The Poet's Wife (2 page)

A
few days
after Isabel’s baptism in the small
iglesia
near our house, Eduardo proudly rushes out and buys an orange tree seedling. He spends the entire day on his hands and knees in the garden planting the seedling and patting down the soil around it, only to dig it up minutes later and re-home it in a new spot because the insects may get at it here, or the wind may be too strong for it there. He eventually settles upon the inner courtyard, heaving a plant to one side and placing the seedling in an huge earthenware pot over the top of a ceramic blue star. The same evening, Eduardo organises a little ceremony. The three of us gather around the seedling, Isabel’s face peering out of an embroidered shawl. Eduardo clears his throat and stares deep into his daughter’s eyes. ‘Isabel María Torres Ramirez, this orange tree has been planted the same year as your birth. It shall grow as you grow. It shall breathe the air that you breathe.’ I smile as I listen to my husband. ‘And it shall bear fruit just as you will bear fruit.
You
, my daughter,’ Eduardo continues as he brings his face down so that the tips of their noses are touching, ‘are a child of the world.’ And as the sky reddens above the courtyard, Eduardo takes Isabel from my arms, kneels down with her and gently stretches her chubby hand out to help smooth down the earth on either side of the seedling.

The year that Isabel is born is one of high emotion for my husband. He delights in watching the tiny being he has helped to create grow before his very eyes and then a telegram arrives which flings him into a state of uncontrolled excitement. For years, Eduardo has been sending his poetry to various publishing houses, but he either hears nothing from them or receives curt, scribbled notes, thanking him for his time but explaining that his work is not in line with their ethos. Though he graduated in law in order to please his parents and uphold the family tradition, I know and he knows and almost everybody knows that he is ill-suited to this profession. Yet money must be forthcoming and thus each morning Eduardo trudges down the hill to the city like a petulant schoolboy where he sits in his office and counts down the hours until his twice-daily escape, the first being his return home for
almuerzo
and the second upon finishing his working day around nine in the evening. That is until one cool, bright morning when a letter is delivered whilst we are having breakfast.

Eduardo is sipping his
café con leche
when the telegram arrives and, upon noticing the sender’s stamp, his hand starts to tremble so violently he places the coffee cup back in its saucer.

‘What is it, Edu? Who is it from?’

‘Brocches Baco publishing house,’ he whispers, so quietly I can scarcely hear him. ‘I must be alone.’ Pushing his chair back hurriedly, he leaves Isabel and I as he slips from the room. But only moments later, I hear a door banging and noisy footsteps tripping down the corridor as he sweeps back into the breakfast room. His cheeks are flushed and, to my relief, I can see tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he takes me in his arms and squeezes me so hard I find it hard to breathe.

‘Tell me! Quickly, what did they say?’ I demand. Eduardo pushes me away and takes up the telegram, puffing out his chest like a peacock.

‘
Estimado Señor Torres Ortega,’
he reads. ‘We are delighted to inform you that we find great merit in your poetry volume,
Granadino Musings
, and would like to publish it in two months henceforth.’

I can see that Eduardo is having difficulty breathing and I try to coax him back into the chair to take some water, but there is no calming him.

‘Luisa, do you know what this means? Do you
know
what this means?’ Isabel is now squealing in delight at her father’s enthusiasm and he turns and stares at her, as though suddenly remembering her existence, before dashing round to her side of the table, drawing her up and dancing around the table with her. She claps her hands and excitedly shrieks again, particularly when he knocks a half-eaten
torta alajú
to the floor, crumbs and broken shards of crockery splintering out across the floor.

‘I am a poet! I am a poet!’ he calls as he spins our daughter round and round. I perch on the edge of the table, shake my head and laugh happily. I know I can do nothing to stop him, and my heart sings for him.

