When her speech came to an end, the people dispersed.
‘She’s inspiring, isn’t she?’ said Antonio.
‘Yes,’ replied Francisco,‘she’s an extraordinary woman. She actually makes you think it’s possible.’
‘Well, she’s right,’ said Antonio. ‘And you mustn’t stop believing that.’
Chapter Twenty-four
FOR A FEW days Mercedes wandered aimlessly through the streets of Almería. She knew no one in this city now. Occasionally there was a glimpse of a half-familiar face but it was just someone that she had seen on the road from Málaga. They were not friends, just other people like her, all of them in the wrong place, still on their feet, trudging from one queue to another.
For those with families, staying in Almería was the only choice, since the effort of moving again was beyond the realms of possibility. For Mercedes remaining here was the option she favoured least of all. She stood in a street where many other refugees loitered, all strangers to each other and to this city. She could not imagine staying. It was the one thing she knew.
So she faced a choice. The easiest course of action would have been to return home to Granada. Anxiety for her mother grabbed her hard, and she felt a surge of guilt that she was not there with her. She missed Antonio too and knew that he would be doing what he could to comfort their mother. Perhaps her father had been released. If only there was some way of finding out.
She desperately missed the café and the homely apartment above it, where every dark stair and window-ledge was so familiar. She allowed herself the momentary self-indulgence of remembering some of the things she loved about home: the sweet, indefinable scent of her mother, the dim light that cast a faint yellow glow on the staircase, the muskiness of her own bedroom, the thickly layered brown paint on the doors and windowframes, her old wooden bed with its heavy green wool blanket that had kept her warm for longer than she could remember. A wave of intense longing descended. All the small comforting things seemed very far away in this shattered, unfamiliar place. Perhaps these details of life were what mattered most of all.
Then she thought of Javier. She remembered the first time she saw him and how her life had changed in that instant. Her recollection of the moment when he had looked up from his guitar and his dark-lashed, limpid eyes gazed out towards her in the audience was vivid. He had not seen her then but she remembered the effect of his look. It was as though his eyes transmitted heat and she had melted in their intensity. After her first dance for Javier, each subsequent encounter had been like a stepping stone across a river, each one taking them closer to the other bank where she had assumed they could never be apart. Their desire to be together had been mutual, passionate and absolute. Separation from Javier was like a dull, perpetual ache that would never go away. An illness.
One day, about a week after Manuela had been killed, across the street, the discreet doorway into a church caught Mercedes’ eye. Perhaps the Virgin would help her decide which direction to take.
Behind the battered entrance lay an interior of baroque grandeur, but it was not this that surprised her, since many churches had almost unnoticeable side-street doors that belied the immensity of the church hidden within.What really astounded her were the numbers of people inside. It was not as though they had come here for safety. There had been no divine protection for religious buildings in these times of turmoil. Churches were as vulnerable as anywhere, whether they were destroyed from the air by Nationalists or burned down by supporters of the Republic. Many aisles and naves were now open to the elements, and pulpits and organ lofts had become the nesting places for birds.
In spite of losing their faith, men and women sought safety and warmth in this open church. Some memories of what religion had once meant returned to Mercedes and yet it seemed a lifetime ago that she had gone each week to confess her sins and decades since she had taken her first communion. Candles flickered before an icon of the Mary and the eyes of the Holy Virgin met Mercedes’ gaze. The ‘Hail Mary’ was an incantation that used to flow out of her like water from a tap. Now she resisted the temptation to recite it all. It would be hypocrisy. She did not believe. Those eyes that caught hers were just oil on a canvas, a chemical compound. She turned away, the smell of wax lingering in her nostrils. She almost envied those who could find comfort in such a place as this.
Around the curve of the apse, layers of cherubs reached up to heaven. Some looked out at the congregation with a mischievous grin. Beneath them sat the Virgin, the limp Christ lying in her arms. Mercedes studied her, looking for some message or meaning, but realised that her expression did not begin to capture the pain of the woman she had seen on the road from Málaga a few days earlier: a mother who, like Mary, had been nursing the corpse of her child. It was obvious that the painter of this pietà had never seen the real thing. His depiction of pain was not even an approximation. The image seemed an insult to grief. In every small side chapel, she saw vulgar portrayals of suffering and anguish and from each ceiling corpulent angels looked down, smiling.
Walking away from the main altar she found herself face to face with an upright, life-size Mary made of plaster. Glass tears glistened on her smooth cheeks, the eyes were strong and blue, the mouth slightly downturned. She gazed out at Mercedes through the bars of the locked chapel, incarcerated along with a small vase of faded paper flowers. While others could project their hopes and dreams on these figures and believe they found comfort, if not always definite answers, Mercedes found their stagy symbolism absurd.
The pious knelt on the steps of every side chapel, or sat with their heads bowed in the main body of the church. Everyone seemed at peace and yet Mercedes was churned up with anger.
