Guernica

  Mariangeles, unsure of his specific intent but certain it was ominous, placed a warning hand on her husband’s furry forearm, her nails ready to puncture and drain blood if necessary.

  “We have some sheep, not many, but enough to keep us busy. The ewes we want for breeding and shearing; one or two of the strongest rams we save intact for their services. But the other young males that we raise only for their meat need not bother us with their interest in breeding.”

  Mariangeles tightened her grip.

  “So we relieve them of their pelotas, you understand?” His laughter shook the furniture as he shaped his hands into cups, as if holding suspended objects.

  Mariangeles squeezed.

  “Some use a blade for the purpose, but it can slip and destroy other parts, and sometimes it causes nasty infections,” Justo said, ignoring his wife’s silent pressure. “Some of us, the elders in our business, have found that there’s less bleeding if we just remove the pelotas by biting them off.”

  Miguel gasped involuntarily; the women groaned—they had heard of the revolting process. But did he have to say it? Mariangeles withdrew her futile grasp. No point now.

  “It is a story,” Justo finished, “that you might want to keep in mind as you start to court my only daughter.”

  * * *

  Miguel redistributed his food on the plate. The main course had been lamb, and Miguel wondered grimly if Justo had chewed this meat already. Mariangeles and Miren managed to sustain limited conversation but struggled to draw from Miguel stories of his background. Justo, though, filled the air with word torrents, and when he saw that Miguel had hardly touched the mutton, he asked if the boy was familiar with eating anything that did not swim in the sea. When Miguel confessed to a mild appetite at the moment, Justo speared the meat off his plate and devoured it. “Can’t let food go to waste,” he announced.

  “Let me now tell you of my sainted mother,” Justo said, starting a family history of his mother’s death and his father’s consumptive grief, all so extreme that it did not demand his gift for embellishment.

  “The love my father had for my mother will stand through time as a monument to dedication and devotion,” he concluded with pride. “So great was his capacity for love that he died of a broken heart when it was lost.”

  Justo paused as if awaiting applause.

  “But what about you boys?” Miguel asked without thinking.

  “We grew into men, proud of his example.”

  Miguel shook his head.

  “What, Miguel?” Miren asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “What, Miguel?” Mariangeles followed.

  “That is a very sad story.”

  But Justo now insisted. “Say it, boy.”

  “I would never be disrespectful,” he said directly to Justo, lowering his head in a signal of obeisance. “But I think if your mother had the chance, I don’t believe she would have said, ‘Your grief shows the depth of your love.’ I think she would have said, ‘Take good care of our boys. You have to love them for both of us now.’ ”

  “Careful, boy,” Justo said.

  The fire popped, and Miguel flinched. It was the only sound in the room for what seemed like minutes. Justo never took his eyes off Miguel. Trying to at least alter the force of the stare, Miguel continued.

  “I’m sure he loved your mother deeply, but I think it was selfish to ignore the boys. You lost two parents instead of one. Your father should be alive. He should be at this table right now. I should be able to meet him, a man who fought through his loss and still was there for his sons. I would admire him.”

  Justo chewed on his mustache and all at the table sat in silent suspense. No one had ever talked to Justo this way. Full minutes later, he stood and walked around the table toward Miguel, who now anticipated strangulation. But he extended his hand. Miguel took it, and Justo encircled him, gently this time.

  “Josepe said you were a good man,” Justo said. “He was right. At least you’re brave. You’ve given me some things to think about. You’re welcome here in our home.”

  “Why don’t you two go for a walk; it’s a nice evening,” Marian-geles said to Miren and Miguel.

  Outside, Miren pulled him close. She was thunderstruck by affection and felt flushed, as if she had too much blood and not enough oxygen. Without thought, they kissed, barely touching lips.

  She executed a quick jota step, a spin, and joined him at his side for the most enjoyable walk of her life.

  The home was caked with dung from the small animals and birds that had taken up residence since its last owner moved to Bilbao without bothering to fix the broken windows. It was fusty with mildew and mold from a rug that had been soaked with rain beneath a cracked roof tile. The boards beneath the rug were warped like waves.

  And Miguel could not have been happier. The grim condition made the home affordable and also gave him an excuse to rebuild it to his own specifications. Now he could strip it back to the studs and make it his own.

  Of equal importance, it featured a small adjoining shed with large split doors opening to the west that he could turn into his own woodworking shop. After spending each day at Mendiola’s, Miguel worked through much of the night on his new home. Within a month he replaced the damaged floorboards with polished oak, constructed pine cabinets with etched doors, and had fabricated hardwood cornices and baseboards to affix after he patched and repainted the walls.

  Miren begged to help with the renovation, and the two conspired to paint the interior on a day when Miguel was free from Mendiola. This was not a simple act. A young woman seen going into a man’s house could fuel market gossip for months.

  Miguel’s house was on the edge of town and was among the last residences just inside the ring of farms that spread outside the core. After taking a roundabout path through town and executing patient surveillance, Miren determined it was safe. She immediately deemed the house cozy and had no trouble visualizing herself in permanent residence—stirring a pot over the hearth . . . mending Miguel’s clothes . . . sweeping the floors . . . slipping into the bedroom.

