‘What absolute gall!’ they gasped. ‘What confidence!’ ‘What nerve!’
The bull’s head was lowered.Would Ignacio get away with such an audacious manoeuvre? Seconds later, the crowd would have their answer.
Ignacio got to his feet and acknowledged their applause. His back was turned to the bull now, a further demonstration of his supremacy over the animal.The gesture was almost contemptuous. If the bull had it in him, he might have gored the perfect, rounded buttocks of his pert derrière, but the beast was already losing his will.
The faena was nearly completed now. There were some more verónicas, when he twirled the cape above his head as he pirouetted. On the final one, the wounded bull brushed so close to Ignacio’s body that his pure white jacket was painted crimson with the animal’s blood.
‘Now I understand why he wore that colour,’ said Concha to herself.
Ignacio touched the left horn as he passed. It seemed almost affectionate, as if he was stroking the bull, thanking him for the opportunity to prove himself.
The build-up had all the grace and elegance of a dance seen in slow motion and now the bull came before him, almost on bended knee, worshipful. Ignacio raised the sword and plunged it deep, reaching the animal’s heart.As they watched the last twitch of the defeated beast, the crowd were on their feet and waving their handkerchiefs. Ignacio’s confrontation with the bull was as near perfection as a bullfight could be.
Apart from joining with the occasional gasps uttered collectively by the crowd, Ignacio’s parents had remained silent for the duration of the fight. Once or twice Concha had gripped her husband’s arm hard. It was difficult for a mother to see her son facing a charging bull and not experience a moment of pure terror. Only when the dead weight of the animal’s corpse was being dragged on its final circuit by the team of horses could she allow herself to breathe again. Then Pablo was up with the rest, awash with pride at the sight of his son basking in the crowd’s adulation.
The fanfare sounded. Ignacio returned, parading before the crowd, arms aloft to acknowledge the cheers. Sensual and provocative, these slim-hipped youths strutted a single circuit of the ring, dazzling in their purples, pinks and blood-stained white.
Concha rose to her feet. She too was proud of Ignacio but she hated this place, its atmosphere sickened her, and she was glad that they could now leave.
The bullfight seemed to bring about a brief renaissance of the old Granada. Everyone flooded out, the bars filled up, and into the small hours the streets thronged with people. Civil Guards kept a wary eye, alert for trouble, but anyone who felt uncomfortable about the underlying sense of right-wing triumphalism stayed indoors that night.
Ignacio was the man of the hour. In the smartest bar near the bullring he was fêted by his entourage and dozens of wealthy landowners and aficionados who queued up to shake his hand. There were dozens of women all keen to catch his eye too and the party went on late into the night. Everyone in this coterie shared similar views on the current situation in Spain and the drunken toasts and songs reflected this.
Lovely Lorca, what a bore!
NOW we bet your arse is sore!
They chanted the words over and over again, thrilled with the double entendre.
‘You should have seen my brother when he heard about Lorca,’ said Ignacio laughingly to the group he was standing with. ‘Devastated!’
‘So he’s a poofter too, is he?’ said one of the more vulgar men through a thick cloud of cigar smoke.
‘Well, let’s put it this way,’ answered Ignacio conspiratorially, ‘he doesn’t share my taste for girls . . .’
One of the more voluptuous women in the bar had sidled up to Ignacio during this conversation and his hand had slipped round her waist as he carried on talking to his male friends. It was an almost unconscious gesture. At three in the morning when the bar would eventually shut, they would stroll together to the nearby Hotel Majestic, which always kept a few rooms back for the stars of the bullfight.
During the days that followed, Ignacio was irrepressible. He could scarcely contain his jubilation. The family were given the head of his magnificent kill. Somewhere in a dark corner of the café, it hung for some years, its staring expressionless eyes looking out at customers as they came in to El Barril.
But even while Ignacio was celebrating, the violence continued. Lorca was only one of hundreds who had disappeared.
About a month later, there was a horrendous banging on the glass panel of the El Barril’s door at three o’clock in the morning.The violence of the knocking was almost enough to break it down.
‘Who’s that?’ yelled the elderly Señor Ramírez out of his third-floor window. ‘Who the devil is making all that noise?’
‘Open up, Ramírez. Now!’ It was a harsh voice and its owner, in using Pablo’s name, clearly meant business.
By now, every inhabitant of the street was out of bed. Shutters were open, women and children leaned out of windows, and a few courageous men had come out onto the pavement and were now face to face with the dozen or so soldiers in the street. Dogs barked and the strident sounds of their yapping ricocheted off the walls, creating a deafening cacophony in the narrow streets. Even as the bolts were being pulled across, the hammering continued to rain down on the glass. Only when Pablo opened the door, did it cease, and then even the dogs were silent. Five of the soldiers pushed past him into the café and the door banged behind them.The others remained in the street, loitering, smoking, indifferent to the resentful glares of the civilians around them. The street was quiet. Perhaps two minutes or twenty passed. No one could say.