‘What use has God been?’ she wanted to cry out, to break the reverend silence that reigned in this lofty space.‘What has he done to protect us?’
In reality, the Church had acted against them. Many of the Nationalists’ actions against the Republic had been done in the name of God. In spite of this, she could see that many of the citizens of Almería clearly still held on to their belief that the Virgin Mary would help them. For those whose lips moved in prayers of supplication but who did not really expect answers, this place clearly still provided comfort, but for Mercedes, coming in here to find guidance, it now seemed laughable. The saints and martyrs, with their painted-on blood and theatrical stigmata, had once been part of her life. Now she saw the Church as a sham, a cupboard full of redundant props.
She took a seat for a while, watching people come and go, lighting candles, muttering prayers, gazing at icons, and wondered what it was they felt. Did a voice reply when they prayed? Did it respond immediately, or was it heard the next day when they least expected it? Did these frozen-eyed figures of the saints really become flesh and blood to them? Perhaps they did. Maybe these people, with their tear-filled, pleading eyes, and hands so tightly locked that their fingers whitened, were really engaged with something beyond her understanding, something supernatural. She could neither grasp it with her mind, nor feel it with her heart.
There was no divine hand. Of that she was now certain. For a moment she wondered if she should pray for the souls of Manuela and her little boy. She thought of them, innocent, harmless, and their annihilation only added to her conviction of God’s absence.
With the realisation that she had neither faith nor belief to help her, she knew that her decision would have to be taken alone. At that moment, an image of Javier, more beautiful than any of the handsome saints depicted in oils, came into her mind. It was rare for more than a few moments to pass when he was not in her thoughts. Perhaps for the devout, the huge space of the imagination was occupied by God. For Mercedes, it was Javier who filled it. She worshipped him body and soul and believed him worthy of it.
The warmth of the church, the semi-darkness and the strong, musky scent of candles held her in an embrace; she could imagine this physical comfort being enough to bring people in and keep them there. It would have been easy for her
to sit there too, but the stuffiness had become overwhelming and she had to get out for air.
The street outside was silent. A desperate dog scavenged. Another one chased the pages of a newspaper that flapped like a dirty bird struggling to fly. They eyed Mercedes suspiciously and, for a moment, hungrily. These animals had probably not eaten for days. In former times they had survived on the generous leftovers from restaurant bins but now there was nothing for them, not even the occasional carcass.
She now knew with blinding certainty what anyone who had ever felt the compelling force of reciprocated love would understand: that she could not go back to Granada. She recalled the way in which her mother had encouraged her to leave and knew she could count her among those who would not condemn her for walking away from her home city rather than towards it. Mercedes believed that Javier was her one unique opportunity for love and so, whatever bitter end or consummation it might lead to, she had to find him. Even the activity of searching and the unerring belief that he could be found would alleviate the pain of separation.
With no idea of where her feet were taking her, she ambled along. It gave her time to reflect. Perhaps she was no different from the people in church. Perhaps this belief, this knowledge, was what they felt too. They ‘knew’ that God existed and their belief in the miracle of the Resurrection was unshakeable. Her faith was this: she knew that Javier was still alive. As she stood on the pavement, the decision made itself for her. She would head north, following her instinct and the only other information she had, which was that his uncle lived in Bilbao. Perhaps her loved one would be there, waiting for her.
Though she had little fear now, it was still undesirable for a woman to travel alone and she knew she would be safer in the company of others. Almería was bursting with refugees and there were plenty of them who would be making their way out of the city with whom she could travel. Having decided to make enquiries, she struck up a conversation with two women.Though they were planning to stay for a while themselves, they told her of a couple they knew who were about to set off with their daughter.
‘I’m sure I heard that they intended to leave soon,’ the younger woman said to her sister.
‘Yes, that’s right.They have family in the north somewhere and that’s where they’re aiming to go.’
‘When we’ve got our bread, let’s go and find them.You can’t go on your own, and I’m sure they’ll be happy for the company.’
In due course, hugging their segments of loaf, they made their way to a school on the edge of Almería where the two women, along with hundreds of others, were camped out. Mercedes found it strange to see classrooms where adults now outnumbered children and where chairs and desks had been piled in the corner and old blankets lay strewn across the floor.The walls still carried cheerful displays of children’s drawings.They seemed incongruous now, a reminder of how the old order had been turned upside down.
The sisters found the place where they had left their few belongings, and in the same room sat a middle-aged woman. She appeared to be darning a sock, but on closer inspection Mercedes saw that she was trying to sew up her shoe. The leather was so soft and worn that it could be pierced with an ordinary needle. She was more or less remaking this battered footwear.Without it she could go nowhere.
‘Señora Duarte, this is Mercedes. She wants to go north. Can she come with you?’
The woman carried on sewing. She did not glance up.
