The Poet's Wife (14 page)

But, little by little, new life and energy is breathed into the walls of the house, stagnant with inertia after the children’s schools close and they are once more consigned to the attic for their lessons. Everybody is given a new sense of purpose as tasks are assigned and the inflated household numbers and absence of Conchi means that there is always a job to be done and never a dull moment.

Aurelia never fails to astonish me, for just as she had been the mistress of her mountain cave, she silently yet authoritatively assumes this role in our home. I have grown accustomed to my friend’s wily ways and fierce obstinacy and admire her for her strength of spirit, yet I never fail to feel slightly cowed in her presence. This is not in a negative sense, for it is clear that I am also the recipient of Aurelia’s respect and appreciation. But I cannot possibly deny that the old gypsy knows how to silence the entire room with a single flash of her dark eyes, or entice us with similar intensity with one of her stories late at night. And on the rare occasions that she laughs, we all feel lighter, stronger – clouds lifting from a grey sky.

Even once clad in one of my skirts and blouses, her arms, ears and fingers stripped of their
gitana
adornments, Aurelia looks no less noble, with her long silver hair coiling like a serpent down her back and her high, proud forehead turning this way and that. I often think what it must have cost her to come to seek refuge with us that day. We never discuss it, yet her gratitude is shown in manifest ways. Long before anyone else in the house awakes, Aurelia is scrubbing floors, peeling vegetables and shaking out rugs in the courtyard. No matter how many times I implore her that she is a guest and it is far better for us to all share household chores, Aurelia simply grunts. More often than not, she is joined by Mar and, between the two of them, by the time the birds begin to sing and the floorboards creak, Carmen de las Estrellas is spotless from top to bottom and all the food for the day prepared.

When Aurelia and her family first arrive, I am conscious my own children might suffer, not only because of the reduced amount of food that finds its way onto their plates but also because of the general privations and overcrowded conditions we are now subject to. I am, however, delighted to find that all my children generously and openly adapt to our new living arrangements. If I have anyone to feel concerned about, it is my husband. Although I know he supports my decision to welcome Aurelia’s family in, he has become increasingly introspective. Whether it is a direct result of our houseguests’ presence or due to external influences, I cannot be entirely sure, but I find myself keeping a close eye upon him.

One evening, after returning from work, Eduardo seems particularly agitated, pacing up and down the conservatory like a trapped animal.

‘What is it, Edu?’ I ask.

His shoulders are hunched and his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. I stand in his path to cease his pacing.

‘I don’t know how much longer I can take this for, Luisa.’

I pause. ‘Aurelia’s family?’

‘
¿Como?
’ He pulls his hands from his pockets and grasps my wrists. ‘Aurelia’s family? No…no. They are fine here, poor souls, quite alright.’ He takes a deep breath, tilts his head back and closes his eyes, willing some calm to descend upon him.

‘Is it the job? Is it that terrible?’ I push him gently.

‘Oh yes,’ he replies, without a thought. ‘But I can accept that. I have always accepted that.’ He sinks into an armchair and scratches beneath his chin. ‘No, it’s the
walk
to work and what I see every day. Every single day. I cannot bear it.’

I can feel myself tense. I am well aware that conditions in Granada are worsening with each passing week. Yet I have immersed myself so fully in the concerns of our expanded family that I have spent far less time outside of Carmen de las Estrellas and silently chide myself for not being more sensitive to my city’s plight.

‘Do you know how poverty-stricken people have become?’ he continues. ‘When I used to walk to work, I would be confronted with one, possibly two, beggars asking for money. Now they are on every corner. Elderly people, children, women as thin as rakes asking for money to feed their families.’ He opens his palms out on his lap and stares at them, as though willing them to give him a solution. ‘It’s sickening. This country is sinking.’

‘Edu!’ I chide. ‘We shall not
let
it sink.’

‘But what are we doing? We are just surviving, scraping through, trying to stay afloat. And yes, we are managing for now, just about. But Spain is in a terrible, terrible depression and we cannot deny it any longer. The political situation is a disaster, and nobody trusts anyone else and while all the parties try to battle it out, meanwhile people are starving. You know what I saw today on my way home? Hmm? I saw a woman begging on a street corner whilst suckling her baby at her breast. The baby looked barely alive. And not a hundred yards further, I saw a girl not much older than Isabel offering herself,
¡Por Dios!
I want to help them, I want to help them all—’

I kneel at the foot of the armchair and place my hands in his palms.

