes, Dodo, it is very quiet next
to the pier, and there is a pretty white boat floating on the water.”

From an alley next to town hall stepped two Guardia Civil of-ficers with rifles, uniformed in their green capes, with their
patent leather caps reflecting the festive lamps connecting the trees of the square. Miguel instantly clasped a hand across
his brother’s mouth.

“Merry Christmas,” Miguel said with feigned holiday cheer.

The Guardias inflated their chests and clenched their faces. Enrique and José Luis pulled the two Navarro brothers back out
onto the street before Dodo could further confront them. The two guards strutted off.

“You should stay and learn the beauty of the Basque songs,” Dodo shouted after them. “Or are you too busy sneaking off to
probe each other’s
culos
?”

Dodo said the word in Spanish, to be certain they understood.

“Dodo, quit,” Miguel urged.

“No, I want to talk politics with these . . . gentlemen.”

The square had filled with those early to mass, or out to visit friends, or on their way to the
tabernas
for celebration. The procession around Olentzero, too, had grown larger.

The two Guardias turned and looked at Dodo from a distance of several yards. Dodo leaned in their direction, pulling against
Miguel’s grasp; puckered his lips dramatically; and blew them a kiss. Groups of villagers laughing aloud, safe in their numbers,
forced the officers to return and save face.

The smaller guard stepped forward and jabbed a rifle into Dodo’s chest.

“Get over here, García,” he called to his partner. “We’ve got a subversive.”