My daughter Isabel is born on a day of fire-breathing wind that gusts in hot, furious eddies through Granada. Rather than the heat dissipating by seven in the evening, it has gathered enough momentum and strength to power a steam engine and thus, my first labour is long and arduous. I fix my eyes upon the soaring cypresses and parched mountains through the open window whilst trying to control my breathing, loud exhalations punctuated by the sound of Eduardo thumping up and down the stairs.
‘Eduardo, por el amor de Dios, stay still!’ I scream between contractions, horrified to hear my profane use of the Lord’s name but powerless to prevent it.
‘I’m trying! What can I do?’ he cries through the closed door as his voice crescendoes with panic. ‘Just tell me, por favor, what can I do?’
‘I should like you to stop your pacing for a start and – Jesús!’ A shaft of pain tears through my body and as I double over the midwife mutters something about never before having heard such obscene language and, brushing her hands together announces the baby is on its way out. As I push and scream the name of every saint I can remember and strain my child into the world, I envisage the green-grey eyes of my husband on the other side of the door, the only man I have ever loved.
As I lie back on the bed in deep, grateful exhaustion, the door is finally opened for Eduardo, tears staining his cheeks. The midwife hands our baby to him and I listen to both child and father crying as my husband kisses my eyelids and neck and each of our baby’s tiny fingertips and dusting of hair, the colour of roasted castañas. There is something deeply comforting about hearing Eduardo cry, for he only ever sheds tears of happiness. Such a trait I admire in him, for men do not cry. Men never cry, particularly these machismo hombres of Andalucía who cannot bear to show even the slightest sign of weakness. Not my Eduardo. He is not afraid to feel emotion, nor show it. And whilst he suffers ridicule for this, particularly at the hands of his brothers and parents, I love him all the more for it.
Eduardo Torres Ortega is an aficionado of the arts, a most unusual trait in his family. During his student years at the Universidad de Granada, he enjoyed nothing more than sitting in a quiet corner of a biblioteca or café, poring over volumes of Quintana and Machado, scribbling notes down in his spidery hand. It was not until his studies had finished, however, that a daring young poet became known in the city. Federico García Lorca is the other great love of my husband’s life and this I never question, I must confess. To know García Lorca’s work and to witness him perform in public is to feel the stirrings of strong emotion for the man. He possesses the deftest touch with words I have ever known and weaves his tales of passion, destiny and revolution around us all. But Eduardo scarcely misses a single event, attending each poetry reading, discussion and gathering humanly possible.
It is at one of these poetry readings that we are first acquainted; at least, it’s where we first make contact. My parents are displeased I should attend such soirées but I am the youngest of six daughters and their energy, I suspect, has been exhausted on raising well-bred young ladies by the time I come of age, thus practising a form of blind tolerance. I am permitted to leave the house under the condition I am accompanied everywhere by Conchi, our youngest maid, who is not much older than myself. Silent and taller than anyone I have ever met, with vast, ugly, calloused hands that take me by surprise each time I see them, at first I find Conchi’s presence irksome. ‘Conchi,’ I beseech her, ‘if it is necessary you accompany me, at the least could you walk beside me rather than behind? I feel as though I am being pursued.’
‘No, Señorita, I shall not,’ she replies, her jaw set in a hard line. In time, I grow accustomed to her immense shadow flung against the wall when we leave the house for our evening paseo. I scarcely succeed in encouraging her to talk, which is a pity, because conversing is a great pleasure to me. But these irritations aside, I cannot fault her work and I do respect her. Her view of me, however, is far less apparent, for I read disapproval in her face with equal measure as concern.
One evening, García Lorca is reading from his latest collection. His eyes are closed and his thick black eyebrows touch in the middle in concentration. Conchi insists we sit at the back of the hall (in the event, she tells me, the content of the poetry becomes shameless and the need arises to remove me). It is an airless evening and, as I slip my white gloves off, Conchi glares at me, fanning herself furiously with her abanico. We are sitting behind a young man with a full head of dark, shiny curls I cannot help but admire. Though I have not yet seen Eduardo’s face, I sense he is agitated as his shoulders are tensed up around his ears and he is grasping the sides of his chair with tremendous force.
