The Poet's Wife

P
ublished
by Bookouture

A
n imprint of StoryFire Ltd
, 23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN. United Kingdom

w
ww.bookouture.com

C
opyright © Rebecca Stonehill 2014

R
ebecca Stonehill
has asserted
her
right to be identified as the author of this work.

A
ll rights reserved
. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

T
his book is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

I
n loving
memory of my father, Harry Stonehill, who always drummed into me that nothing happens unless you make it happen.

H
e thinks
we can’t see him, but I know he’s watching us, drawing us. We don’t mind. We are so used to his silent presence observing from the shadows. Father and I sit on a faded rug, shaded by the leafy, fragrant canopy of my orange tree. In that yellowing, high heat of the day, I feel drowsy and lie back on the rug, my eyelids drooping and my head against the comforting dip of Father’s waist. I don’t know how long we’ve been here for, and I don’t know how many poems I’ve been read, but García Lorca’s words continue to wash over me. ‘
In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale.
’

I hear movement from the corner of the courtyard and slowly lift my head and turn it. Pablo has shifted to find a more comfortable position from which to draw. As I look behind, he catches my eye and a small smile creeps onto his face. I smile back at him slowly, lazily. Then I turn back to rest my head on the rug and stare up at the patterns the leaves make against the sapphire patch of Granada sky.

M
y daughter Isabel
is born on a day of fire-breathing wind that gusts in hot, furious eddies through Granada. Rather than the heat dissipating by seven in the evening, it has gathered enough momentum and strength to power a steam engine and thus, my first labour is long and arduous. I fix my eyes upon the soaring cypresses and parched mountains through the open window whilst trying to control my breathing, loud exhalations punctuated by the sound of Eduardo thumping up and down the stairs.

‘Eduardo,
por el amor de Dios
,
stay still!’ I scream between contractions, horrified to hear my profane use of the Lord’s name but powerless to prevent it.

‘I’m trying! What can I do?’ he cries through the closed door as his voice crescendos with panic. ‘Just tell me,
por favor
, what can I do?’

‘I should like you to stop your pacing for a start and –
Jesús
!’ A shaft of pain tears through my body and as I double over the midwife mutters something about never before having heard such obscene language and, brushing her hands together announces the baby is on its way out. As I push and scream the name of every saint I can remember and strain my child into the world, I envisage the green-grey eyes of my husband on the other side of the door, the only man I have ever loved.

As I lie back on the bed
in deep, grateful exhaustion, the door is finally opened for Eduardo, tears staining his cheeks. The midwife hands our baby to him and I listen to both child and father crying as my husband kisses my eyelids and neck and each of our baby’s tiny fingertips and dusting of hair, the colour of roasted
castañas
. There is something deeply comforting about hearing Eduardo cry, for he only ever sheds tears of happiness. Such a trait I admire in him, for men do not cry. Men
never
cry, particularly these machismo
hombres
of Andalucía who cannot bear to show even the slightest sign of weakness. Not my Eduardo. He is not afraid to feel emotion, nor show it. And whilst he suffers ridicule for this, particularly at the hands of his brothers and parents, I love him all the more for it.

 Eduardo Torres Ortega is an aficionado of the arts, a most unusual trait in his family. During his student years at the Universidad de Granada, he enjoyed nothing more than sitting in a quiet corner of a
biblioteca
or café, poring over volumes of Quintana and Machado, scribbling notes down in his spidery hand. It was not until his studies had finished, however, that a daring young poet became known in the city. Federico García Lorca is the other great love of my husband’s life and this I never question, I must confess. To know García Lorca’s work and to witness him perform in public is to feel the stirrings of strong emotion for the man. He possesses the deftest touch with words I have ever known and weaves his tales of passion, destiny and revolution around us all. But Eduardo scarcely misses a single event, attending each poetry reading, discussion and gathering humanly possible.

It is at one of these poetry readings that we are first acquainted; at least, it’s where we first make contact. My parents are displeased I should attend such soirées but I am the youngest of six daughters and their energy, I suspect, has been exhausted on raising well-bred young ladies by the time I come of age, thus practising a form of blind tolerance. I am permitted to leave the house
under the condition I am accompanied everywhere by Conchi, our youngest maid, who is not much older than myself. Silent and taller than anyone I have ever met, with vast, ugly, calloused hands that take me by surprise each time I see them, at first I find Conchi’s presence irksome. ‘Conchi,’ I beseech her, ‘if it is necessary you accompany me, at the least could you walk beside me rather than behind? I feel as though I am being pursued.’

‘No, Señorita, I shall not,’ she replies, her jaw set in a hard line. In time, I grow accustomed to her immense shadow flung against the wall when we leave the house for our evening
paseo
. I scarcely succeed in encouraging her to talk, which is a pity, because conversing is a great pleasure to me. But these irritations aside, I cannot fault her work and I do respect her. Her view of
me
,
however, is far less apparent, for I read disapproval in her face with equal measure as concern.

