The Poet's Wife (6 page)

‘I’m certain I have signs of influenza,’ he tells me one morning, clutching one hand to his forehead whilst looking fit as a fiddle. ‘See how pale Isabel is!’ he gasps the following day.

‘Eduardo,’ I say firmly. ‘We
have
to go to this party.’

‘But…why don’t we all go to the coast to celebrate? I’m sure the sea air would do us some…good?’ He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side. I know that look so well and it makes me smile, for it helps me imagine my husband as a young boy.

I hug him. ‘Edu, it shall be fine, honestly. We need only spend an hour or two at Café Royal and then we can come home again. Miguel may not even come. I am sure he has no desire to be there.’

Eduardo snorts. ‘What kind of nonsensical family tradition is it anyway, to cart the entire Torres clan to some pompous patisserie for a child’s fourth birthday just so we all eat far too much and feel sick?’

I laugh and smooth a curl away from Edu’s eyes. ‘Really, it shan’t be so terrible. And think how much Isabel shall adore it.’ He grimaces, looking more like a sulky schoolboy than ever and my heart fills with love for him.

The day soon arrives and the six of us set off down the hillside from Carmen de las Estrellas towards the city, the children jumping from one long-fingered shadow of a cypress tree to another as the distant church bells chime. At Café Royal, waiters in tuxedos whip around the black and white lacquered floor, noses held high and strong, taut fingers holding up shimmering trays covered with hot chocolate served with rich fruitcakes and cream whipped sky-high. About two-thirds of the café has been taken over by our party and at the end of the table dozens of garish, sparkling balloons are tied to Isabel’s birthday chair of honour. I exchange an eye-rolling glance with Eduardo and, with that, we paint smiles upon our faces and make our way into the throng of family members.

Miguel has the good sense to arrive late and by then Eduardo has started to relax, thinking that perhaps his brother shall stay away. Isabel sits on puffed-up cushions, devouring an enormous chocolate cake whilst my other children and their cousins smear sugary icing all over the pristine upholstery. The waiters hover, staring down their noses in horror at the children. I am unable to resist smirking, thinking that it serves this toffee-nosed place right. Señora Torres, seated to the right of Eduardo and dressed in a plum-coloured chiffon gown which looks more suited to the opera than a child’s birthday party, is interrogating Eduardo about Juan’s allergies, prescribing all sorts of nonsense to deal with them.

Quite suddenly, she says in a loud voice ‘I’ve just realised Migé hasn’t arrived yet. Does anyone know where he is?’ Instinctively, Eduardo pulls Joaquín, who is covered in chocolate, closer towards him.

‘Poor boy, he works too hard, does he not?’

I can see Eduardo gritting his teeth, yet no sooner has Señora Torres uttered these words than Miguel materialises in the doorway of Café Royal with his three bad-tempered children and wife with all her broken prettiness. There is space for them at the end of the table and Eduardo does not take his eyes from Miguel as he slides into his seat gratefully and begins conversing with his father.

‘No kiss for your mother, Migé?’ Señora Torres bellows down the length of the table, causing all the cousins to fall about laughing. Abashed, Miguel slowly rises and walks the length of the café, his polished black shoes clicking with each stride. Stooping down, he kisses his mother briskly on both cheeks. ‘Eduardo,’ he says tersely, nodding his head. Eduardo unsmilingly nods in return and both of us notice the swift glance Miguel shoots at Joaquín. And then, head held high, he marches back down to the other end of the table.

‘He doesn’t seem at all himself,’ Señora Torres remarks as she helps herself to her fourth
pionono
, a small, sweet pastry. ‘He must be working too hard,
pobrecito
.’

Eduardo grimaces and turns his attention to a feud that has broken out between the twins. Whilst I have always found Señora Torres to lack depth, she is not a dimwit and thus it astonishes me how unobservant she is when it comes to simmering tensions between her sons. She is so proud of her large brood of handsome boys that I suppose she failed to notice that Miguel’s merciless bullying of Eduardo when they were children was anything more than harmless teasing. She proceeds to spend the rest of the birthday tea lamenting the deplorable hours her first-born must work, whilst Eduardo does a laudable job of ignoring her and I am left to listen and nod in the appropriate places.

When we finally leave the café, much to the relief of the waiters, it is starting to grow dark. Burdened down beneath the weight of Isabel’s gifts, we are about to start making our way home when I suddenly see something that makes me stop in my tracks. I grasp Eduardo’s coat sleeve.