Within twenty-four hours of receiving this telegram, Eduardo does three things in uncharacteristically flamboyant style. Firstly, he walks into the office of his superior in the middle of a meeting and announces to the room of bemused lawyers that he has a far higher calling than that of jaded notary, adding that one evening he saw the vice-president stealing money from the company safe. Secondly, he visits his parents and tells them that his is the life of a poet from thereon. Eduardo later recounts to me how the horrified Señor Torres clutched at the arm of his chair whilst his mother declared she was going to faint, demanding the smelling salts. He decided to leave them in this predicament, dashing out before they could discuss the matter further. Thirdly, he comes home three sheets to the wind for the first time in his life after spending seven solid hours in various
tapas
bars drinking strong red wine and spirits with his friends. When he eventually returns, I am obliged to virtually drag my husband up the stairs like a sack of
patatas
and heave him into bed. As I smooth his curls over his sweaty forehead and try to pour water down his throat, his last words are ‘I’m a poet,
cariño
,
I’m a poet,’ before he falls into a comatose sleep that lasts a full day.

Eduardo experiences the sweet taste of fame and savours it in his mouth as a child relishes peppermint. Friends and neighbours rush out to the bookshop to buy that first edition, forming a queue for his autograph that snakes down the hill outside Carmen de las Estrellas. He is invited to be a member of the city’s prestigious Literary Association whose meetings his hero García Lorca frequents. He buys fine dresses and hats with elaborate feathers for Isabel and myself. And he walks about town with a newly acquired swagger and sense of pride in himself.

The extreme euphoria lasts a year, a milder version perhaps two. Eduardo continues to write fiendishly, locking himself in his room for hours upon end, or sitting beside Isabel’s orange tree sapling or out in the garden, gazing broodingly up at the
mountains. Whilst I have lost Eduardo to the tempestuous seas of keeping his name in that bright place of stardom, I long for a new diversion, and I find it in walking. At first, I do not stray far from the house, taking Isabel down the hill of the Albaicín in her perambulator and strolling alongside the
río
into the sun-chequered plazas and narrow streets of Granada. In time though, I wish to explore more of the countryside that I see each day from the top windows of Carmen de las Estrellas. My upbringing has been so confined to the city, save the occasional trip out to a
huerta
to visit an uncle, that I find myself yearning more and more for wide open spaces and sky. Besides, though the landscape itself is dissimilar, being out in the hills around Granada remind me fondly of my summer spent in rural England.

One day, I attempt to push the perambulator off the main street into the fields, but return home shortly after, hot and furious; these contraptions are
not
devised with the uneven hillocks of the sierras in mind. And neither are these stiff skirts I must endure! Neither loose enough to be truly comfortable, nor close-fitting enough to look becoming, it is during my walks more than ever that I should like to wear a pair of Eduardo’s trousers, or at the very least a skirt that constricts me less. The most comfortable footwear I am able to find are my lace-up boots, far from ideal but preferable to my court shoes. I know my mother, who bought me these fashionable boots, would be horrified to see all the delicate embroidery on the toes worn away and faded by the fields and the sun.
But
, I think resolutely as I pull a straw hat over my head, my mother,
gracias a Dios
, is not here and I am a grown woman.

Conchi has come with me to Carmen de las Estrellas but, now that I am married, she has been relieved of her duties as chaperone, much to our shared relief. She cooks and cleans in our new home and, after my unfruitful attempt of walking with the perambulator in the countryside, also proves very helpful in tying Isabel to my back with a length of long material. Conchi’s ample hands secure a tight knot as she tuts under her breath. I know I must look peculiar, but with Isabel attached to me in this way, it enables me to walk across the
vega
, the fertile watered valley around Granada, through the Darro valley into the mountains, following streams through sugar beet fields and gently sloping olive groves.

One late afternoon in September, when Isabel is one week short of turning two years old, we set off to explore after the intense heat of the day has subsided. On my recent walks, I have been edging towards a settlement in the sierras not much more than an hour from our home, curiosity pulling me a little closer on each occasion. For I know that gypsies live in caves in these hills, and if one should ever find a person fascinated by the
gitanos
, it is I. For years, these people with skin the colour of Granada’s
tierra
that sell prickly pear fruit or baskets and chairs made from esparto grass in the city’s plazas have intrigued me. How I love seeing the women in their full skirts and bangles and bright tasselled shawls with their coal-black hair and jangling earrings and bold, proud faces. But I am probably most drawn to them because my parents have always told me to stay well away, and if they offer me a sprig of rosemary in the streets around the
catedral
, I ought to run a mile because they shall cast a spell on me.