‘Eduardo, I know these are terrible, terrible things you are seeing and this suffering is monstrous but…’ I trail off, searching for words and finding none.

Eduardo shakes his head. ‘To begin with, I placed a coin in every outstretched hand. But now there’s a sea of hands and I just cannot,’ he hangs his head and shakes it again, ‘I cannot any more and I feel so helpless.’

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of Aurelia scolding Fernando for some misdemeanour. It feels suddenly as though her family have always lived with us and I can scarcely recall a time when our lives felt uncomplicated.

‘I told you earlier,’ Eduardo says eventually, ‘that there is not a problem with work, at least not a new problem. But that’s not quite the whole story.’

I wait for him to continue.

‘Up until now, none of us at the office have really discussed politics much. We’ve kept our private lives and political opinions strictly separate from day-to-day office affairs and that’s always been a relief to be honest, but…’ He sighs.

‘This is changing,’ I say.

‘
Sí
. There’s such strong opinion either for or against the Republic, and emotions are running so high it’s hardly surprising my colleagues are discussing it. I wouldn’t mind so much if I believed I had a single Republican ally amongst them.’

‘Perhaps not all of them are as right-wing as you believe.’ I take his hands in mine, yet I know my words ring hollow.

Eduardo laughs mirthlessly. ‘Staunch nationalists of the most extreme kind, I’m discovering.’ He coughs and looks at me nervously. ‘The type that are overjoyed at the closure of Republican schools, for example. They have
no
idea that our children went to them.’

‘Edu,’ I respond, surprised by the firmness of my voice,
‘how many people do we know who send their children to non-Republican schools? Have we ever judged them for that? No, we have not. Just remember that we have done nothing wrong.’ I feel my hands tightening on the side of the chair. ‘
Nada.
It may not feel like it, but we are still living in a democracy.’

‘Luisa,’ he says slowly, shaking his head. ‘You can say that all you like. But we are
not
living in a democracy any longer, I tell you. We do not know who we can trust. I loathe being put in this situation.
Dios
,
how I hate it. I just nod my head and say “
Sí Señor
,
no Señor
, I’m sure you’re right.”’ He clenches and unclenches his fist. ‘Can you imagine what my colleagues would say if they knew we were playing host to a family of
gitanos
?
¡Por favor!
’ He laughs again, but this time it is a shrill, bitter laugh that rings out across the space of the conservatory and I frown, rubbing my hand up and down his leg.

‘Edu, come. There is no way they will ever find out. Nobody knows. Even our parents have not doubted our story; why should anyone else?’

He shakes his head. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But my colleagues are becoming more and more vocal in their opposition to the Republic. They’re even joining in with fascist rallies and a few days ago one of them asked me if I wanted to join them in sabotaging a government meeting in the town hall.’

A small, tight knot forms in my throat. ‘What did you say?’

‘I have always made myself as invisible as possible in that place. Generally, people ignore me, and that’s fine. But when somebody asks you a direct question, well that’s a different matter. I asked him what they are sabotaging.’

‘I know what they are sabotaging,’ I say quietly. ‘I heard about it on the wireless. Nationwide demonstrations against the Republic continuing to promote state control of education, even if some of the schools
are
closing down.’

‘Exactly,’ Eduardo replied, first looking surprised that I had known about it and he had not; but then his face crumpling once more into worry. ‘He also told me they’ll be calling for the return of the Jesuits. I managed to give an excuse but I don’t think I fooled him.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘Edu,’ I say carefully, ‘you are right to be cautious, but you must not forget that the government still exerts its authority over the people, the
democratically
elected government.’ Eduardo opens his mouth to speak and I hold a hand up to silence him. ‘No matter how fragile that seems at the moment, it is still there. And we must hold onto that, and keep our family safe. That is our main priority.’

Eduardo clasps one of my hands between his, brings it up to his mouth and kisses it before laying it against his cheek and staring at me intently with his green-grey eyes.