One evening, García Lorca is reading from his latest collection. His eyes are closed and his thick black eyebrows touch in the middle in concentration. Conchi insists we sit at the back of the hall (in the event, she tells me, the content of the poetry becomes shameless and the need arise to remove me). It is an airless evening and, as I slip my white gloves off, Conchi glares at me, fanning herself furiously with her
abanico.
We are sitting behind a young man with a full head of dark, shiny curls I cannot help but admire. Though I have not yet seen Eduardo’s face, I sense he is agitated as his shoulders are tensed up around his ears and he is grasping the sides of his chair with tremendous force.

After he has finished speaking, García Lorca opens his eyes and fixes his dark gaze upon the audience, inviting us to share our thoughts. Not a word is spoken; I suppose we are all so much in awe of the great poet we are afraid we might seem ignorant. He tweaks at his bow tie, looks around the room and then calls ‘You, yes you in the corner.’ García Lorca is pointing towards the man with the curls and the most excruciating silence ensues with every pair of eyes in the room upon him. Yet the poor man is such a bundle of nerves that he can’t get his words out, can only manage a stutter and then, to my great shame, I find a laugh escaping my lips. Eventually, the poet calls upon someone else and the poor man’s chance has completely vanished.

I continue to attend García Lorca’s readings but it is not until several months later that I next see the man with the curls. We both attend an impromptu poetry reading on the edge of Sacromonte, a
barrio
of Granada with narrow alleys and whitewashed, tumble-down buildings hugging steep hills. Only the first fifty arrivals are allowed in, and both of us arrive too late and are turned away. Upon remembering that the other unfortunate soul is none other than the man I cruelly laughed at, I become curious and, from our banished positions outside, we begin to talk. At least, I am the one to initiate conversation for Eduardo is both furious at his inability to cajole his way in and a bundle of stuttering nerves when it comes to addressing me, doubtless not helped by the fact I am un-chaperoned. For I have persuaded Conchi for the very first time to let me out alone, arranging to meet her at a certain place a little later. She was reluctant and crossed herself several times with those huge, calloused hands of hers before relenting. Eduardo walks me home through the narrow streets as we listen to the urgent peeps of birds in their wooden cages, hung up outside houses. He is too timid to make conversation and thus I am compelled to do so on his behalf.

When we reach the place I am to meet Conchi, he asks if he might see me again. I see no reason why this cannot be so and when I reply in the affirmative, he beams at me, his eyes crinkling into fine slivers. ‘
Gracias
,’ he whispers.

‘We live not far from here. If you should wait somewhere…’ I wave a hand through the air ‘…somewhere not
here
, then you can presently see.’

I hardly wish to spell out to the fellow I am inviting him to follow me, but he is none too quick to understand my meaning, for he continues to look at me with that pained, bewildered expression on his face.

‘Ah!’ he remarks finally. ‘Well.
Buenas noches
, Señorita.’

‘
Buenas noches
,’ I reply firmly and watch as he picks his way through the plaza, casting one final glance backwards before he rounds a corner.

Eduardo stands outside for at least an hour. Conchi has pulled the brocaded drapery shut as she does every night, but there is the slightest gap and I can see him through it, leaning against an olive tree with his cap in his hand. I have not the slightest idea what he is doing standing there, but he seems quite content. Every so often, I push back the eiderdown from my bed, lean forwards and peer through the crack. There he still is, rooted to the same spot, simply gazing up at the window.

Very
odd, I think for the umpteenth time, but he has character and I like that, particularly as my parents are going through a phase of introducing me to various eligible bachelors. I am required to sit through one dinner after another being bored to tears by pompous oafs who believe I ought to be impressed by how much money they have or their endless round of socialising with equally dull friends of theirs. My parents desire that I marry into money; that is their main concern and thus, when Eduardo and his father call at our house the following week, my parents are so delighted by the wealth and charm (but most notably the wealth) of Eduardo’s father, that Eduardo himself scarcely comes into the picture. We officially begin courting a few weeks later and it is not until that stage that my parents are forced to take notice of my new beau, the result being somewhat of a shock. Father in particular thinks Eduardo the biggest fool he has come across and cannot comprehend why anyone from such a good family should waste his time with poetry. I cannot deny that to begin with I persist with our courtship partly because he could not be more different from those dreadful young men who send me to sleep in my
tarta de manzana
, and also partly to vex my parents. But it does not take long for us to recognise in one another that we are the black sheep of our families. Just as gentle Eduardo was raised amongst arrogant and aggressive brothers, my sisters painted the perfect picture of decorum, while I, on the other hand, far preferred scrambling up the branches of a fig tree to needlework and, even more shockingly, love poems to lessons.