Eventually the door was thrown open. Silence was replaced by the sound of screams. It was Señora Ramírez.
‘You can’t take him away! You can’t take him!’ she wailed. ‘He’s done nothing wrong! You can’t take him!’
There was a sense of desperation and helplessness in her voice. She knew that no protestation of hers could stop these men. The fact that they had no legal warrant to make an arrest mattered not a fraction of a peseta.
There were no streetlights so it was hard to see exactly what was going on in the shadows but everyone could see that it was Emilio who was standing in the street. He was still in a nightshirt, which glowed supernaturally white in the gloom, his hands were tied fast behind his back, his head was downcast and he was perfectly still. One of the uniformed men shoved him in the stomach with his rifle butt.
‘Get going!’ he ordered. ‘Now.’
With that, Emilio seemed to come to life. He stumbled away from his home like a drunk, almost losing his balance on the uneven cobbles.
Then there was the sound of Señor Ramírez, trying to calm his wife: ‘We will get him back, my dear. We will get him back. They have no right to take him.’
Half a dozen soldiers trooped down the street behind Emilio, two of them regularly jabbing him between the shoulder blades to steer him in the right direction. Soon they had disappeared round the corner and the metallic click of military footsteps had faded. Now the street was full of people, neighbours in huddles, women comforting Concha, men both furious and fearful.
Antonio and Ignacio stood nose to nose.
‘Come on,’ said Antonio. ‘We have to follow them. Quick.’
It had been a long while since Ignacio had responded to any instruction from his brother, but for now at least they had a common purpose. Concern for their own flesh and blood, particularly their mother, briefly united them.
It was only a minute or two before they caught sight of the uniformed group and then followed them stealthily for half a mile, retreating into dark doorways and archways every time they paused. If they were spotted, it would do no one any good, least of all Emilio. The real surprise to Antonio was that their route took them to the government building. Less than a month earlier, Granada had been ruled from there to the benefit of the people.
There was another jab in the back for Emilio as he fell over the threshold, and then the door banged f
irmly shut. By now it was beginning to get light and the two brothers would not be able to hang around in the street for long without being seen. They squatted in a doorway, unable even to light a cigarette in case a burning match drew attention to them, and for ten minutes or so remained huddled like this, arguing over what to do. Stay? Go? Bang on the doors?
The decision was soon made for them. Shortly afterwards, a car rolled up to a side door and two soldiers got out. Some unseen figures admitted them into the building and within a few moments they re-emerged. This time, there was another figure between them. They were supporting him because he was unable to walk, but it was not a humane gesture. The man was bent double with pain and when they opened the door of the vehicle and bundled him in, it was obvious that there was no kindness intended. He was being treated like a package. As he fell into the car, both Antonio and Ignacio caught a glimpse of the still-gleaming white nightshirt and knew beyond doubt that the person they had seen was Emilio.
The car roared off into the night and they had to accept that they could not follow.
Antonio’s heart was heavy. Men can’t cry, Antonio repeated to himself. Men can’t cry. His face was locked in a spasm of grief and disbelief, his hand held fast over his mouth to stifle the sound of his sobs, but his eyes overflowed with tears. For some time the brothers stayed crouched low in the doorway of some stranger, who even now slept soundly in his bed.
Ignacio was getting agitated. It was nearly light now and they had to get away from this place and back home. Their parents would be waiting for news.
‘What are we going to tell them?’ whispered Antonio, his voice choked.
‘That he’s under arrest,’ said Ignacio bluntly. ‘What’s the point of telling them anything else?’
They walked in silence, slowly through the empty streets. Antonio longed for some comfort from his younger brother, but he would receive none. Ignacio’s sang-froid about the situation puzzled him for a moment. He knew that Ignacio hated Emilio, but he could not allow himself to suspect that he was involved in his own brother’s disappearance.
As the older brother, it would be his duty to tell their parents what had happened. Ignacio would remain in the background, his views of the matter as shadowy as the street.
It was more than a month since the Nationalists had taken over in Granada but the number of people being arrested daily and taken off in trucks to the cemetery to be shot was still rising. It seemed unbelievable that this could happen, least of all to someone so close to them.
‘Perhaps they just want to question Emilio about Alejandro,’ offered Mercedes helpfully, desperately clinging to a straw of hope. There had been no news of Emilio’s best friend since his arrest.
Concha Ramírez’s grief overwhelmed her. She could not contain it. An active imagination and the terror of the unknown filled her mind with visions of what might be happening to her son.
Pablo, however, refused to accept that he might never see Emilio again and talked as though his son might appear again at any moment.
Sonia and Miguel had long since drained their second and third coffees and, from time to time, the waiter approached to see if they needed anything more. Two hours had passed since they arrived.
‘They must have been so distraught,’ said Sonia.