‘Look!’ Eduardo follows my line of vision and then turns to look at me questioningly. There, in front of the portals of the cathedral, stands Mar. Although she is turned away from us, it is unmistakably her. She is clasping a bunch of rosemary, trying to press sprigs into the hands of passers-by.

‘What am I looking at?’ Eduardo asks.

‘That girl,’ I whisper, ‘the one with the shawl and her back to us. It’s Mar!’

‘Mar?’

I nod and we stand in silence for a few moments, watching her. I desperately want to talk to her and instinctively begin to move towards her but Eduardo pulls me back. ‘You can’t,’ he hisses. ‘Miguel is standing five metres from us. It shan’t be helpful for either of them to see each other, particularly not like this. And besides,’ he continues, his voice even lower, ‘if my parents see you talking to her, they’re bound to ask questions. Come on, let’s go.’

We bid our farewells to everyone and after Isabel is smothered in more kisses by aunts, uncles and grandparents, we begin to make our way towards the path that leads up to the Albaicín. I walk at a reluctant pace as I keep looking back, willing Mar to turn. Whether this longing reaches her or it is pure coincidence, Mar suddenly catches sight of me. Our eyes lock for an instant before she takes in the scene. Miguel…Joaquín. We stare intently at one another, then at the same time, smile. We continue to smile until, eventually, I am forced to turn and continue my journey home.

It is not until two weeks following this incident that I have the opportunity to visit the caves. Seeing Mar again after all this time has rekindled my curiosity and I know, without doubt, that I must see her. I go alone this time, leaving the children scrambling over Eduardo as he sits in his study endeavouring to write. As I walk along the arid, cacti-fringed trails, swallows swooping in front of my path, I think about that auspicious day three years previously when I knocked on Aurelia’s door. How much has changed since then.

Aurelia is in the yard, hanging clothes out to dry over rusted, battered chairs. Upon seeing me, she scarcely nods. One of her granddaughters, the girl with the matted curls, lies stretched out on a tasselled rug above the cave, sucking her thumb intently and staring at me with wide eyes. I sit quietly on a grassy verge near the cave entrance, waiting for Aurelia to finish. Why must I always feel so infuriatingly cowed and tongue-tied in her presence? Glancing around, I pull back the tasselled cloth hanging over the cave door to see if Mar is inside, but the interior is dark and still. I can feel the child’s eyes boring into the back of my head and turn round to face her.

‘What is your name?’

‘Beatriz.’ The little girl rises from the rug and jumps as nimbly as a cat from the roof of the cave. ‘Do you want to see my doll?’

I nod and the child scampers inside to fetch it. She returns and thrusts a tattered rag doll with stringy yellow hair and blue button eyes into my hands. I wince. I have always gone to great pains to not spoil my children, yet looking at the grubby doll now in my lap, I realise how much they have in comparison.

‘Her name’s Candelaria. I love her.’ The child brings the doll to her chest and hugs her fiercely, her thumb going back into her mouth. Looking at the little girl, it is clear this is Mar’s daughter. Despite her youth, she has the same wave of tight, dark curls crowning her head and proud, discerning face. And the resemblance she holds to Joaquín is undeniable. Her oversized, thin cotton dress slides off one shoulder and around her neck hangs a length of black cord with a tiny bag attached to it.

‘What do you have in your little bag?’ I ask her gently.

Beatriz pulls her thumb out of her mouth. ‘A
trozo
of bread
,’
she replies, ‘and some snake skin.’

‘
Snake
skin?’

‘
Sí
. The skin is to protect against snake bites and the bread is to protect against ghosts and evil spirits.’

I cup my chin in my hand. ‘Are there many ghosts around here?’

‘
¡Claro que sí!
’ Beatriz’s dark eyes open wide. ‘Mamá and Abuela are scared of them, but I’m not. I’m not scared of snakes either. There are ladder snakes everywhere.’ I find myself eyeing the ground and shifting a little. ‘They put a curse on you. But Candelaria keeps me safe.’

‘Has…has anyone in your family ever been bitten?’

She looks at me in surprise and smiles, almost sympathetically. ‘Of course not, because we all wear our
bolsillos
all the time. We can’t get bitten if we wear these.’