Mercedes fingered the rounded toes of her dance shoes, one in each pocket of her coat. Sometimes she forgot about them, but the comforting weight of them was always there.
‘We aren’t going yet,’ Señora Duarte said, looking up now into Mercedes’ face. ‘But when we do you can come with us, if you like.’
The words were spoken without a trace of warmth, let alone a genuine welcome.Though it was stuffy here Mercedes felt herself shudder. She understood how people could be stripped of their ability to care about others. Many had seen terrible atrocities and she could see that in this woman’s eyes. Here was someone beyond the stage where she could take an interest in strangers and perhaps even her own family.
Moments later, a young woman of about Mercedes’ age appeared.
‘Did you get any?’ asked her mother, once again speaking without looking up.
‘As much as they would give me,’ replied her daughter. ‘But it wasn’t much. Hardly enough for one really.’
‘But there are three of us, including your father - and four now if this girl is going to attach herself to us,’ she said, indicating Mercedes with an upward movement of her head.
Mercedes stepped forward. The woman who had introduced them had gone now.
‘Some acquaintances of yours said I might be able to come on the road with you, as we’re all planning on going in the same direction. Would that be all right?’
Mercedes spoke with some hesitation, unsure of whether she might get the same cool reception from the daughter.
The girl eyed her up and down, not with suspicion but with interest. ‘Yes, I’m sure it would.’ She spoke with unmistakable warmth.
‘Come and find somewhere to cook these with me,’ she said, waving the pathetic package of lentils. ‘I’m sure we can make them stretch - and I see you’ve got some bread.’
The two women then found themselves in a queue for a small kitchen. They were all used to standing in lines now. This was where acquaintances might become friends.
‘I’m sorry my mother doesn’t seem very friendly.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a total stranger. Why should she be?’
‘She didn’t used to be like that.’
Mercedes looked into the girl’s face and saw someone like herself. She had a girl’s complexion with an old woman’s eyes. They were full of grief as though she had already experienced enough suffering for a lifetime.
‘It was my brother. Eduardo. He was walking with three friends.
They were ahead of us in a group and we got separated. Mother’s shoes had worn down to nothing and her heels were cracked and bleeding. She couldn’t go very fast and Eduardo had grown impatient. In the air attack we had a lucky escape, but when the planes had gone and we carried on walking, we saw them. All four of them. Dead. Lying in a row. They’d been moved from the middle of the road so that people didn’t have to walk round them. The other parents hadn’t caught up with them yet, so we were the first to realise who they were.’
Mercedes felt she had been there and indeed it was perfectly possible that she might have passed the very spot a few moments earlier.
‘We had missed them, by a moment. You know when you’re late to meet someone and when you get there, someone says, “Oh, they’ve just gone,” and you have that sense of loss and waste. Well, it was like that, but for good. Eduardo had gone. We had missed him by a moment. He was still warm. It was impossible to take in that he was no longer alive. His body was there, but he just wasn’t in it any more.’
Tears coursed down her cheeks. Mercedes could feel the enormity of her loss. She was reminded of when she saw her own brother’s lifeless body. Ignacio had been dead for many hours and she had been shocked by her own reaction. It was not her brother, and she remembered realising that there was a difference between a body and a corpse. The latter was like an empty shell on the beach.
Mercedes found herself bereft of useful words. There had been hundreds of mortalities on that road from Málaga, but an individual death, even in the overall scale of suffering, would never lose its impact.
‘I’m so sorry. How terrible . . . how terrible.’
‘They’ll never recover, I know they won’t. My father didn’t speak for two days. My mother never stops crying. And I’m meant to be the strong one . . .’
For a few minutes they stood in silence.The girl herself looked as though she had been weeping for days. Eventually she spoke.
‘My name’s Ana, anyway,’ she said wiping her eyes.
‘And I’m Mercedes.’
No one else
in the queue even listened to their conversation. The story Ana had told was nothing out of the ordinary in times like these.
While Ana stirred the mean mixture of lentils and water, the girls continued to talk. Mercedes told her that she needed to get to Bilbao, and Ana explained that her parents were aiming for her uncle’s village in the north. Her father’s brother, Ernesto, had never supported the Republic and her father did not have firm political views, so he had persuaded her mother that they should set up a new home, closer to his family, where they might be safe. He was convinced that it was only a matter of time before Franco took Madrid, and following that it would only be a few days before the whole country was in Nationalist hands. It was a long distance to travel, but their apartment in Málaga had been destroyed and it was doubtful they would ever return now. Her father had never held membership of a trade union or any other workers’ association so he reckoned he was free to shift his allegiance at will.
Mercedes’ sole aim was to find Javier, whether he was in Nationalist or Republican territory. She knew that he was most likely to be in the latter, but decided to keep this to herself. Even now she could see that keeping politics a private matter with this family might stand her in good stead. It was enough for her that they shared the same broad destination.