After he has finished speaking, García Lorca opens his eyes and fixes his dark gaze upon the audience, inviting us to share our thoughts. Not a word is spoken; I suppose we are all so much in awe of the great poet we are afraid we might seem ignorant. He tweaks his bow tie, looks around the room and then calls ‘You, yes you in the corner.’ García Lorca is pointing towards the man with the curls and the most excruciating silence ensues with every pair of eyes in the room upon him. Yet the poor man is such a bundle of nerves that he can’t get his words out, can only manage a stutter and then, to my great shame, I find a laugh escaping my lips. Eventually, the poet calls upon someone else and the poor man’s chance has completely vanished.
I continue to attend García Lorca’s readings but it is not until several months later that I next see the man with the curls. We both attend an impromptu poetry reading on the edge of Sacromonte, a barrio of Granada with narrow alleys and whitewashed, tumble-down buildings hugging steep hills. Only the first fifty arrivals are allowed in, and both of us arrive too late and are turned away. Upon remembering that the other unfortunate soul is none other than the man I cruelly laughed at, I become curious and, from our banished positions outside, we begin to talk. At least, I am the one to initiate conversation for Eduardo is both furious at his inability to cajole his way in and a bundle of stuttering nerves when it comes to addressing me, doubtless not helped by the fact I am unchaperoned. For I have persuaded Conchi for the very first time to let me out alone, arranging to meet her at a certain place a little later. She was reluctant and crossed herself several times with those huge, calloused hands of hers before relenting. Eduardo walks me home through the narrow streets as we listen to the urgent peeps of birds in their wooden cages, hung up outside houses. He is too timid to make conversation and thus I am compelled to do so on his behalf.
When we reach the place I am to meet Conchi, he asks if he might see me again. I see no reason why this cannot be so and when I reply in the affirmative, he beams at me, his eyes crinkling into fine slivers. ‘Gracias,’ he whispers.
‘We live not far from here. If you should wait somewhere…’ I wave a hand through the air ‘…somewhere not here, then you can presently see.’
I hardly wish to spell out to the fellow I am inviting him to follow me, but he is none too quick to understand my meaning, for he continues to look at me with that pained, bewildered expression on his face.
‘Ah!’ he remarks finally. ‘Well. Buenas noches, Señorita.’
‘Buenas noches,’ I reply firmly and watch as he picks his way through the plaza, casting one final glance backwards before he rounds a corner.
Eduardo stands outside for at least an hour. Conchi has pulled the brocaded drapery shut as she does every night, but there is the slightest gap and I can see him through it, leaning against an olive tree with his cap in his hand. I have not the slightest idea what he is doing standing there, but he seems quite content. Every so often, I push back the eiderdown from my bed, lean forwards and peer through the crack. There he still is, rooted to the same spot, simply gazing up at the window.
Very odd, I think for the umpteenth time, but he has character and I like that, particularly as my parents are going through a phase of introducing me to various eligible bachelors. I am required to sit through one dinner after another being bored to tears by pompous oafs who believe I ought to be impressed by how much money they have or their endless rounds of socialising with equally dull friends of theirs. My parents desire that I marry into money; that is their main concern and thus, when Eduardo and his father call at our house the following week, my parents are so delighted by the wealth and charm (but most notably the wealth) of Eduardo’s father, that Eduardo himself scarcely comes into the picture. We officially begin courting a few weeks later and it is not until that stage that my parents are forced to take notice of my new beau, the result being somewhat of a shock. Father in particular thinks Eduardo the biggest fool he has come across and cannot comprehend why anyone from such a good family should waste his time with poetry. I cannot deny that to begin with I persist with our courtship partly because he could not be more different from those dreadful young men who send me to sleep in my tarta de manzana, and also partly to vex my parents. But it does not take long for us to recognise in one another that we are the black sheep of our families. Just as gentle Eduardo was raised amongst arrogant and aggressive brothers, my sisters painted the perfect picture of decorum, while I, on the other hand, far preferred scrambling up the branches of a fig tree to needlework and, even more shockingly, love poems to lessons.
‘That damned silly stuttering poet of yours will be your undoing, young lady,’ my father growls on more than one occasion over the dinner table, whilst my sisters raise their superior eyebrows at me. I simply shrug and smile at them all as I run my fingers over Eduardo’s latest letter on my lap with secret delight. Besides, I know the truth of it is that my parents are relieved I am courting at all, having assumed that no man in his right mind would want me. True, he would not be their first choice, but he is at least studying law and comes from a respectable family.