All I desire is to observe these people from afar, but as I skirt around the periphery of the settlement, I am able only to see threads of black smoke trailing from the chimneys of the caves and the occasional figure moving around. I do not have the courage to move closer and can think of no reason why I should need to talk to anybody.

But on this particular occasion, Isabel and I have walked well beyond the settlement when I first notice the changes around me. I have learnt to read the signs of nature: the river flowing slower than normal means a period of drought is on its way; a flock of birds flying overhead southwards signals snow; and when the wind moves amongst the leaves with a certain rustling melody and the noise of the cicadas becomes headier this indicates rain. I know that it shall take almost an hour to get home, yet the rain I determine to be only fifteen minutes away. Remembering a cliff face we can shelter under, I quicken my pace.

But the rain comes sooner than I anticipate and within five minutes we are caught in a fierce downpour. We are in the middle of the open countryside with scarcely a tree in sight to provide shelter and I curse myself for not heeding the signs earlier. The dry
tierra
has been waiting for this for weeks and I sense it drinking in the water joyfully, a moment I should have savoured were it not for Isabel on my back. At first, she seems to welcome the few friendly drops. But with this sudden onslaught, she finds it not so desirable and begins to howl. I know I must keep my wits about me and hurry along the dirt track that is becoming more blurred by the minute.

Eventually, we reach the hill honeycombed with cave dwellings. I hesitate. What am I doing? I imagine Conchi crossing herself in horror and recall some of the unsavoury tales my sisters used to tell of
gitano
infamy. I am about to turn away when Isabel lets out a terrible scream. I bite my lip – if this child gets pneumonia I shall never forgive myself, I think. Taking a deep breath, I pick a door at random. I have to stoop to push aside the cloth hanging in front to pound against the low door with a horseshoe nailed onto it. For some time, my knock remains unanswered and I am about to try the next one along. But it creaks open and a large hand clasps my wrist and pulls me in. It all happens so rapidly that I am shocked to suddenly find myself in a warm, dry place. It is quite dark inside and I blink as my eyes grow accustomed to the dim glow of the room. The first thing I observe is a stove in the corner and a crackling wood fire. There are a few children seated around it, staring up at me with black eyes as wide as Conchi’s copper pots. I then turn to look at the owner of the huge hand that still holds my wrist in a strong grasp. I stare into a pair of dark eyes framed by thick, black eyebrows. Around the eyes are dozens of tiny wrinkles, leading down to a small, but full mouth. The ancient lips part and I am astonished to see a row of dazzling white teeth within her weathered face.

‘
Bienvenida
,’ rasps a husky voice.

‘
G…gracias
. I am sorry to intrude but it began to rain heavily outside and I feared…’

The old lady waves a wrinkled hand full of rings through the air disdainfully and tilts her head up to gaze at my daughter. And Isabel, I know, is gazing back at her for what feels like an eternity. I suddenly feel uncomfortable at this power the old lady, with her full green skirt and long silver hair twisted into a plait, seems to have over my daughter. I bring Isabel down from my back.

‘Hungry?’ the old
gitana
asks, but before waiting for a reply, she has muttered something to one of the children who scampers off and soon returns with a large pan of half-eaten
tomates y pimientos
, struggling under the weight of it. The child then brings me a hunk of bread and the gypsy nods at me. Tentatively, I tear off a piece and dip it into the pan, allowing it to soak up the olive oil and herbs before placing it in Isabel’s mouth. Ravenously, she gobbles it up and opens her mouth for more like a little bird and the old gypsy throws back her head and lets out a shrill laugh. The smell is so divine it makes my stomach turn with longing and after Isabel has eaten a few mouthfuls, I can contain myself no longer and scoop a dripping red pepper into the fold of my bread and place it in my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure; never has food tasted so good. When I open them again, I see that the old woman is staring at me, one thick eyebrow raised. Isabel and I continue eating under her gaze and, when we have finished, she silently hands me a tumbler of red wine. It is delicious, heavily spiced with cloves and nutmeg, and the gypsy watches me as I sip at it whilst the children clamour round, marvelling at the fairness and smoothness of Isabel’s skin.