I nod and smile back at her as Beatriz begins to sing softly as she plaits the doll’s grimy hair. I remember the packet of fortune cookies I have brought and, reaching into my knapsack, pull one out and offer it to the child. Squealing with delight, Beatriz grasps the sugary treat and holds it out like a trophy for her grandmother to see. Aurelia grunts and the little girl calls towards the entrance of the cave.

‘Pablo! Pablo!’

A boy, whom I recognise from both of my previous visits, appears in the doorway, notebook and pencil in hand.

‘Look what the lady gave me!’

Thrusting her hand out under the nose of her elder brother, he arches one eyebrow and stares at me suspiciously.

‘Would you like one?’

He glances hesitantly at his grandmother and, after receiving a nod from her, edges his way slowly towards my outstretched palm then swipes the cookie from it in one swift motion. Dropping what he holds in his hands, he darts towards the gate as Beatriz chases after him.

Left alone, Aurelia comes and sits down. I am shocked to see yet another transformation in her dignified face. This time she seems neither aged nor youthful, but tired and despondent. Dark, bulbous folds of skin hang heavily beneath her eyes and her long, grey hair is pulled tightly back from her face.

‘Will you tell me what it is?’

I am shocked by the words that have escaped my lips. Aurelia has said not a word, yet it is clearer than the cloudless sky that she is troubled.

‘Mar has gone.’

I feel a bolt of pure fear rush through my body.

‘Gone? Gone where?’

Aurelia shakes her head dejectedly and gestures towards the mountains. ‘Out there. To the sea. North, west, another country… I don’t know.’

‘But I only saw her a couple of weeks ago. I tried to talk to her…I couldn’t…I—’

‘Hush, child, I know.’ Aurelia rises from her seat and begins to sweep the yard. For a while she is silent, lost in her task. Eventually, she speaks again. ‘After she returned that day from seeing you all, she wasn’t herself. Early the next morning she was gone. No message. Nothing.’ She shakes her head again. ‘She’s done this before. Taken off without so much as a word. I know she’ll be back, I just don’t know when. And with all these children…’ she breaks off ‘…
pues
,
es difícil.
’

‘But why did she go? Was it because of Joaquín? Does she regret the decision she made? Is she angry with me? Does she…’

Aurelia starts making tutting noises and stops sweeping, looking at me long and hard.

‘Child, she sees you as far more of a mother to Joaquín than herself. You are the one who has nurtured him. You are the one who will provide him with far more opportunities than the poor little mites here who do nothing but run around in the dirt all day.’ ‘Well, what then?’

‘She’s still in love with that fool of a man.’

I pause and frown.

‘You mean Miguel?’ I am stunned, desperately trying to picture my husband’s most detestable brother as a man who could possibly evoke such strong sentiment. Yes, I must concede he is handsome. But he is so cold. And Mar is so enchanting. ‘
Claro que sí
,’ Aurelia grunts. ‘Who else?’

Try as hard as I might, I simply cannot imagine the two of them together and I most certainly cannot understand how Mar has failed to break an emotional attachment to such a callous creature.

‘I know what you’re thinking. It astounds me as much as it does you.’

‘I suppose love is blind,’ I offer.

‘No, it’s damned dimwitted, that’s what it is,’ Aurelia snaps. ‘I brought that girl up to be cautious of her emotions. To never fall in love. But look what she does, she runs all over Andalucía handing her heart over on a silver platter to any man that asks for it. And now she has all these little ones to show for it.’

‘How many children does she have?’

‘Eight,’ replies Aurelia tersely.

‘
Eight?
’

‘Three of them never made it past the age of two, they died of
mal de ojo
.’ I frown, not understanding, but Aurelia continues. ‘So there are four left here. But you can see why Mar gave up Joaquín. Just look at this place.’

Aurelia walks up to the gate and picks up the notebook that the little boy dropped, handing it to me.

‘Pablo’s the eldest. He’s mute. Locked inside his own world.’

I open the book and flick through page after page of intricate drawings of life going on around him: Aurelia plaiting her long mane of hair; Beatriz playing with her doll; Mar weaving esparto grass into the seat of a chair.

‘I wouldn’t mind so much, if only he’d smile,’ Aurelia continues.

I look up from the book. ‘These are good.’

Aurelia nods. ‘I know. That’s all he does all day: helps with the chores and sits in the shadows drawing. Half the time I don’t even realise he’s there, drawing me. I have no doubt the boy can talk, he’s just chosen not to. My daughter tells me I’m crazy, but in my opinion he’s frustrated.’