  A shirtless Miguel was lathing a table leg in the work shed when Miren arrived, and he was covered in fine wood chips.

  “Welcome . . . what do you think?”

  She forced herself to look around.

  “I think Papa would kill me if he knew I came here.”

  “He wouldn’t kill you. He’d kill me,” Miguel corrected her. “Ready to work?”

  “I am indeed, sir.” She saluted.

  Miren had dressed for duty, wearing a rag scarf, a full apron, and layered work shirts so she could dispose of the outer one if it became flecked with paint. But within minutes she was mottled with goldenrod freckles from paint spattering off the stiff bristles of her brush.

  Miguel suggested he should do the high portions, with his greater range from the ladder, and she could paint the lower portions and the trim as high as she could reach. They arrived at an effective technique and were cautious to softly blend their brushstrokes where their work overlapped. Since her area was smaller and more easily reached, she stretched out ahead of Miguel and his ladder and took a break after almost an hour of work.

  As they worked, they sneaked looks at one another when they thought they wouldn’t be noticed. But they often were caught peeking, triggering embarrassed smiles. She liked to watch his hands as he worked; they had attracted her since he’d held hers that first night. They were powerful, and she wanted to trace with her fingers the path of the veins that rode over the muscles. Those hands let him create beautiful furniture that might last for centuries. It was a kind of power she admired.

  Caught looking for the third time as Miren bent to replenish her brush, Miguel abandoned coyness.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t stop,” he confessed.

  She smiled but didn’t answer.

  “Of course, all Basque women are beautiful,” he said to break a silence that had grown awkward.

  “Is that widel
y known?”

  “The sailors of Lekeitio have traveled the seas of the world, and they could never find more beautiful women.”

  “How do you know they didn’t discover more beautiful women and just never told anyone?”

  “They always returned home.”

  She rested her brush and walked closer in a swaying rhythm that forced Miguel to close his eyes.

  “So, you’re telling me that I’m just one of the many, then?” she said. “Just another Basque girl.”

  “No . . . no . . . no, if there is a woman more beautiful than you, then I would have heard stories of her. There would be songs about her, or poems.”

  “Why don’t you write a poem for me, then?”

  “I’ve already created new forms of dance in your honor,” he said, returning to humor.

  “True, but a girl loves a poem,” she said, applying pressure.

  Confused now, Miguel surrendered control. The motion of those few steps, her smile, and those damned dark eyes. Those had been trouble from the start. He had spent several weeks now imagining the possibilities with her. He closed his eyes again, feeling seasick.

  “This is probably not a poem; I never studied those things, so I don’t know,” Miguel said. “But I know what I want to do. Whenever you’re with me, I want to make you feel like you do when you’re dancing.”

  Their hug was so firm that his sweat moistened her apron. Without permission, one of her legs wrapped itself around Miguel’s calf, pulling her hips into his. And there they stood, breathing each other’s breath.

  “Would you share this house with me?” Miguel asked. “Live your life with me?”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “I love you,” he said. “I truly love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They were quiet, standing and breathing.

  “What do you think your father will say when I ask for permission?” Miguel asked softly as they pulled back to look at each other.

  “ ‘Ala Jinko! No man is good enough for my little one,’ ” she said in a surprising baritone. “ ‘The only man worthy of her is me, and I’m already taken.’ ”

  “But will he allow it?”

  “Miguel Navarro, I don’t care what he says; we’re getting married.”

  Justo belched so forcefully that the overhang of his mustache fluttered. “Wretched cow,” he said, gesturing toward the ground floor.

  “Justo, that works only when the animals are here. It’s summer and they’re out in the pasture.”

  “In that case, please excuse me. But if it is not the fault of the cow, then it is yours. You forced me to eat too much.”

  Mariangeles had been to the market that afternoon and purchased several hake fillets, which she pan-fried with light egg batter. The fishermen of Lekeitio or Elantxobe sometimes brought a fresh catch to Guernica to sell or trade for farmers’ vegetables or mutton. Justo had devoured all but the small piece that Mariangeles had set aside for herself.

  “I am gluttonous only to remind you that you are appreciated,” Justo said. “And so that you know that you are the finest cook in the Pays Basque.”

  “Thank you, I will never complain of hearing too much on that topic,” she said.

  “I’ll take care of these,” he said, collecting the dishes.

  “Justo,” she said, waiting until he turned to face her before continuing. “I am proud of the way you reacted to Miren’s news; I hoped you would be understanding.”

  “Actually, Mari, I’m delighted with it. Miguel is a man as foolish as any his age, but he’s a match for our daughter. She could find no better. I showed good judgment in not killing him.”

  Mariangeles laughed. “They make a handsome couple.”

  “They will make fine grandchildren for us.”

  “More than one? You won’t mind more than one?” Mariangeles was surprised by the use of the plural as it regarded grandchildren.