As well as meeting on the occasional afternoon in Plaza Bib Rambla under the watchful eye of Conchi (who has been thundery ever since my single night of freedom), Eduardo and I adhere to the staunch courting tradition of talking through an iron grille that separates our house from the street. Reluctant as we are to partake in this, we can at least converse without Conchi’s hawk-like presence.
‘What did you eat for cena this evening?’ Eduardo whispers through the grille as he crouches awkwardly on the cobbles.
‘Gazpacho manchego,’ I whisper back, ‘and I nearly drowned in it with boredom.’ As he laughs, his teeth gleam white in the dusky half-light of evening. Blushing, he glances nervously around him before producing a scroll of paper from his waistcoat pocket, tied up with a stalk of esparto grass and hands it to me through the grille. As he does so, my hand brushes his and his cheeks burn as he gazes at me with his wide green-grey eyes.
Eduardo’s letters are filled with verses, eulogising my beauty, intelligence and wit which at first I find rather silly. But as the months pass, I find myself anticipating our meetings, surprised by the disappointment I feel should he be kept away.
One evening when Eduardo comes to visit me, he seems particularly agitated. He is wearing a navy blue bow tie that he persists in tugging at, as though it is too tight.
‘Could you come and meet me tonight?’
‘My parents have guests for dinner. We are having a huge paella de marisco and it shall be one of those affairs that go on for ever—’
‘But can you not get away? Try! ¡Por favor! I must talk to you.’
He clasps my hand through the grille and leans in close so that our faces are barely an inch apart and I can detect the faint smell of sherry on his breath and woodsmoke in his hair.
‘I shall try,’ I laugh, releasing his grasp slightly, ‘though Conchi has returned home today so I am not sure how I shall manage it. What is so important? Could you not tell me now?’
His face clenches up and he drops my hand as suddenly as he grasped it.
‘Now? Tell you now?’
I smile encouragingly at him. ‘Yes, por qué no?’
Eduardo looks behind him, to each side and then stares up at the clouds moving overhead. He eases his head one way then the other and rubs his neck.
‘Well…’ he begins, seeming to address the sky more than me. ‘You see, Señorita Ramirez Castillo, it is something I must ask more than tell; that is to say, if you do not desire this, then I should quite understand. And I am aware I must ask your parents as well, but I wished to ask you first, to save the possible humiliation…’ He pauses and takes a deep breath, scratching beneath his chin. ‘Because really, it is quite presumptuous of me to even think that you should, well…that you might…’ Eduardo sighs and runs a hand through his curls as he frowns and looks back at me.
‘¿Sí?’ I ask softly as I reach as far through the grille as I can manage and take his hand, which trembles like a leaf in mine.
‘Would you…would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ Tears are running down his cheeks before I even have a chance to reply. This is the first time I have seen him cry and I rest my head against the grille and smile at him.
‘Sí, Señor Torres Ortega. I should like to marry you.’
His eyes dance, two watery pools of green and as he brings his head towards mine and we kiss through the grille, our cheeks against metal, I taste salt and a hint of our happiness to come.
I know that Eduardo’s parents feel much the same way about me as my own parents do about my new fiancé, content enough that somebody has accepted his hand that they are prepared to overlook the fact that I am neither as polite nor as pretty as my sisters. Eduardo’s grandparents died several years earlier, leaving a beautiful villa by the name of Carmen de las Estrellas. It is located in Granada’s Albaicín, the old Moorish quarter with centuries-old white houses perched like clouds on a hilltop before tumbling down a slope towards the Río Darro. I have walked through this district on occasion and found it enchanting with its labyrinthine maze of narrow alleyways and ice-cold rivulets that descend directly from the sierras and stream over mossy cobblestones. The house has been neglected and fallen into disrepair, so as a wedding present, Eduardo’s parents pay a large sum for the house to be restored to its former glory. The gardens are weeded, the fruit trees pruned, the floors polished, the large rooms aired and dusted, the gramophone cranked, the fountain and sapphire-coloured stars on the inner patio floor re-touched, the columns re-plastered, the walls painted and, on a balmy afternoon in May, we are married in the nearby iglesia before Eduardo and I step over the threshold of our new home into its jasmine-filled courtyard.
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 reminds 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 bre
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