‘That damned silly stuttering poet of yours will be your undoing, young lady,’ my father growls on more than one occasion over the dinner table, whilst my sisters raise their superior eyebrows at me. I simply shrug and smile at them all as I run my fingers over Eduardo’s latest letter on my lap with secret delight. Besides, I know the truth of it is that my parents are relieved I am courting at all, having assumed that no man in their right mind would want me. True, he would not be their first choice, but he is at least studying law and comes from a respectable family.

 As well as meeting on the occasional afternoon in Plaza Bib Rambla
under the watchful eye of Conchi (who has been thundery ever since my single night of freedom), Eduardo and I adhere to the staunch courting tradition of talking through an iron grille that separates our house from the street. Reluctant as we are to partake in this, we can at least converse without Conchi’s hawk-like presence.

‘What did you eat for
cena
this evening?’ Eduardo whispers through the grille as he crouches awkwardly on the cobbles.

‘
Gazpacho manchego
,’ I whisper back, ‘and I nearly drowned in it with boredom.’ As he laughs, his teeth gleam white in the dusky half-light of evening. Blushing, he glances nervously around him before producing a scroll of paper from his waistcoat pocket, tied up with a stalk of esparto grass and hands it to me through the grille. As he does so, my hand brushes his and his cheeks burn as he gazes at me with his wide green-grey eyes.

Eduardo’s letters are filled with verses, eulogising my beauty, intelligence and wit which at first I find rather silly. But as the months pass, I find myself anticipating our meetings
,
surprised by the disappointment I feel should he be kept away.

One evening when Eduardo comes to visit me, he seems particularly agitated. He is wearing a navy blue bow tie that he persists in tugging at, as though it is too tight.

‘Could you come and meet me tonight?’

‘My parents have guests for dinner. We are having a huge
paella de marisco
and it shall be one of those affairs that go on for ever—’

‘But can you not get away? Try!
¡Por favor!
I must talk to you.’

He clasps my hand through the grille and leans in close so that our faces are barely an inch apart and I can detect the faint smell of sherry on his breath and woodsmoke in his hair.

‘I shall try,’ I laugh, releasing his grasp slightly, ‘though Conchi has returned home today so I am not sure how I shall manage it. What is so important? Could you not tell me now?’

His face clenches up and he drops my hand as suddenly as he grasped it.

‘Now? Tell you now?’

I smile encouragingly at him. ‘Yes,
por qué no
?’

Eduardo looks behind him, to each side and then stares up at the clouds moving overhead. He eases his head one way then the other and rubs his neck.

‘Well…’ he begins, seeming to address the sky more than me. ‘You see, Señorita Ramirez Castillo, it is something I must ask more than tell; that is to say, if you do not desire this, then I should quite understand. And I am aware I must ask your parents as well, but I wished to ask you first, to save the possible humiliation…’ He pauses and takes a deep breath, scratching beneath his chin. ‘Because really, it is quite presumptuous of me to even think that you should, well…that you might…’ Eduardo sighs and runs a hand through his curls as he frowns and looks back at me.

‘
¿Sí?
’ I ask softly as I reach as far through the grille as I can manage and take his hand, which trembles like a leaf in mine.

‘Would you…would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ Tears are running down his cheeks before I even have a chance to reply. This is the first time I have seen him cry and I rest my head against the grille and smile at him.

‘
Sí,
Señor Torres Ortega. I should like to marry you.’

His eyes dance, two watery pools of green and as he brings his head towards mine and we kiss through the grille, our cheeks against metal, I taste salt and a hint of our happiness to come.

I know that Eduardo’s parents feel much the same way about me as my own parents do about my new fiancé, content enough that somebody has accepted his hand that they are prepared to overlook the fact that I am neither as polite nor pretty as my sisters. Eduardo’s grandparents died several years earlier, leaving a beautiful villa by the name of Carmen de las Estrellas
.
It is located in Granada’s Albaicín, the old Moorish quarter with centuries-old white houses perched like clouds on a hilltop before tumbling down a slope towards the Río Darro. I have walked through this district on occasion and found it enchanting with its labyrinthine maze of narrow alleyways and ice-cold rivulets that descend directly from the sierras and stream over mossy cobblestones. The house has been neglected and fallen into disrepair, so as a wedding present, Eduardo’s parents pay a large sum for the house to be restored to its former glory. The gardens are weeded, the fruit trees pruned, the floors polished, the large rooms aired and dusted, the gramophone cranked, the fountain and sapphire-coloured stars on the inner patio floor re-touched, the columns re-plastered, the walls painted and, on a balmy afternoon in May, we are married in the nearby
iglesia
before Eduardo and I step over the threshold of our new home into its jasmine-filled courtyard.