  “I don’t mind; I hope they have a dozen. I hope they fill the town with their beautiful babies.”

  Justo held out his arms, as if to invite his wife to bear witness to his open-mindedness.

  “Good for you.”

  He removed the apron from a peg, tied the sash, and began scraping leftovers into a bucket for the benefit of their last thinning pig.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Then I’ll go into town and help Marie-Luis with that music project she’s been working on.”

  “Your sister can make magic with that accordion,” Justo said, dancing a passable two-step to remembered music. “But this is the third time you’ve spent the evening with Marie-Luis. If I didn’t know you were already married to the most coveted man in Biscaya, I might be suspicious that you were stepping out on me.”

  “You are very certain of yourself.”

  “And why not?”

  Mariangeles took her bag and a jacket in case of evening chill.

  “Dear one . . . ,” Justo said softly. “Remember, you hold my heart in your little hands.”

  “I’m merely performing a charitable deed.”

  Justo reinflated. “A-ha—as I thought. It would be a foolish woman who would consider inferior stock when she has Justo An-sotegui at home.”

  He flexed his right bicep in a show of strength diminished by his dainty floral apron and pig bucket.

  “Mari . . . be careful this time.”

  “Careful?”

  “Yes, you hurt yourself the last time.”

  Ah, yes, that’s right, she thought; she’d told him that she had stepped in a hole on the walk home that night.

  Miren, returning from a dress fitting, caught her mother hurrying out of the house.

  “How’s Papa taking this?” she asked.

  “He’s surprising me, actually. We just talked about it, and he’s very pleased with your judgment. He believes it is a good reflection on him.”

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “To see Marie-Luis.”

  “Mama, is there more we need to do to the house before the wedding, with all the family coming in?”

  “I think we might have time to paint a few of the walls inside,” Mariangeles said. “I’m thinking about something brighter, like the color that Miguel chose for his house.”

  Miren nodded, then realized the implications of her mother’s statement.

  Mariangeles read her daughter’s vacant look.

  “Miren . . . the paint was all over you that day you came back from Alaia’s. I know you weren’t painting her cabin; where else would you have gone? I’m not judging; I trust you and I trust Miguel. But people in town are not so generous. Be careful—and be patient. And do a better job of cleaning off the paint next time. I’m very sure your father would not like the color as much as I do.”

  Miren Ansotegui needed to bring together two of the most important people in her life for many reasons, but above all else was the pride she took in both of them. If things progressed as she hoped, Alaia and Miguel would be close to her the rest of her life, and she imagined the three of them aging together. If they were jealous about each other, or if some animosity arose, it would be difficult for her to reconcile.

  She prepared both, telling Miguel of Alaia’s challenges and needs and prompting him to carefully avoid all the verbal misstatements she had made, although Alaia never seemed offended. And she was cautious about telling Alaia how handsome she thought Miguel was, not wanting to make her friend feel left out or somehow thrown over. Yes, she confessed, she planned to marry him, but that didn’t mean it would affect her relationship with her best friend, her sister.

  “I want you to love her and I want her to love you,” Miren instructed Miguel.

  “I know I love the way she makes you smell,” Miguel said.

  “I mean it; she’s a very special person and a very special friend,” Miren said. “She has made me more understanding of people. She made me more understanding of the things others have to deal with. I can’t believe the strength
she has, how brave she is; imagine what it must be like.”

  “If she’s that important to you, she’s that important to me. Is there anything I can do for her? Anything around her house? Repairs? Firewood?”

  “I don’t think so; she is very in de pendent.”

  “Maybe build her some furniture.”

  “Oh, asto, that would be wonderful, maybe a nice chest for her things.”

  “Does she need help getting here?” Miguel asked.

  Miren explained her talents at navigation and the landmarks she would use to find her way to their meeting at the café. Now that Miren and Miguel were engaged, being together and even somewhat affectionate in public was acceptable.

  Alaia arrived at the café, discreetly using her cane to probe the door for obstructions or steps. She entered and stood in the doorway, knowing that Miren would be watching and would come and guide her to their table. They hugged and kissed each other on both cheeks as always, and Miren led her to where Miguel had risen.

  Miren was right, she was striking: shapely, with light brown hair and skin the color of heartwood cypress. Had Miguel not known Alaia was blind, he could not have detected a problem that made her different from any lovely young woman merely walking with her eyes closed. She moved slowly, but that only gave her a dreamlike quality, Miguel thought. And when Alaia and Miren walked arm in arm, they seemed not to diminish the impact of each other’s appearance, as two attractive women might.

  Miguel moved close upon introduction to give her a kiss on the cheek and then pulled her into a hug. Miguel whispered to her, and they embraced with greater energy. Miren sucked in her breath in shock.

  “Oh, Miguel, you’re so strong,” Alaia announced.

  “Oh, Alaia, I’ve dreamed of a woman like you,” Miguel volleyed.

  Miguel noted Miren’s startled expression.

  “Yes, we got her,” he said to Alaia. “You should see the look on her face.”