‘You’re right, Luisa.
Gracias a Dios
that somebody can keep their head about them whilst all this is going on.’ He brings my hand down and laces his fingers through mine. ‘I can’t stop going to work. It would look too suspicious, but more importantly than that I need an income for us all. But truly it is very, very difficult for me.’

‘I know,’ I whisper as I stroke my fingers through his hair.

‘Stay strong,’ he whispers back, ‘for both of us?’

A
great many
of the hours that Eduardo spends at home, between snatched moments with myself and our extended family, he can be found hunched over his typewriter in his study. These days, he scarcely permits me to read his poetry, but when he does, I must confess it shocks me. I can understand why more of his verses are infused with the theme of fascism spreading its hand out over Europe, yet his imagery is becoming increasingly morbid. I even wonder at times if he might be suffering from some kind of illness. But then he is the same husband and father with the children and myself as before, if somewhat more distracted and tense than we are accustomed to.

In the evenings, we all gather in the conservatory to listen to the wireless. Eduardo’s slight frame sinks into the large armchair as he chews on his nails and scratches beneath his chin whilst the rest of us perch on chairs and lean against walls. Mere days following the conversation with Eduardo in which he opened up to me, after the children have gone to bed, I listen with horror to the nationalist radio reporting on the brutal repression of the armed revolt of the miners in the Asturias by a right-wing general named Francisco Franco. This follows the government’s call for a nationwide general strike, which was responded to particularly enthusiastically by a large group of communist-orientated coal miners in the north. Just a couple of nights before we listened to the government report on the success the miners were achieving, only now to realise that General Franco’s troops are far more powerful. I would have far preferred to be spared the details of this, yet we are all drawn to the wireless like moths to the light, listening in horrified silence to the trail of murder, rape and torture left in the general’s wake, causing even Aurelia to grow pale. As soon as the report ends, I stand up and switch the wireless off and look back at the faces of my husband, Aurelia and Mar.

‘It’s not going to happen here,’ Aurelia says eventually, breaking the silence.

‘But it could do,’ Mar responds. Aurelia scowls but says nothing. Mar, the enigmatic Mar, so unlike her mother in many ways yet, like Aurelia, she has the capacity to silence a room with a few words. And whilst there are things I shall never quite comprehend about Aurelia, I feel sure I understand her daughter. She is more often silent than not, going about her work in a quiet, determined way. She cares for her children open-heartedly, yet for as long as I have known her there has been an element of detachedness from everyone and everything around her. As she pushes out the creases from sheets with a hot iron or hangs dozens of pairs of stockings out to dry in the warm wind, I have always noticed that only half of her is present. There is something about Mar that makes me want to care for her, for I see that beneath the charcoal glow of her eyes and brisk movements, all she truly wishes for is to be loved and appreciated.

It is clear enough to me that this desire comes in the form of a man: a dashing prince who shall whisk her away from her poverty and her troubles and her cave walls crumbling about her. I also recognise that when Miguel failed her, something died within Mar. I hope more than anything that in the future this can be re-ignited and my friend shall find a man to love and cherish her as she deserves, yet Mar herself has made a vow that her days of futile loving are over. So fierce is her resolve that I am pained to believe it.

We are not similar in character, Mar and I, yet a bond exists between us and we often sit wordlessly side by side in the kitchen kneading bread or make trips together to the market. Of course we converse sometimes; I love to talk, and am proud of myself whenever I manage to coax a smile or a laugh from her. Yet such occasions become scarcer and scarcer as we find less to laugh about these days.

None of us have a notion of how long Aurelia’s family shall stay at Carmen de las Estrellas. Initially, the clothes they travelled to the house in were only hidden at the back of cupboards. Yet as we begin to hear threatening, drunken scuffles in the alleyways outside the house, I know I must acknowledge that the breakdown of trust amongst friends and neighbours has become so widespread that it is impossible to know whom one can rely on any longer outside the immediate family. Early one morning before dawn, Aurelia and I take the clothes to a hidden corner of the garden beyond the fig tree and, making a small pile, douse them with paraffin and throw in a lit match. As we stand there, transfixed by the sight of the flames licking their way around the bleeding colours of the garments, we both know that they shall be with us for more than just a few months.