‘I think they were,’ murmured Miguel. ‘It meant that these terrible events were not just happening to other people but to them. And the arrest of one family member meant they were all in danger.’
Sonia looked around. ‘It’s getting quite smoky in here. Do you mind if we get some fresh air?’ she asked.
They paid the bill and wandered out. Miguel continued to talk as they strolled across the square.
Chapter Eighteen
FOR DAYS CONCHA prayed for her son’s return. She knelt at his bedside, her hands clasped in supplication, muttering to the Virgin to have mercy. She had little faith that anyone was listening.The Nationalists had claimed God, and Concha was sure He could not be answering prayers on both sides of this conflict.
The room was in the same state as it had been the night Emilio was torn out of his bed. His mother had no plans to rearrange anything. The sheets were rumpled, swirled like cream on the surface of coffee, and the clothes he had been wearing the day before his arrest were carelessly slung across an old chair. His guitar lay on the other side of the bed, the sensuous curves of its lovely body so like a woman’s. It struck Señor Ramírez as ironic that this might be the closest Emilio had ever got to having something so feminine and voluptuous in his bed.
On the second morning after Emilio’s arrest, Mercedes found her mother in his room, crying. For the first time in weeks, she thought about something other than Javier and, possibly for the first time in her life, she began to emerge from her childish introspection.
Over eight weeks had now passed since Mercedes had seen Javier and she had not smiled since that day. As far as she knew, Javier had been at home in Málaga when the rebel soldiers took over Granada and there was no reason for him to risk his skin coming back. Even for her. So she was torn between anxiety that something terrible had happened to him and growing irritation that he had not contacted her. She did not know what to think. If he was safe and happy somewhere, why had he not contacted her? Why had he not come? For Mercedes, it was a curious state of uncertainty and made her sad and dissatisfied, and just about everything in between, but the sight of her mother’s tears shocked her into the realisation that people around her might be suffering as much as she was.
‘Mother!’ she said, putting her arms around Concha.
Unaccustomed to such tenderness from her daughter, Concha wept all the more.
‘He’ll come back,’ whispered the girl into her mother’s ear. ‘He’ll come back.’
Feeling her mother’s shuddering in her arms, Mercedes felt suddenly afraid. Perhaps the loving, gentle brother with whom she had shared so much was not going to return.
A few days passed in this state of unknowing. Pablo buried himself in the business of running the café. It was as busy as ever, and now he did not have Emilio helping him out.Though heavily weighed down with anxiety, a whole day would pass where he could keep his mind occupied with other things. From time to time, the sharp recollection of Emilio’s absence came almost like a physical blow, and when this happened he could feel a lump rising in his throat and tears, such as his wife could shed so freely, had to be fought back.
On the fourth morning after Emilio’s arrest, Concha decided that this stalemate in their lives could not continue. She had to know the truth. The people who might hold some records were the Civil Guard.
She had always regarded these sinister individuals, in their ugly patent leather hats, with great suspicion, and since the conflict had begun, her dislike of them had intensified.They always lurked on the edge of treachery and betrayal in this city.
She went alone to the Civil Guard offices.Tremblingly she gave Emilio’s name and the guard on duty opened the ledger on his desk to find the log for the past few days. He ran his finger down the list of names and turned several pages. Concha’s heart lifted. Her son’s name was not there. Perhaps this meant he had been released. She turned to leave.
‘Señora!’ he called out in a tone that might have sounded friendly. ‘What did you say your surname was?’
‘Ramírez.’
‘I thought you said Rodríguez . . .’
For Concha Ramírez, the world stood still at that moment. Her hopes had been held so high but now she knew by the tone in his voice that they had been in vain. It was almost an act of deliberate cruelty that he had raised them and now they were to be crushed, like an insect beneath his boot.
‘There is an entry for a Ramírez.Yesterday morning. Sentence has been passed. Thirty years.’
‘Where is he?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘Which prison?’
‘I can’t give you that information yet. Come back next week.’
In turmoil, she just managed to get to the door before
she fell to her knees. The news had winded her like a physical blow. She gasped for air and it was some moments before she realised that the animal howls she could hear were her own cries. In the echoing vestibule of the Civil Guard offices, the sound of her anguish reverberated from the high ceiling. From behind the counter, a bespectacled man regarded her with total lack of concern. He had seen several other weeping mothers already that morning and their troubles elicited little sympathy from him. The only reaction they provoked was one of irritation. He did not like ‘scenes’ and hoped that this woman, like the others before her, would get out of here soon.
Once in the street, Concha had just one purpose: to make her way back home to share this news. Stumbling along, the familiar buildings provided her with much-needed support as she took each clumsy step towards her destination. Passers-by took her for a drunk woman and steered clear as she staggered from one shop doorway to the next. She hardly recognised the roads of her own city but, by instinct, through the haze of her own tears made her way to the familiar frontage of El Barril.